Chapter Text
Shane Hollander is pretty sure he is an excellent boyfriend. If there were an award for most valuable boyfriend, he would win it, at least tonight. Because he and Ilya get to see one another so rarely, they both try to make those times special for one another. (Thoug, since the trade to Ottawa went through, that's charged with the delicious expectation that soon those times won't be as rare. Soon they'll only be a two-hour drive from one another, and they won't have to try to fit all their love in a few short hours a month).
Ilya makes their time special with sometimes over-the-top romantic gestures that leave Shane blushing and flustered, with words so sweet that Shane can’t believe they’re meant for him. Shane does it for Ilya by taking care of him: holding him, stroking his hair, even nagging him to eat some vegetables and drink water once in a while makes Ilya feel (he’s admitted, under duress) loved. And, of course, they both show each other through sex.
Which had been particularly excellent that night. The first time they’d fucked, it was rough. Ilya held Shane’s face against the floor, pressing the palm of his hand hard onto Shane’s cheek while pushing his ass up in the air. The position made Shane feel exposed, vulnerable, submissive. Exactly how he wanted to feel when he was with Ilya, because he also always, always felt safe with him. This was just one more way they connected with each other. Also, it was really fucking hot in a way that Shane didn't feel the need to psychoanalyze. He just liked it when Ilya hurt him a little and told him what to do and took what he wanted from Shane. And fortunately, Ilya liked that too.
Ilya had whispered the most depraved things imaginable in Shane’s ear. Told him that he was a slut, that he was filthy, that he was only good for taking cock. “Look what you let me do to you,” he had crooned in Shane’s ear while Shane ground back against him, still, always, desperate for more. “You’re made for this.” Ilya had pulled his hair and called him a whore and made him come untouched.
Afterwards, they’d held each other for a long time. Ilya whispered sweet words in Russian that Shane still couldn’t understand (but he was studying hard) and then some in English that made him blush.
“That was fucking amazing,” Shane told him.
“You are just easy to please,” Ilya said with a little kiss against Shane’s bare shoulder.
“No, you’re amazing.”
“Hmm. Better than famous movie star Rose Landry?”
“Fuck you,” Shane had retorted, and then kissed him. They’d made out for a while like that, slow and sleepy, until Ilya’s kisses had turned hot and demanding again. His hands circled Shane’s face, drawing him in like they always did, starting that very first time.
The second time they fucked, it was gentle. Slow and careful, Ilya finding his way inside Shane easily. They kissed the whole time, Ilya’s lips never leaving Shane’s, Ilya’s hands never leaving his face. It’s passionate, loving, thorough. Shane can almost feel them merging into one person.
See, good boyfriend.
It would have been easy to sink into yet another round of the afterglow. They do that sometimes, on the rare occasions where there’s no timeline. Sex, and then holding each other until they’re ready to go again, until they’re both so sore and exhausted, their bodies wrung dry, that all they can do is lie next to one another, gasping for air and enjoying the warmth of knowing they’re as close as any two people can be.
But Shane, because he is, again, a good boyfriend, had insisted that Ilya get up, get dressed, and go to an event he had been more or less instructed to attend by his coach. One of the team’s owners was hosting some obnoxious gala at a swanky hotel for some charity he funded, and he’d asked (instructed) as many players as possible to be there. Shane hates being trotted out for these things, but Ilya usually doesn’t mind as much.
He minds when it means getting out of a bed with Shane in it, especially when Shane is supposed to get on a plane back to Montreal in eighteen hours.
“Too bad,” Shane told him. “You said you were going to go, so go.”
“No,” Ilya said, teasing his fingers up and down Shane’s abs. “I think I have more important work to do right here.”
“Go for an hour,” Shane told him. “Say hi to the guys, say hi to the owners and their rich friends. You like charming people.”
“I like fucking you more,” Ilya whined, and Shane smacked his thigh lightly.
“Fuck you. No way you could go again.”
“Want to bet?” Ilya grinned, showing all his teeth. “I bet I could come three times before I would be back from stupid gala. Or at least make you come three times. Maybe make you cry, too, because it feels so good that it hurts."
“You make it very hard to be responsible, Rozanov.”
“See, and if I become nice and boring, everyone is going to know you are bad influence on me.” Ilya kissed his shoulder.
“If you skip literally every single team event literally every time I’m in town, people are going to start talking. Every single public statement, everything we’ve told the league, is that we can keep it professional. Our relationship won’t affect our play. We can’t keep disappearing together every single possible second. As much as I may want that.”
There’s a moment of quiet. Shane is getting tired of arguing about how they handle their relationship in public. Ilya wants to hold hands, to kiss where cameras can see, to act like any other couple. Shane can't stand the headlines. He hopes Ilya doesn't start talking again about how proud he is of being with Shane, how much he wants everyone to know. Because one of these days, Shane is going to crack, he wants that too. He wants it so badly.
But Ilya doesn’t. He just sighs heavily and says, “Of course, you are right. I will go to boring thing.”
“And when you get back, I promise I’m going to make it worth your while.”
Ilya had smiled and smacked Shane’s ass as he got up to reluctantly get dressed. Shane had lain back and watched the perfect planes of his body disappear under the layers of his suit. It would be a shame, if not for the fact that Ilya looks as devastatingly handsome dressed as he looks unbearably sexy naked. In fact, there is no version of Ilya that Shane doesn’t love just sharing a room with.
Shane had luxuriated in bed for a little while, enjoying the feeling of Ilya having been inside him (normally he hates nothing more than stickiness or mess but it’s different when the mess is Ilya’s). Then he had, as, again, the best boyfriend ever, gotten up, pulled on a pair of joggers and his heaviest hoodie—it’s definitely puffer jacket weather, but Shane hates the way those feel—and leaves the warm solace of Ilya’s apartment on his mission of excellent boyfriending.
Ilya is always complaining about the food at events like this. The vodka is so mediocre, by his standards, that he won’t touch it. The food is designed to nibble, not to satisfy the prodigious appetite of a 29-year-old who works out sixty hours a week. Or the health needs of an athlete focusing on performance, Shane might add. Shane hates these things at least as much as Ilya does. Maybe more. He knows how bad it sucks to be shown off like a prize pony, and he wants Ilya to remember this as a great evening, not a terrible one.
So he’s walking through the chilly Boston evening, headed to the North End and Ilya’s favorite pizza place. He might pick up some cannolis, too, if Mike’s is still open. Ilya will be ecstatic that he gets a real meal, especially if Shane cheats and has a slice with him. Which he might do. He burned plenty of extra calories with Ilya today. And Ilya loves tempting Shane into a treat.
Then, after one kind of hunger is sated, he’ll show Ilya his real reward: Shane didn’t clean up after they had sex earlier. He usually can’t stand the feeling of anything being wet or sticky on his body, but it’s worth it imagining the look on Ilya’s face when Shane bends over and shows him. Ilya will be able to just slide into him, so easy, and Shane can already hear the filthy things he’ll say. Such a slut, wants to be fucked all the time. And Shane will answer back, only for you.
It’s a good plan. Shane is an excellent boyfriend. Ilya isn't the only one who can come up with a good surprise.
Shane is so lost in pleasant anticipation of what the rest of his evening holds that he isn’t paying much attention to where he’s walking. He almost trips into a crowd of men standing on the sidewalk in front of a grungy-looking sports bar.
“Shit, sorry guys,” Shane says.
There’s six of them standing around, two smoking, three with beers in unsubtle brown paper bags. They’re big guys, with the distinctive stance and build that makes Shane think they’re probably Boston cops. Two are wearing Bears t-shirts.
“Hey, you’re Shane Hollander,” one of them says, in a tone of voice that suggests that he’s not about to ask for Shane’s autograph.
This… is not a great situation for Shane. Just existing a member of a rival team in Boston is tantamount to a declaration of war, and he did just walk right into one of these guys, which wouldn’t be polite even under the best of circumstances.
It’s not that Shane can’t take care of himself, or that he really thinks they’re likely to try to seriously hurt him. But there are six of these guys, and even if they keep it to words, well, Shane doesn’t love that either.
No one likes having slurs screamed at them, and Shane has always been extra-vulnerable to it because of his race and because, even before he was out, the standard-issue homophobia of hockey culture landed painfully hard, every time. Now that he and Ilya have gone public with their relationship, it’s only increased. They get it on the ice, in the comments of blogs, in tweets, walking down the street.
“Sorry,” Shane says again. He’s apologizing for being himself, and not for the first time.
“Fucking faggot,” one of them mutters.
Shane steps back, off the sidewalk and onto the street. He darts between cars to get away from them. But he can still hear them talking.
“We’re never gonna win another Cup because of that fag,” and “Should kick him and Rozanov right out of the League so they can focus on sucking each other’s cocks,” and “Fuck that, 81 used to be a real man before he turned him queer.” And laughter, always laughter, ringing behind him as he walks as fast as he can without actually running away. He doesn’t want them to see him run.
The laughter dies down, but it is replaced with the occasional muttered slur and the sound of breathing, getting louder and louder. Heavy men, breathing hard.
They’re following him. Fuck, they’re following him. And this is Boston, not Montreal. Other than that corner bar, there’s no little businesses open that he can duck into, just rows of townhouses sealed up tightly for the night.
Shane fumbles for his phone in his pocket. He’s not sure who he’s going to call. 911? That would make a hell of a headline in the Boston Globe. “Montreal hockey star scared of a couple of Boston guys walking down the street.”
He puts his head down and walks a little faster, not looking at or acknowledging the men. They won’t follow him for long, he’s pretty sure of it. He’ll get around the corner and to the lights of Beacon street soon enough. There’s always people in the park. He’s going to be okay.
He doesn’t even see the alleyway until a rough hand shoves him into it.