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toss and turn without me, boy
let it hit you cold and hot
all my kisses, say you’ll miss it
and you can’t forget me
– Emotion, Carly Rae Jepsen
i. January 2011, Nashville (All Stars)
and i’d break all the rules for you, break my heart and start again.
– Your Type
Ilya doesn’t think, he just acts. While Hollander is reading the text from ‘Lily’, Ilya swipes the keycard from his rival’s pocket. He drops it to the ground and kicks it under the bed. When he looks back to Hollander, he’s looking at him strangely. Ilya grins, shoves his hands in his pockets to disguise the fact that they’re shaking. What the fuck did he just do? More importantly, why the fuck did he do it?
Hollander walks towards the door and Ilya waits until his hand is on the doorknob. “See you in Montreal, Jane.”
Hollander doesn’t turn, simply says, “We’ll see.” He opens the door, checks the hallway, and leaves.
Ilya gets on his knees and gropes for the keycard under the bed. Is this going to work? Does he want it to? He’s not entirely sure that he will be seeing Jane in Montreal, wouldn’t be surprised if Hollander chickened out. So the natural response was to steal his keycard in hopes that he’d have to return to Ilya’s room, right? He jams the keycard in a Bible he finds in the bedside drawer, wedging it tightly between two pages of Leviticus. He goes to the bathroom and brushes his teeth, not letting himself wait for the knock that he hopes is coming. He spits, drags the back of his hand across his mouth, then wipes that on the towel still tied around his waist. He’s starting to doubt it’ll happen when he hears the knock.
He answers the door with an overly performative raised eyebrow. Hollander doesn’t wait to be invited in, just enters. Ilya closes the door and grins.
“Changed your mind, Hollander?” Ilya teases. “Can’t wait two weeks for me to fuck you?”
“Fuck off, no. I can’t find my room key and I can’t…” Hollander looks at his feet. “I can’t go to reception in the middle of the night and ask for a new one.”
Ilya tilts his head. “Did you come straight here, or did you knock on Scott Hunter’s door first?”
Hollander scoffs. “Yeah, sure. I knocked on three other doors before I came here, actually.”
Ilya laughs. “So, you want to spend the night?”
“I don’t want to,” Hollander says so quickly it makes Ilya’s stomach drop. “Half the league is staying in this hotel, I can’t just wander the halls at two in the morning. Can I just stay?”
Ilya just looks at Hollander for a long moment. He wants to kiss him again, but it feels like that part of the night is over. He doesn’t say yes, just says, “Do you want to brush your teeth? I think hotel gave…” he reaches for the English word but can’t find it, “gift toothbrush?”
Hollander smiles. “It’s complimentary.”
Ilya shows him where the ‘complimentary toothbrush’ is and walks back into the bedroom as Hollander brushes his teeth. He removes his towel and climbs beneath the sheets, hands under his head. He tries to slow his heart rate, tries not to focus on what the fuck he’s doing, on the keycard burning a hole through a Bible right now. He listens to Hollander brush his teeth for longer than the recommended two minutes and grins to himself. Hollander walks through and grabs a pillow, places it at the foot of the bed.
Ilya laughs so loudly that Hollander jumps. “What are you doing, Hollander?”
Hollander flushes prettily. “I just… I’ve had to share beds with guys on roadies, sometimes, and we’d sleep top to toe.”
Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Did you suck their dicks too, or just mine?”
“Just yours.”
“Okay, so maybe not too gay to sleep in bed like normal people, yes?”
Hollander sighs, moves the pillow back to its rightful place. He takes off his clothes, leaving on his boxers, and slides into bed. Ilya stays still, unsure how to act now he’s got what he wants. He can’t be serious right now, can’t roll over and kiss him like they’re boyfriends. Can’t escalate things again, run his tongue over every single one of Hollander’s freckles. This leaves two options: silence until they both fall asleep (almost impossible), or teasing him. Ilya sits up just enough to press a sloppy, wet kiss to Hollander’s cheek, making an exaggerated mwah sound.
“Goodnight, Hollander,” Ilya says, flicking the light off.
Hollander slaps at what he can find in the dark, which happens to be Ilya’s face. And then, after a pause, he speaks. “Goodnight, Rozanov. Thank you for letting me stay.”
Hollander’s breathing evens out quickly, but Ilya can’t sleep. The gulf in the bed between them feels endless, but Ilya can still feel Hollander’s body heat. He rolls onto his side, then onto his back again. The last movement shuffles him closer to Hollander so that their limbs are brushing. He wants to put an arm across Hollander’s chest, sleep with his face buried in Hollander’s neck.
Okay, thoughts like that are not going to help him sleep. He copies Hollander’s breathing until he falls into a fitful sleep, every so often waking up with the crazy, perfect, terrifying thought: Hollander is sleeping next to me.
He hears an alarm go off while it’s still dark outside and pretends to still be asleep as the mattress moves. He hears Hollander get dressed and walk to the door. He hears two words and then he’s wide awake.
“Goodbye, Rozanov.”
ii. October 2014, Montreal
late night watching television, but how’d we get in this position?
– I Really Like You
When Rozanov closes the hotel room door behind him, Shane swears under his breath. He needed this tonight, needed to be fucked until his mind separated from his body. It was one of those nights where he tried to pretend it was anyone but Rozanov fucking him – tried and failed. He’d even booked a hotel room, feeling wrong about Rozanov coming to his apartment, even though he’d visited it before. He didn’t know what it was, maybe it was yet another of his teammates getting engaged, or that woman that spoke to him in the street with fuck-me eyes that he couldn’t be less interested in. For the past hour, Rozanov had chirped him, teased him, and Shane had been stony-faced, barely saying anything but ‘Fuck off’ and ‘Fuck, fuck me harder’. The whole time he’d focused on getting off and getting Rozanov out, but now he’s gone he feels… empty. And not only in the ‘I just took an allegedly nine-inch dick’ way.
He can’t bring himself to go back to his apartment. Maybe it’s that his legs are still shaking, maybe it’s about knowing that Rozanov is only a few floors below him, that even though he’s gone, they’re still in the same building. He turns the TV on and flicks through the channels. He skips past a superhero show with some seriously buff men, a show with a young, blonde baker, and then finds a just-about-watchable thriller. The dialogue is crap, the lighting is so dark he can barely see what’s going on, but Rose Landry almost saves it, so it stays on. He makes himself a chamomile tea and tries to relax. As Rose Landry is picking her handcuffs with a hairpin, his phone buzzes.
Lily: You up?
Jane: Are you asking if I’m still awake?
Lily: No, I’m asking if you’re still hard.
Lily: Yes, are you awake?
Jane: …Obviously.
Lily: Still at hotel?
Shane considers lying. He types, No, I went home, and then deletes it. He wants to find out what Rozanov wants. He wants to see him again. He also wants to not want to see him again, but.
Jane: Yes.
Lily: What are you doing?
Okay, so this isn’t new, but this is the kind of stuff Rozanov texts him before a hookup, not after one. Does Rozanov want to…? Fuck, is he gearing up for round two? Shane feels his cock twitch and wants to slap himself for it.
Jane: Watching TV. Drinking tea.
Lily: Ah, so you’re being boring again.
Jane: Fuck off.
Jane: What are you doing?
Lily: Thinking about smothering Marly in his sleep.
Jane: ????
Lily: He is snoring.
Lily: So loudly I think he might be dying anyway.
Lily: But that’s why I never stop the puck with my nose. My face is too loved.
Jane: So sympathetic.
Lily: I am great teammate and friend to all.
Jane: Sure…
Lily: So…
Jane: Yes?
Lily: You do not snore.
Shane hates that Rozanov knows that. He’s tried to forget that night, forget how good it felt waking up next to another man. How much he’d wanted to roll over, wrap his arms around Rozanov, sleepily make out as morning light filtered through the hotel curtains. This is why it absolutely can’t happen again. Having sex is one thing, but sleeping together, actually spending the night, is far more intimate. If that’s what Rozanov is suggesting, he has to shut it down. He should just stop texting. Rozanov will get the message.
He texts back.
Jane: Yeah, I don’t.
Lily is typing.
Shane stares at his phone as he waits for Rozanov’s response. He jabs at his screen as it goes dark. What is he typing? The dots disappear.
He jumps violently as he hears a knock at the door. Oh, fuck. He could just… not answer. He could open the door and tell Rozanov no.
He opens the door and lets a sleepy looking Rozanov inside. Rozanov jumps onto the bed and pulls the covers over himself.
“What are we watching?” he asks.
Shane can’t believe how casual Rozanov is about this. But he kind of likes that the tone has been set so he can just go along with it. He gets under the covers with Rozanov, their shoulders knocking together.
“Some shitty thriller,” Shane says as Rose Landry creeps through a dark house. “I think Rose Landry is gonna have to kill this guy who kidnapped her.”
“My money is on her.”
“Right?!” Shane agrees.
They slip into a comfortable silence as Rose climbs some creaky stairs. Okay, the film is crap, but Shane is kinda getting into it. It seems like Rozanov is too. The camera is on Rose, up close in that way that makes it pretty obvious that someone is about to creep up on her. The shot widens as the kidnapper lunges for Rose.
Rozanov jumps, jostling Shane and slamming the headboard against the wall like he did earlier. “Motherfuck!”
Shane can’t help but laugh. “He can’t get you in here, you know?”
“No, he wouldn’t get past hockey's Shane Hollander,” Rozanov agrees.
Shane feels his stomach jump. “Oh, you think I’d protect you?”
“Of course. You would be so bored if I died and you couldn’t watch me score goals anymore.” Rozanov teases, a smile lighting up his golden face.
Shane rolls his eyes, but his stomach has settled. Their banter is familiar, safe. Rose Landry grapples a gun from her kidnapper and shoots him point blank, fake blood spurting over a wall and back onto her face. She looks down at the gun in her hands, then directly into the camera, and smiles. The credits roll to the sound of a girl power song that Shane recognises from the radio.
“Wow,” Rozanov says sarcastically, “What will Hollywood come up with next?” He gets to his feet and Shane thinks he might be leaving, but he goes for the en-suite, feet padding against the tiles. Shane breathes a sigh of relief, then hates himself for it. He really does want Rozanov to stay. Shane turns the TV off as the singer starts belting about having the eye of the tiger.
Rozanov gets back into bed and shoots Shane a devilish smile before pressing freezing cold feet to Shane’s bare legs. Shane scrambles away from him.
“Fuck off, Rozanov, oh my god!” he shouts even as he’s cracking up. Rozanov is cackling and Shane grabs a pillow and hits him with it. Rozanov retaliates by pressing his feet to Shane’s legs again and Shane climbs on top of him. It’s the most effective way to get Rozanov off him, okay? They wrestle for a moment and Rozanov flips Shane onto his back, hands pinning down Shane’s. He hovers there for a moment and they both breathe heavily. Shane can feel the air from Rozanov’s mouth on his lips. It’s too much. It’s not enough. Rozanov leans forward and Shane opens his mouth, but not to kiss him.
“Okay, we should sleep. I have practice tomorrow.”
Rozanov rolls onto his back. “Yes, I have early flight.”
Shane climbs out of bed to brush his teeth. When he gets back into bed, he lets himself shuffle a little closer to Rozanov than he should. Their shoulders are brushing. He switches the light off.
“Goodnight, Hollander,” Rozanov says.
“Night.”
iii. March 2015, Boston
i wanna be the best you’ve ever known, just let me in your arms, just let me in your arms
show me if you want me, if i’m all that
– All That
Ilya has made Hollander come twice and he’s still not done with him. They’re showering together and Ilya is drawing out the process, trying to make it last. He wants Hollander to stay the night, but last time it changed things. Hollander had left the hotel room he’d booked even before Ilya did, flushing red, stammering an excuse and rushing through the door. Afterwards, Hollander was shiftier, harder to get a response from. Ilya has resorted to a lot of shit talking over text – it’s the only way to guarantee a response and, once Hollander is talking to him, it’s easier to convince him to meet up.
Montreal won tonight’s game and Hollander seems in a better mood. He’s only called Ilya an asshole a couple of times tonight. His stupid freckles are standing out against a pretty pink flush. Maybe Ilya could ask him to stay? He just needs to figure out a way to say it that won’t freak Hollander out.
“What time is your flight?” Ilya asks, watching the water run down Hollander’s chest. He wants to chase the droplets with his tongue, but he needs to focus.
“Early.”
“What time is early?”
Hollander huffs. “We’re leaving the hotel at six.”
Okay, that’s not so bad. Ilya’s place is about a twenty-minute cab ride from the hotel the Metros are staying at. He’s silent for a beat too long, because Hollander asks, “Why?”
Ilya drops to his knees in response, taking Hollander’s cock into his mouth in one slick move. He hears Hollander’s head knock against the shower wall and sucks hard in response. He slides up and down, adding a hand to the root of Hollander’s thick cock. He has to make it hard for Hollander to say no. Ilya licks and sucks until Hollander is making pretty little noises and then pulls off and gets to his feet. Hollander moves forward to kiss him and Ilya steps back.
“What the fuck?”
“I think you should stay here tonight,” Ilya says, quickly before he can lose his nerve.
“What? I told you, we’re flying out early.”
“Okay, so you leave here at half five and have ten minutes to check you look pretty before the coach picks you up. Don’t tell me you’re not already packed.”
“Rozanov, I can’t–” Hollander looks wrecked and Ilya knows he only has to push a little harder.
“Okay, so leave. Spend night in hotel room breathing in Pike’s farts.”
“Rozanov,” Hollander says firmly. Ilya thinks he sees Hollander's lip twitch, like he's fighting a smile.
“Or stay here and wake up with my mouth on your pretty cock.” Ilya sinks to his knees again, places a hand on Hollander’s thigh, thumb rubbing so close but not close enough to his cock.
“Fuck, Rozanov.” Hollander doesn’t say yes, but his cock is close to saying it for him.
“You’d like that, yes?” Ilya ghosts a breath over Hollander’s head. “Bet you’d be moaning before you even woke up.” He takes Hollander into his mouth, sinking down deep again.
When Hollander comes, Ilya crowds him against the wall and lets him taste himself on Ilya’s tongue. He pulls back and looks at the other man questioningly.
“I’ll stay.”
.
Ilya was right – Hollander does start moaning in his sleep. He has never seen anything prettier than Hollander’s long lashes blinking open as he wakes up and realises what is happening. Ilya grins around Hollander’s cock as strong hands comb through his hair.
When Hollander has to leave, it isn’t like last time. He’s blissed out from the blowjob, sex drunk and sleepy, so he moves slowly. He kisses Ilya goodbye, leaving Ilya stunned and silent as he walks out the door.
Ilya checks his watch. There’s no way Hollander is making it back to the hotel in time.
iv. October 2016, Montreal
should i stay? making love until the morning light
making out like it’s the end of the world
and i really wanna get it right
– Favourite Colour
Ilya’s teeth are scraping along Hollander’s jaw as droplets cascade from the rainfall shower. When Ilya says, “I do have to go,” he really means what if I didn’t? When he says, “I’m sorry”, he means, please don’t make me leave.
When Hollander says “Why? I don’t care. I think we’re done here anyway, aren’t we?”, Ilya doesn’t know what he means, but he’s sure it isn’t what he’s actually saying. And then he just feels confused.
Ilya tries to leave it there. He really does. Instead, he says, “Are we really done?”
Hollander blinks, confused. “I mean…”
“Your bed is comfier than hotel mattress,” Ilya says, instead of saying, I feel sick at the thought of leaving you.
Hollander leaves the shower, and Ilya takes it as a no. He allows himself a self-indulgent moment, letting the water run down his face so that he can’t even tell if he’s crying or not. He scrunches his eyes shut, opens them again. He slaps himself, hard. Snap out of it, he thinks. You know what this is.
When he returns to the bedroom, Hollander is sitting up on the left side of the bed and there is a glass of water on each of the bedside cabinets, resting on matching coasters. Ilya gapes.
“If you try and touch me with your cold feet again, I’m kicking you out,” Shane says.
Ilya nods. He discards his towel and climbs into bed, naked. He continues kissing his way along Hollander’s neck. He doesn’t try to escalate it, to move hands below the belt. They slide down the bed until they’re both lying on their sides, making out lazily. Ilya couldn’t tell you how long it lasted, just that by the end of it it was so slow that they were hardly doing anything, too sleepy to work at it but too wrapped up in each other to stop.
Ilya holds Shane tight as they drift off to sleep. He tells himself it’s a post-sex haze, the chemicals in his brain wanting to be close to someone.
He is terrified to hold him, and terrified to let go. So he doesn’t let go – at least, not until the first rays of morning light enter the room. Then it’s time to return to reality.
v. January 2017, Tampa (All Stars)
let down my guard tonight, i just don’t care anymore
i’ve told a hundred lies, but i don’t wanna tell you any at all
– Warm Blood
In Tampa, they don’t discuss it. After they’ve talked, and fucked, and made out while talking some more, Shane just… stays. Like it’s that simple. And if you stripped the rest of it away – their jobs, their ‘rivalry’, the state of society – it was the simplest thing in the world.
It almost makes the rest of it go away, makes Shane feel silly for what he did in Boston, running away after saying Ilya’s name back to him. Leaving Ilya when the other man had made it so easy for him to stay. And then the nights with Rose in his bed. There had been moments he’d scrunched his eyes shut and pretended the body next to him was Ilya’s. So, tonight, he doesn’t make Ilya ask, just cuddles into him and doesn’t let go. They talk, a little, about plans for the summer and how one day maybe they could go somewhere together. A place where they could have more than snatched moments, scheduled sex before flights and after games.
They don’t linger on that subject, turning the conversation to hockey – Scott Hunter is playing better, Troy Barret is acting like a prick, there are rumours of Ryan Price being traded again. Then Shane says, “I still can’t get over our goal.”
“Your goal,” Ilya corrects. “But, yes, you could not have done it without me.”
“We work well together,” Shane admits. “It was… nice, not playing against you.”
“Yes, nice for you not to lose.”
“Fuck you,” Shane laughs.
Ilya flops onto his back and Shane places his head on the other man’s chest. He plays with Ilya’s chain mindlessly, melting as Ilya’s fingers run through his hair. Shane can’t have this, he knows that, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting. Tonight, he can have it. Tonight, he won’t go back to his hotel room, fuck the fact that it’s risky. He wants it too bad. Ilya’s breathing slows down, drifting into sleep.
“Good night, Ilya,” Shane says.
Ilya makes an unintelligible noise. Then he says, “Shane.”
When Shane wakes, Ilya is spooning him. He tries to free himself from Ilya’s arms without waking him, but before he’s moved far there are soft lips pressing to the back of his neck. Shane’s body goes heavy, and it takes every ounce of willpower he has to pull away.
“I’ll see you soon, Ilya,” Shane says, once he’s gathered his stuff.
“I look forward to it, Shane.”
+1. September 2017, The Cottage
i wanna be the one that’s in your arms, i wanna feel you
i never get to hold you as long as i want to
remember i told you, you’re all that I need
– Never Get To Hold You
They’re leaving the cottage tomorrow. Ilya to Boston, Shane to Montreal. They’ve talked around the subject for weeks now – focusing on the logistics and schedules, not discussing how fucking shitty it is going to feel. Ilya thinks it might kill him. He’s been avoiding clocks today, not wanting to acknowledge the seconds passing by. They’ve had marathon goodbye sex and are now lying in bed, Ilya’s back pressing against Shane’s bare chest. Ilya doesn’t realise he’s crying until he feels the wetness on his face. Shane realises, brushing tears away with a thumb.
“We can do this, Ilya,” Shane says. “We’re going to make this work.” He sounds worried, like he’s doubting Ilya’s commitment to the plan. Ilya flips over to face him, casting his eyes over his boyfriend’s beautiful face.
“I know, moya lyubov. I just wish we didn’t have to.”
Shane presses gentle kisses to Ilya’s eyelids. “It’s not forever.”
It feels like it, though. It’s not like there’s an end date – Ilya can only count down to when he’ll see Shane next, knowing that every moment together is finite and that the countdown will inevitably start again. He kisses Shane, trying to distract himself. He focuses on chasing Shane’s tongue, on Shane’s hands in his curls. Ilya pulls back and rests his head on Shane’s chest.
“I love you so much,” Ilya says.
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane says slowly and carefully. Ilya smiles against Shane’s soft skin.
“Look, Ilya, I know this is the last night for a while,” Shane says like they both don’t know exactly how long it’s going to be, “but we get to have this, we get to have each other. It’s going to be different than before.”
“No more begging for you to sleep over?” Ilya jokes.
“Exactly, no more excuses about Marly’s snoring or hotel mattresses.” Shane raises an eyebrow. “Or stealing my keycard.”
Ilya lifts his reddening face off Shane’s chest to look at him. “You knew?”
Shane laughs. “I suspected. You just confirmed it, I guess.”
“That was stupid. And risky. I’m sorry.”
“Very stupid,” Shane agrees, “I’m glad you did it.”
Ilya takes in what Shane is saying. He had treasured each one of those stolen nights. And now he gets to have them without fighting for them. Every moment that the two of them have spare will be spent together, and that’ll include nights like this, cuddled into each other, kissing and talking and being together.
“We get to have this,” he processes out loud, “We get to have each other.”
Shane grabs Ilya’s hand, tight. “I’m so fucking yours, Ilya.”
Ilya pulls Shane’s hand to his mouth and kisses it. “And I am yours. For as long as you’ll have me.”
The way they smile at each other says it for them – forever, then.