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Tonight is a big win. Ilya can’t wipe the fucking grin off his face. 

It isn’t a cup win. It isn’t a conference win. It isn’t even a playoff win, technically. But they knocked fucking Florida out of their playoff spot, and honestly, that was enough. Enough for one of the players on the team to suggest celebrating, and for Ilya to consider the upcoming three-day break and agree.

And if the captain agreed, everyone agreed.

The sports bar below their hotel is an adequate last-minute venue, if a little cliche. But it’s a weeknight, and the chances of being bothered are low. For all his popularity in Boston and Canadian cities, Ilya doesn’t really get recognized as much in other cities like Miami.

Plus, if he wants to bring someone back to his room later, it’s only an elevator ride away. Ilya loves convenience.

Ilya takes in the sight around him — a cacophony of loud, tipsy, high-performance athletes circulating a tray of tequila shots. His brothers. His team. The group of men that he’s gone to war for. Not literally, of course. But four rounds of blood, sweat and tears after eighty-two regular season games was war. Winning the Stanley Cup was war. A good handful of his teammates had played through the playoffs injured. Carmichael, with a broken hand; Feller with his knee blown out. 

Wordlessly, shotglass in hand, he raises his arm to the ceiling. Almost immediately, the chatter lowers. Twenty pairs of eyes are on him, expectant. 

Ilya fucking loves his team. 

“Fuck Florida,” he declares loudly, to a couple of hoots. From the corner of Ilya’s eye, he can sense a few people shooting daggers in their direction. Ilya doesn’t give a shit. “You guys fucking killed it tonight. Marly,” he crows, tipping his glass toward the man who had earned them their shootout goal. “This man is the reason why we are going to the fucking playoffs.” 

“And I’ll snipe those fuckers too,” Marly bellows, to resounding laughter. 

Shot held high, Ilya grins as his teammates raise their own glasses. “Everybody drink!”

A roar goes up and Ilya slams the tequila down his throat, foregoing the lime wedge that his teammates squeeze eagerly between their teeth. 

Compared to Sibirskaya, this shit is easy.

Wiping his mouth, Ilya accepts a few hearty claps on the back. Some are a little bit too hearty. It seems as if some of his teammates are well on their way to being wasted. He’ll probably check up on them tomorrow. 

Ilya shoulders his way out of the circle, heading for the bar. 

There’s only one bartender working, his back turned to Ilya, and he’s definitely occupied. Ilya leans against the counter, idly scanning the length of the TV displays decorating the walls. Football, basketball. Golf. God, Americans are boring. 

His eyes finally find the telltale brightness he’s been looking for — the kind of blinding white that only an ice rink could deliver. He narrows his eyes, trying to make out whether it’s a live broadcast, or highlights from tonight. 

It is a highlight reel, but for the Toronto versus Ottawa game, not Boston. On the screen, one of Toronto’s AHL goalies — Ilya doesn’t know his name — is making an incredible save against Boodram, swiping the puck from his slapshot mid-air like it’s nothing. 

Good for him. Even AHL goalies deserve an opportunity to shine.

Ilya shifts his gaze away from the TV. His eyes wander the room lazily, surveying for any potential prospects. It’s been a while. 

From the back, a group of blondes catches his eye. 

One of the girls happens to look in Ilya’s direction as he’s glancing over. She eyes him purposefully, and Ilya allows the corner of his mouth to curve up. Subtle, but enough to make his meaning obvious. The girl smirks.

“Can I get you anything?” 

Ilya turns to see the bartender at his elbow. Upon recognition, the bartender’s eyes widen. “Holy shit.” 

So not all of Florida has terrible taste in sports, after all.

“Ah, yes. One Corona please.” Ilya holds up a finger, and the bartender nods, head jerking.

“And I’ll have a Moscow mule,” trills a voice from behind. Ilya swivels his head to see the blonde, eyes on Ilya as she sidles up to the bar.

“And a Moscow mule. On my tab.” Ilya places his card down and faces the girl. She’s prettier up close.

“You didn’t have to,” the girl says. There’s a bit of a mischievous sparkle in her eye. Just the kind of person Ilya was looking for tonight. 

“No?” Ilya raises an eyebrow. 

The girl drapes an arm against the bar. “What do you think?” 

She’s forward. Ilya can work with that. “I think I had to.”

The edge of her mouth quirks up, a pleased expression on her face. “Well,” she drawls, tracing a circle on the counter with her finger. “Chivalry is dead nowadays, you know.”

Ilya doesn’t know what chivalry is. Still, he gives her a look of amusement as if he does. “You know that Moscow mule is not from Moscow,” he says instead.

The girl’s lips curve up. “Ah. You’re Russian.”

Ilya tips his chin at her, teasing. “It is not obvious?” 

The girl offers a coy shrug. “Maybe.” She angles her body forward, the pointed tips of her nails grazing Ilya’s arm ever so slightly. “Lucky for you,” she murmurs, voice low, “because I like Russian men.”

Bingo. Ilya grins. He may not know what chivalry means, but he knows what it means when a girl wants to fuck. 

Ilya’s about to say something in kind, perhaps something a little racier than he should, when the bartender returns. “A Corona and a Moscow mule,” he announces, sliding their drinks across the bar. 

“Thanks.” Ilya reaches for the beer. He looks up at the bartender in acknowledgement, only to see that the man has his gaze fixed on something behind Ilya.

The concentrated furrow between his brows is enough to pique Ilya’s curiosity. Turning around, Ilya follows his line of sight to find the TV screen he had been watching earlier. 

Ilya understands, right then and there, why exactly the man couldn’t look away.

Amid the herd of men battling for position, one player moves like a streak. He zips through his opponents as if they were merely an afterthought — his footwork speedy, precise; his reflexes just as quick. His skates cut through the marred ice, breaking across the blue line with fluid ease. 

Ilya doesn’t need the telltale red jersey — or for the player to turn around — to know who he is. There’s only one other person in the whole league who is faster than him. 

Not by much. But still faster.

Ilya watches as Shane Hollander bursts through New York’s defense like a firework. Stick steady, he reaches out to meet the puck even before his teammate fires it at him — and just as quickly as he receives it — sinks it past the goalie’s legs, deep into the net.

As Hollander punches a triumphant fist into the air, Ilya can sense the bartender sneaking a glance at him. Ilya can tell he’s probably debating whether it’s smart or not to make a comment about his number one rival in the league. 

“Hockey guy, huh?” The girl’s voice pulls him back from the TV, and only then does Ilya remember that she’s next to him. “Can’t say I know too much about it.”

“You are missing out,” Ilya says, keeping his tone light. He takes a sip of his beer, his gaze straight ahead. In front of him, Hollander’s goal replays in slow-motion. 

“Really,” the girl says, cocking her hip. “I’m guessing you’re big on hockey?”

“A little,” Ilya says.

“Who’s this, then?” The girl nods at the replay. At Hollander. 

Ilya shrugs. “No one important. He’s not very good.” Behind them, the bartender titters. Ilya takes that as a cue to head to one of the stools near the TV. The girl follows.

The feed has now switched to Hollander’s player profile. The latest statistics from his last ten games are on display, his season photo plastered alongside like a mandatory mug shot. Hollander’s expression is serious. Even from a distance, Ilya can still make out his pixelated freckles, smattered across his cheeks.

It’s been a month since the Raiders last played the Metros. A month since Ilya last saw him. 

A month since they had last texted.

“Shane Hollander,” the girl says, reading aloud. Hearing Hollander’s name come from someone who doesn’t know him feels strange to Ilya. As if they don’t know how much weight they hold in their words. A foreign tightness stretches across his chest.

Another segment begins to roll — a clip of Hollander scoring another goal. More highlights of tonight’s Metros versus Admirals game.

“The Admirals,” the girl muses, leaning forward. She looks at Ilya expectantly. “That’s New York, right?”

Ilya gives her a nod, eyes fixed as Hollander intercepts the puck on a breakaway. As soon as Hollander takes possession, Ilya knows it’s over for New York. Hollander tears across the ice with steady strides, snaps the puck into the net soon after. The entire arena is on their feet; a pandemonium of red, white, and blue. Even with the audio off, Ilya can hear the echoing roar of Montreal’s Bell Centre. 

The goal, Ilya notes, is three minutes after the first one. Hollander had scored two shifts in a row.

Of course he had. 

“Two goals in three minutes by Hollander,” one of the announcers is saying, the subtitles rolling helpfully across the bottom. “Right after he placed a hit on Davidson, no less.”

Ilya blinks in surprise. “Hollander isn’t usually a very physical player,” the announcer continues, voicing Ilya’s thoughts, “but that check was impressive.” The broadcast cuts to a replay of the hit, and there he is, Hollander charging into Davidson, sweeping the man clean off his feet. As Davidson pummels onto the ice, Hollander speeds away easily, puck on his stick. 

Ilya doesn’t remember Hollander laying too many hits whenever they were on the ice together. Usually, it’s Ilya who’s dealing them out, gleefully slamming his opponents into the boards. He can’t help but watch the replay again. 

“For a player who isn’t very good, you seem quite invested,” the girl observes, snapping Ilya’s attention back to her.

“It is because he never plays well,” Ilya says matter-of-factly. He catches the defensive edge in his voice as soon as the words come out. He hopes that the girl doesn’t clock it. “Tonight is rare occasion. I am surprised.” 

Just as the last word leaves his mouth, another highlight clip begins to play, the “24” jersey flashing at Ilya tauntingly. No way. A third one? 

The subtitles continue to roll. “Tonight was definitely Hollander’s night. We can’t forget Hollander’s hat trick goal in the third period.” 

“What’s that?” the girl asks, blinking up at Ilya.

Ilya can barely hear her. Hollander got a hat trick tonight. The information in Ilya’s brain notifies him that this would have been Hollander’s third hat trick of the season. 

Suddenly, he has an urge to pull out his phone. 

“Not just any goal. He scored on the penalty kill. How about a short-handed goal to close it off?”

On the screen, New York’s chasing Hollander down on the power play, two skaters hot on his heels. It’s not enough. Hollander clears the zone, stick pulled back — and shoots the puck past the goalie before the defense could even catch up. 

Hollander might act unassuming off the ice, but he’s an outright menace when he’s got a stick in hand. Ilya can’t help the slight shake of his head. He lifts his beer to his lips to fight the twitch of his mouth. 

“So,” the girl asks, tone a bit pointed. “Do you like any other sports?” 

Sure, he’s about to say. But before he has the chance to open his mouth, a sweaty post-game Hollander is in front of him, and all of Ilya’s words escape his brain.

The camera is pulled in close to Hollander’s face. His cheeks are bright, flushing from the post-game glow; his dark hair is matted from the last two hours of playing, wet strands askew. There are no subtitles, but Ilya can tell from the foreign movement of Hollander’s lips that he’s speaking in another language. French. 

Ilya remembers the last time he had seen Hollander’s face like this. It hadn’t been on the ice at all. In fact, it had been at Hollander’s apartment, Ilya’s face a breath away as he fell onto the bed next to him. Like the Hollander on screen, his forehead had been dotted with sweat, glowing in the flickering light of the fireplace. His eyes had been shut, his breaths slowing as they both came down.

There had been a bead of sweat on Hollander’s lip, tracing the curve of the small, content smile on his face. Ilya remembers the urge he had to close the space between them, to capture Hollander’s mouth with his own and kiss it away. Instead, he had swallowed the growing lump in his throat. Faced the ceiling instead, before he rolled off the bed and tugged on his jeans.

Some things were just too intimate to touch. 

A familiar commotion behind him catches his attention. St-Simon’s voice is always the loudest, wherever they go. “Hollander with his third hat trick this season, huh? How about that, Roz?” 

“Is nothing,” Ilya shoots back in his direction. His words are out before his brain even catches up to what he’s saying. Like a reflex. “Easy for Hollander to get hat trick when he’s playing against a dinosaur like Scott Hunter.” His teammates laugh in response, satisfied with the expected reply. 

Ilya turns back to the screen. Hollander’s gone.

He doesn’t notice that the girl has left until a new presence slides into the newly unoccupied seat next to him. “Damn,” Connors whistles, eyes trailing after the girl’s retreating backside. “You fumble that, bro?”

Ilya shrugs, lifting his beer to his lips. “She did not like hockey.” 

Connors raises an eyebrow at him. “Okay, man. Didn’t know that was a requirement for you to stick it in.”

“That is gross of you, Connors.”

Laughing, Connors slaps his shoulder, heading back toward their booth. 

Ilya takes another swig of his beer, letting the liquid roll down his throat. Sits there for a beat. Two. Then he finally pulls out his phone.  

Ilya

.Big night for you. Congratulations

He stares down at the screen.

The response comes, thirty seconds later. 

Jane

Thanks 🙂

Despite himself, Ilya’s mouth twitches.

He sits there for a little longer, allowing the noise to wash out the fuzziness in his head. He stares into his drink for a second, before slipping the phone back into his pocket. 

-----

A couple days later, Ilya scores his own hat trick against New York. In a game-winning goal, no less. As his team toes their way off the rink, ice shavings kicked off onto the rubber, Ilya notes that Scott Hunter does not seem particularly thrilled. Which is, personally, Ilya’s favourite version of Scott Hunter. 

“Did you like that, Hunter?” Ilya calls out gleefully among the deafening crowd. “I did it for you.”

Hunter scoffs, and there’s a pinch of a grimace in his expression. “Shut the fuck up, Rozanov.” 

“What, no ‘thank you’?” Ilya prods. Hunter stalks off wordlessly toward the exit. 

Ilya’s met with a cheering swell when he steps into the dressing room. The player of the game belt is thrust into his arms. After he delivers his speech — which is pretty good, if he does say so himself — and the noise has died down, he turns to his locker, reaching for his phone. 

There’s one new message.

From Jane. 

Jane

Maybe you’ll get three next season. 

Sometimes Ilya doesn’t know how Hollander keeps up such a goody-two shoes reputation, because he has the ability to be such a little shit sometimes. Ilya bites back a smile.

Ilya

Was that a joke? I didn't know you knew how to make jokes

Jane

Fuck off, “Lily”. 

For all the bravado in his shit-talking, Hollander isn’t so good at parroting back when he gets fired at. Ilya delights in seeing the frustrated little frown on Hollander’s face when he doesn't know what to say in response. He finds it endearing.

He doesn’t say that, of course. That would be weird. 

Ilya

"Okay, "Jane

Ilya

😘 See you in playoffs

There’s a chance that they might not actually face Montreal in the playoffs, but Ilya hopes they do. He hopes he gets to see Hollander riled up, the intensity in his eyes growing as Ilya chirps at him night after night. 

It’ll give him something to look forward to.

-----

It’s not until they stumble into his hotel room, that Ilya realizes that he’s already forgotten the girl’s name. Not like it matters, anyway. He wasn’t planning to say it. Or see her again after tonight, for that matter. 

He’s pretty sure he’s seen her in a swimsuit ad before, or something. A hot LA model with an low-cut top — Ilya couldn’t say no to that. But most importantly, she was the first person with whom he locked eyes with on the dance floor. Ilya wasn’t trying to waste time tonight by scouring the club for the hottest person. Any hot person would do. 

The pulling, seductive energy of the pulsing lights and three seconds of eye contact did most of the work. Another three seconds for Ilya to make his way over to her. Easy. 

Which is how he finds himself up against the wall in his room at the Ritz-Carlton. Where this girl is currently attacking Ilya’s neck with fervor.

“No hickey,” he reminds her. He had already told her once. If she keeps this up, he’ll probably have to gently pry her off. 

He’s rooming alone, at least. A definite perk of being captain. And they don’t have a game tomorrow, which means that Ilya can take his sweet fucking time tonight. 

As long as none of his teammates knock on the door. Ilya knows for a fact that Kane is staying in the adjacent room. He may or may not have gotten more than one noise complaint in the past.

“Hold on,” he tells the girl, pulling back. Her name is… Jennifer? Jessica? All Ilya knows is that it’s one of those American names that start with a J. 

“Hm?” The girl playfully bats her eyelashes, looking up at him with doe eyes. Ilya knows the look, knows it’s anything but innocent. He appreciates a girl who knows how to seduce. 

Reaching toward the television, Ilya grabs the remote from the TV stand. “Let me put a show on.” He doesn’t care what. Anything is fine, really, as long as it drowns out the noise for the next hour or so. 

Aiming the remote, he presses a button. An artificial blue light washes over the room. 

“Aha,” Ilya says, tossing the remote aside. 

The girl’s lips curl. She starts walking him backwards toward the bed. The TV glows steadily, illuminating her from behind. 

Ilya’s about to meet her lips when a familiar movement behind her catches his eye. Something in his brain pricks urgently at him. He can’t stop himself from shifting his eyes to the flickering light. Like a moth being pulled by a flame. 

On the screen is the dark outline of a person, shot against a blinding sun. Any distinguishable features are obscured, cloaked in dim shadow. Still, Ilya knows exactly who it is. 

He would recognize that silhouette anywhere. 

“I have my own well,” the figure is saying as he descends down the steps of a stone patio, his back toward the camera. “I asked to get it built. I really like having fresh water.” 

Upon seeing Ilya’s attention drifting, the girl swivels her head. “What,” she starts, and then her brows furrow, delayed recognition etching across her face. “Is that… Shane Hollander?”

“Yes,” Ilya mutters, watching as the camera follows Hollander to a well nestled in the grass. He had forgotten that the last channel that he had been watching had been ESPN. 

Ilya had done one of these ESPN segment pieces before. Apparently, Hollander had too. Ilya hadn’t known. By the looks of it, the segment seems to be a couple years old. Ilya doesn’t know how he’s able to tell just by looking at Hollander’s side profile. His face hasn’t changed that much over the last few years. 

“Ah.” She turns back to Ilya, a coy smile on her lips, and Ilya’s eyes flicker back to her. “Your rival, right?” she coos, wrapping her arms around Ilya’s neck. “Not as hot as you, though,” she says, dragging her lips against his ear. 

Untrue, Ilya thinks absently. 

He says nothing as the girl backs him up against the bed and sits him down. Swinging a leg over his lap, she bites her lip, teasing, her fingers toying with the hem of her shirt. 

There is a very attractive woman in front of Ilya. A woman that wants to fuck him. His body is consciously aware of this very fact, however, his entire brain seems to neglect it, opting to scream look at what’s behind her like a screeching freight train. 

“I don’t know too much about wells.” Hollander’s voice continues, ricocheting along the hotel room walls and into Ilya’s ears. Slowly, the girl starts to peel her shirt over her head. “But this one’s stone. I think it’s really nice.” 

Something changes in Ilya’s peripheral vision — a new angle. Something itches at him. He can’t help it. Against his better judgment, his eyes flick to the steady glare on the screen. 

He’s met with Hollander, who is now facing the camera. Hollander’s standing in the grass, hands stuffed into his white shorts like he’s not quite sure what to do with them. He’s wearing the same black tank top that he had worn when Ilya had seen him last. 

Ilya remembers wondering whether he had played a bit of influence in that, if he had started to rub off on Hollander a little bit — in ways other than sexually.

The girl tosses her top onto the floor, and Ilya’s eyes snap back to her face. “I think we’re wearing too many clothes,” she whispers. Belatedly, Ilya realizes that he’s nodding. He allows himself to be unbuttoned out of his shirt. 

The girl presses her lips to Ilya’s. Reflexively, Ilya closes his eyes, moving his mouth against hers. When she draws back to kiss along his neck, Ilya cracks his eyes open. 

The cameraman has gotten a close up of Hollander’s face. From here, Ilya can make out each freckle scattered across his cheeks. Hollander’s gesturing to the lake behind him, telling some sort of anecdote with a smile on his face. The brown in his hair reflects a soft gold from the setting sun.

The girl, apparently, has started gliding her hands along Ilya’s chest. Absentmindedly, Ilya runs his hands along her back as Hollander talks about lake activities. 

When he darts his gaze back to the girl, he knows he’s been caught. The girl turns to glance at the screen, and then back at Ilya. “Should we watch something else?” she says, a glint of irritation flitting across her features.   

Ilya shrugs. “I don’t know where remote is,” he says, and grabs her ass in an attempt to redirect her attention. 

It’s enough. The girl turns back to Ilya, satisfied, and sinks to her knees. 

Ilya is aware of the girl’s hands inching toward the fly on his pants, but behind her, Shane has started to do yoga. Ilya watches, entranced, as Hollander moves into a cobra position. His back is arched.

A pull on his zipper informs him that the girl is about to take his pants off. Gently, Ilya tugs at her arms. A flash of confusion flickers across her face before he leans in and kisses her for a few beats, one, two, three — and draws back. “I think I am too drunk,” he says. “Cannot get it up.” He wonders if he sounds apologetic enough. 

A pout forms on the girl’s lips. “You sure? You can just watch me.” Slipping a strap off her shoulder, she blinks up at him with wide eyes. 

“Yes, I am sure,” Ilya says politely. “We can do this another time.”

“Okay,” the girl says, seemingly pleased with the possibility of another opportunity. “I’ll give you my number.”

Ilya lets the girl insert her number in his phone, and stands by the door as she retrieves her bag and her shoes. In the background, Hollander is talking about exercise, his voice filtering into Ilya’s ears. An impatient restlessness pricks at his legs. 

When the door clicks shut, Ilya returns to the screen, feet planted directly in front of the TV. Hollander’s parents have now joined the TV segment, it seems, with Shane nowhere to be found. Ilya waits. 

Hollander does appear a minute later, to close out the TV segment — a montage of Hollander doing a myriad of activities that Ilya presumes were earlier in the episode. Hollander at a park, the ice rink, his parents’ house. The credits appear, fading into rolling script along the screen.

Ilya stares at the black screen where Hollander had just been five seconds ago. A commercial for a garish-looking sports drink appears. It’s loud. Unwelcome.

Ilya thrusts the remote toward the TV. He cuts the program and falls back onto the bed. 

Around him is nothing but the low hum of the air conditioner and the buzzing from the minibar. Ilya faces the ceiling, distinctly aware of his own breathing. 

What happened to that girl you brought up, Roz? Ilya can practically hear Kane asking him about it tomorrow. 

You think I kiss and tell, Ilya will say. And his teammates will laugh, Haha, Roz, you sly dog, and nobody will know that Ilya sent her home.

He shuts his eyes. At the back of his eyelids, he sees Shane Hollander’s smile, huffing out an uncertain laugh as he rubs a hand across the back of his neck. He sees his white shorts and his black tank top that looks, maybe, a little similar to Ilya’s. He sees Shane’s uncomfortable shuffling as he introduces his well, pink dusting his cheeks. 

Sometimes, when Ilya presses his buttons and Shane isn’t quite sure what to say, he says “fuck you” in an equally awkward manner. A lot of force with no bite, as if he doesn’t quite know how to retaliate, but wants to put his all into it, anyway. And Ilya has to resist the urge to respond by kissing the retort off of Shane’s lips, until Shane’s mask of bravado melts away.

Shane’s lips are always so soft. So pliant. Just like him. 

It isn’t long before Ilya’s pants are shucked aside, his hand curling around his stiff cock. Vivid pictures flood the forefront of his mind — back muscles tensing, thick hockey thighs. Dark, cropped hair bunched underneath his fingers. Golden freckles winking at him underneath a rosy flush. 

It only takes a couple minutes before his own lips are pressed together, hand flying quickly along his cock. An unrefined grunt escapes him, Ilya’s chest heaving as he releases over his own fist. 

Later, after he’s emerged from the bathroom, Ilya unlocks his phone. The first thing that greets him is the girl’s contact card, glaring at him brightly. 

Janice. Ilya stares at the name and tries not to think about how similar it is to another name sitting in his contact list.

She has brown hair, too. And freckles. 

Ilya allows his finger to hover over the contact for a few seconds, before pressing delete. 

-—-

A few futile searches reveals that Hollander’s ESPN segment has not yet found its way to YouTube. Not even Ilya’s is there. It seems the segments only air on the ESPN cable channel.

Ilya doesn’t allow himself to think about what it means when ESPN starts becoming his most-viewed channel. In his defense, he’s always watched ESPN. It’s just that now he’s frequenting it a bit more. 

He’s just curious, is all. He’s never seen it before, and it’s been around for a while. So what if he wants to watch it. 

Except, apparently, Hollander’s TV segment has disappeared off the face of the earth. Every time Ilya turns on the TV, someone else’s segment is airing instead — Hayden Pike’s being the most frequent. Ilya begins to become acquainted with Pike’s face more than he has ever wanted to. Apparently, Pike really likes grilling chicken. He also doesn’t season any of it. Ilya doesn’t know if it’s an American thing or a Pike thing. 

Yeah. Ilya doesn’t want to see that. 

--—

Boston doesn’t end up playing Montreal in the first round. In fact, they end up getting knocked out in the first round by Toronto, of all teams. It was inevitable. Boston’s goalie is on injury reserve; their backup had also just been traded. It’s not their team’s fault. 

They’ll always have next year. 

Montreal, on the other hand, destroys Ottawa in the first round, Toronto in the second — and ultimately ends up defending their title. Two Stanley Cups back-to-back. Ilya has to hand it to Hollander.

To Svetlana’s amusement, Ilya acts out an incredible performance of pure anguish at his watch party. No one else in Ilya’s vicinity seems to be interested in his antics. To them, it’s just another day. 

By the time that ESPN begins airing Montreal’s live locker room celebration, most of his friends have already begun losing interest in what’s happening on the TV. Svetlana ambles off into the kitchen to grab another beer. Ilya stays seated, eyes fixed on the giant flat screen.

In typical post-win fashion, the Metros dressing room is decked out in celebratory anticipation. Ice buckets of champagne line the room, along with the telltale red, white and blue paraphernalia dotting the tables. Protective plastic is draped along the walls. The room is empty, the camera trained toward the door in expectation.

Hollander’s teammates enter first, flocked by their families in noisy elation. They beeline to the championship attire presented on the hooks, donning the t-shirts and hats, and pick the champagne bottles out of the buckets with unruly enthusiasm.

The energy in the room is high, buzzing. But still, there’s something in the air. A hanging thread that hasn’t yet snapped. 

Ilya knows what they’re waiting for.

He hears Hollander’s arrival before he even sees him. Cheers break out, a pack of Metros players swarming the mouth of the room. At once, the champagne bottles pop, confetti shoots at the ceiling. And among it all, Hollander emerges from the throng, the “C” on his jersey as prominent as the silver trophy gleaming in his hands. He’s beaming, mouth stretched from ear to ear. 

Ilya has never seen him so overjoyed. 

As his team begins to pass the cup around, Ilya fires off a message. 

Ilya

.Lucky

Among the chaos, Shane shouldn’t be able to hear the buzz of his phone. But on the screen, he’s reaching into his locker, phone in his hand when it emerges. Shane’s eyes roam for a few seconds before his lips curl up. He taps at his phone for a brief moment.

In his hands, Ilya’s phone vibrates. His eyes snap down to the glowing screen, the text notification flashing at him like neon. He looks back up at the live broadcast, at Hollander holding his phone in his hand. Something electric zips low beneath Ilya’s ribs. 

On the screen, Hollander’s teammates have begun showering him with champagne. In a futile effort, Shane shields himself with his arm, although Ilya doubts it would do much to stop his phone from getting drenched. Shane will probably have to get a new phone tomorrow.

Distantly, Ilya hears his name being called. Rising from the sofa, he spares one more glance at the TV. Shane’s grinning, shaking the champagne out of his hair. His phone is still in his hand. 

Ilya allows that to be the last thing he sees, before he turns and heads for the kitchen.  

--—

Seven years. Seven years of living in Boston. Ilya would have thought that, after all this time, it would have gotten easier to return to Russia every summer. That the heavy weight would lessen a little more each time.

It hasn’t. 

Boston seems like a little bit of a false life, sometimes. A simulation he’s in, before inevitably being interrupted by a phone call from an international number. A dream Ilya tries to live in, before summer always spits him back out into reality.

“Russia is home,” he had told Hollander once, when Hollander had tentatively asked about it. And it is home. Ilya didn’t lie about that. He just knows that his definition of home isn’t the textbook version that most Canadian families might envision. More dysfunctional, probably. A harsh father who had ingrained years of self-doubt into him, and a fuck-all prick of a brother. His association with home is a splintered one. 

It hadn’t always been. His mother had been the definition of what home should be: a safe haven. In the midst of his father’s storm, his mother had been the guiding calm in the eye of the hurricane.

When Ilya’s back home, he still finds her everywhere. In the cracks on the sidewalk that he had hopped over, her steady hand holding his. At the swings by his childhood house, where she would take him every Saturday morning without fail. At the ice rink, where she would cheer him on week after week as he progressed from wobbly glides to smoother ones. Ilya holds onto those memories in his hands like water. He refuses to let them spill.

Home might be broken, but it’s the only place where his mother’s pulse still beats. The only place where she still lives and breathes. 

If only it could be just that.

Because now, along with the memories of his mother, it’s also the weathering condition of his father. For better or for worse, the dementia is loosening his bite. His once cutting words have become dulled, his sharp edges beginning to wear down. Ilya used to pray for days like these, that the blade that his father wielded so ferociously would break. 

But if it comes at the cost of watching his only parent slowly decay, Ilya doesn’t know if he can handle it.  

Alexei, on his end, usually fucks off in the summers, while still leeching off Ilya’s money. Says it’s deserved, that it’s his paid holiday, or something. Ilya doesn’t have the fucking energy to deal with him, as long as they take his niece somewhere nice.

Off-season training gives Ilya a reprieve. It’s the tether to the sanity of the world that he’s created in Boston. A reminder that, despite the current state of affairs, this is what he has, still. It gives him a reason to leave the house, at least. So in the mornings, he drives to the gym and gets his splits in. And in the afternoons, he runs.

Sometimes, while he’s tracing the trails he knows by heart, he finds himself thinking about Hollander, probably back in Ottawa, living in his own definition of home. Shane had mentioned his parents once, when Ilya had gone over to his apartment for the first time. He remembers seeing them accompany Shane at junior tournaments. They seemed like the supportive kind. 

Ilya doesn’t doubt that Hollander must have a good relationship with his parents. He pictures Hollander grilling at his house with his mother, or doing something boring, like playing golf with his father.

Ilya finds himself wishing he were grilling, or playing golf, too. 

Over the last two summers, he and Shane had started a bit of a thing, where one of them would text the other person. Nothing fancy. Just a standard “Have a good summer!” text. Ilya doesn’t really remember who started it. Probably Hollander. Hollander’s wholesome like that. 

Hollander hasn’t texted him yet this summer. It’s been around a week since their off-season has officially started, and Ilya’s inbox has remained empty. 

Ilya could text first. But he texted first last summer. Of course, it’s not like he’s never double-texted Hollander before, but those had always been sex-related. This would not be sex-related. 

It would be too much. Probably. And Ilya has a reputation to uphold — the reputation of not giving a shit. And when it comes to Hollander, Ilya may or may not have been giving a little too much of a shit, lately. 

It’s fine. He doesn’t even care. He’ll just see Hollander next season, like always. 

Ilya’s rounding the corner of one of the campus buildings when he feels a buzz in his pocket. Fishing his phone out, he pauses his music and glances down. 

One (1) text from Jane. 

Ilya can’t quite keep the smile from creeping onto his face. As of its own accord, his thumb moves to press reply. 

That afternoon, as Ilya makes his way back to the house, he notices a lightness in his shoulders, one that he hasn’t felt since coming home. 

———-

America loves to promote their celebrities. That’s one thing that Ilya has noticed. 

In big, sprawling metropolitan cities like New York and Los Angeles, advertisements would litter the walls of buildings like flashing, neon parasites. Everywhere Ilya turns his head, there’s always another billboard of some famous person. 

Russia’s not really like that. So Ilya would think that somewhere as far away would allow him to escape the majority of Western media advertisements. 

He had thought wrong. 

Ilya had meant to just pick up a jacket he had purchased from Balenciaga — an online order that he had placed about a few months ago. And then, on his way out of the mall, he got distracted. 

So now, here he is, standing in front of Calvin Klein like a man who has been paralyzed by a stun gun. He knows he has approximately ten seconds before someone recognizes that the man in sunglasses indoors is none other than Ilya Rozanov, staring at a floor-length ad of a half-naked Shane Hollander.

Hollander’s in nothing but classic white briefs, although Ilya knows he usually likes to wear black. He’s standing against an arctic backdrop of some sort, looking off into the distance with the expression of a tortured lover. Shane isn’t the type who is very good at trying to look sexy. In all honesty, Shane isn’t very good at modelling. 

It’s one of the things that Ilya likes about him. Out of all the models that throw themselves at Ilya, out of all the Instagram influencers who like to bat their eyelashes and purse their lips, Shane is the outlier. Someone who awkwardly folds their clothes before sex. Someone whose version of sexting is an honest answer. 

Ilya likes Shane’s earnestness. Likes that Shane can’t really perform or play it up for anyone — even in an international ad campaign. He isn’t ever trying to be someone. 

He just is.  

And who he is, behind closed doors, is someone no one really knows, despite everyone’s idea of who Shane Hollander is. Someone that the public couldn’t dream of, even if they tried. Gone is hockey’s golden boy, the revered face of the NHL. Gone is the reliable, disciplined Metros captain who all of Montreal loves and worships. 

Because behind closed doors, is someone that only Ilya ever gets to see. Someone so desperate he almost always sinks to his knees as soon as Ilya walks through the door. Someone so needy he can’t even wait a second before immediately tugging at Ilya’s zipper, too impatient to wait for any help. Someone who only doesn’t even seem to be aware of his urges, and can only breathe once he has Ilya’s cock in his mouth. 

In those moments, it feels like the world can’t have him. As if no one else can have him. 

Only Ilya. 

By now, it’s been months since Ilya has seen Shane like that. Months since he has seen Shane, in general. Except for this little glimpse, in underwear ads where Shane doesn’t even look like himself. Even the scar on his shoulder, the one that Ilya presses his lips to whenever Shane is underneath him, has been erased. 

Why did you let them remove your scar? He wants to ask the smooth, picture-perfect patch on Shane’s shoulder. Deep down, he knows that’s not what he really wants to say.

Why do I keep thinking about you? He wants to say instead.

Why haven’t you texted me back? 

Something tugs at him. Before Ilya can think about it, he pulls out his phone. 

Taking a quick, covert snap, he ensures that the photo isn’t blurry before briskly walking away. As he leaves the mall, he sends a message with the picture attached. 

Ilya

.You look constipated

He stares at the screen. At the two blue messages in a row making him look a little bit like an idiot.

Maybe Ilya is an idiot. 

After a few seconds, the typing bubble appears. Ilya’s pulse skips a beat. He watches as the typing bubble disappears, then appears. Disappears. Then appears again.

Jane

Well, you would know.

Jane

Because you’re so full of shit. 

Something dangerous flutters in Ilya’s chest. He can’t help it. The corners of his mouth tug upward. 

Without a beat, he begins to type. 

-----

Somehow, it becomes integrated into Ilya’s routine. Ilya wakes up, drinks a liter of water, and eats a high-protein breakfast. He hits the gym in the morning, runs a few miles in the afternoon. And throughout it all, he checks his phone. Sometimes, he checks the time zone in Ottawa. Wonders whether Shane is sleeping, if a text might wake him up. Tries not to wonder why he cares.

Over the last few years, Ilya had gotten used to the way that he and Shane text. Some pre-game chirping here and there, some sexy banter — although the latter had mostly been from Ilya’s end. Most of it, though, had just been hookup planning. 

These conversations aren’t any of that. 

Now, they talk about stuff like their gym routines and cars they’re thinking about purchasing. Shane hits a PR and Ilya makes it a personal mission to outdo him the next day. Ilya shares with Shane the Lotus Evora that he’s been eyeing, and Shane replies with the ugliest vehicle that Ilya has ever seen. 

Sometimes Ilya texts Shane mirror selfies, just to remind Shane that he’s still hot. Shane, unsurprisingly, doesn’t send any back. Instead, Shane shares mundane snapshots of his day. Every time, no matter what the image is, whether it’s a bowl of plain oatmeal on Shane’s counter or a slightly fuzzy image of a tree — Ilya stares at the photo for a lot longer than he should. 

One day, Shane texts him a picture of a lake. Ilya recognizes it, even from this new angle. Something unfolds in Ilya’s chest as he looks down at the photo. It’s personal. Thousands of people have seen this lake, but no one’s seen it like this. 

Only Shane and Ilya.

Over time, Ilya begins to glimpse pieces of Shane’s daily life in their conversations. Shane seems to do his workouts in the mornings; he has a tendency to text more frequently in the afternoons. He probably goes to bed at around 11 pm, judging by how he never messages Ilya later than that.

Shane’s funnier over text, sometimes. Ilya would never tell Shane that, though. He likes that Shane doesn’t know how funny Ilya finds him. 

They don’t text every day. But on days where he texts Shane, it makes the days bearable, the afternoons a little shorter. Suddenly, he’s able to breathe a little easier when he steps back inside the four-walled cage of his home. Whenever he glances at his phone to see a new message waiting for him, the burden lifts, just a little bit.

Svetlana catches him, of course. 

“Who are you texting?” she asks him one night. They’re on the way to the club.

His fingers faltering, Ilya fights the urge to lock his phone. “No one,” he replies, a second too late. 

A beat of silence passes. Ilya glances up to see her eyeing him. Fuck. 

“Okay,” she says finally, looking back down at her texts. “You’ve been on your phone a lot recently.”

“I’m always on my phone,” Ilya lies. Svetlana’s merciful enough not to comment. 

Not even later, when strobing lights are beating all around them, and he’s leaning against a table in the middle of it all — head in one palm, his phone in the other. Waiting for Shane to text back. 

It’s 3 p.m. in Ottawa.

--—

Boston is still enveloped in its last pockets of warmth when Ilya touches down in September. It’s a nice reprieve from the autumn chill that’s already begun to hit Moscow. 

The drive home feels strange, even though it’s been a route that Ilya’s ridden along more times than he can count. When he steps inside his house, hauling his suitcase through the front door, the feeling doesn’t fade. 

It festers. 

After Ilya’s toed off his shoes and tossed his keys onto the tray, he stays in the foyer, hovering. Something keeps him from stepping further into the house. Everything’s spotless; the maid had made sure of it before his return. The cleanliness feels clinical. Suddenly, the deafening silence of his home looms around him. It’s too big. Too bare. 

Too much like the home he’d just left.

Ilya moves deeper into the space, as if maybe he could puncture the void with his presence. He goes upstairs. He rifles through the clothes in his suitcase, strewing them carelessly onto the bedroom floor. He leaves his footprints wet on the tiles after climbing out of the shower.

He does anything he can to make his home feel less empty. 

Mid-September announces itself with the regular pre-season routine. Like clockwork, Ilya gets back into the swing of things. Training camp, pre-season games. 

Ilya knows that Shane is back in Montreal, training with his team. The frequency of their texts have dwindled. As if once the season started, there was some unspoken boundary. Summer is over. We’re back to the real world now. 

Ilya doesn’t let himself think about it too much. He focuses on getting back on the ice with his teammates, testing chemistry and lines with their new trades and rookies. He’s throwing himself into it a bit more than necessary — his words are a little too intense, his voice slightly too rough, sometimes. He finds himself staying longer at the rink after everyone’s already left. He arranges maybe one too many gatherings in the name of team bonding. He does what he can to stay occupied. 

Anything to keep him from allowing the vacancy to take root in his chest. 

The rest of the month slugs by. Before Ilya knows it, they’re into October. Regular season. 

Ilya had studied their games calendar well before the season had begun. He knows who they’re playing in the first couple weeks. Philly, first. Then Toronto.

Then Montreal.

Every day, the calendar on the locker room wall stares at him as he walks by, a pressing presence on the clock. Ilya avoids its insistent gaze, ignoring the first week of October sweeping by, bringing him closer to seeing Shane again. 

The afternoon after they beat Philly 3-1, Ilya finally lets himself face the dates plastered on the wall. He takes one glance at the calendar, zeroing in on the “MTL” in the small box, before unlocking his phone. 

He taps at Shane’s contact. 

Do you want to come over next week? he types, then pauses.

He backspaces.

4 days until you see my dick again, he tries. 

Fuck. That’s even worse. 

Ready to lose in like 4 days? he writes instead.

He presses send. 

The text comes a minute later, a ping that jostles his nerves. 

Jane

See you soon. 

The first text from Shane in a month sounds like a promise. For the first time since the season started, Ilya feels the spark of something that resembles a little like hope. 

See you soon.

-----

Two days later, Svetlana pesters Ilya for a club night. “One last one before the regular season starts,” she whines. Ilya knows he can’t say no to her. He gives in. 

Svetlana takes forever to get ready, as she always does. Ilya opts to wait for her in the living room. He jabs at the remote, the TV flickering on, and blinks at the sight before him.

Shane’s on the screen. 

His fingers fumbling, Ilya manages to navigate to the TV guide. A quick scan of the TV schedule informs him that the ESPN segment is on. It’s the same one as last time. 

Shane’s outside of a rink, gear in hand as the camera follows him toward the giant double doors of the arena. It’s the ice rink he grew up playing in, he says, and he offers a wave at the man inside the skate shop. Shane leads the camera crew onto the benches as he laces up his skates, rattling off about his youth hockey years. Ilya pictures a younger Shane Hollander in the early mornings, eyes wide and solemn, freckles settled behind his helmet as he waits for the Zamboni to deliver a fresh sheet of ice. 

The next location is at Shane’s parents' house, a one-story in an Ottawa suburb. I try and visit them for dinner a few times a week, Shane says, right before his parents make a brief cameo. His mom waves at the screen; his dad stands pleasantly next to her. Yuna and David Hollander. Ilya remembers.

There’s a peewee jersey framed on the wall, along with multiple pictures of Shane as a child. Ilya tries imagining Shane as a kid — maybe he was the mild-mannered teacher’s pet that steered clear of trouble; or the athletic one, the fastest boy in the class. Maybe he was both.

When the lake cottage appears, Ilya’s captivated by its beauty. In the chaotic lifestyle that they live, Shane’s chosen to seek tranquility. The shot of the lake is as picture-perfect as the photo that Shane had sent him — surrounded by trees, water rippling gently toward the shore, with Shane’s cottage sitting above. Quiet and still. Serene.

It seems very Shane to seek a remote solace by a lake, but one that’s still close enough to his parents. Ilya wonders what his days look like at the cottage. If he goes for morning swims. If he spends the day reading in the sun. If, after a full day of lounging, he watches the sunset from the deck. 

He wonders if Shane has ever brought anyone to the cottage. If he had brought anyone last summer. If, while Ilya was waiting for Shane to text back, he had been getting fucked on every possible surface.

The intrusive image of Shane panting beneath a faceless someone in his own home forms an unwelcome coil in Ilya’s gut. 

His thoughts are interrupted by Svetlana walking in, heels slung over her shoulder. Her eyes drift to the screen before taking in the sight of Ilya, sitting motionless on the sofa. 

Ilya hadn’t even realized he had sat down.

“I’m ready,” she announces, the glare of the TV bouncing reflectively off her sequined dress. “Unless you’ve decided we should stay in and watch… whatever this is.” She gestures at Shane, who has begun to do yoga beside the lake.

“Sorry,” Ilya mutters, his mind still running in circles. “It’s so fucking boring I almost fell into a coma.” His words come out flat.

“Mmm,” Svetlana muses, glancing at Shane, who’s transitioned into a warrior pose. “He’s fucking hot, though.” 

Her comment makes Ilya turn off the TV.

Svetlana leaves the room. Ilya waits for her footsteps to retreat completely before he reaches for the remote. He fidgets a bit before pressing the on button, and selects record. He’ll watch later, when he gets home. 

It’s been seven months since they’ve last seen each other. Over half a year.

Two days. He’s going to see Shane in two days. Just to spend a mere two hours with him. The thought sits in his chest like stagnant water. 

Maybe this time, Ilya can have him for a little longer.

-----

Some time in the summer, between falling asleep with his phone on the pillow and checking his texts upon waking up, Ilya had started to dream about Shane. 

In his dreams, Shane is so close that it feels real. So close that Ilya can hear the faint fluttering of his eyelashes as his gaze aims downward, a bashful grin lighting up his face. He can even feel the heat from Shane’s rosy flush bloom prettily into his palm, the pads of his fingertips resting against Shane’s freckles. In his dreams, Shane’s real, crisp and clear.

In his dreams, Ilya’s brave enough to touch him. He’s touched Shane in all sorts of ways; he’s too greedy not to have touched every possible part of Shane there is. 

But not like this. Not like this, looking down at the gap between them, sliding his hand against Shane’s open palm. In Ilya’s dreams, his chest doesn’t pound with hesitation. He looks at Shane and doesn’t feel fear.

And he finds Shane’s gaze meeting his — a warmth that wraps around him, anchors him, makes him never want to go back to the cold in Russia. He feels Shane’s fingers intertwine with his own, locking his hand into place. Holding onto his heart just as firmly, like an oath.

They’re always in daylight, in these dreams. Sunlight breaking through Shane’s hair, halo encircling him like a crown. As if the sun had come out just to see him.

When Shane’s there, it’s always bright. Hopeful.

That Sunday, Ilya holds onto that flicker as he ensures that everything’s set before Shane arrives. As he slides the ginger ales into the fridge. As he rehearses the lines in his head. As he checks his hair one last time in the hallway bathroom before the doorbell rings.

And when Ilya opens the door, there Shane is, standing nervously at Ilya’s doorstep. 

It’s even better than what Ilya had imagined in his dreams. 

Ilya’s waited all summer to see Shane again. He’s gone months without seeing Shane before, months where the ache to brush his thumb over Shane’s freckles had never felt as urgent as this. All Ilya had wanted was to draw Shane close, to feel Shane melt against him. To have Shane’s hand in his hair to gently pull him back to the world again. 

Maybe Ilya can’t touch Shane the way he does in his dreams. But right now, Shane is swivelling his head in wonder as he takes in Ilya’s place for the first time. Right now, Shane is filling the void in his house that had been closing in on Ilya for the past month. 

Right now, he has this. 

Shane’s warm lips pressing to his own, careful hands on Ilya’s waist as Ilya hoists him up onto the counter. Shane squeaking into Ilya’s grinning mouth when Ilya carries him upstairs, his heartbeat against Ilya’s like a lifeline. Shane pliant, so beautiful, as Ilya slowly works one, two, three fingers into him. Shane’s knees bracketing Ilya in as he’s seated on his lap, riding him relentlessly along the shadows of the late afternoon. 

From the moment Shane had walked through the door, Ilya hasn’t been able to keep his eyes off him. And right now, with Shane in front of him — eyes closed, lips parted softly — he can’t quite make sense of how he ever ended up here, being able to see Shane like this. 

To have him like this. 

Before him, Shane’s cock is dripping, leaking messily down the side. He’s fucking himself back onto Ilya’s cock, desperate, smearing pearly streaks across his own stomach. 

And Ilya’s mesmerized, so mesmerized — at how Shane fucks as if he’s never done it before, at how wet he always gets because he can’t help his arousal. Ilya feels compelled to reach out, and so he does, swiping gently along the stream on Shane’s slit. He feels smooth, soft skin and slickness underneath his finger. “You are dripping, Hollander,” Ilya murmurs, something like awe in his voice.

Shane flushes, a lovely pink rising to his face. Ilya doesn’t know how it’s possible for someone to look bashful while shamelessly begging for cock. It’s not at all like the confident, assertive man on the ice night after night. He looks unreal. 

Ilya wants to see more of it. 

He feels something possess him as he brings a shiny digit up to Shane’s mouth, hovering just at the edge of his lips. “Do you want to taste?”

Shane doesn’t say a word in response, just fans his lashes down as he leans forward — and without hesitation, he parts his lips, obedient and willing. Wet warmth surrounds Ilya’s finger, and Ilya watches, amazed, as Shane takes the drippy mess into his mouth. 

“Fuck,” Ilya says, and he can hear how wrecked his own voice is when Shane pulls back, his lips glistening. “You are so good.”

And at that, Shane shuts his eyes, inclining his head to the ceiling. A high-pitched whine escapes his throat, and Ilya can feel, suddenly, how much tighter Shane has gotten around his cock. 

Shane likes this.

“God, Hollander,” Ilya growls, pressing his fingers into Shane’s thighs, hard. His breath quickens as he rocks Shane faster, deeper against the groove of his hips. “You like that, yes?”

Shane ducks his head slightly, and Ilya can make out the slight colour across Shane’s cheeks. His heart lurches a little bit, at Shane’s unspoken embarrassment, at how Shane could feel shame about something that Ilya is in so much awe of. 

“Hollander,” he repeats, and something in Ilya’s tone must get Shane’s attention, because he’s looking up, eyes vulnerable, and Ilya pulls him forward into a searing kiss. 

In all of their escapades, Ilya’s constantly reminded by how Shane’s carnal desires override his lack of experience. Reminded of how he’s always the first to see him like this, the first to give Shane what he really wants. 

Ilya wants Shane to have whatever he wants. 

He pulls out, tapping urgent fingers on Shane’s leg. “On your hands and knees.”

Shane is trembling, but still, he maneuvers himself into position, until he’s on all fours in front of Ilya, exposed and beautiful.

Ilya pushes his body forward, pressing his chest against Shane’s back. He knows that Shane can feel his cock wedged between their bodies, hard and wanting. They’re both wet, now, exertion dripping out of their pores and onto the sheets. 

“I’m gonna need you to do something,” Ilya says, voice low. “Can you do that?”

Shane nods jerkily against Ilya’s neck. Ilya’s heart clenches at how willing Shane is, at how much Shane trusts him. 

“Good,” Ilya says, his breath against Shane’s neck, and he can feel the violent shiver fluttering beneath him. He inches forward a bit more, pressing his cock a little harder into Shane’s back, and allows his lips to barely skim Shane’s ear. “You’re so good for me, Hollander.”

At that, a whimper slips out of Shane’s mouth. Ilya didn’t think it was possible for his cock to get even harder than it is right now. He wonders if Shane can feel it, the twitch against his skin. 

Ilya wants to pull more out of him. Slowly, he draws a tongue across the skin there, savouring the delicious exhale rippling along Shane’s throat. 

Straightening up, Ilya reaches for both of Shane’s wrists, hesitating as he looks at Shane, even though he can’t see his face. 

They’ve never done this before. But still, even as Ilya closes his hands around them, there’s no sign of hesitation, nothing in Shane’s demeanor that signals stop. “Is this okay?”  

“Yes,” Shane breathes, the word punched out of him, and Ilya can hear it, the arousal in the one-syllable confirmation. 

Pulling Shane’s wrists into one hand, Ilya uses the other to press down on the center of Shane’s back. At once, Shane’s body obeys beautifully, his elbows collapsing beneath him as his back arches up toward Ilya. 

It’s as if he was made for this. 

“Fuck,” Ilya hears himself saying, and he looks down, at the cleft between Shane’s ass, at how the pink hole between his legs keeps inching closer to Ilya’s cock. Seeking to be filled.

Ilya snaps his eyes up at Shane, attempting to regain some control despite the rabid desire threatening to overtake him. “Hollander,” he says. “I know you want my cock. But I need you to be still.” 

At once, Shane’s movements cease, and a pleased weight settles in Ilya’s chest. “Good.” He doesn’t miss the way Shane’s breath hitches. 

“I am going to push back into you,” Ilya continues. Gentle, but firm. “And you’re not going to move.”

A small whine escapes Shane’s throat, and Ilya tightens his grip onto Shane’s wrists. Holds him there. Shane stills, silent. 

“If you move,” Ilya continues, his words slow, weighty. “I will pull out. Do you understand?” 

Shane gives a jerky nod against the pillow. 

Dragging his gaze away, Ilya finally allows himself to glance down. It’s so pretty, this sight. He takes a moment just to look, at how Shane’s legs are spread out, slick pucker staring beautifully at Ilya. Shane’s still, so still, but Ilya doesn’t miss the way he clenches ever so slightly, eager. Waiting to be touched. 

Lifting a hand, Ilya lightly grazes against the ridges, taking a deep delight in the way Shane’s hole flutters under his finger. Ilya closes his mouth around his finger, coating it with his tongue before returning it between Shane’s legs. He starts to stroke the wetness at Shane’s opening, a soft touch.

Shane whines. 

“You are so impatient, Hollander,” Ilya muses, keeping the pace. Unhurried, because he likes how desperate Shane gets for him. Shane’s always desperate, but Ilya loves to prolong it, stretch it out until he can practically taste it. “I thought you said you would be good for me.”

“I’m good,” comes a breathy gasp, muted slightly by the pillow. “I promise I’m good.”

Ilya can’t help but marvel at how much Shane wants it, his need to be perfect for Ilya. It stirs up something within him, a tightness that encroaches between desire and an emotion that might not be fitting for something like this. 

Crouching down, Ilya scoots his knees backward, bends low. “Are you sure,” he says. He lets his words brush above Shane’s opening. “Are you sure.”

Ilya can hear Shane swallow. Knows that he can feel Ilya’s breath on him. “Yes.” 

“Okay. Then I will give you this, first.” He brings a hand up to hold Shane open, spreading him wider under Ilya’s gaze. “Remember. No moving.”

And he inches forward, taking a long lick against the ring of muscle between Shane’s legs. Slow. Filthy. He wants Shane to feel all of it. 

Shane is trembling. 

“Hm. You told me you would not move.” Ilya’s lips move against Shane’s skin as he speaks. 

“I’m not moving,” Shane grits out, and despite his arousal, Ilya can hear the stubborn petulance, the insistence. 

“You are.” 

“I’m not,” Shane spits.

Ilya bares his teeth a little bit, allows them to scrape along Shane’s skin ever so slightly. He thinks about sinking them in just a bit, just enough to leave a mark. Just enough for anyone in the locker room to see an imprint, evidence that Ilya was there. “Don’t you want to be good for me, Hollander?” 

At the word, Shane lets out a noise. “I am good,” he whines, and swears when Ilya goes back in, flattening his tongue against him. He stays there for a moment, allowing the touch to imprint Shane’s skin before flicking up delicately against the rim. 

“Hm,” Ilya muses. “I don’t know about that.” He tightens his grip just a little bit. He wonders if Shane can feel the smirk against his ass. 

“Fuck you,” Shane says. His words are strained, cutting off into a mewl when Ilya delivers another slow, languid swipe of his tongue. 

“Is that how good boys talk?” 

Shane stills. For a beat, he’s silent. Then, “No.” Softly. All the bite gone. 

Fuck. Shane is so good for him, and at that, Ilya can’t even say no. Wordlessly, hungrily, he goes in. He runs his tongue around the rim slowly, before sweeping upwards, a leisurely caress. He can hear Shane sigh in relief, the bliss evident. 

Ilya always loves eating Shane out, although he’s never admitted it aloud. Loves how Shane’s always so fucking responsive, probably unaware of his volume — and Ilya is just unable to keep his mouth from Shane’s hole, diving into him like an indulgence. Shane’s just so fucking loud, sweet moans and whimpers cascading into Ilya’s ears like a symphony. Ilya always wants to draw out as much as he can. 

Ilya laps at Shane’s pretty hole, deliberately, firmly, and there’s something about it that makes him feel like he’s making out with Shane’s hole — a pink, soft opening meeting his own. As if every lick at Shane’s rim was as intimate as licking into his mouth. 

He can’t get enough of it, the way Shane feels. And despite opening Shane up earlier, he’s still so tight, closed as if Ilya hadn’t been fucking into him moments ago. Ilya presses in a little deeper, trying to loosen him up — and Shane is so good, letting out a stream of moans as Ilya coaxes him open, giving way for Ilya to taste him inside. 

Palming at Shane’s ass, Ilya spreads him wider, wanting more. He feels Shane flutter around him as he dips in, tight rim clutching the tip of his tongue, and fucks in and out a little bit, until Shane is a shaking mess. 

Shane’s been so obedient, so fucking good, and Ilya draws his face away, marvelling at how he’s still braced on his hands and knees, unmoving. He straightens up, unable to resist spreading Shane open again — just to savour how he feels under his palm, how beautiful his hole looks, soft and lovely for him.

He eases his grip, releasing one of Shane’s wrists. He tightens the other one in his grasp. “Open yourself for me.” 

Shane obeys, using his hand to hold himself wide for Ilya. Ilya curses at the sight, cock straining. He doesn’t remember ever feeling this hard, like he’s about to burst with arousal. He lines himself up, watching as the head softly pushes against the puckered entrance. It gives a little. He presses in a bit more. 

As soon as he breaches the opening, tightness all around him, a little hitched breath flies out of Shane. Ilya’s gaze flicks up at him, intense, as Shane’s cheek sinks a little deeper into the pillow. 

Shane’s never been good with patience. Ilya can tell Shane is trying his hardest to keep himself from squirming. Something blooms deep in Ilya’s chest, that Shane is trying so hard to fight his urges, to keep himself from moving. 

Ilya brings his eyes back to where the head of his cock is disappearing into Shane’s body. Shane is tight, so tight — but Ilya can sense Shane loosening a little, relieved just to have something back inside him.

Ilya pulls out. 

“What the fuck,” Shane gasps. In response, Ilya slaps his cock against Shane’s rim, the skin-on-skin contact echoing in the room. 

“Patience, Hollander.” 

“I am patient, I’m —”

Ilya pops the head back in. Shane jerks forward, clenching tight as a strangled moan flies out of him. 

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya mutters. He’s barely able to keep himself up by how hard Shane is squeezing around him, how tightly he’s gripping onto his cock. 

“Hollander,” Ilya repeats, and it sounds wrong. He wishes it came out as Shane.

“Please,” Shane says, the plea like a sigh from something heavenly. 

Ilya takes in the sight before him, Shane face down, back arched. He’s pressed against Ilya, trembling with how much he wants it. So vulnerable, so open. For him.  

Out of everyone Shane could choose to give himself to like this, he’s chosen Ilya. He trusts Ilya enough to let him do this. 

And he’s beautiful, so beautiful. Skin flushed red in the daylight, the faint sight of tears at the corner of his eyes. So beautiful. 

Ilya wonders if he knows.

He doesn’t think he does. The way Shane carries himself sometimes hints at a tentative uncertainty — hesitation to speak, debating on what might be appropriate to say; not like Ilya, who is always used to barrelling headfirst with his mouth open. It’s a stark contrast to how Shane is as a player, the man who is so sure of every stroke, every movement on the ice. 

Underneath him, Shane is shaking delicately, obediently taking in every slow drag that Ilya doles out to him. His grip pulses on Ilya’s sheets. Ilya catches himself wishing that they would leave a print, some proof that Shane had been here. 

He wants Shane to know how beautiful he is. It feels like a crime to withhold such a truth from him.

“You are so beautiful.” The words come out in Russian, in a small exhale against Shane’s neck. It feels sacred to admit it out loud. To have these thoughts come out into existence. Ilya keeps his head ducked. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to say it if he meets Shane’s eyes. 

Ilya knows Shane doesn’t — can’t — understand, yet, the confession emits a small sound from him. The acknowledgement goes straight to Ilya’s chest, pinching him, hard, with an emotion that he can’t quite make out. 

Suddenly, Ilya’s ribs feel too small for his lungs. He lets out a ragged exhale.

“You are so fucking beautiful,” he repeats, voice raw. “I don’t know if you know this. You should.” Shane’s eyes flutter open, his hand reaching up to Ilya’s neck. Ilya feels soft fingers against his skin, a touch too gentle for something like this. 

Ilya needs to be able to see his face. 

He releases Shane’s wrists, and, in one swift motion, pulls out before he’s even made it all the way in. At the loss, a soft whine escapes Shane, which, just as quickly, transitions into a sigh as Ilya maneuvers him onto his back, pushing in until he’s fully sheathed inside.

Ilya can see everything, and he feels feral, eyes roaming greedily like they can’t decide what to look at first. Shane’s mouth dropping open as Ilya presses his hips flush against Shane’s ass, burying himself deep. The slick sweat tracing Shane’s face as Ilya begins to move, caressing his walls with every drag that Ilya gives him. His pink rigid cock, drooling prettily everywhere. 

Ilya can feel everything. Shane, tight and soft as velvet, hugging onto his cock. Creating space for Ilya to make a home inside him. 

Ilya pushes forward until he’s holding himself up with his arms, caging Shane in. “You’re everywhere I go,” he growls, his voice unrecognizable even to himself. Reaching up, Shane tangles his fingers behind Ilya’s neck, pressing hard into Ilya’s skin as he holds on. He’s staring at Ilya, eyes slightly glazed, mouth agape. 

Ilya’s hips begin to snap faster. With each thrust, Shane’s cock bounces, smearing mess on both of their stomachs. His mouth falls open a little more. Ilya wants to ruin him. 

“On the TV,” Ilya pants, relishing the sweet string of noises that have begun to tumble out of Shane’s lips, like music.  

“In the fucking mall.” Underneath Ilya, Shane is tightening around him, his neck tilting back in a way that Ilya’s recognized by now. He’s close. 

Ilya brings his lips to the edge of Shane’s ear, teeth grazing the skin ever so slightly. “Even in my dreams.” 

“Il —” The syllable escapes Shane’s mouth, a punctured cry that cuts off as he clenches and comes. A splash of milky white paints across his skin, a stripe of art on an even more beautiful canvas. 

Something stutters in Ilya’s chest. A wave of emotion floods over him, and he squeezes his eyes shut, sweet tightness enveloping him as he spills into Shane. He feels a bit of his heart tumbling out alongside it. 

When Ilya had first moved to America, the common mispronunciation of his name irritated him. The stress in the il, the unnecessary addition of the syllable that would extend the initial two into three. The effort that no one would take to pronounce his name correctly, adopting their own pronunciation instead. 

He knew it wasn’t necessarily ill-intentioned; it was just how it was. And over time, Ilya had gotten used to it, the grating sound in his ears becoming neutral, desensitized.

But now, with his name at the tip of Shane’s tongue, so close yet out of reach, Ilya wants nothing more than to hear Shane say it. The harsh pronunciation of the first syllable. The long stretch of the last one. He wants to hear it come out of Shane’s mouth, for Shane to form the name as if it’s his. 

As if Ilya is his. 

You were about to say it, he thinks wildly, his heart rabbiting against his ribs as he pulls out. Shane’s hands run loosely over Ilya’s back as he lets out ragged breaths, his exhales slowing steadily to a calm. It’s nothing like Ilya’s thoughts, blaring loudly inside his head like a broadcast. You almost said it. 

Underneath him, Shane’s eyes are shut, his lips parted into a small smile. On the valley of his upper lip sits a small bead of sweat, winking at Ilya with the waning sunlight. It glows with the setting sun. 

Just like the rest of him.

With Shane’s voice echoing in his mind, Ilya takes that brightness, that bravery, and quells the trembling in his chest into silence. He leans down. 

Even with his eyes closed, Shane tilts his head up, ever so imperceptibly. As if he had been waiting. Ilya allows his eyes to flutter shut, and softly, captures Shane’s mouth into his own, the vulnerability running along him in a shiver. 

Shane responds immediately, surging up into Ilya’s touch. He curls a hand into Ilya’s hair, drawing him closer. The wetness on Shane’s upper lip disappears under his own and into Ilya’s mouth. The salt spreads like honey on his tongue, dips into his throat like wine and makes his head swim. 

For a moment, Ilya’s world stops spinning. The rush of blood fades from his ears. He allows himself to be pulled deeper into Shane, and shuts his eyes a little tighter to remind himself that this is real. Something blooms in his chest, something big and warm and possible.

When Shane rises to use the bathroom, Ilya sits against the headboard and thinks. Thinks about how he’s been chasing home for the last fourteen years, how he’s been trying to reach for it in blood that hasn’t recognized him as such. How, somewhere along the past few years, he’s come the closest to finding it halfway across the world, in sincere brown eyes with nosy, well-intentioned questions, piercing his way into Ilya’s calloused heart to remind him of a pulse that was still beating.

And Ilya thinks about how, somewhere along the last few years, what started off as a small, curious spark had grown. From a two-year pursuit that he couldn’t even reason, to late nights that stayed with him long after he had left Shane’s apartment. From multiple weekly conquests, to a slowly declining number, because of an ache that became increasingly harder to satisfy. 

Because, at some point, it hadn’t been enough. The longing had increased. It had begun to climb like ivy, taking root into his desires and curling around his every thought. 

Ilya’s never been allowed to have much of what he’s wanted in his life. He doesn’t know what he can have, what he’s allowed to have. 

But what he does know is that he wants to hear more of Shane’s boring real estate ventures. He wants to sit next to Shane in front of the lake and watch the sun set across his face. He wants Shane to take him to that rink in Ottawa, skate circles around him on the first ice he ever touched. He wants to hold onto Shane a little longer than the insubstantial hours they spend every few weeks.

Ilya doesn’t know what he can have. But he knows what he wants, and today, he wants to be brave. 

He wants Shane to stay. 

In the fridge, the ingredients are all prepared. The tuna salad in the containers. The ginger ales that Ilya doesn’t drink, crisp and chilled and waiting.

Ilya hears the tap turning off. He hears Shane’s feet padding along the tiled floor as his steps grow closer to the bedroom. 

The words are in his mouth, ready to be said. Ilya feels the brightness, the bold sun, the warmth on his tongue. 

Maybe, today, Shane will want to stay too.