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Ilya was a fucking god. He got an apple on a shorty, sauced it over to Gordo who dangled up and beat the tendy five-hole. Wouldn’t normally be enough to puff his tail, but they’d been scoreless, back-to-back shutouts, and Ilya was ready to rattle his cage. Pucks to the net, pucks to the net, but nothing but bad bounces and the other team’s goalies standing on their fucking heads.
Just down one, pulled the goalie, extra man. One of the New York forwards tried to ice it, but Chewy with the lunge, fucking beauty, kept it in the zone, and a nasty little deke through New York's wall of a center, tape to tape. Ilya felt the contact ringing up his stick, sent it flying, heavy slapper, just get it there, enough traffic that someone else might be able to make something happen, except, fucking, yes, slipped in glove side off a nasty deflection. Helmets crashing into his, hands and hands and screams, as their goalie skated back into the net.
And then, tied, dying minutes, get it to overtime for the point. Ilya was gassed but no one was calling for a line change, not when there were only 15 seconds, less now, since Ilya's entire focus was on winning the faceoff and he hadn't looked at the clock. A scramble but he won it, over to Sammy who was right where he was supposed to be, east west to Teets who beat the goalie, and they fucking won it, because fuck one point when you can get two on a divisional rival.
The furious home crowd streamed out immediately, but fuck them because Shane was playing Long Island tonight, skipping his flight home, and meeting Ilya in his hotel room later. Enough time for drinks with the boys first since they were flying out in the morning, and Ilya's dick was hard the entire time, even after a sixer on the bus and shots at the bar.
He staggered back to his hotel room earlier than the rest, night air cutting through the haze enough that he could feel his fingers again, the rhythm of his feet like sticks slapping the ice, let's fucking goooo.
Later, but not so much later that waiting threatened sleep, the knock on the door, and Shane, nose pink from the cold, fringe flattened to his forehead because he'd clearly pushed his cap onto wet hair, beautiful Shane, who said, "I saw your goal. You must be buzzing."
"Yes," Ilya said and sealed their mouths together.
Shane's mouth was the only soft spot on his body. The ridges of Shane's ribs, his skin sucked tight to his abs, his hard nipples, his thick pecs pushed into Ilya's greedy hands.
"Fuck," Shane whispered, voice already shaky. He was easy, and Ilya liked that he was easy because everything else was torturous so much of the time. "You want to, um, celebrate?"
"Yah," Ilya said, pulling Shane off the wall and toward the bed, where he'd already helpfully stripped back the covers, just the bleached white sheets waiting, ready to take on the scent of Shane's body, the tang of their sweat. "Special treat. Tonight you fuck me."
Ilya had showered again when he got to the hotel room, spent a long time rubbing suds up the crease of his ass before he realized his body wanted to be fingered, and then he'd done that for long enough that his hole throbbed. Like sore but not. It would be when the night was done.
He took another big step backward and ricocheted when Shane didn't follow after him, those thick thighs making him immovable when he didn't want to be.
"Umm," Shane said.
"Umm," Ilya echoed, scowling. He snapped his fingers, crack, crack, and then pointed to the bed. After all these years, he thought Shane was mostly over being a stupid motherfucker. But still he will always make an elephant out of a fly.
Shane scooted backward on the bed, making no move to undress himself. Big eyes, staring, worried instead of horny.
Ilya rolled his eyes, seeking hands, groping. Shane's cock was hard.
"What is problem?" Ilya asked.
"I don't. I mean, that's not really how we do it, is it?"
«I will show you where the crawfish hibernates,» Ilya muttered, feeling out the shape of Shane's cock through his trackpants. "We will do like this tonight, yes?" He wasn't going to beg to get fucked.
Shane frowned. Even when Ilya leaned close, Shane didn't try to fuse their mouths together, as standoffish as Ilya had ever seen him.
"No?" Ilya asked, pulling back the elastic, sliding his hand into Shane's pants, skin on skin. "This is useless, then? Just here to come. Won't even try to make me feel good. I thought Canadians were supposed to be nice, Hollander."
Ilya tried to think of a word other than lazy, something that would feel fun and teasing, but he couldn't come up with anything in Russian, let alone English.
Shane was now frowning in the good way: competitive. He reached for Ilya, but Ilya pulled away, waggling his finger.
"No, is fine," Ilya said. "I understand."
He shucked his own clothes and settled on the bed, ignoring Shane. Bottle of lube already on the bedside table beside the oversized hotel room lamp on the even more oversized plastic black base. Everything was too big in America. And only big, not also beautiful.
It didn't feel as good for Ilya to finger his own ass as he was sure it did when he fingered Shane; the angle was bad, such a reach to get all the way past his balls, down his taint, to find the furl of his hole. Tight again, his time in the shower only a memory, but sensitive, easy. One finger, two fingers, just the stretch and none of the deep down pleasure, but the stretch was still good.
"I could—" Shane's fingers against Ilya's thigh, but Ilya batted him away.
"Take off your clothes," Ilya said, and that got Shane moving.
He was interested, now, eyes scattered, lips parted.
Ilya could pull Shane between his legs, stuff his cock down Shane's throat, ride the press of his fingers. They'd done that before, and Ilya could feel the phantom surge of how it would feel to come like that, all encompassing. But he didn't want to just lie there, his body exhausted and elevated. He wanted, he needed, to fuck.
Shane’s lips kept drifting closer to Ilya's cock. "Lie down," he said, pushing Shane away.
He lay back, and Ilya stared at his freckles, his smooth skin, just the smallest sprinkle of hair between his pecs, a couple strands around each nipple, the little tuft on top of his cock.
"I'll just borrow little bit," Ilya said, stroking Shane's cock slightly in his tacky palm. "Okay?"
"Okay," Shane said, staring up at Ilya, transfixed. He bit his lip when Ilya ripped open the condom, held still while Ilya rolled it down his cock. Cursed when Ilya straddled him, his hands grasping the sheets uselessly.
It was hard to open his ass like this, thighs clenched as he lifted up in the kneel. He had to relax his whole body, sinking down faster than he would've liked as his thighs and glutes and hole went soft all at the same time, the burn of being speared by Shane's cock, but it wasn't so big Ilya couldn't take it.
Shane made a high panicked noise, fussy. Ilya squinted, and then opened his eyes more fully to take in the way Shane squirmed, a shiver working all the way up his body. He was feeling good. Ilya knew how he looked when he was feeling good.
Ilya dropped forward, hands on either side of Shane's head, and there, the desperate press of Shane's mouth just like Ilya had been waiting for, his eager tongue. Ilya shoved his tongue in deep, too deep, more than he'd want it, but Shane just mouthed it and widened his jaw. When Ilya pulled back to breath, Shane whispered, "Yeah, fuck, that's hot," and then went wild for it when Ilya wrapped his hands around Shane's wrists and held them above his head.
Ilya couldn't fuck himself much like this, his concentration was split too many different ways, and Shane wasn't even trying to fuck him. He held completely still, the whole hot, hard, breath of his body contained under Ilya. He wasn't trying to fuck him but he liked it, it was obvious he liked it, and Ilya's untouched cock throbbed as he thought about how hard Shane was, how he'd do anything Ilya said, and like it. Ilya always knew how to make him like it. He was good at this.
The elation rushed back, the relief of being good at things.
Ilya bounced, lifting himself up, dropping down. Not a great angle. Shane wasn't that deep, so Ilya could go pretty hard. And then harder yet when he moved his hands from Shane's wrists to his chest, pushing with more and more of his weight when Shane cried out. He left his hands above his head, like Ilya had tied them there, and he fucking would, he'd tie Shane to the bed and leave him there for a week, just a cock and a hole and a mouth to use, and Shane would love it, he'd love anything Ilya did, he'd love—
Ilya grabbed his cock and wrung out his orgasm, hand working furiously, hips grinding against the stretch of Shane's cock.
"Fuck," he groaned, his voice wrecked in a way that turned him on, and Shane too, Shane, Shane — "Hollander," Ilya moaned as he shot ropes of come up the stretch of Shane's stomach.
"Can I — can? I'm going to—" and then Shane's head dropped back, neck arching, the curve of his throat, the sweat gathered under his armpits, the peaked brown of his nipples as he whimpered through orgasm. Ilya, on top of his writhing body. The evidence of his pleasure made Ilya's balls clench.
Ilya let his cock slip out, curling all the way down again, elbow on the mattress, palm on Shane's cheek. Shane’s lips were dry from how hard he'd been panting, and then wet after the sweep of Ilya's tongue.
They kissed for a long time. Ilya's thighs trembled, his back aching from the arch, but still it was difficult to finally pull away.
"It's not so useless then," he said, cupping Shane's cock, the softened shape of it still mostly sheathed in the wet condom.
"Jesus," Shane said, and then scowled when Ilya smirked in a way that clearly implied, Ilya, a joke he'd made many times before, and now all it took was a look.
Shane was slow in his shuffle to the bathroom. Sometimes, before, Ilya had thought he was being slow because he'd been fucked so good it was difficult for him to walk, and maybe that was true also, but tonight it might be because he didn't want to go.
Ilya stared at his retreating back and thought, Stay, but he didn't say it because he didn't want to be told no. It had been a good evening, and he already knew Shane would say he couldn't, he was catching the red eye, he couldn't miss practice tomorrow. He couldn't be caught sneaking out of Ilya's hotel room.
Ilya wasn't going to do this with sleeves rolled down, but next month Montreal was playing in Boston. Shane would come to Ilya's home. No one would be lurking in the hallways, or whatever imagined menace sent Shane scurrying away. Shane would come over, and Ilya would have food and ginger ale and his tasteful lamps instead of the hotel monstrosities and all the other things that made his home better than a hotel room, and when Shane saw how nice it was, and how comfortable he could be, Ilya would ask him to stay.