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Ilya had looked up the word cottage, because he thought he was misremembering the connotation of it. He must have it wrong, if Shane was using that word to refer to a lakeside palace that boasted five bedrooms, four bathrooms, floor to ceiling windows, a full private gym, and a steam room. 

Ilya had not misremembered the connotation of the word cottage. It was supposed to be a small simple house. It was also, Ilya learned with great delight, outdated British slang for performing homosexual acts in a public bathroom. 

It made him obnoxiously fond that Shane seemed honestly to believe that a mansion so luxurious it warranted airtime was a cottage. Ilya liked luxury. It was cute that Shane seemed to think he didn’t just because he didn’t have a sports car. 

Anyway, Ilya liked the gym. It had a view of the lake, because, Shane told him, it was a room he spent a lot of time in, so it was important for it to be beautiful. Frankly it could’ve had a view of Medford, Massachusetts and Ilya wouldn’t have been the wiser; when they worked out, which was every day, Ilya was watching Shane. 

They were mostly lifting these days, both of them. They’d been out of play long enough for all the aches and pains to go away. Now they were bulking; they had to put on weight after losing so much over the course of the season. Obviously Ilya preferred hockey, but he enjoyed bulking. He liked getting bigger. He liked the soreness as his muscles rebuilt themselves. He liked making progress, getting more plates on the bar. He’d liked it even before he got to do it with Shane, who was, of course, just as diligent and talented at this as he was at everything else.

His off-season trainer in Boston had given him a schedule for his two-week trip. Ilya had elected to completely ignore it, which Shane thought was ridiculous.

“He made you that schedule for a reason,” Shane said to the floor, pressing himself up into a position which Ilya now knew was called downward dog. “If you switch your programs back and forth you’re not getting the full benefit of either one.”

Ilya copied him. It was deeply unfair that he couldn’t jump up on Shane like this, show him a real downward dog, but he’d tried this already and it hadn’t worked. The gym was sacred space: no mess. “I like your program,” he said, pushing off his toes before he remembered what Shane had told him about his heels. Ilya pushed back on his heels instead and was gratified by the stretch in his hamstrings. 

“Well, you can’t have the whole thing,” Shane said loftily. “Trade secret.”

Ilya raised his leg like he was actually a dog and tried to kick Shane over. That didn’t work either. Shane hardly budged.

Shane led them through stretching. A yoga flow. Ilya loved to watch Shane do yoga. Ilya loved watching Shane do anything in the gym. He loved to watch him in the gym and on the ice and during sex, because these were the only times that Shane ever appeared genuinely comfortable in his body. It used to practically get him drunk, watching the tension start to melt from Shane with a single word from Ilya. It made his stomach hurt and his dick twitch, after, watching Shane knit back up tight again when they were done. All that time Ilya’d thought Shane had a special self-hatred reserved only for Ilya when in fact that was just how Shane was. It was relieving and disappointing at once; it was nice that Shane wasn’t actually disgusted by Ilya, but Ilya’d always kind of liked Shane’s disgust for what they did together and how much he loved it. It was tantalizing. Exotic, almost. Ilya couldn’t imagine what it was like to be so uncomfortable all the time. He’d never tried to until now, this week, seeing the way that Shane’s default posture was stiff and awkward even when he was in a good mood. 

Except here, in the gym. Here Shane never second-guessed, never hesitated; mistakes were rare, taken in stride, and corrected without much thought. His movements were fluid and easy. Like he was on the ice. Like he was during sex. His essential discomfit had three keys, and now Ilya held all of them. Ilya was not above admitting the thought made him drool.

When they were done with the yoga flow, Shane hopped neatly from downward dog to standing. “Okay,” he said, having the great decency not to laugh as Ilya tried to copy him and almost lost his balance. “We’re working on explosive movement today. Full body, heavy on legs. Front rack lunges then thrusters, a few rounds of that, and then—“

“Thrusters,” Ilya repeated. 

Shane turned pink. “Yes,” he said evenly. 

“You never let me fuck you in here,” Ilya said. 

“It’s a push press variation,” Shane said, “you animal.”

Ilya leered at him. “Show me,” he said.

Still pink, Shane pivoted and started putting plates on the bar. Ilya crossed his arms and enjoyed the view: Shane in a white t-shirt that just gave away the broadness of his shoulders, little blue shorts tight around his thighs, white socks with blue stripes hugging his calves. 

“Start out light,” Shane said, standing with the barbell held front rack across his shoulders. “I’m surprised your trainers never taught you this.”

“Maybe they did,” Ilya said. “But I forget.”

Shane glowered at him, but his smile was biting its way through. He squatted, and Ilya craned his neck to see his ass pop. 

“Pay attention,” Shane said. He drove himself up to standing, pushing the barbell above his head in a showy burst of movement. He held it for a moment, a tiny furrow between his brows, his entire body tense, his skin taking on a light shine as he broke a sweat. Then he brought it back to front rack. “You’ve seen that, right?”

Out the window could’ve been a view of the rings of fucking Saturn, and Ilya would not have noticed. Of course he had seen this move, in the gym with the other guys as they laughed and showed off. But the way Shane did this circus strongman movement with such deep seriousness and grace made Ilya feel genuinely lightheaded. “Again,” he said. 

Shane snorted. “You’re ridiculous,” he said. He put the barbell down, and Ilya was immediately in his personal space, sticking a hand down those ludicrous blue shorts and groping. 

“Cottage me,” Ilya said. “Let’s cottage.”

“What?” Shane said, laughing and pushing him away. “Ilya. After, okay? Front rack lunges. Let’s go.”

That little blip aside, they did make it through the rest of Shane’s workout with minimal interruptions from anyone’s dick. Ilya contented himself with watching Shane: the intense focus in his face, the controlled bunching and stretching of his muscles, the gorgeous silhouette of him in the morning light.

Time moved so slowly. They spoke very little once they’d really started. When Ilya lifted with the guys on the team, there was a lot of shouting and encouragement. He participated because it was harmless and it was what everyone did, but he didn’t much care for the noise. It was distracting. It had delighted him to learn that he and Shane had this in common. The first day, when they lifted together for the first time, Ilya benched his highest weight. He’d stalled out halfway up for a moment, trembling. It had felt like a whole hour, listening to Shane breathing above him, watching Shane’s hands hovering under the bar just in case, his chest and triceps burning, about to give out. If he’d been with the guys, they would’ve been clamoring like monkeys. Shane said nothing. Ilya groaned and pushed the rest of the way up. The bar slotted home with a clang.

“Good,” Shane had murmured. “So good, Ilya.”

And then, despite Ilya trying to jump him right then and there, they’d finished out the routine, like they did now. Ilya didn’t meditate like Shane did. But this was something similar, he thought, the mindless alternation of work and rest. Push, burn, dizzying relief of success, and then watching Shane do the same thing. Hands hovering but never touching as they spotted each other. The smell of clean sweat, the quiet little grunts, the flush rising up in Shane’s face and neck. 

When they were done it was a quick stretch and then foam rolling. Shane had a Theragun (several, actually) but both of them preferred old-fashioned foam rollers. The pain was really exquisite, and as Ilya leaned hard on a knot in his right quad he heard himself moan. He looked up at Shane, who was watching him from his perch on his own foam roller. Without speaking, Shane rolled out his glutes slowly, his face relaxed and soft. He didn’t moan or sigh; Shane did this religiously, and knots never got a chance to tie him up. 

Only Ilya got to do that. He grinned to himself. Then he bent his knee slightly, tightening the pressure on his quad, and his forehead dropped to the floor. 

He heard light footsteps, and then Shane’s hot hand wrapped firmly around his right ankle. 

“Roll it out,” Shane said, close to his ear. Ilya did as he was told, sighing in relief as the painful spot was left behind. “Good. And back.”

Ilya rolled forward again, the foam pressing insistently deeper. It thudded back over the knot. He inhaled sharply, and Shane’s hand squeezed his ankle. 

“There?” Shane asked quietly. 

“Yes,” Ilya said, his voice hissing. “Fuck, Shane, hurts.”

“I know, baby,” Shane said. “Lean on it, come on.” Ilya leaned on it. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling his breath catch again. 

“Breathe through it,” Shane said. Ilya slowed his breathing and leaned harder. Then the hand on his ankle started exerting a gentle pressure, forcing Ilya to bend his knee and tightening the muscle further. 

“Shane,” Ilya said, his voice cracking. 

“Hurts?” Shane asked, soothing. 

“Yes,” Ilya said. Shane pushed on his ankle a little harder, his knee bending incrementally further, and Ilya moaned. “Fuck. Feels so good.”

“I know,” Shane said. His voice was meltingly soft, but his hand was like steel on Ilya’s ankle. His other hand settled, sure and possessive, on Ilya’s lower back. Ilya’s arms were starting to tremble, holding himself up. “Core tight.”

Ilya clenched his core obediently, and he heard Shane hum his approval as the dip in his back disappeared. “Good. Roll it out.”

Ilya did, moved back and forth over the roller, until Shane made him stop over the knot again. His hand pushed Ilya’s ankle further, and Ilya let out a harsh breath as the pain intensified. The insides of his eyelids were bursting white. “Last one. Just a few more seconds, Ilya. Breathe.”

Finally Shane released Ilya’s leg. His strong arm went under Ilya’s body, supporting his hips, as his other hand took away the foam roller and tossed it aside. His thigh felt amazing. Ilya melted, lying facedown on the floor with Shane’s arm still trapped underneath him.

“Fuck,” he said, cheek against the floor. Shane’s hand at his hip wiggled and then pulled back to find Ilya’s dick, which was, obviously, half-hard. Ilya rolled onto his back to smile up at Shane. Shane was smiling back.

“You have to do that more,” Shane said. Even as he spoke he was fishing Ilya’s dick out of his sweaty shorts. Ilya hadn’t even had to harass him to do it in the gym. “It won’t hurt so much if you do it once or twice a day.”

“Feels so good when I’m sore, though,” Ilya said. 

Shane raised an eyebrow. “That is terrible for your recovery,” he said. “You don’t need muscle strains to get hard.” He spat in his hand and then raised it to Ilya’s chin. Ilya spat in his hand and Shane started touching him with the hand made slick with both of them. Ilya let his head fall back.

“No,” Ilya said dazedly. “I have you.”

Shane kissed his hip and then took Ilya’s cock into his mouth. He used one hand to help him, covering whatever his mouth couldn’t. His other arm settled over Ilya’s belly and gripped his hip. Ilya groaned and pulled Shane’s hair. Ilya had an upside down view of the lake like this, the mountains, the clear blue sky. He tilted his head forward again to watch Shane instead. His large body was curled over Ilya’s, his gentle eyes closed in pleasure. His wet mouth moved slowly up and down, without hurry, indulgent. His white socks with the blue stripes were tucked sweetly underneath his ass. The blue shorts were straining more than usual, because he was hard. 

Ilya grabbed Shane’s ass, just because it was there, and (thank God for off season training, thank God for bulking!) it was bigger and rounder than usual. He smacked it lazily, smiling at the little noise Shane made around his dick. 

“Shane.” He could not imagine being happier than this. He couldn’t even muster any dirty talk. “Shane,” he said again, just to say it, because it felt good to say it. “My baby.” He slapped Shane’s ass again and then pulled the waistband of Shane’s shorts down so he could see it. 

“I am going to eat this,” Ilya decided. “Mm. Yes, so much protein.” He smacked it again, harder this time, and enjoyed very much the little jiggle of it. He pinched it, watching the flesh give under his fingers. “Shane. Going to come.”

Such a picture Shane made, bent so neatly over Ilya, hair mussed and shorts pulled askew by Ilya’s hands. Sometimes Sveta said the beginning of a relationship was something you could never escape, that the original dynamic would be imprinted there no matter how much things changed. Ilya liked to pretend that Shane was still that shaky young thing he’d been, unsure of himself and easily ruined by mean hands and a big dick. Shane liked to pretend that too. It was why he wore those vulgar little shorts with matching socks, why he let Ilya pull and pinch and slap. It was why he looked up at Ilya now and sucked hard at the head of his cock with big wet eyes, as if Ilya coming in his mouth was a scandalous deflowering instead of something that Shane requested as regularly as DoorDash.

But Ilya was easy. He came in Shane’s mouth and liked how Shane pretended it was too much, squeezing his eyes shut and swallowing again and again. One obscene little drop was left on his lip when he was done. He opened his mouth wide to show Ilya that it was empty. 

“Good boy,” Ilya said, and Shane shivered in delight. “Kiss.”

Shane uncurled himself and lay over Ilya in plank position. He kissed Ilya, slow and deep. There was maybe two centimeters of air between their bodies. Ilya ran a hand down Shane’s chest and then groped underneath his shirt, feeling Shane’s tight core as he kept himself up. He peeked down. Those shorts left nothing to the imagination. Ilya, not being delusional enough to wear a shirt, patted his own stomach.

“You want to come on me?” Ilya asked, voice low. “Rub yourself off like a little slut?” 

Shane pressed his face down against Ilya’s, cheek rasping against two days of stubble. He rested there for a minute, no urgency. Ilya waited. Shane could hold a plank for a long time. They’d tried competing yesterday, but Ilya got bored around seven minutes and got up to make himself a sandwich. He’d got back, chewing loudly, to see Shane still going strong at twelve minutes. Shane hadn’t even seemed to notice the time going by, perfect form and eyes focused on the mat. Ilya had had to knock him over, wrestle him down with kisses and tuna breath to snap him out of it.

“I’ll wait,” Shane murmured. His breath tickled hotly over Ilya’s ear. Ilya kissed him. That was good, too, it would be just as good later. Something new Ilya had learned at the so-called cottage: when there was no rush and lots of opportunity, Shane liked to deny himself. One of Shane’s many private endurance circuits.

It was a little past eleven, time for the second meal of the day. After only a couple of days they had a post-workout routine: Ilya started cooking while Shane showered, and then Shane finished up while Ilya rinsed off. Another thing Ilya liked about bulking: he got to eat even more than usual. Shane, he could tell, did not really like this part, but he did it dutifully, because of how important it was to gain weight. They made every meal together, most of them easy and fast because they were eating five or six times a day. Another thing Ilya had learned at the cottage: how to make an omelette, because Shane hated scrambled eggs.

Four eggs each, a pack of Trader Joe’s chicken apple sausages, enough multigrain toast to feed a class of extremely boring kindergartners. For the toast: butter, blackberry jam that only Ilya would eat, and three avocados, diced how Shane liked it, barely salted with a squeeze of lemon. Fiber, Shane kept saying. Ilya hadn’t really taken that seriously until yesterday afternoon when Shane told him, firm but bright red, that Shane’s high-fiber diet was the only reason that they could have anal sex with such great regularity. Ilya had immediately resolved to get three avocados a day into Shane one way or another.

He was nearly finished when Shane got back from the shower. He shouldered behind Ilya to get a look at the eggs, two bowls sitting side by side. He dropped a quick kiss on the back of Ilya’s neck as he went.

“Ugh,” Shane said. “You stink.” Instead of moving away, he stuck his face into Ilya’s neck to kiss it again. “Are those yours or mine?”

Shane liked his eggs abominably hard and unsalted. Ilya, being a fan of tastes and textures, liked his eggs soft and full of black pepper. Ilya pointed at the bowl which had made good use of Shane’s sparse spice cabinet. “Mine. Yours.” He pointed at the pan where he was focusing very hard on trying to flip Shane’s omelette at exactly the right time. He’d never been good at it; he always ended up making scrambled eggs instead. Shane would brook no argument that an omelette and scrambled eggs were basically the same thing. So Ilya had learned. He always cooked Shane’s first so none of his black pepper would contaminate Shane’s eggs.

“I’ll finish,” Shane said. “Go shower.”

“Wait,” Ilya said. It was time. He dug the spatula under the omelette and flipped it with great success. “God. I am too good.”

Shane’s face creased in a smile. “You’re stinky, is what you are.”

“You like me stinky,” Ilya said, which he felt to be an incredibly fair point. “I’m hungry.”

“Don’t be gross,” Shane said, knocking the side of his head against Ilya’s gently like they were butting helmets on the ice. It was disarmingly endearing. I am so fucked, Ilya thought for probably the dozenth time in the last three days, and went to take a shower.

They’d eaten two hours before and they’d be eating again in three, but Ilya made a point of moaning around the fork as if Shane’s omelette was the most delicious thing he’d ever had in his life. He was really hungry, in fairness, which made Shane’s omelette quite close to the most delicious thing he’d ever had in his life. Really he was just trying to make Shane laugh.

Ilya was not typically a big talker during meals. He liked food and usually didn’t take a lot of breath between bites, but Shane obviously did not feel similarly. It was funny, but they had eaten together maybe two or three times in ten years, before. So Ilya had never really noticed that Shane ate weirdly. Now Ilya had spent the last three days learning every single habit. Shane tended to chew every bite much longer in the mornings. He always had to cut all the food on his plate before he started eating. He’d prop up his phone so he could follow a recipe from a website no matter how simple it was or how many times he’d made it before, and he actually measured out, with a half teaspoon, the specified amount of salt.

Shane didn’t seem to realize all of this was strange. He did it like he did other chores: uncomplaining and hardworking. And really he didn’t act all that different at meals. It was just marginally harder to get a smile out of him at the table, which was to say, still very easy. But still. Now Ilya talked at every meal, trying to make Shane laugh.

“Chef,” Ilya said with his mouth full of egg, buttered toast, and blackberry jam. “You should open restaurant.”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “My specialty can be tofu roast.”

Well, that was too far. “Please,” Ilya said. “Shane? Don’t say that again.”

“Portobello burgers,” Shane said, his eyes sparkling like he wanted to smile.

“The mushroom?” Ilya asked, revolted.

Shane leaned forward, a big mischievous grin on his face. “Seitan steak,” he whispered, and Ilya pretended to gag.

“Now I can’t finish these delicious eggs,” Ilya complained. “Your Michelin star eggs, you ruined it.”

“You are so dramatic,” Shane said. He finished cutting up his food and started to eat, still smiling. “Like, so ridiculous. Seitan is not that bad.”

“I think about seitan steak when I’m trying not to come,” Ilya said, making Shane burst out laughing.

“No you don’t!” 

“Do so,” Ilya said, gravely. “I think about seitan steak and I go for another hour.”

Shane snorted. “You’re telling me you fuck me and you’re thinking about seitan.” 

Ilya scrutinized him. He looked like he was focused on eating, one bite after another with eyes on his plate, but he wasn’t. His eyes were bright, and there was a little crook to his mouth like there was when he thought he had beaten Ilya at something. 

“I have to think of something,” Ilya said. “Fucking you is great test of stamina.”

“I don’t think of anything,” Shane said. “If I don’t want to come yet I just don’t.”

“Lie,” Ilya said immediately. “You never hold back.”

“I didn’t used to,” Shane said. “But now that we’re here sometimes I do.”

Ilya thought about it, and he realized it was true. “I guess there is nothing for you to think about,” Ilya said. “If you think about seitan steak or contract law you go off quicker.”

Shane put a little square of toast in his mouth with one piece of avocado on it. He chewed it and swallowed. He never talked with food in his mouth. “Very funny,” he said. “What else do you think about when you’re trying not to come?”

Ilya put a sausage in his mouth and talked as he chewed just to bug Shane. “Your mom.”

“I’m serious. Asshole.”

It wasn’t even Shane’s most bizarre line of questioning. Shane asked him lots of questions, in lots of detail. Some were about normal things and some were not. A selection of the odder topics: the process of visa sponsorship by the team, whether he did his own laundry and if he did how he sorted his clothes, how often he shampooed and if he used conditioner. His entire history of dental work. 

“I don’t know,” Ilya laughed. “Minutes of last team meeting. Gate and flight number. Marleau has to get fabric added to his jersey because he is so tall. Anything to distract, anything boring.”

“Like me?” Shane asked. 

I’m so fucked, Ilya thought. “No,” he said. “You are very boring but for some reason when I think of you it makes it harder not to come.”

Shane kissed him for that even though Shane didn’t usually like kissing during meals. A victory in Ilya’s book. 

They finished eating and cleaned up. Just to be a dick, as Shane closed the dishwasher, Ilya said, “You want to watch new Fast and Furious movie?”

“Hm,” Shane said. “Yeah.”

Ilya blinked. “No you don’t,” he said. “You hate Fast and Furious.”

Shane pressed his lips together, but he couldn’t stop his eyes from crinkling up. “Yeah, but you like it,” he said.

“I think you want to make me wait,” Ilya said, grabbing him by the waist and crowding him against the counter.

“Wait for what?” Shane asked, playing coy.

“I think you don’t want me to know how easy you give it up.” Ilya put his face in Shane’s neck, gave a teasing little bite. He tasted clean. One day, Ilya thought, he’d convince Shane to let him bend him over still stinky and sweaty in the gym. “But I already know you’re easy.”

“I am not,” Shane said, a little breathy. 

“Prove it,” Ilya said. He pulled Shane closer and then turned him around so he could bend him over the counter. Shane put up a token protest, hands tapping at Ilya’s arms. He made a soft little noise like he was appalled at the treatment.

“See,” Ilya said, grinding up against Shane’s ass. He snapped the waistband of Shane’s shorts and was delighted to see that Shane was not wearing underwear underneath. Finally Ilya was rubbing off on him in more ways than one. “Little slut! No panties!”

“Don’t call me that,” Shane complained. Saying so, he arched his back and rubbed, teasingly, against Ilya. Ilya was so happy he could die.

“I’ll call you what I want,” Ilya said. He was trying to get into character, but he knew he sounded ridiculously cheerful. He pressed his face into Shane’s back and laughed at himself.

“What?” Shane said, but he only lasted another second before he broke too and started laughing. “Ilya, come on.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Ilya said. “I know, sorry. I’m going to eat your greedy little pussy and all that, yes.”

He could feel Shane’s laughter through his body. “Ilya, oh my God, you can’t say it like that—”

“Well, how am I supposed to—”

“You know how—”

They weren’t even moving anymore. Shane was lying facedown on the counter, Ilya’s face planted between his shoulder blades. Both of them were shaking with laughter. Ilya pulled back, and like a magnet, Shane straightened up too so they never parted. Ilya turned Shane around and stuck his hands down the back of his shorts, palming his ass. Shane put his arms over Ilya’s shoulders to kiss him, still with a big silly smile on his face.

“You know,” Shane said softly. “That was probably going to be your one chance to get me to let you eat my ass in the kitchen.”

“I think,” Ilya said seriously, “that I will make another chance.” He squeezed Shane’s ass and kissed him again.

“Oh yeah?” Shane said. He gave his ass a little wiggle, which meant he wanted Ilya to carry him. Shane weighed two hundred and eight pounds and his program from that morning had turned Ilya’s legs to a sort of gelatin. Ilya liked that Shane was making it known what he wanted even in this tiny way, and it excited him that Shane was asking of him something that might be beyond his limits. Something else he had learned at the cottage: he liked it when Shane pushed his limits.

But then, Ilya thought, Shane had been pushing his limits for a decade. When Ilya had first signed to an American team he’d been a little afraid he’d get tired of it. It had never really hurt his feelings when his father called him lazy, because he knew it wasn’t true; nobody could reach the kind of success Ilya did if they didn’t work for it. What did bother Ilya was that he only worked hard when it was fun, and his father knew that. Ilya pushed himself until it hurt because he loved the thrill of winning, and he loved even more the thrill of pain. His father calling him lazy wasn’t an accusation, it was a threat: the thrill would dull, and when he got bored he really would be good for nothing.

Once his father had told him you are just like your mother and hadn’t meant it in a good way. Usually when he said that—which was rare—he said it because he couldn’t muster an I love you, and this was the closest approximation he had. You are just like someone I love. But this time, Ilya was sixteen, and he and Sveta had gotten fucked up and taken turns joyriding in her father’s Aston Martin until they crashed it. Sixteen was too old for beatings but Ilya got one anyway, acquiesced to it as gracefully as one could acquiesce to a switch when he had already outgrown his father. When his father asked if he was sorry Ilya had grinned through the pain and said no. His father cursed and then said, in a confusing miserable voice, that you are just like your mother, you always need bigger and scarier. You have to stop or you’re going to—

As if to prove him right, Ilya swung. Alexei had had to pull them apart. But it was true, and it made Ilya stiff and homesick with fear as he sat in his new Boston apartment with boxes all around him. He was going to get bored, and it was all going to get dull and gray and pointless, and he’d get fat and lazy and slow and he’d not be good enough for his father or for Sveta or for his team or his fans or the groupies who now swarmed like very sexy bees, saying all in unison that his dick was huge and the best they’d ever had.

But then there was Shane. He was good. He was the fucking best. And Ilya’s name was in the same sentence as Shane’s, over and over and over. Everyone got crazy over the historic rivalry between Montreal and Boston, and they got downright bloodthirsty at Ilya and Shane going at it on the ice like they wanted to fucking kill each other. Ilya liked the fans, he liked his teammates, he liked being famous, and he really liked being rich. But the real truth of it was that Ilya never stopped chasing the thrill of hockey because of Shane. Beating Shane. Losing to Shane. Being compared to Shane. Fucking Shane. Being good enough for Shane, being a good rival, being good dick, being a good reason to risk everything Shane had so carefully built for himself. Shane would not, after all, open himself to such danger for a middling player. There was nothing else that made Ilya work harder, sweat more, think fuck this is it I can’t I can’t anymore. Nothing else that made that shock run through him, deliriously exciting, alive and pulsing in his heels and his ears and his tongue.

And even now Shane was pushing him. Never mind Shane’s weight, filling out with muscle with the off-season program. Never mind the punishing morning workout, pushing to failure in set after set until Ilya’s legs felt molten and tender. Ilya put his hands under Shane’s ass, put a little bend in his knees, braced his core and his lower back, and exhaled as he pushed up.

Shane made it easy, jumping a little and wrapping his legs around Ilya’s waist. Still Ilya wobbled. Shane rewarded him with kisses to his face. “Slow and steady,” Shane murmured. He put a wet kiss behind Ilya’s ear, which made Ilya unsteady for a different reason.

“You make it hard,” Ilya said, out of breath already. God. He took a step, then another.

“Just keep going,” Shane said. His hand was scratching gently at the nape of Ilya’s neck, raising goosebumps. He kissed Ilya filthily, deep and slow, a lot of tongue. Fuck, Ilya’s legs were shaking. “You won’t make it if you keep stopping. Focus.”

Ilya did as he was told, one step after another, Shane still kissing him. Ilya had to keep his eyes open so he could see where he was walking, which made him feel a little stupid. But it was also kind of nice to see Shane’s huge blurry face, eyes closed and cheeks pink. His lashes brushing the thin skin under his eyes.

His legs didn’t fail him. They reached the bed, and Ilya let go of Shane. But Shane didn’t release Ilya. He hummed disapproval. “Slowly,” Shane said. “Control, Ilya. You don’t drop your weights.” He sounded like a scolding mother, telling her unruly son to take better care of his things. 

Ilya was so hard. He bent to lower Shane slowly to the bed. He tried to keep his form nice, hinging at the hips and keeping his back straight. Shane was very particular about form.

He pulled back, just a little bit, to look at Shane. His eyes were still closed. His legs had fallen open where Ilya placed him. His arms were stretched lazily out. He looked so sweet. Ilya bent forward again, one knee sliding onto the bed and then the other, edging his shoulders under Shane’s legs so he could put his face in the crease of his groin. His hands crept up and snapped the waistband, making Shane laugh and sigh at once. Ilya wanted to lick him, to bite him, to eat him until there was nothing left.

“Up,” Ilya said, feeling that maybe three days was not long enough to be permitted to express such a thing. Obediently Shane lifted his hips and let Ilya slip the shorts off. He was hard already, because his carefully pruned appetite was overgrown and wild when it came to Ilya. And Ilya marveled at how, despite never having denied his appetite anything, he hadn’t even known the depths of his own insatiability until Shane. He still didn’t. There was always deeper.

Ilya smoothed his palms up the backs of Shane’s thighs until they were in the crooks of Shane’s knees and pushed forward, forcing Shane’s legs to his chest.

“Hold your legs up,” Ilya said. “Let me see.” Shane did as he was told, his hands replacing Ilya’s under his knees so Ilya could get both hands on Shane’s ass. He spread Shane open so he could stare. He leaned forward, felt Shane’s glutes tense in excitement, but he didn’t touch yet. He just wanted to get closer, to see sweat starting to glow on his skin, to spit on his hole.

“Ilya,” Shane whined. He was starting to get squirmy as Ilya looked his fill. “Stop, you’re embarrassing me.”

He was playing shy; Shane did not hate it so much anymore when Ilya looked at him. But God, it still got Ilya hot, and there was a real blush on Shane’s face too. Shane liked being embarrassed. 

“What are you embarrassed about?” Ilya asked, rubbing in the spit with his thumb. “I’ll look if I want. If I tell you to stay like this forever so I could look whenever I want you would.” He slid his hands up to cover Shane’s hands under his knees and leaned up, putting pressure down. It deepened the stretch Ilya knew Shane was feeling in his glutes and, more importantly, rendered Shane completely immobile as Ilya rubbed his clothed dick up against Shane’s ass. Shane nodded, his eyes fixed on Ilya’s.

“Yeah,” Shane said. For a moment he dropped the pretense of shyness, and his voice was quiet and sure. “I would. It’s yours.”

Ilya pursed his lips, taking a long time so that Shane knew what was coming. Without needing to be told he opened up and let Ilya spit in his mouth. He swallowed, and opened his mouth to show that it was empty.

“Good,” Ilya breathed, leaning down to kiss him. The added weight deepened the stretch further, made Shane moan helplessly. “Good boy.”

“Give me,” Shane said breathlessly. “Fuck, Ilya, give it to me, come on.”

“Stay,” Ilya told him, and got up to get the lube and the condoms.

“You don’t need that,” Shane said. He’d stayed in position just like Ilya said, and he was craning his neck to look at Ilya past his knee. Ilya looked down at his hands. Not the lube, Shane liked getting wet. So the condoms.

“Don’t need what?” Ilya asked.

Shane hid his face behind his leg. “Condom,” he said.

“Why don’t I need it?” Ilya asked. He liked making Shane say nasty things, liked to embarrass him.

“So you can.” Shane’s voice was tiny. “So you can come inside me.”

God, God. “Because it’s mine,” Ilya said, dropping the lube on the bedspread and crawling back between Shane’s legs. “And I can make a mess in it, if I want.”

“Uh-huh.” Shane barely got it out before Ilya kissed him. Ilya groped for the bottle and wrestled with the pump-top one-handed for a slightly silly amount of time, because he didn’t want to stop kissing Shane.

Shane liked his fancy pump-top minimalist design vitamin-E-enriched thirty-dollars-for-eight-fluid-ounces lube, which was not new information for Ilya, but he still got a kick out of it. Ilya’s lubricant history was mostly petroleum jelly and sticky generic brand water-based. Shane’s really did feel very nice, silky and smooth. Excellent for fingerbanging him with his other hand tight around Shane’s throat.

He loved how Shane held his wrist when Ilya choked him. He loved the pained little noises Shane made, like he couldn’t believe Ilya was doing this to him. He loved how Shane blinked, how his brows pulled together, how his mouth opened without making noise, how his chest heaved when Ilya let him breathe. He loved the tensing of Shane’s abdominal muscles when it felt too good. He loved the way Shane’s thick thigh felt, strong where it pressed against him, sliding because they were sweating. He loved the way Shane’s hard dick looked against his stomach, wet at the tip and untouched. He loved Shane’s defenselessness, real and pretended and a sick enthralling mix.

Admittedly he lost track of time. Not really his fault. By the time Shane started begging (“Please, Ilya, please put it in, put it in, I need it—”) Ilya was already disastrously worked up.

“All right, baby, hush,” Ilya muttered, reaching over and fumbling with the stupid fucking pump-top for a second.

“I need it,” Shane demanded, his legs so tight around Ilya’s waist Ilya barely had room to reach down and rub lube down his cock. That was when Ilya realized he was in trouble.

“I know you do,” Ilya murmured, and kissed him quickly. Like an idiot, he pulled back to watch where the head of his cock was stretching Shane out. He loved this part, too, the way his dick looked huge pushing into that little hole.

But he wasn’t wearing a condom, and Ilya knew now he was really in trouble. He had to close his eyes, but he could still hear Shane make that shocked little moan, more breath than voice, that he always made when Ilya first put it in. Ilya kissed Shane, trying to buy himself a little time. He’d taken Delta flight 94 coming in.

He felt Shane’s thighs squeeze around his waist, questioning almost. Shane’s big palms rested on his face, one on either cheek, and pushed Ilya’s face away so they were nose to nose. Ilya kept his eyes closed. He’d waited at Gate A8 at Logan. So, so lightly, Shane’s thumbs rested on Ilya’s eyes and gently pulled the lids up.

Shane’s big dark eyes were shining. His strong, straight nose made a lovely shadow over his cheek. His lashes looked thick and low in the dim light. What had his confirmation number been? “What are you thinking about?” Shane whispered. “Seitan steak?”

That was not fair at all. “No condom,” Ilya said, through gritted teeth. “Feels very different.”

“Hm,” Shane said. He bit his lip, looking thoughtful. One thumb stroked over Ilya’s eyebrow. “It’s that different?”

“Yes,” Ilya said. He shifted his weight. “I’m good.”

“How is it different?” Shane asked as Ilya started moving, slow and shallow. “Does this feel different?” He clenched down on Ilya’s dick, and Ilya swore.

“I could always feel that,” Ilya said. He lowered his head to suck Shane’s nipple into his mouth, hoping to distract Shane. And give himself something else to focus on.

“But is it different?” Shane pushed. Ilya bit Shane’s nipple, making him gasp. Still he persisted. “Is it tighter?”

“No,” Ilya said. “Hotter. Softer.” 

Shane’s fingers curled into Ilya’s hair and dragged him up to press their cheeks together. “Wetter?” he asked in Ilya’s ear.

Ilya closed his eyes. Shane’s hand in his hair was unyielding. They were closer than they’d ever been, he realized suddenly, with no barrier. “Yes,” he said, hearing a little tremor in his own voice.

Shane clenched down again, kissed Ilya. Then he let go of Ilya’s hair. “Harder,” he murmured. “I’m ready, fuck me harder.”

He could do that. He went a little deeper, a little harder, and Shane let out a delicious groan in his ear. 

“Yeah, just like that,” Shane panted. His hands were everywhere, somehow, scratching Ilya’s back, pinching his nipple, pulling his ear, twisting in his hair, rubbing his face. “Fuck me, Ilya, just like that. So good.”

“You like it?” Ilya panted. All the dirty talk was the same, the familiar old imprint. But this felt distinctly different. Was it just the condom? He felt crazed.

“I love it,” Shane said. He sucked Ilya’s earlobe, bit it, and Ilya groaned. “I love your cock, it feels so big and nice inside, fuck, Ilya. Ilya.”

Ilya was losing control of himself. He fucked Shane harder until they could hear the vulgar squelching of their bodies coming together, until the headboard was thumping against the wall. Shane kept babbling, all the filthy things Ilya had made him say over the years. “It’s so good, you get so deep in me, harder, Ilya, fuck me harder, yes, please.” And Ilya was so close. Catastrophically close. He tilted his hips, searching for the right angle to wrap this up. Shane’s eyes rolled back for a second. Yes, Ilya thought, dizzy with relief that he wasn’t going to lose this round. He kissed Shane’s neck, licked at his pulse point, and reached down to jerk Shane off.

Shane was making this grunting, sobbing sound that meant he was close, but he wasn’t coming. “God,” he groaned. “Oh, God, Ilya, baby, it’s so good,” and still he did not come. Ilya was starting to panic. He really wasn’t going to be able to last much longer, especially with Shane squirming under him, begging for it harder, faster. His confirmation number. What was it. It started with a three, maybe.

“Shane,” Ilya panted. “Shane, I—Shane—”

Then Shane’s glassy eyes fixed on Ilya. He reached up and grabbed Ilya by the face, his fingers fanning over one cheek and his thumb digging into the other. He pulled Ilya down so they were nose to nose again. “No,” he said. “Not yet.”

Abruptly everything made sense to Ilya. “You do this on purpose.” He slowed down, but that barely even helped, because Shane was clenching around him, and it was getting wetter because Ilya was so close, and Shane’s fingers were still gripping his face meanly. 

“I want to come with your cock inside me,” Shane said, hazy but purposeful. “And I don’t want to come yet.”

“Shane,” Ilya said. He sounded pathetic. He squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could. What was that fucking confirmation number?

“Hey.” Shane’s grip on his face shook his head, roughly. “Open your eyes. You’re not thinking about Marleau’s jersey right now, are you?”

“No,” Ilya said quickly, opening his eyes. “I’m not, I’m not.”

“Good,” Shane said. “Don’t. I don’t want you to think about anything but me.”

“Shane,” Ilya said. His words were weirdly muffled by the way Shane was holding onto his jaw. “I don’t know if I can.” He was burning up, he could hardly see. “Want to fucking die in you, Shane.”

“I know, baby,” Shane said softly. “You can do it. Look at me, breathe through it. Move.”

Ilya realized he’d stopped moving, and started up again, slowly. Shane’s hand relaxed, then fell to his side as he tipped his head back. His throat glowed with sweat, his Adam’s apple bobbed. He moaned, soft and without urgency, obviously enjoying it as Ilya grinded into him. Ilya breathed through it, focused carefully on the flexing tendons in Shane’s neck.

“Ilya,” Shane sighed. “Ilya.” He stretched out his arms over his head to press his palms against the headboard, turning his face into his shoulder. Ilya kissed his chest, his tight nipples, and then put his face into his armpit and inhaled deeply. He licked, nuzzled, worried at the hair with his teeth. He felt Shane’s fingers run over his scalp. “Baby.”

He let Shane tug his head up. Ilya stared at him, completely enthralled. He’d never felt like this before. Flayed, almost nauseous with obsession. Shane enveloping every part of Ilya, every sense singularly devoted. He could not come before Shane. He could not think of anything other than Shane. It was good, it was right. It was fucking torture. 

“Put my legs over your shoulders,” Shane ordered. He said it in the same velvet-soft voice he always used when he told Ilya what to do in the gym. Ilya did as he was told and had to close his eyes again; this position made Shane tighter.

“Eyes open,” Shane reminded him, tapping his face hard, almost a slap. Ilya moaned, unable to help himself. “Fuck me.”

Ilya, helplessly, did what Shane said. He fucked him with the hard, fast rhythm he knew Shane liked, the kind of thing that could and did reduce Shane to a teary mess.

“You like it,” Ilya panted, but everything was all off, all turned around; it sounded like begging now when he said it. “You like it?”

“Yeah,” Shane moaned, the word made choppy by how forcefully Ilya was fucking him. Ilya watched, entranced, as a tear gathered at the corner of Shane’s eye. He loved when Shane cried. He leaned forward and licked it away, which was a huge mistake, because the taste made his stomach tighten up again. 

“Shane,” Ilya said. “Shane, come for me.”

“No—no cheating,” Shane gasped. “You wanna come?”

“Please,” Ilya said. He felt like he’d been tied into a hundred knots, tight and bursting and pained. “Let me make you come, sweetheart, please, I can do it—“

“You like it,” Shane said. “You like fucking me raw. You like when I—” Shane swallowed, hesitated, moaned. “You like when I’m a whore for you.”

Ilya was going to fucking pass out. “Yes,” he said. His vision was blurring, which might have been a good thing, because he could see Shane less clearly and it was marginally easier to hold off. But he didn’t ease the pace.

“I like it too,” Shane said breathlessly. “Ilya. Touch me.” 

Thank fucking God. Ilya got a hand on Shane’s dick and didn’t even have the wherewithal to jerk him off properly. But Shane didn’t really need anything more than a little pressure when Ilya was pounding him like this. 

“Don’t stop.” His pretty brow was knit together, his eyes shut tight, his mouth open and panting. “Ilya. Don’t stop. Don’t—don’t fucking come.”

Ilya could not help the sound he made then, low and miserable. Shane was crying out and coming all over Ilya’s hand, squeezing down on Ilya’s cock. A wave of heat rolled through Ilya, spasming and painful, as he shoved his face into Shane’s chest and tried to get ahold of himself. He heard Shane’s heart, beating loudly against his cheek.

Shane, with his hands, pulled his legs off Ilya’s shoulders so he could put them down on either side of Ilya. There was some jostling, but Ilya didn’t help. He listened to Shane’s little sigh of relief. “Ilya,” Shane said weakly. Ilya didn’t move. He didn’t trust himself to look at Shane yet.

Shane forced Ilya’s head up by the hair. Ilya’s vision was still blurry. Why was that? Shane’s other hand stroked Ilya’s cheek. His thumb swiped at Ilya’s lashes.

“You’re crying,” Shane said, wonderingly. “I always—I never understood—” Experimentally, Shane brought his thumb to his own mouth and licked the tear off of it.

An involuntary shudder went through Ilya. He felt like he did after a long hard season, a seven-game run, like one enormous bruise, aching and inconsolable. Deliriously, he said, “I need you,” as though they weren’t as close as it was possible for two people to be. 

“You have me,” Shane murmured. He took Ilya by the wrist and started licking his own come off Ilya’s fingers. His hot little mouth moved slow and purposeful over Ilya’s skin, cleaning him up. “I’m yours.”

“And me,” Ilya said. His nerves were singing. It was unbearable, it was too much.

Shane hummed around Ilya’s fingers. “And you?”

“I’m yours,” Ilya said. “I belong to you.” He blinked, and tears fell to Shane’s face.

Shane let Ilya’s hand fall from his mouth. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Come here, baby.” Ilya collapsed against him, putting his face in Shane’s neck. Shane put his arms over his shoulders, tightened his thighs around Ilya’s waist. He held him tight, so tight Ilya could hardly breathe. Ilya rocked up into Shane, and Shane dug his heels into his back and moved with him. Slow grinding thrusts for what felt like hours and hours, Ilya listening to Shane’s breathing and licking blindly at his neck.

“Let me come,” Ilya begged. He was speaking Russian, he knew he was, but he couldn’t reach for English anymore. “Shane, please, let me come. Hit me. Please. Shane, do something, please, hit me, let me—”

“Shh, shh,” Shane soothed. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re doing so good. You’re almost there. You’re perfect.”

Ilya casted around for the right words and couldn’t find them. He couldn’t fucking think. He felt Shane all around him, dense and tight. He licked Shane’s neck again, which was now wet with spit. Shane’s hand was in his hair again, but it wasn’t pulling this time. It was pushing, forcing Ilya’s face into Shane’s neck. There was so much pressure, Shane was so strong. Ilya couldn’t breathe. Shane had him like in a trap, his whole self swallowed up. He would die like this, inside Shane. That was a comforting thought. He had only to hold on a little bit longer.

“Good boy,” Shane said. “Come inside me.”

Then he released Ilya’s hair. Ilya dragged in an ecstatic sucking gulp of air and came. The relief was almost painful in its force, like the euphoric ringing feeling after a nasty blow to the face. 

The ringing faded slowly. Shane’s arms and legs were still tight around him, hands stroking and squeezing, like Shane didn’t want to let go. That was fine. Ilya didn’t want him to let go.

He became aware of little hurts he hadn’t thought about in a long time; a metacarpal broken in a fight, a hip sprained on the ice, a nail in the sole of his foot. He felt sensitive and newborn. It was a thrilling, terrible feeling. But Shane had him, so tight around him, wet and hot and encompassing. Closer than any two people could possibly be. 

“What were you saying?” Shane murmured. Ilya felt more than heard him. “In Russian, what were you saying?”

“You have to give me. Minute.”

“It’s been like five minutes,” Shane said. 

“You are counting?” Ilya mumbled into Shane’s neck. “You want me to get up? You hate me? You want me gone?”

He felt Shane’s laughter shake through them both. “No. Asshole. I just wanted to know what you said earlier.”

“Always questions with you,” Ilya said, cheek sliding through his own spit on Shane’s skin to push his face deeper into the crook of Shane’s neck. “You writing book?”

“Not a book,” Shane said after a moment, a little shy. “It’s just for me.”

Finally Ilya lifted his face to look at Shane. “You taking notes?” he asked. “You have Excel spreadsheet on me? You are obsessed with me? You want to—”

“God, you are so annoying,” Shane said, half-laughing. “I just—I just want to know. More.”

Ilya kissed Shane’s chin, more gentle than he really meant to. He chalked it up to just having one of the most intense orgasms of his life.

“I was asking you to slap me,” Ilya admitted.

Shane frowned. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t—sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Ilya asked, laughing. “For not speaking Russian?”

“You would’ve known what I wanted,” Shane said, quiet. “If it was the other way. You always know what I want without having to ask.”

“Shane,” Ilya said. He propped himself up on his elbows so he could put a hand on Shane’s forehead, petting his hair back. “You think I came that hard because you don’t know me well enough to fuck me how I like? It was good. Perfect. You knew what to do.”

Shane’s eyelids drooped, not quite closing. Ilya couldn’t resist kissing him there, loved the fragile skin under his lips. “I’m so obvious to you,” Shane said.

“I love that you are obvious to me,” Ilya told him, honestly. “But you still surprise me. You surprised me now.”

Shane’s eyes opened, and a proud, shy smile tugged at his mouth. “I’m just trying to understand you,” he said. “As well as you understand me.” He paused. “Will you teach me Russian? So next time I do what you ask?”

“Next time?” Ilya said. “You are not getting away with this next time.”

“Getting away with this,” parroted Shane. “Okay. You were dying for it.”

“You ambushed me,” Ilya protested. He made his eyes big like Shane’s. “Oh, you don’t need those, you can come inside me. Next time I will be ready.”

“Shut up,” Shane said, pushing Ilya’s face away with his hand. “Ugh, get off me. Get out of me.”

“No,” Ilya said plainly. “You make me come like that, this is what you get. I live inside you now.” He stuck his face back in the crook of Shane’s neck. This had always been a very nice spot for him. Now he was going to remember getting suffocated in it every single time he put his face there. He supposed that was the danger of spending time with Shane: every inch of skin would eventually carry with it some life-changingly hot memory. 

“This is so gross,” Shane said. “This isn’t good for my asshole. Or your dick, probably.”

“I don’t care if my dick wrinkles up like a raisin and falls off,” Ilya said. “At least it would be in you still.”

“You are disgusting! Get off, it’s too early in the day to fall into a sex coma!”

Unbelievably unfair. “You are the one putting me in a coma,” Ilya argued. “How would you feel—” Then he realized that every minute he spent arguing was another minute he wasn’t going to get to see Shane’s hole dripping come, and he shut his mouth immediately and rolled off Shane. Shane sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Ilya reached out and caught his hand.

“What?” Shane asked, looking back.

“Come on,” Ilya said. “Shouldn’t I get my prize?”

Shane smiled shyly. “Yeah,” he said. He turned, one knee under him, so he was facedown, ass up. Ilya relaxed into the comforter, feeling himself smile.

“You want me to do all the work?” he asked. “After you just killed me dead?”

“You’re so annoying,” Shane said, but he reached behind himself to hold himself open. For once, Shane got the last word, because Ilya had no smart retort while staring at Shane’s hole flexing and leaking come. Ilya’s come. It was actually enchanting to see. Ilya could have lay there forever, just watching.

“Got your mental picture?” Shane asked, sounding embarrassed. Ilya sniffed.

“I want real picture,” he said. “On my phone.” Losing battle, with Shane, but who was Ilya if he didn’t ask?

“Don’t,” Shane said, trying to be stern and sounding downright bashful. “You done? Can I go clean up?”

“Hm,” Ilya said. “No, not yet. I am still looking.” He reached out and slapped Shane’s ass idly. “I like that nobody else gets to do this to you.”

“Yeah,” Shane said, the embarrassment pitched higher.

“I ruined you for anybody else,” Ilya said, tracing Shane’s fingers, the shape they made pressing into his ass. Shane looked over his shoulder, eyes sweet and knowing. 

“You ruined me,” Shane said softly. An old script. It had never made Ilya feel quite so small before. Small and kept. Swallowed up.

If Ilya’s capacity for complex movement hadn’t just left his body through his dick, he might have leaned forward and eaten the come from Shane’s ass. But that was life. Ilya let his hand drop to Shane’s ankle and squeezed it, lightly.

Permission granted, Shane got up from bed. As he went into the ensuite, Ilya called after him in Russian, “I’m ruined, too.”

Shane stopped and looked back at him. “What did you say?” he asked, in that earnest dutiful way of his. Diligent and talented.

Ilya rolled over and tucked his face into the pillow. “I’ll tell you when you get back,” he lied. Some things couldn’t be given away so quickly.