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Ilya could be doing anything right now. Driving one of his sports cars too fast, eating piroshki at the Russian bakery that was damn near in Vermont so too hard to get to most of the time, fucking a pretty girl. Anything but torturing himself that his favorite toy (because that’s all they could ever be, he knew) had moved on. He was lying on his bed in the sunlight, wasting a rare day off and could not stop scrolling through photos of Shane (Hollander, he forced himself to think. No first names allowed with him thank you) and Rose Landry. Pretty. Sweet, so everyone said. A fucking movie star. A woman suited for the precious golden boy everyone thought Hollander was.
But Ilya knew better.
Ilya knew how to work Hollander, the tone of voice that made him drop to his knees. How tender Hollander became after Ilya systematically took him apart. How his eyes softened after Ilya read him like a fucking book and gave him everything he wanted. How Ilya’s eyes softened then, too.
But that wasn’t what Shane (Hollander, god damn it) wanted. He’d proven that by running away, leaving Ilya with a belly limned with their cum and feeling like the biggest idiot who’d ever lived. If he didn’t know better he would say he felt lovesick but he did. Know better. So.
Every time he thought he’d gotten through the end of the pictures he found another batch of some other night they were out together. Hadn’t they gone everywhere you could go in Montreal yet? Strolling out of restaurants hand in hand, ducking into movie theaters, grinning at each other in front of pasta in some grocery store. Since when did Hollander eat pasta and feel happy about it?
Ilya gritted his teeth and watched a video where Hollander dropped a kiss on Rose’s lips, saw them both pull back and smile at each other. Then Ilya launched his phone across the room, disappointed when it didn’t crack.
He was breathing deep, almost panting with anger. At Hollander, sure, but mostly at himself for even caring. He should go out and get laid. Exorcise whatever it was inside them that was clawing to get out.
He didn’t want to move.
His dick was as hard as iron.
Ilya shoved his track pants over his hips to mid thigh. His tratorious dick bobbed against his abdomen, the head so furious red it was almost purple. Wrapping his fingers around his length, he gave a couple of rough strokes, feeling the slide of his foreskin. He let his eyes drop closed and began to build a fantasy.
•••
A knock. Ilya is wearing leather pants that look very cool and nothing else. He swings the door open and who do we have here? Why it’s the great hockey player Hollander and his girlfriend holding hands. They are both wearing Raiders jerseys with the number 81 on the sleeve.
“What do you want?” Ilya rasps out.
It’s Rose who talks first. “Mr. Rozanov, we’ve come here for your help.”
Intriguing. He holds out a hand, allowing them in.
“I don’t know how I could help you.” He leans against the wall in a very sexy way. They both look very eager.
“It’s just,” Rose says shyly. “We are having… problems. Sex problems.”
“Oh?” Ilya arches one eyebrow. This just got interesting.
“It’s my boyfriend,” Rose says. “He is very bad at making girls feel good. He tries, kind of. But he cannot get me off and I want to get off, Mr. Rozanov.”
“Please. Call me Rozanov, like your boyfriend does.”
“Rozanov,” she repeats, looking up at him with the sad eyes of someone whose boyfriend is bad at sex.
“I am not orgasm giver for hire, even if you are very beautiful.”
“No, no, Rozanov,” Hollander says. “We want you to teach me.”
“Exactly this,” Rose says, with sparkly eyes. “My boyfriend Hollander tells me, Rose, you will never be my best lover. That trophy goes to Rozanov. He is wizard at sex. Every time I am with him I think I will die of pleasure. There is no one who could be better at fucking me than Rozanov. And our good luck, he also likes girls. He probably knows how to make them feel as good as he makes me feel. He is known around the world as very generous lover. He could be our teacher, so that I can make you feel good and you won’t leave me after a very normal fun day where we are cuddling and saying each other’s first names by accident.”
“Hmm.” Ilya says. “I could see this as doing a good deed. Take off your clothes, both of you, so I can decide.”
They eagerly strip to their underwear. Rose is wearing a bra with 8 on one tit and 1 on the other. (Ilya feels no compunction when he makes them bigger than they are in all the movies he’s seen where she’s topless. This is his fantasy. He knows what he likes.)
“Turn around,” Ilya orders.
They both face away from him. Rose wears a black thong, outlining her perky ass. Hollander wears boxer briefs. Stitched across his ass it says “property of Ilya Rozanov.”
“Did you dress up for me?”
“Yes,” Hollander says. “We spent many hundreds of dollars finding these clothes with your name on them so you would know that we are serious. Please, Rozanov, only you can help me satisfy my girlfriend. You know that my favorite things in the world are sucking your dick and hockey. I have spent many hours in pursuit of these things. Pussy is a mystery to me even if I lie to you before and say I am with girls privately all the time. If I am to have a girlfriend such as the very famous actress Rose Landry I must learn finally.” Hollander’s face is pink and his freckles scrunch as he begs.
“Get fully naked and on the bed,” Ilya points at the very large bed that wasn’t there before. He watches them scramble to remove their underwear and lay on the bed next to each other. “Show me what you do.”
Hollander kisses Rose tentatively, then plays with her pink nipples briefly. His hand slides down her stomach to her thatch of curls and begins to pet them.
“Hollander,” Ilya says witheringly. “I already know what you’re doing wrong.”
“Please tell him, Rozanov,” Rose whispers. “I cannot tolerate this much longer.”
“Hollander you cannot rush things. Pretend she is me. You would take your time.”
Hollander looks at Ilya through his eyelashes like he does when he sucks Ilya’s dick. “Sometimes we rush.”
Ilya scoffs. “Pretend is second round.”
“Second round?” Rose asks.
“Rozanov!” Hollander whines. “You cannot tell her that I can get it up sometimes three times in an hour for you because you are sex magician. It is not the same with girls, I have learned this in locker room.”
Ilya is tired of this. “Hollander, play with her tits. Kiss them, suck on them.”
Hollander obeys because he is a very good boy. Rose begins to enjoy this. “Wow,” she says. “Rozanov you taught him well. I am ready for my pussy eating now.”
“Do what she says, Hollander.” Hollander dutifully moves so his face is between her legs. “Kiss her thighs. Say her pussy is very pretty.”
“Very pretty, Rose,” Hollander says bravely.
Ilya drifts over to stand near, so he can instruct better. “Now take your fingers and spread her open. Lick up all the way from the bottom slowly. Now use your tongue on her clit.” He grabs Hollander’s hair to help guide him.
“This is much better, Rozanov,” Rose says. She moans and thrashes for a little while. “Thank you. That was so much pleasure. I am done now.”
“Goodbye, Rose, you must go so I can talk to Hollander.” Rose disappears.
“Rozanov, you are the best teacher. I would have never pleased her that way without your teaching. How can I ever repay you?”
Ilya looks at Hollander, how his face is covered in Rose’s juices. “Suck my dick, Hollander. That is payment enough.”
Hollander leans in, wraps his plush lips around Ilya’s cock. He sucks and licks until…
Ilya came so hard he shot onto the headboard behind him and his vision faded around the edges. His dick was practically raw after that. His heart pounded. It wasn’t like him to take so much time to fucking jerk off. Usually it was more like a bit of body maintenance once or twice a day. Fun, but cursory. Not a whole production in his mind. Ilya felt the approaching wave of numbness. A familiar feeling that had been hanging around more lately. He didn’t want to think about Hollander this much.
•••
Ilya levered himself off the bed and headed to the shower. If he hurried, he would make it to the Russian bakery before they closed for the day. It felt like he was outrunning something. He didn’t dare attempt to determine what.
***
Ilya slammed his bathroom door shut and turned the hot water on as high as it would go. He should have been happy. He should have been out with his team celebrating after Boston beat Montreal on home ice. Normally by now Ilya would be in a club, two drinks deep, surrounded by the effervescence of a city happy with their team. Maybe he’d kiss someone. Maybe he’d take someone home. But even contemplating going out made Ilya feel so, so tired. He hadn’t slept with anyone in months. Not since… not since.
Hollander had looked right through him all night. When they were bent over for the first face off, Ilya felt Hollander’s gaze slide over him. His first up close glimpse of Hollander as Hockey Robot, giving Ilya the public version of himself. He’d never done that before. Hollander had never been able to be that way with Ilya. They’d known each other too long, shared too much. Ilya could have been any other center in the MHL at that moment. Something inside his chest severed, sharp and taut. Something snapped. Hollander won the face off and raced down the ice.
It pissed him off. He wanted to howl. He wanted to be mic’d up so he could tell the whole world that he knew who Hollander really was under all that performance. He wanted to push Hollander to his knees at center ice. He wanted to fucking win. He wanted.
So he plotted instead.
Next time, as they bent forward, Ilya asked conversationally, “How’s your girl?” He felt a hot dart of shameful satisfaction when that landed and Hollander looked him straight in the eyes. “Tell her I say hello,” he murmured, and let his mouth spread in the wicked grin that Hollander, at one point, found irresistible.
Ilya won the face off.
And so it went, back and forth all night, Ilya saying more outrageous things as Hollander disappeared more and more. They were tied 2-2. Finally, they bent over the center line with thirty seconds on the clock.
“Hey Hollander,” Ilya said cheerfully. “You still have my number, right? Give it to your girl, so she knows who to call when she actually wants a good fuck.” He felt sick when he saw a wash of hurt over Hollander’s face followed by familiar anger.
“Fuck you, asshole,” Hollander muttered. It was the first thing he’d said to Ilya in months.
Ilya won the face off, threaded through Montreal defenders like they were ghosts, and slammed the puck into the goal.
Game over.
And now Ilya was at home, roasting like a fucking hen underneath his pounding shower and he was stroking his dick furiously like it was responsible for all of this. Like it was punishment.
Wasn’t it?
He ignored the pang in his chest that thumped for his attention and groped his own ass instead since there was no one else there to touch it for him. No text message that he would have ignored because for all Ilya’s faults he wasn’t a homewrecker, he didn’t help someone cheat (but would he have really had the willpower to say no?)
The fantasy unfurled behind his eyes as he leaned on the wall to the shower.
•••
Ilya opens the door. “Oh, you have returned,” he says, unimpressed.
“Rozanov, we need more help,” Rose says, looking sexually unsatisfied by her boyfriend.
“You can learn the stats of all the hockey teams that have ever existed but you cannot learn to eat pussy? Very disappointing, Hollander.”
Hollander looks chastened. “I have been very busy, preparing to play hockey against the best team in the league, with the player who everyone knows is the best of all time.” He smiles cheekily at Ilya.
Ilya is annoyed. “So you neglect pretty girlfriend?”
“Rozanov, you do not even know. Now he cannot fuck me at all. Stress of the season, he says. So me, famous beautiful movie star, I go to bed next to my hockey player boyfriend totally untouched.”
“That won’t do,” Ilya murmurs. He tucks a strand of hair behind Rose’s ear. She licks her lips at him.
“Hey,” Hollander says weakly, but in that tone of voice Ilya knows is just pretending to protest. He has heard it enough times.
“You go over there,” Ilya says, and now Hollander is tied up with his hands behind him in a chair. Ilya pauses to consider the ropes tracing Hollander’s outstanding body but no. He has a job to do.
“I will demonstrate how to please you now,” Ilya says. They are naked on a big bed.
“I have been hoping, ever since Hollander tells me you are a sex god who also likes women,” Rose says. “Will you kiss me? To instruct my boyfriend.”
“Yes only for that reason.” Ilya kisses her, gentle at first but then more deeply. He palms one of her tits, feels the gentle give of her. Ilya thanks the god he isn’t sure is real once again he is bisexual, that he gets to appreciate all sorts of bodies in this way.
“Are you paying attention, Hollander?” He checks to make sure he’s watching. Hollander looks wrecked, like only Ilya can make him. He keeps eye contact as he tongues Rose’s nipple into his mouth. “I know you know how to do this. You’ve done it to my tits enough times.”
“This is true. I never thought about having sex with my girlfriend the way I did with you.” Hollander says, with tears in his eyes. “I am enjoying watching you do this.”
Ilya reaches down, finds Rose slick. “She is enjoying this too.”
Hollander gets the bratty look on his face that Ilya is so familiar with. “I know that much.”
Ilya slides his dick into Rose’s willing pussy.
“Yes,” Rose moans. “Yes, just like that.”
Ilya moves his hand between them, plays with Rose’s clit as he fucks her deep. Within a minute she is shuddering all over his cock.
“Thank you, Rozanov,” she moans. “That is exactly what I needed before I go back to my job as movie star. I will remember you.”
“Okay goodbye now,” Ilya says, and she disappears. Hollander remains, tied up in the chair.
“Did you learn from today?”
“Yes, Rozanov, thank you for being so generous with your knowledge. Can I make it up to you?”
Ilya rubs his dick across Hollander’s soft mouth. “Clean me up. She’s all over me.”
Hollander parts his lips with a sigh and begins applying himself to the task. He licks and sucks and moans until Ilya can’t hold back anymore.
•••
Ilya’s knees almost collapsed and he fell against the shower wall, gasping so hard he almost choked on it as he came and came and came. He wondered how long it had been since the hot water ran out.
***
Ilya dreaded the All Star weekend, so much he was almost sick with it. He usually liked playing in Florida, where lots of Boston people moved but kept their team loyalty. He always had many fans in the arenas there. And the All Star game was a reliable break in the middle of the season. Almost a vacation, really. Some low pressure exhibition play. Most years it made Ilya remember when hockey had been only for fun, before it was complicated with contracts and money and a string of complicated and broken connections.
But this was the first All Star season where Ilya and Hollander were officially nothing but professional rivals. No longer lovers, maybe not ever friends. Colleagues at best. And fucking Hollander had been selected as the captain, so Ilya would have to at least talk to him.
Which he could do. Despite his reputation as someone who couldn’t take anything seriously, Ilya showed up for his professional obligations. He wasn’t about to put his work visa on the line to act out in front of members of every team across the league. Even if he did want to find Hollander and bend him over the nearest surface, heedless of whoever might be watching.
He was just horny. He hadn’t slept with anyone in too long. That’s why he couldn’t get Hollander out of his head. Not because he was special. Just because he was last.
Ilya eyed the red Hawaiian shirt with a palm tree print he’d bought to wear for the mandatory team meet up in the bar that was set to start in twenty minutes. He liked the shirt because it was silly and on theme for their location. Okay and maybe because it looked good when it was hardly buttoned. The upside of Ilya having to talk to Hollander was that Hollander would have to talk to him, too. Ilya wasn’t above a little sexual warfare even if it was guaranteed to send Hollander running back to his girlfriend. Or maybe they were fiancés already. None of Ilya’s business. His sexy shirt would keep Hollander out of his hair. That was the only reason.
Ilya’s dick was already half hard and he decided to jerk off before he went downstairs so he could be clear headed. This time he didn’t spin up an elaborate fantasy. He relied on memory, not imagination.
Hollander kneeling before him, sucking his dick like he was made for it and hockey was just a lucrative hobby. Hollander spread out in front of him on one of the many anonymous hotel beds they’d shared, begging for Ilya to fuck him harder, deeper, Ilya’s hips snapping into him so rough he felt it for days after sometimes, Hollander’s dick leaking between them as he whimpered. Hollander on his hands and knees, shooting a challenging look over his shoulder at Ilya that sent lightning up his spine. The tight heat of him after Ilya had made space in his body and entered, slicked up. The way Hollander’s most intimate places belonged to Ilya, too.
Hollander after, sated and calm and needing Ilya to hold him. Hollander kissing him tenderly in stairwells. The pleasant confirmation of finding Hollander’s eyes on him in a locker room shower somewhere in Toronto, when Ilya’s instincts about what kind of man Hollander was proved true. Hollander in his lap, his hand wrapped around them both. Hollander saying his name for the first time, wrapping his lips around it. Something Ilya hadn’t known he needed until he got it.
Ilya’s orgasm crept up on him like a surprise and he found himself moaning in a way he normally didn’t.
And that was that. Head cleared. This was Ilya’s first All Star game where he and Hollander were nothing but it wouldn’t be the last. It was time to get it over with.