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1.
On some level, Jessica knows this isn’t normal.
Being on a double date makes it all the more clear.
Matt literally can’t keep his hands off of Sophie. He’s practically feeling her up right here in front of God, Shane Hollander, and their waiter at Boston Pizza.
Well, maybe not in front of Shane. Shane’s eyes are tracking the TV playing tonight’s game, New York versus Montreal.
Every time they walk into a restaurant that has a hockey game playing, her heart sinks. She knows that if a game’s on, any game, she’s not getting a shred of Shane’s attention. Hell, on one particularly bleak day, she was wearing a low cut top and still lost him to a game where Detroit beat Ottawa 6-1.
She just wishes that he’d hold her hand. Or pull a Matt and caress her fucking thigh even.
She used to be so proud that her boyfriend’s polite. Civilized. Not one of those animals that gropes anything with tits.
But God, it’s been four months. She wouldn’t mind being groped. She would fucking love to be groped, actually.
The problem is that Shane’s not just a sweet, occasionally funny, soon to be famous millionaire.
He’s also fucking hot. He’s got these warm brown eyes, perfect skin, and abs. Actual, literal abs.
But when Jessica licked them last week, he didn’t even get hard. He said he was too stressed about the scouts coming to his next game. Her entire Centaurs loving family would be disappointed in her, but she’s really starting to hate hockey.
She’s relieved when the third period counts down. Briefly, Shane reenters the land of the living. He chuckles at Matt’s terrible jokes, scrutinizes the salad section of the menu.
She decides to be bold and grab his hand. He only flinches for a second, which she counts as a win.
Across the table, Matt is fucking sucking Sophie’s earlobe.
Jessica leans in close enough for her own lips to tickle Shane’s ear. “Wanna come over tonight? My parents won’t be home til late.”
“Oh. Um. Maybe?” He inhales a sharp little gasp and she straightens, surprised by the sound.
Only when she tries to meet his eyes, they’re not looking at her. They’re looking at the TV where a shirtless, sweaty Scott Hunter is giving a post game interview.
Fucking hockey.
🏒🏒🏒
Jessica’s cutting up fruit for her daughter when the news breaks.
She almost misses it. She doesn’t blink when Shane’s name comes up—because his name literally always comes up.
It doesn’t really bother her. He broke up with her pretty suddenly after the draft and her friends were pissed on her behalf. “You were by his side from day 1. The second he signs a million dollar contract, he drops you?”
She nodded along, but secretly, she was relieved when Shane dumped her. Her next boyfriend wasn’t as nice, but he fucked her hard and constantly. He’d actually gotten horny when she took her shirt off instead of vaguely horrified.
So she hears Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, and tunes it out. Focuses on getting the strawberries into that perfect heart shape Miley insists on eating. God forbid she slice them instead.
She’s sealing the strawberries in Tupperware when her husband Gus (who’s nice and fucks her hard, thank God) bursts into the room. “Did you hear?”
Her mind goes to the worst like always. “Is Miley okay?”
“What? Of course, she’s still napping. I—Your boy’s in the news.”
They’ve called Shane her boy for years. An inside joke, a fun fact to tote out at parties.
Gus turns the volume up on the TV which is playing a video where oh. Oh.
“Oh my God,” she whispers. She watches Ilya Rozanov swallow her ex-boyfriend’s tongue and has a series of flashbacks to his flaccid dick, his pinched smiles. Even in the blurry, zoomed in video, Shane looks hungry. She didn’t realize he could look at anything that wasn’t a puck like that. “Wow. This explains so much.”
“It really does. Of course he’s gay! How else would he be able to resist you?”
“Oh stop.” She blushes, grins.
“Rozanov though? That’s crazy. When do you think it started?”
“I’m not…Oh.”
A memory comes to her, blurry around the edges.
“I totally get it,” she said after he dumped her through a phone call. It was rude of him, but she was glad she didn’t have to make a face pretending she cared. “I know everything’s stressful with the draft and Rozanov—“
“Rozanov?” he said, his voice high. “No. What? Why would you—this has nothing to do with Ilya Rozanov.”
At the time, she thought he was just insecure about his own jealousy. Now…
A high, delirious laugh escapes her. She writes out a text to Shane, sends it to his number still buried in her contacts.
They’ve texted exactly once since the breakup, when she congratulated him on his first Cup. She hadn’t bothered after the second or third. The novelty had kind of faded.
She’s not sure if his number has changed, but she gives it a shot anyway.
He does reply in the end, a few days later.
Jessica: Hi Shane. This is Jessica. I just wanted to say I’m thinking of you and I’m so sorry you got outed, that’s fucked up. Selfishly, I feel vindicated knowing I was dumped for Ilya Rozanov. My boyfriend after you dumped me for a girl who had a neck tattoo and a fake British accent, so this is vastly preferable haha
Shane: Hi Jessica. Thanks for reaching out, it’s nice to hear from you. If you could not tell anyone the “dumped for Ilya Rozanov” thing, I’d really appreciate it. Things are complicated with the league right now (as you may have seen) and people knowing how long we’ve been together would complicate things further
Shane: Also I should clarify that I never cheated on you with him or anything. I know I wasn’t a great boyfriend (sorry), but I wouldn’t do that.
Shane: I just sort of forgot we were dating when I saw him the night of the draft, so I figured it was wise to break up with you
Shane: Oh wait sorry that sounds awful
Shane: Ilya says he can beat up the neck tattoo loving boyfriend if you want. I told him you’re married now and it’s probably not top of mind, but he still wanted me to pass that on
Shane: Okay wow that’s a lot of messages. Sorry. And sorry you had to date me.
Shane: My mom says hi by the way
Jessica watches each message come in, laughing progressively harder.
It’s nice to see that fame hasn’t changed him.
2.
Shane Hollander looks so fucking pretty on his knees.
It’s not the best blowjob Oliver’s ever received or anything. Hollander’s distracted, clearly terrified that Oliver’s going to whip out a camera or something.
He’s not, but he does try to take as many mental pictures as possible. Those lips just look so good wrapped around him and those lashes—fuck.
The sight is enough to make Oliver shout out a quick warning before he comes. Hollander swallows easily.
Okay. He had a sneaking suspicion that this wasn’t his first blowjob rodeo, but that basically confirms it. Interesting. He’ll contemplate that more later when he’s not reeling from an orgasm.
Hollander rises to his feet while Oliver regains his breath. “Fuck, man.” Oliver grins. Hollander doesn’t smile back. He’s busy staring at the door like he’s considering bursting through it Kool-Aid man style.
“Okay. I should go,” Hollander says. “Uh…thanks.”
God, he’s so fucking Canadian. And so fucking cute. “You sure? I don’t live far from here.”
He wants to fuck Hollander. Like, really, really badly. Embarrassingly badly.
Oliver sucked him off first and Hollander made these tiny moans and gasps and…he wants to hear more. He needs to hear more.
Hollander shakes his head. “No. I should…I need to head out.”
“Okay. Can I get your number?”
He’s being clingy, he knows. But Jesus Christ, the guy’s gorgeous. It doesn’t seem fair to only get a sight like this once in your life. It would be like seeing a sunset and going, ‘eh, I get the idea, I don’t need to see another’.
“I, um, I don’t think I should…I live out of town, so…Bye.” Hollander thrusts the door open and runs back into the club without looking back.
Oliver sighs, leaning hard against the sink. Fuck.
It’s not an easy sight to shake, it turns out. Oliver fucks plenty of other men. Some of them are more focused than Hollander. Most of them don’t literally run away after.
But none of them look that fucking content and gorgeous with his dick in their mouth.
There’s a period of a few years where he forgets completely when he’s dating Rhett. Obviously, he thinks his boyfriend’s more gorgeous than any hookup in a dirty club bathroom.
But Rhett’s apparently so gorgeous that other men are all too happy to fuck him. And Rhett had no qualms saying yes.
Oliver spends Christmas 2017 drunk as fuck, sending Rhett a series of progressively angrier texts. He knows he’s reached a low point when he’s threatening to buy a pineapple, name it Rhett, and smash it into a million pieces. As if pineapples have names.
He needs a rebound. He needs…
He opens Instagram, goes straight to Shane Hollander’s account. He’s posted a recent ad campaign in some skimpy fucking underwear and no shirt. Fuck.
Oliver didn’t even get to see his abs, since they never got naked, never left that club bathroom. What a massive loss. Of course they’re perfect.
He sips his whiskey and swipes into Hollander’s DMs. What does he have to lose?
PicsbyOliver: Heeeey. Happy holidays! Just wanted to say if you’re heading out to LA anytime soon, feel free to HMU
ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Why would I do that?
PicsbyOliver: Bc I can make u come even quicker than I did last time
ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: No
ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Never
ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: I will never sleep with you ever
ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: I am so much hotter than you
ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Your face looks like a moldy tomato
Oliver frowns at his phone. What the fuck? He’s drunk and the words are a little blurry, but they don’t sound like the guy who thanked him for a bathroom hookup.
PicsbyOliver: Not what u said when u were coming on it
ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Lies
ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: I would never do that for a man who looks like a windshield bashed in after car accident
ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Or any man
ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: I am straight
ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: If you message again or share these messages with anyone, I will sue
PicsbyOliver: Sue me? For what?
ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Emotional distress
ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Goodbye sad little man
Fuck.
Not only is Oliver single, he’s been blocked by Shane Hollander.
🏒🏒🏒
Oliver finds out when one of his friends unceremoniously drops a link in the group chat.
He watches quietly, dumbfounded as his friends react.
Hotttt
Are they baseball players?
Hockey, dumbass
Idc what ball they smack around, they’re fucking hot
If only it wasn’t illegal for them to be gay :’(
Kinda makes it hotter that it is
Fuck. Oliver’s never really told anyone about that hookup.
Partially because he didn’t want to out Hollander. Partially because he almost started to think he hallucinated it.
This feels like confirmation. He wonders if Hollander and Rozanov are exclusive. He wonders if…oh shit.
He thinks about those messages which, admittedly, he’s never forgotten. You don’t just forget a man that hot comparing you to a moldy tomato and a bashed in windshield.
He plays them back again, but this time, in a Russian accent instead of a soft Canadian one.
Oh. Ohhhh.
Okay, well, that makes significantly more sense. He goes straight to Ilya Rozanov’s account. Maybe he can apologize. Maybe he can talk his way into a threesome and—
He’s already been blocked.
3.
Rose knows thirty seconds into meeting Shane Hollander that she’s going to date him.
He sits across from her, kind and gorgeous and quietly hilarious and she thinks, this one.
They talk hockey. He takes a genuine interest in her career. He’s famous but not too famous. It’s perfect. He’s perfect.
Plus, there’s the fact that he’s straight. Her last boyfriend who turned out to be gay had a fucking pierced ear and wore crop tops. She thought he was just secure in his masculinity.
She’s playing it safe this time, dating an athlete. There is no universe where a gay man would dress like that.
She’s hit with a brief flicker of doubt when he kisses her.
He makes the first move, his hands firmly planted on her jaw, his lips soft and inviting. As soon as she answers it, he pulls away. “Sorry,” he says.
She quirks her head, smiles. “For what?”
He kisses her again, harder this time, with purpose. Almost like he has something to prove. She's used to this by now. Ever since she booked her second major role, guys have fallen over themselves trying to impress her in bed.
She parts her mouth. Instead of the welcome warmth of his tongue, he reels back again. “I should go.”
“Go?” She blinks, startled. She was going to invite him in. She was going to ride him and reduce him to a puddle. It’s very, very easy for her to reduce men to puddles—the straight ones anyway.
“Yeah. Early morning practice.” He withdraws his hands completely, shoves them in his pockets. “But this was nice. I’ll call you?” It sounds like a question.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.” He looks down, like he’s talking to himself. “Yes. I will call you.”
She leans up and presses one more peck to his lips. “Please do.”
His face is inscrutable, tinted with this adorable pink.
She wants more, now. She wants to drag him upstairs and leave him wanting more too.
But he’s an awkward guy. Yeah, that’s it. He clearly doesn’t get out much. He’s not gay, he just has a home-schooled sort of vibe because of how immersed in hockey he is.
It’s alright. She can be patient.
🏒🏒🏒
Unlike the rest of the world, Rose isn’t shocked or horrified by Shane being in a relationship with Ilya Rozanov.
Honestly, she thinks the rest of the world might be really fucking stupid. Like, oh, breaking news: the man who would replace oxygen with a hockey stick if he could fell in love with a hockey player! No shit.
She gets that Shane is gay, has since the second time they fucked and it took him thirty minutes of deep breathing to get half hard.
She gets that he’s in love with Ilya Rozanov, has since he showed up to lunch with a dopey smile and three hickeys and she said, ‘uh, who the hell is he?’
But she doesn’t get it, mind, body, and soul, until his wedding day.
It’s late at night, only a few stragglers remaining, mostly close friends. She’s drunk as fuck, listing over into Svetlana Vetrova’s side.
Svetlana is hot. Very, very hot. And nice. So nice.
“You’re so nice.” Rose smiles up at her. Svetlana smiles back.
Rose wants to stay here forever, but her bladder has other plans. She gets up, stumbling toward the house, then through it.
It’s empty. Quiet. A fucking maze.
She can’t for the life of her remember where the bathroom is so she opens one door at random, finds a closet.
She opens another, finds a bedroom.
She opens a third and finds Shane riding Ilya’s dick.
She freezes in her tracks. It’s immediately clear that they didn’t hear the door creak open.
Of course they didn’t. Who could hear anything over Shane’s moaning? Damn. It’s unbelievably loud. She didn’t even know Shane could moan. The few times they had sex, he was silent, like he was concentrating really hard.
“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane practically yells. His head is thrown back, his face overtaken by pleasure. Jesus Christ. She knew he wasn’t happy having sex with her, but it didn’t really occur to her that he could be this happy. His mouth is parted and he’s practically drooling.
“So pretty,” Ilya says through a groan. “My pretty husband.”
“Fuuuuck, I’m—”
“Come for me, my husband,” he says.
And Shane does. Despite the fact that there isn’t a hand on his dick. He just…comes. It’s like a magic trick. A very gay magic trick.
Ilya shouts something in Russian, presumably coming too, and it occurs to Rose that she shouldn’t be watching this, probably. Wait, no, definitely.
But fuck. She’s rooted to the spot. She knew Shane was gay, but this is gay-gay. This might be gayer than if she got all her ex boyfriends to attend a screening of Brokeback Mountain.
“I think sex is better when you’re married,” Shane says dreamily.
“Yes. Good thing we will have married sex forever.”
Awwww! Rose places a hand to her heart. They’re so cute.
Shane leans in and kisses Ilya, so soft, so tenderly. Then he kisses harder, practically swallows Ilya’s tongue. It’s drastically different from the time he kissed her for ten seconds, then jumped back, claiming a bug crawled on him.
“We should head back out there,” Shane says, breathing heavily into Ilya’s mouth, “in case anyone’s waiting to say goodbye to us.”
“Mmm, in a minute. Wanna eat my cum out of your ass.”
Ilya flips Shane over and Shane goes down giggling.
Rose finally backs out of the room.
Yeah, she never stood a chance.
She stumbles onto the lawn, finds Svetlana waiting for her, still smiling.
“Fuck.” Rose collapses into her side. “I never found the bathroom.”
“You can use the one at my hotel. It's a great bathroom. Dual showerheads.” Svetlana lifts a bottle of vodka, sips from it. Rose watches her throat when she swallows. She thinks of Shane’s face, so blissed out that she can’t help but wonder if she’s ever come that hard.
Maybe tonight she can find out.
4.
Cole can hardly believe his luck.
“You hear about Hollander?” one of his teammates says. Cole's ears perk up, like they always do when he hears the name. “A fucking fairy. He came out to his team.”
Cole drops his phone. And his water bottle. And his heart down to his ass.
He scrambles for his phone, swiping into the group chat he has with two other closeted gay players. The only two he knows about, because they had a threesome the night they were all drafted.
Everyone knows that’s what you do when you’re keeping your sexuality a top secret. You fuck two other players your first night in the league. You shove the hotshot number two draft pick to his knees, because he’s apparently the type to beg to suck your dick.
Cole (sensibly) hasn’t hooked up with either of them since, but he’s sort of glad it happened. Well, okay, he’s really glad it happened—it was fucking hot. But it also means he has people to message about stuff like this.
Cole: Did you guys hear that Hollander’s gay???
Luca: Wait really?
Drew: No shit
Luca: I have not heard this. But it makes sense
Luca: There are so many rumors about him and Rozanov. And him and Hayden Pike too, though I don’t buy those
Cole: You would know, fan boy
Luca: Shut up
Drew: I just asked Scott. He said it’s true
Drew: He said I’m too young and to not even bother asking him out
Luca: Lol
Luca: He’s right
Cole: Fuck it idc, I’m gonna slide in his DMs
Drew: Daaamn okay bold
Cole: Luca I will fight you for him yk
Luca: No need. I know better than to go after a man with bottom eyes
Cole: Lol
Cole knows it’ll be way too transparent if he asks any of his teammates for Hollander’s number now, so he settles for an Instagram request.
He spends nearly an hour that night writing and rewriting his message.
It’s just…Cole grew up in a bedroom plastered with Hollander posters. The first time he jacked off to a guy was to that Calvin Klein spread.
Hell, he’s in his twenties now, and he still sometimes jacks off to it. That picture of Hollander half dressed and biting his lip is better than any porn.
It never occurred to Cole, even in his wildest dreams, that Hollander could be gay. That he could be his colleague and make a move and…Oh God.
He could fuck Shane Hollander.
He’d never tell his teammates, but that would be way, way better than any Cup. Like, he could retire happy if he got to eat Hollander’s ass even one time.
He can’t blow this. He won’t blow this. The only thing he’ll be blowing is Hollander. Preferably in two weeks, when Montreal comes to town. Maybe he should hire cleaners for his apartment?
He’s getting ahead of himself. Cole takes a deep breath and sends off the message.
ColePlaysHockey: Hey! I’m Cole, I play for Tampa. Just wanted to say I heard you came out to your team and it means a lot to me to know I’m not alone.
He decided to keep it earnest at first. Supportive. Not come on too strong.
It seems to work, because dots appear within a minute. Cole does a happy dance in his living room that he’s grateful no one is around to witness.
ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Oh wow. That’s nice to hear, thanks for letting me know. I’m here if you ever need advice about coming out to your team or anything
Ugh, he’s so sweet. Of course he’s nice and hot. That's so Shane Hollander.
Okay. Time to go in for the kill.
ColePlaysHockey: Thanks! Maybe we could grab drinks when you’re in Tampa next month?
Dots appear. Disappear. Reappear. Disappear. Reappear. The response takes an agonizing sixteen minutes. Cole paces the whole time, nearly gets rug burn on his feet.
Finally, finally, a message pops up.
ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Like a date? Or for advice?
Cole chews on his thumbnail. He could say advice, avoid any risk of rejection. But he’ll always regret it if he doesn’t take this shot.
ColePlaysHockey: Honestly either is good with me, but I’d love to take you on a date ☺️
ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Oh
Oh. What the fuck does oh mean?
ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: I'm seeing someone but if you need guidance, I’m here. Or you can always reach out to Scott Hunter. He’s probably better at this stuff than I am.
Cole exhales, dropping his phone down to his side. Fuck. Figures that he’d be taken. Cole would have to be insanely lucky for that ass to not already be locked down.
As it turns out, he’s not lucky at all. Getting rejected by his lifelong crush is only the start of a terrible week.
On Thursday, Ilya Rozanov checks him so hard that he gets a mild concussion.
🏒🏒🏒
“You hear about Hollander?” One of Cole’s teammates says. Cole doesn’t wince like he would have in Tampa. Getting traded to San Jose was a blessing in disguise. The vibes here are way more relaxed. No one looks like they want to commit murder if someone uses rainbow tape, at least.
“Hmm?”
“He’s dating Ilya Rozanov. Or fucking him?”
Cole snatches the phone out of his teammate’s hand. He watches the video loop. It’s true.
It’s actually true. Shane Hollander is getting mauled by Ilya Rozanov and he looks…content doesn’t even describe it. Ecstatic?
Cole cycles through a deranged take on the five stages of grief.
He’s stunned. Then mildly horny. Then jealous. Then really fucking horny. Then, finally, appalled.
He pulls out his own phone and fires off a text.
Cole: Wait. Did Rozanov fucking concuss me because I hit on his man?
Luca: Probably. That sounds like him.
Luca: I did tell you I heard rumors
5.
Troy can’t fucking do this.
Sometimes when Harris smiles at him, he feels like he’s gonna throw up. Or collapse. Or collapse, then get up long enough to throw up, then collapse again.
He wishes he lived in a different world, one where he could be the person Harris deserves. One where he could take him out on a date without flinching. One where being good comes naturally to him, where he doesn’t have a laundry list of apologies to dole out.
But in this world, he can’t subject Harris to himself. He fucking can’t. So he’s standing in a near empty locker room, hyping himself up to ask Roz for Shane Hollander’s number.
Hollander’s a good fit for Troy. He’s polite, with none of the crass edges Adrian had. He knows very intimately why Troy needs to remain a closeted NHL player, possibly forever. He lives two hours away. And he’s hot as fuck.
Like, stupidly hot. Maybe if Troy fucks him, his heart will stop beating too hard around boys he can’t have. Boys with perfect dimples who magically smell like apples. Seriously, how does he always smell like apples?
Troy physically shakes Harris from his thoughts. Hayes leaves the locker room, so it’s just Troy and Roz now. He’s pretty sure Roz sensed that Troy needed to talk and lingered. He’s such a good captain. “Hey. Um. You’re friends with Shane Hollander, right?”
Roz’s shoulders tighten. “Yes. We run a charity together.”
“Right. I was wondering if I could maybe get his number?”
Roz stares at him. There’s a terrifying, twenty second moment of silence where Troy worries he’s about to get pounded—and not in a fun way.
“Why?” Roz asks finally.
“Um just to…you know…talk?” God, does he really have to spell it out?
“Talk,” Roz repeats.
Okay, apparently he does. “Yeah, like. I’ve just. You know I’m gay. And I’ve heard rumors that Hollander—“
“No.”
“No?”
“No. I will not give you his number. He is…a private person.” Roz grits his teeth. There’s something intense, almost feral in his gaze.
It’s sort of like the face he made when LaPointe accidentally stepped on Chiron’s tail last week.
Or, no, that’s not right. It’s more like when Dykstra ate the last honey cruller from their Tims order, blatantly ignoring that Roz had called dibs on it.
Oh. Oh. Okay, yeah, they’re totally fucking.
He had his suspicions when Roz came out to him as bi, but this confirms it. Roz looks like he’s making a concerted effort to not murder Troy. Which, really, Troy appreciates.
“Got it. So are you two—“
“Go get Harris more coffee,” Roz says, fully shooing him. “Go go.”
“I shouldn’t—”
“Be stupid? I agree. Get him extra cake too.”
Troy sighs. But now he’s thinking about the way Harris lights up whenever Troy places an eggnog latte on his desk.
He heads straight to the coffee shop.
🏒🏒🏒
The locker room is rowdy when Roz returns from his bullshit suspension. Seriously, Troy could kill Crowell. Well, he already could, but now he has even more reason to.
The energy is high with Roz back and no one’s saying shit about their captain feeling up Shane Hollander and God, Troy loves this team.
He takes these words back the second an arm wraps tightly around his shoulder. Or, more accurately, his neck. “He is mine,” Roz says.
It’s immediately clear to Troy that these words have been sitting there, desperate and building, for months. Troy laughs. “I know.”
“No.” Roz glances around the locker room. Then, he lifts the chain perpetually around his neck, showing Troy…
“Hoooly shit,” Troy says. He clears his throat, tries to drop his voice to a whisper. “Is that a ring?”
“Yes.”
"Like an engagement ring?"
Roz scoffs. "Yes."
“Hoooly shit!” he says again. He knew they were fucking, suspected they were dating, but he didn’t realize it was this serious. Damn. In hindsight, it's impressive that Roz didn’t kill him. “Congrats, man. I’m really excited for you.”
Roz narrows his eyes. “Sure.”
“I am! You know I’m happy with Harris.”
Roz’s hand somehow gets tighter. Troy nearly chokes. “Mine.”
“I get it, jeez. I promise no one’s trying to take him from you.”
Roz sighs, finally letting go, but not without a harsh clap on Troy’s shoulder. “If only.”
+1
Shane’s approaching what could probably be classified as alarming levels of horniness.
The problem is that this benefit gala for the Irina Foundation came with specific instructions from his mother: divide and conquer.
Apparently, Shane and Ilya spend far too much time ‘giggling’ and ‘flirting’ at these things and not enough schmoozing donors.
So now Shane has to stare at his husband from across the room. While he’s wearing a fucking suit and his hair is perfectly curled. It’s so cruel.
Shane’s sure if he could just be near Ilya, feel the warmth of his body, hold his hand, he’d be more in control. But from across the room, he’s jumping out of his fucking skin.
He wishes he’d at least had the foresight to put a plug in. The fullness would help settle him, he’s sure of it. For a delirious moment, he wonders if he has time to go home and put one in.
No. No, that would be ridiculous. He makes himself stay firm. He tracks Ilya while he talks to some elderly woman. Ilya’s engaged in the conversation, laughing at all the right parts, nodding along. But every thirty seconds or so, his eyes dart away, meeting Shane’s.
They’ve always been good at that—finding each other in a crowded room.
Ilya looks over, his eyes trailing down Shane’s body, then up again. He looks fucking starving and all Shane wants is to be devoured.
“Jesus Christ,” Hayden says. Shane barely turns his head. “You could drop to your knees and suck his dick right now and it would somehow be less sexual than whatever this is.”
Shane chokes. “Excuse me?”
“He’s right,” Kip says. Because, oh yeah, Hayden said that in front of fucking Scott Hunter and Kip Grady. This must be Shane’s penance for hiding out with them instead of doing more schmoozing. “I’ve never seen such a literal interpretation of the term eye fucking.”
“We’re not—”
“Whatever you’re gonna say next, I promise you no one is buying it,” Hayden says.
“God, I can’t believe any of those guys ever thought they stood a chance.” Scott laughs.
“What guys?”
Scott gives Shane a weird look. “You know, all the guys who messaged me after you came out.”
“But they weren’t…I mean, they weren’t trying to…”
Scott passed all the messages on. They were nice, sometimes a little nosy, but thoughtful nonetheless.
There were one or two guys who slid into his DMs directly, too. Like the kid who played for Tampa before San Jose traded for him for some reason. Ilya was lying on his lap and saw the message come in.
Shane was sure the kid was just expressing his gratitude. Ilya was sure he was coming onto Shane.
They argued about it, made out about it, and then finally, Shane asked the guy directly. It was the first time Shane had ever seen Ilya upset to be right. He had to suck Ilya’s dick after to get him to stop pouting.
It was ridiculous, really. What did he think, that Shane was going to leave him for some twenty-year-old with a 5.8% shooting percentage? Please.
Shane was pretty sure Ilya was just bitter about those DMs he intercepted from the guy Shane sucked off in LA. Shane was in the shower when they came in and Ilya proceeded to lose his fucking mind. The fact that the blowjob that guy gave him had been deeply mediocre wasn’t enough to console Ilya.
“Shane,” Scott says. “Are you joking? You’re joking right?”
“What?”
“They only messaged you to try to sleep with you.”
“No…”
“Yes,” Scott says. “Why did you think they all asked if you were single?”
“I mean, I guess I knew some of them were—but I think some of them were just curious if it’s possible to be closeted and still be in a relationship.”
Kip says something that sounds like oh honey, but it’s drowned out by Scott’s sputtering.
“Don’t even bother,” Hayden says. “Everywhere we’ve gone for the past decade, people have thrown themselves at him and he barely notices. Hell, my own wife hit on him first.”
Shane wrinkles his nose. “Okay, she wasn’t really into me.”
“Yes she was, Shane, we’ve been over this. Your cluelessness is the sole reason my children exist!” Hayden nearly shouts.
“I mean, definitely not the sole reason—“
“She spent fifteen minutes trying to hit on you while you texted. I only bought her a drink to apologize.” Hayden tilts his head. “Well, and because I thought she was super hot. And nice. And funny.”
“I wasn’t texting,” Shane says indignantly. “I was checking the score. Boston was playing Buffalo that night. They won 4-1. Ilya got a hat trick and one assist.”
Scott full on cackles at this for some reason. “How the fuck do you remember that?” Hayden says. “Wait, don’t answer that. If it’s a sex game I don’t want to know.”
“It wasn’t—whatever. I took a girl home that night too. Because I know when women are hitting on me.”
He doesn’t mention that he only took her home because Ilya didn’t immediately reply to his drunken, “Congrats. Sweet hat trick :)” text. That’s irrelevant.
“And what exactly is flirting in the eyes of Shane Hollander?” Scott asks. Shane’s gaze wanders toward Ilya again. If only he was here. It would be so hot to watch him put Scott in his place.
“You know, like, flirting!”
“Like what exactly?” Hayden asks.
Shane tries to recall that woman. What was her name again? He has a much more vivid memory of the brief text exchange he had with Ilya after she left that went a little like:
Lily: Going to reward me for it?
Shane: Against Buffalo? No fucking way. You should be rewarding me for mine against Toronto last week
Lily: Maybe I will
Lily: Was hot watching you beat those assholes
Shane at least had the decency to feel guilty about the fact that he only came once that night, and it wasn’t with that woman in his bed.
That woman who… “She touched my arm a lot,” he says finally. “Yeah. And she twirled her hair.”
“Twirled her hair?” Hayden says. “That’s what nerds who have just gotten makeovers in bad rom coms do.”
“She kept winking too!” Shane says as he remembers it, managing to temporarily block out the way his blood rushed down reading was hot, was hot, was hot over and over again. “Like, she asked me to order her a sex on the beach and she winked.”
Kip laughs. “Oh, that’s awful.”
“Shane…” Hayden says.
“What?”
“First of all, a rock with a smiley face drawn on it would identify that as flirting. Second of all, I’m pretty sure you only recognized it because Rozanov’s always winking to flirt with you.”
“No he’s not!”
“Yes he is. Every interview before you played together was like, ‘we will beat Montreal next week now that Hollander is on injury reserve. Oh, he is not? Montreal is playing like he is.’” Hayden performs a very exaggerated wink. It just looks like he’s blinking.
“I’m surprised even that didn’t go over your head,” Scott says. “Seriously, how did you two end up together? What signals would you have possibly picked up on?”
“I picked up on his signals just fine.” Shane’s voice does not get very, very squeaky. He clears his throat for unrelated reasons.
“Please don’t clarify what said signals were,” Hayden says.
Kip props his chin in his hand. “Oh, please do.”
“Okay, but how many of these men were messaging you about him anyways?” Hayden asks.
Scott counts on his fingers. “Maybe like eighteen? Closer to thirty if you include the AHL guys.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I just wish I knew you were settled down with your sworn rival.” Scott sips his drink. “I would have stopped passing those messages on. Though if you told me, I probably would have thought you were fucking with me.”
“Wait…You passed those messages on so I’d sleep with those men?”
Kip mutters another, more disappointed, oh honey.
Scott just lets out an exasperated sigh, matching Hayden’s. “Yes? I kind of felt like your dick appointment secretary."
"Aww, babe! Perfect use of dick appointment." Kip beams.
Scott rolls his eyes. "You kept saying thanks so I figured you were taking them up on it.”
“Yeah, thanks for passing everyone’s well wishes on!”
“I’m exhausted,” Hayden says. “You exhaust me.”
“I really doubt every single one of them was into me,” Shane says. “Like okay, maybe some of them, but all of them? You guys sound like Ilya.”
“Ew,” Hayden says. “Don’t say that to me.”
“Seconding that,” Scott says.
“He’s always saying people are hitting on me. I think he’s just jealous.”
All three of them laugh like Shane’s told a hilarious joke.
“Wow. You’re, like, unnervingly humble,” Kip says.
“Whatever. Please just don’t tell him that’s why you sent those messages on. I think he’d actually kill you. Or at least concuss you.”
He spares a thought for that poor Tampa kid, getting scratched from a handful of games after Ilya slammed him into the boards. Shane gave him hell for it after. He also watched a video of the check six times in a row, jacked off, and came so hard he nearly passed out.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
Shane looks away in search of Ilya again, but instead finds his mother’s very, very disappointed face. “Alright, I need to go talk up donors.”
“Just look at them the way you look at Rozanov. They’ll open their wallets wide,” Hayden says. “And also their—“
Shane hits him on the chest as he passes. He starts walking up to the nearest old lady, but he’s intercepted by a guy maybe a few years older than him.
“Shane Hollander.” He smiles. “I’m Gerald, the new chief of marketing for the Bench Warmers foundation? It’s an honor.”
He shakes Shane’s hand, holds it a little too long. It's sweaty. Shane smiles politely, asks about the organization.
Gerald is…touchy. A slap on the shoulder here, a graze on Shane’s elbow there.
By the time his hand’s moving to Shane’s bicep, Shane sees a husband shaped blur charging toward him.
“Hello.” Ilya tightens his arm around Shane’s waist instead of extending a hand. Shane exhales, relaxing into the first point of contact they’ve had in two and a half hours. “I’m Ilya Rozanov, Shane’s husband.”
Gerald smiles. “Of course. It’s an honor to meet you. I was just telling your husband—”
“We have to get going. Please feel free to chat business with Yuna.” Ilya practically drags Shane out of the room.
“That was really rude,” Shane says. “We shouldn’t interrupt potential donors—”
Ilya pushes him hard against the wall, consumes Shane’s mouth with his. Shane lets out a gasp, sinking into the kiss.
“He wanted to fuck you,” Ilya says lowly. “To do this.”
He presses his thigh against Shane’s dick, tugs a hand through his hair just how Shane likes it. Shane moans in his mouth before he can stop himself. “No he didn’t. He was interested in the foundation—”
“He was interested in your perfect little mouth,” Ilya says. “Too bad it’s only mine, yes?”
Shane doesn’t respond, too busy rutting against Ilya’s thigh. Ilya’s fingers tighten in Shane’s hair. “I asked you a question,” Ilya says.
“Yes. Yours,” Shane gasps. “Only yours. Only ever yours.”
“Good.”
They should probably get out of here. They are, in fact, in the hallway right outside of the banquet hall. But fuck, Ilya’s kissing and tugging and sucking and his thigh is right there. After hours without touching, Shane basically has no choice but to grind on it.
He’s distracted by a light gasp that is distinctly not Ilya’s. He opens his eyes to see that guy staring at them. Jerry? Gerald?
“Oh, I…”
Ilya turns his head long enough to glare at him. Then, he turns back, runs his tongue along Shane’s neck. Like he’s claiming every centimeter of it, one by one.
Distantly, Shane hears the sound of footsteps. Jerry walking away, probably. He can't manage to tear his focus away long enough to check.
“Please,” Shane whines into Ilya’s mouth. “Take me home.”
“Why?”
Shane’s brain buffers. “...why?”
“Why would I when I can make you come right here?” Ilya presses his thigh down enough for Shane to let out a whimper that is absolutely not appropriate for a charity event. Or even a for-profit event.
His eyes flick around, but the hallway is empty now that Jerry’s left. Strangely, Shane feels…disappointed?
Maybe all those years in the closet fucked him up. He just doesn’t totally hate the idea of someone else walking in and seeing that the great Shane Hollander is completely wrecked by his husband providing a bit of friction.
“If you take me home, you can fuck me,” Shane grits out.
“I don’t think you want that,” Ilya says. “I think you want to come here, where anyone can walk in and see how desperate you are for me. And then you want me to take you home and fuck you.”
Shane’s instinct is to deny it, but the way he bucks his hips up to meet Ilya’s leg again and again and again basically functions as confirmation. It’s so pathetically adolescent.
Except, no, Shane wasn’t doing this in high school. He wouldn't have been able to even imagine this in high school. If he told his eighteen-year-old self the effect that Ilya will have on him…well, he’d have a panic attack. But after baby Shane stopped hyperventilating, he wouldn’t believe it.
Shane himself isn’t sure he believes it. He’s in his thirties. He’s been with Ilya for over a decade now. It shouldn’t be possible for Ilya to whisper, “come”, and for it to just happen.
But it does. Shane thrusts a few more times, lets out a strangled gasp, and comes hard in his pants.
There are a glorious few seconds where he whites out completely. Where all he can manage is to feel and feel fucking good.
And then…
He slaps Ilya on the arm. “Are you serious?! This suit is expensive.”
Ilya shrugs. He’s smirking, the asshole. “We are rich.”
“What if my mom walked in?!” he whisper hisses.
“She would never leave her precious event.” Ilya leans in and kisses Shane, softer now. “Are you really going to pretend you don’t love being a slut?”
Once again, Shane brushes up against the urge to deny it. But, well, there’s cum in his pants. He’s aware that he’s lost all authority on the matter.
“Maybe I do,” he concedes finally, “but only for you.”
Ilya’s answering grin takes over his whole face. “Yes. Only for me.”