Chapter Text
♪ Time to Pretend — MGMT
Shane had been in the Wimbledon Clubhouse washroom far longer than he’d ever spent in the penalty box and soon someone was going to assume he’d died in here.
Or worse.
That he’d vomited.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror, brows drawn together, hands braced on the marble counter, like he might tip forward into the sink if he let go.
He looked like pre-game Shane, ready for the cameras and the interviews. His comfortable jogging pants and sweatshirt were replaced by a black suit with a white shirt and a perfectly knotted blue and white striped tie. He’d never really cared about clothes or looking fashionable but Wimbledon had rules. And one of them was not looking like he had just rolled in from hockey practice. Especially if he wanted to sit in the Royal Box.
Which he didn’t. Not really. A suit usually meant he was about to be dragged into a social situation he’d rather not be in, making polite conversation about wine, boarding schools, or yachts, when he’d rather be in the gym lifting weights or on the ice, carving it up.
The Rolex on his wrist caught the light and Shane watched the light bounce off the mirror a few times, the bright spots darting around like they were trying to escape. He sympathized. The watch was the reason he was standing in a washroom at Wimbledon instead of sitting on his couch in Montreal.
Rolex had arranged seats for him and his parents in the Royal Box at Wimbledon, where Rolex expected him to wear the watch and his parents expected him to attend.
Shane hadn’t wanted to come.
He had plans for his off-season, plans that did not involve a suit at all. He had been looking forward to two weeks of sleeping in until seven AM, playing Mario Kart until his thumbs hurt, and finally putting a dent in the stack of books on his nightstand. He’d just picked up Bad Don, Worse Don and his couch was waiting.
Laughter and the clinking of glasses drifted in through the washroom door. Outside were people, linen-dressed people, who, Shane was sure, had never slammed their bodies into plexiglass for a paycheque. He needed to get his shit together.
Shane pulled absently at one of his eyelashes.
It wasn’t that he was afraid of people. He played in arenas full of them on the regular. Twenty thousand people screamed his name or told him in no uncertain terms that he was a pylon and their grandmothers could skate faster, reporters asked him the same questions he’d already answered eighty-one thousand times, players chirped him about his hair, his playlist, and his non-existent love life.
He was used to all that.
At least on the ice, everyone spoke the same language: get the puck, keep the puck, score some goals.
Here, at Wimbledon, he didn’t know the language, he didn’t know the rules. Well, aside from the ones his mom had drilled into his head on their flight to London.
Shane, you need to wear a jacket and tie. Shane, please don’t tell anyone to fuck off today. Shane, don’t call anyone “buddy.” Shane, you need to stand whenever royalty walks into the room. Linnea. Linnea, like the flower, Shane. Shane, are you listening to me?
He wanted to yell “I KNOW, MOM!” Except he didn’t know.
Which was unfortunate, because somewhere inside that Clubhouse was a Swedish princess.
Princess Linnea of Sweden, according to his mom, who, ever since Rolex had mentioned their seating arrangements, had researched the princess so completely his mom could pass a Swedish citizenship test.
And now he had to go out there alone. His parents had scratched themselves from the line-up, leaving him without anyone to pass to when the small talk died. He didn’t know a single person on the other side of that door except Princess Linnea, and that was in name only.
Shane exhaled hard enough to lift the hair off his forehead.
He straightened his tie, fingers smoothing it flat against his shirt.
He could get any woman he wanted. At least, that’s what Hayden kept telling him. Which was a nice theory that had produced exactly zero results so far. Shane knew what he looked like; he owned several mirrors. He had teammates who regularly informed him he was wasting valuable natural resources.
Women smiled at him, leaned in too close, squeezed his arm when they laughed, and slid into his DMs with alarming confidence.
He just couldn’t figure out what good any of it did when he’d never once looked at a woman and wanted her to look back at him.
Shane dug his fingers into the marble, the tips turning white.
He was a slow starter, he knew that. Some people just took longer to find the right one and there was nothing wrong with that. There was nothing wrong with him. Shane liked to think he was just selective, waiting for the right girl who would make everything click into place for him. Hot shot hockey star finally scores his true love.
Maybe the problem had never been Shane. Maybe the problem had been geography. Today the universe was trying Sweden.
Shane pushed away from the counter.
He had a game plan. He was going to walk into the Clubhouse and he was going to be interesting and charming and attentive. He was going to do all the things his teammates seemed to do without first needing a pep talk in a washroom, and it was going to work this time, because it had to work eventually. He could do math. At twenty-four years old, eventually the odds had to tip in his favour.
Shane straightened his jacket, rolled his shoulders the way he always did before stepping onto the ice, and reached for the door.
Time to meet a princess.
On his way to the balcony, Shane passed a waiter holding a tray of champagne. He grabbed a glass and drank half of it in one swallow, scanning the crowd over the rim.
Just be yourself, Hollander. Hayden’s completely fucking useless advice was unhelpful, as usual.
Hayden already had the wife, the kids, the matching Christmas pyjama pictures he posted without shame. Hayden talked about Jackie the way he talked about winning the Cup: like nothing else mattered. All Shane had was a series of nice dates with nice women who said nice things and then he went home alone, definitely not feeling like any of it mattered.
Jackie had pulled him aside, a few years ago. Boston had just beaten San Francisco so everyone was five beers deep into a pissy mood. After confirming that he was absolutely going to die alone, she patted his arm and said the trick to flirting was to make the other person feel interesting. Shane had been turning that thought over in his head for three years. No one had ever made Shane feel interesting and he was starting to think that might be part of the problem.
Maybe Princess Linnea would make him feel interesting. She would be fun and captivating, and he’d feel something, and he’d join Hayden and Jackie on double dates. They’d fall in love, and get married, and start a family, and live the perfect life. Together.
Any minute now.
“Mr. Hollander.” A man in a military uniform stepped up next to Shane, ready to lead him to the Royal Box. “This way, sir.”
They passed framed photos of tennis champions and royal portraits of people Shane couldn’t name, the checked white carpet sinking under his dress shoes. Shane had just about ninety seconds left to figure out what he was going to say to a princess.
So, Princess Linnea, what brought you to Wimbledon? No, that was stupid, really fucking stupid. She was invited, obviously. That’s why he was here. That’s why anyone was here.
Maybe they could talk about Swedish politics? Nah, he couldn’t even name the Swedish Prime Minister. The only Swedish person he knew was the chef from The Muppets. Not personally, of course. Oh, and the guy who wrote those dragon tattoo books. Was Avicii Swedish? ABBA! His parents had talked about ABBA being Swedish. Was ABBA a cool topic of conversation? For a princess? Shit! He should have asked Miitka, his Swedish goalie, about literally anything that wasn’t ABBA or a muppet. Dumb, he was dumb.
Shane tugged on his eyelid again.
Too soon, they arrived at his seat, a padded green wicker chair in a sea of seventy-three identical chairs. A leather gift bag stamped with “Royal Box 2017” in gold sat on the cushion. It was quieter than he’d expected. His mom hadn’t mentioned if shit-talking was allowed in the Royal Box but he was going to guess no.
Shane sat down, moving the bag to his lap. He chewed his lower lip. The court was smaller than he’d expected. He could easily fit three of them into an MLH rink. Maybe four. Easy money if he had anyone to bet. He didn’t.
He had a Canada Dry shoot on Tuesday, BioSteel on Thursday, and a meeting with his agent on Friday. He could be at his cottage right now, on his dock, feet in the water. Instead he was sweating through a suit, prepping for small talk.
The seat on his left remained empty. The two seats on his right, his parents’ seats, were also empty. Shane straightened up, smoothed his tie down. The wicker creaked beneath him.
He’d been alone in thirty-one different cities in eighty-one billion different hotel rooms and it had never felt like this. Fuck. If his teammates could see him right now, the chirps would follow him into retirement.
Buddy, was the gift bag your plus one?
Three empty seats? Impressive, even for you, Hollander.
Hollander, you could’ve just saved yourself the airfare and sat alone at home.
Had all that Swedish shit been for nothing? Christ. He’d almost used IKEA as a topic of conversation. With royalty. Like a princess had ever used an Allen key in her life.
He should just get up. Leave.
No, he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t lie to his parents. Well, he could. He just didn’t think he could get away with it.
Only death would stop Yuna Hollander from watching her son on live television. When the cameras panned across the Royal Box, and Yuna clocked that Shane’s seat was empty, his phone would explode.
“Shane, I just threw up again and your father says he’s dying but I saw the Royal Box on TV.”
“Shane, where are you? I don’t see you.”
“Shane, have you spoken to her yet?”
“Shane, are you wearing the Rolex?”
“Shane, I put some Fisherman’s Friends in your left pocket. Did you find them?”
“Shane?”
“Shane Mildred!”
“Shane, I WILL call the concierge.”
Yeah, for sure he was staying in his seat.
He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands so he grabbed the zipper of the gift bag and pulled it open. Mints. Face spray. What was he supposed to do with face spray? He spit Gatorade onto the ice, not spray water onto his face. Hand wipes. Lip balm. Hand cream. Sunscreen. So much cream. Were they supposed to moisturize between sets?
Shane opened the box of mints and started popping the white candies into his mouth, one after the other, his teeth crushing them. At this rate, the mints would be gone before the first serve; he’d eat his own tie before he’d have a single Fisherman’s Friend.
A woman in front of Shane fussed with her husband’s hair, smoothing it out with careful fingers. He caught her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist, laughing at something she said.
Shane’s molars ground the mint in his mouth to a fine powder, so hard he felt his teeth scraping against each other.
He looked down at his shoes, not bothering to flick away the hair that had fallen into his eyes, fingers locked tight against the gift bag’s leather.
Black shoes. No scuffs. Perfect. Black laces tied in symmetrical bows. Perfect. Right lace slightly thicker than the left. Not so perfect.
Laughter rang out just over his shoulder, a man responding with “darling” in a low voice.
Darling.
Just fucking perfect.
Shane dug his nails into the bag, leaving crescents behind in the leather.
Perfect shoes. Perfect suit. Perfect career. Perfect family. Perfect cottage on the lake. And yet.
♪ Quatre-Quarts — Hubert Lenoir
“What’s wrong with you?”
Shane’s head snapped to the right. The three mints he’d crammed into his mouth went down his throat without permission.
He coughed into his fist, once, twice, three times, each horrible sound louder and wetter than the last. Spit flew everywhere. His eyes watered.
He was going to die here, in front of seventy-three people and god, in a green wicker chair, sweating in a suit at Centre Court, and the obituary would read ‘choked on complimentary mints.’
Mother. Fucker.
Maybe nobody had noticed.
He replayed the voice in his head, the one that had almost killed him. It sounded Russian. He’d heard enough accents in the locker room to recognize it without thinking twice. No, it wasn’t the accent that struck him. It was the word ‘with.’ It had come out like ‘witch.’
What’s wrong witch you?
The voice belonged to the person who had slid into his mother’s seat.
This was not Princess Linnea.
This was a man.
Long legs sprawled out in front of him, hands resting on his thighs, the pants straining against his—
Shane blinked. Looked blindly at Centre Court. Looked back.
He shook his head, looking at the man’s face instead. Light brown hair curled over his forehead, wild and uncombed.
Shane’s gaze dropped down the man’s throat and into the open vee of his neckline, where he had loosened his tie. Against all the rules.
His shirt, his shirt was—
“You can’t—“ Shane blurted, “you can’t—you’re not supposed to wear a see-through shirt to Wimbledon. There’s a dress code. There are rules. Like, actual rules that actual people follow.”
The man turned, his eyes sweeping over Shane’s face, down his chest, to the hands clutching the gift bag in his lap.
Shane’s skin prickled. God, it was so hot out here.
A curl fell over the man’s right eye.
Shane stared at him, at the curl.
“Is not see-through.”
Not see-through? Who was this guy kidding, with his barely-there shirt, tight pants, wild curls, and deep voice?
Maybe this guy didn’t own a mirror.
“What do you mean it’s not see-through? It’s obviously transparent. A blind man would notice.”
“Is not transparent. No blind men here to ask.”
Shane’s mouth dropped open. He looked away, squaring his shoulders and sitting up straight. Just his luck to be seated next to a lunatic.
Tennis. He was here for tennis. He would watch the match and he would leave. He didn’t need to talk to anyone. He could just silently watch a tiny ball go back and forth endlessly. No problem.
The shirt was transparent though. How had he even gotten into the Royal Box dressed like that?
This guy could get fucked for all he cared. He could row out to the Thames and get lost. He could get a tennis ball right to the face and Shane wouldn’t even blink. He could—
“You’re not a Swedish princess!”
Heat crawled up Shane’s neck. He gripped the sides of his chair, knuckles turning white at his outburst.
Get a fucking grip on yourself, dude.
The man chuckled, the sound rumbling through Shane. “No, I am not. You were promised one?”
“My parents—no, never mind, it doesn’t matter.”
“Your parents promised you a Swedish princess?”
“That’s—no.”
Shane thought about Finn Gretzky, the goldfish he had as a kid. He felt just as stupid as that fish right now.
“And you got me instead. I think they upgraded you, yes?”
Shane rolled his eyes and looked back at the court.
The man grinned at him, drawing Shane’s gaze again, white teeth flashing from behind those lips.
The fuck! Those lips? His lips were nothing.
Long fingers with blunt nails loosened his tie further. Diamonds winked off a pinkie ring.
A pinkie ring. What a fucking asshole.
“So. First thought, I am not princess. Next thought?”
“You’re in my mother’s seat.” His actual next thought (and the thought before and the thought after) was about that fucking mesh shirt. And the rule breaking. Mostly the rule breaking. If everyone broke the rules, it would be anarchy. Rules were there for a reason and Shane had never broken a rule, on the ice or off.
“Ah.” The man leaned back in his seat, stretching his arms over his head, the long lines of his neck corded with tendons, a vein visible beneath the skin.
His jacket had fallen open, exposing the rest of his chest. And a nipple. Through that obviously fucking see-through shirt.
“Then I should thank her for not coming.”
What? What did that mean?
Wow. This nipple was arrogant.
Asshole!
This asshole was arrogant. Unbelievably arrogant. And rude. Rude and unbelievably arrogant.
“She has food poisoning, actually. Bad clams. So you should probably thank last night’s restaurant.” Shane smirked, proud of his comeback.
The man laughed, and Shane felt like he was choking on air. Like Finn Gretzky, that one time Shane had dropped him on the counter, a bowl cleaning gone wrong.
Shane quickly turned away from the man. The court was green. Green like grass. It really was grass, apparently. Did someone have to mow that? What if it got too long? Shane pictured someone on their hands and knees using a ruler to measure the court grass.
“And your father?” the man asked.
“Same clams,” Shane muttered to the seat in front of him.
“Maybe those clams are the best thing that happened to you.”
Shane didn’t respond. He could feel his heart pounding, his vision tunnelling. His hands tingled. He wanted to put his head between his knees. Or vanish to his cottage. Or drown in the Ottawa River. He didn’t care which.
“I’m Ilya.”
Shane closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
The man, Ilya, was holding his hand out.
“Shane Hollander,” Shane said, taking Ilya’s offered hand.
Ilya’s hand closed around his and something zipped through Shane, like that time he changed a light bulb but forgot to unplug the lamp.
Shane tried to pull away but Ilya held on.
“Shane. Hollander.” Ilya repeated, his eyes not moving from Shane’s face.
Shane had heard his name eighty-one billion times; his parents, his teammates, his coaches, fans, strangers, everyone had a version of it.
But it had never sounded like that.
Ilya made it sound heavy. Like he was taking his time with it, his voice dropping lower with each syllable.
Shane swallowed. Ilya’s hazel eyes fell to his throat and watched the movement.
The back of Shane’s neck was hot again. Stupid sun.
He made another desperate attempt to free his hand and this time Ilya let him.
“Sorry, I hope I wasn’t rude before, but my mom made me wear this suit, and she said we were seated next to the Swedish princess, and she explained all the rules, and mesh was not on the list.”
“Is fine. Shirt is not offended.” Ilya waved his hand dismissively.
He leaned back in his seat, arm hooked over the back of his chair, ankle crossed over his knee. “Your mother dressed you for this? You are two?”
He held up his hand, his pinkie and ring finger extended, that fucking pinkie ring still glinting in the sunlight.
“Fuck you. I didn’t have time to shop for anything where my nipples hang out.”
Shit. Shane had just sworn in the Royal Box. And said the word nipples. Out loud in the Royal Box. Yuna would probably try to ground him if she heard about this.
“Oh. You like shirt?” Ilya straightened up in his seat, flipped his tie over his shoulder, and smoothed that god-damn see-through shirt flat, both hands slowly sliding down his body and settling on his waist.
Ilya’s leg came down. His knee pressed against Shane’s.
The heat of it burned through Shane’s suit. But he didn’t move. Moving would make it weird, right?
Shane reached for his collar, pulling at it. Did he have to be here on the hottest day of the year? His hand came away damp and he fumbled in his gift bag for a wipe.
Ilya watched him clean his hand.
Shane stared at their knees, still touching.
Guys bumped knees all the time. On the bench, in the locker room, playing hockey. They bumped all sorts of things. Knees, elbows, shoulders. The benches were tight, some of the guys were big. It was nothing.
This was nothing.
He forced his attention back to the court. He didn’t have to talk to this guy, with his stupid see-through shirt.
Shane watched the tennis ball bounce back and forth over the net, the thwacks of a racquet hitting the ball the only sound in the stadium. Someone scored a point, he clapped. He could do this all afternoon.
One of the players missed a shot and Ilya groaned. Shane’s head turned toward the sound, and—
Was that a piercing? In his nipple?
An image flashed through Shane’s mind: his fingers hooking under that piece of metal, tugging. Just to see what would happen. Just to see if Ilya’s face would change as Shane looked up at him.
Jesus Christ on a Zamboni. His brain should be benched.
Shane wrenched his knee away from Ilya’s.
He wanted to get up. He wanted to pace. He wanted to be at his cottage in the water with no see-through shirts and no pinkie rings and no knees touching his. And definitely no piercings.
Ilya glanced down at the space between them, then back at Shane. His expression changed, something more serious settling in his eyes, but Shane couldn’t pin down exactly what. He’d never been good at reading people off the ice. Bodies on the ice made sense; bodies off the ice were like a foreign language.
“So. Shane Hollander. What do you do?”
That curl was still there, over Ilya’s eye. Shane wondered if his hair was as soft as it looked.
A cold sweat tore through Shane. He opened his mouth and words just fell out.
“Hockey. I play hockey. MLH. Voyageurs. Montreal. Montreal Voyageurs. That’s the team. In Montreal. Where I play centre. In hockey. Captain. I’m the captain. Of the Montreal Voyageurs. In the MLH.”
Shut up shut up shut up. Jesus Christ.
Shane Mildred Hollander. What the fuck.
Ilya laughed, leaning forward so that his arm brushed against Shane’s, and stayed there.
They were touching again. Shane’s head felt fuzzy like he’d just been boarded and another shiver ran through him. How could he be cold now? It was eleventy-thousand degrees outside.
He was probably getting sick. Maybe the clams were contagious.
“Ah yes. Canada. You hit people for a living.”
“I don’t—I don’t hit people. I score goals. I’m the captain. We’re first in the league. I just said that.” Shane paused. “Did I say that?”
♪ Come with Me Now — Kongos
Ilya stood up, his arm sliding away from Shane’s. Air rushed in, cold and sudden, to fill the space where they had been touching.
Shane felt… hollow? Like the rink after lights out; nothing left but stillness and silence—
“Come.”
“Come? Where? We can’t leave. It’s the middle of a match.” Shane pointed at Centre Court like Ilya needed reminding of where he was. “My mother would kill me.”
“You always listen to your mother?”
“What? Yes—No.”
“Then come. I know where they hide good strawberries.”
“Hide?”
Ilya didn’t answer. He turned and walked toward the back of the Royal Box.
Shane stared at his back, watching Ilya move farther away.
There was zero way he was going to follow this lunatic with the messy curls and bright smile; a person who broke rules by wearing see-through clothing to serious events.
Nope. Not a chance. With his luck, he’d probably end up murdered in a dark service corridor and that obituary would be worse than the mint one: Dead by illicit strawberries.
No, absolutely not. He was going to sit here and watch tennis in the sweltering heat, like a sane person.
Shane glanced at Ilya’s chair.
He didn’t care about being alone again. He didn’t. The guy had a pinkie ring for fuck’s sake. Shane was glad he was gone. Thrilled, even. The best thing to happen to Shane today was that guy leaving. Now he could enjoy the match in peace.
He looked at Ilya’s chair again.
Though strawberries would be nice in this heat. And he hadn’t had any yet. His mom had mentioned the strawberries specifically. She’d be disappointed if he didn’t at least try them, since she couldn’t.
Shane shifted in his seat.
But the cameras would catch it, if he got up. His sponsors might see. He was the captain of the Montreal Voyageurs, and the only Japanese-Canadian captain in the MLH. He couldn’t just leave.
No, he was going to do this for Yuna.
He was allowed to want a strawberry.
Shane got up. He left his gift bag on his seat, straightened his tie, and adjusted his jacket.
Nobody looked up as Ilya moved past the rows of chairs, around couples with programmes. Nobody stopped him. Nobody even noticed.
Head down, Shane followed, sure that seventy-one pairs of eyes were on him.
Ilya was the one in a see-through shirt and somehow it was Shane that felt naked.
Ilya caught a passing server by the arm, said something Shane couldn’t hear, and kept going. The server nodded and disappeared through a doorway.
The military guard at the exit didn’t blink as Ilya walked past him, but Shane braced for a hand on his arm, a ‘where are you going, sir?’ Nothing happened. The guard looked straight through Shane.
Maybe if Shane got an asshole pinkie ring, he could do whatever he wanted too.
They were in the Clubhouse now where the portraits hung on the walls, and the white and black carpet was soft under Shane’s feet. But Ilya didn’t stop; he kept going until the carpet turned into grey linoleum tiles, the portraits disappeared leaving bare walls, and the natural light gave way to harsh yellow lighting in a cramped hallway.
Ilya pushed open a door marked ‘Staff Only,’ and stepped through the doorway.
Shane stopped in his tracks and eyed the sign. He wasn’t staff. Another rule he was about to break. He’d broken more rules in the last five minutes than in his entire career.
He could turn around. He could go back. Pretend he got lost on his way to the washroom. Maybe not follow a stranger into the bowels of Wimbledon.
Ilya was already inside, the door closing behind him. He hadn’t looked back once.
Shane took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
Stainless steel racks lined the walls, stacked with white plates, cloth napkins, and champagne glasses. Trays sat in rows on a metal counter. A small window near the ceiling let in a strip of daylight.
Ilya was leaning against the far wall, jacket off and sling over his shoulder, hand in his pocket, one foot crossed over the other, watching Shane. He had lost his tie somewhere along the way. His shirt was practically translucent under the fluorescent light and Shane could see everything. The shadow of his chest rising and falling with every breath, the metal hoop through his right nipple, the line of hair trailing down past his navel and into his pants. Ilya was on full display.
All of it made Shane’s blood go south so fast he felt dizzy.
This was fucking wild. He must be dehydrated. He’d eaten nothing but mints. This was a blood sugar issue, a medical event. He was probably dying.
Shane’s eyes drifted back to the trail of hair. The one that disappeared below Ilya’s waistband. He wondered if it felt like his curls.
Fucking hell!
Stop looking stop looking stop looking.
The trajectory of Shane’s afternoon was not going like he’d imagined.
Ilya raised a single eyebrow at Shane, still saying nothing. His eyes moved slowly over Shane’s face, dipped to his lips, and back up.
Shane couldn’t stand it anymore. His heartbeat was pounding in his ears. He had to say something because if he didn’t, his body was going to say it for him.
“So, um, what is this place?”
Ilya cocked his head, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk.
“Somewhere your mother can’t see.”
Shane decided to ignore that. He circled the room, keeping as far away from Ilya as possible, trailing his fingers along the shelves, the napkins, the plates. He stopped when the metal counter was between them.
“You never told me what you do. For work.” Shane was desperate for something to talk about.
“Politics. Very boring.” Ilya straightened up, crossed to the other side of the counter, and laid his jacket down. He planted his hands—Christ they were huge—on the metal and leaned forward.
“Like committees and shit?” Shane took a step back from the counter. “Sounds terrible.”
Ilya smiled slowly. “Yes. Like committees and shit. I go where I’m told.”
Shane almost laughed. He bit it back, pressing his lip together, hard. His jaw ached. His dick ached. He was a mess from the neck down.
This man had not done a single thing he’d been told since Shane had met him.
The door swung open. Shane had never been so happy to see a waiter in his life.
The server from earlier had appeared with a single bowl. Ilya walked over and took it from him with a nod.
His eyes dark, Ilya walked toward Shane with the bowl. Shane stepped back until he hit the wall behind him. He had nowhere left to go. Ilya stopped in front of him, close enough that Shane could smell him. He smelled clean, like the ocean, with tobacco underneath.
Shane inhaled deeply before he could stop himself.
Picking up a strawberry from the bowl, the cream dripping off it, Ilya bit into it. His lips closed around the fruit slowly, his eyes on Shane the entire time.
Ilya licked his lips, catching the drop of cream left behind on his lower lip.
Shane’s suit felt too small. Especially his pants. They felt really tight. Had they always been this tight? He was sure they fit fine this morning. Maybe he’d gained weight. From the mints. Could you gain weight from mints? His mother had picked this suit. She’d picked a suit that was too tight in the—
Ilya held the bowl up for Shane to see. “Strawberries.”
Shane swallowed. “Yeah. I have eyes.” His voice came out rougher than he expected.
“Yes. Very pretty.” Ilya picked up another strawberry. “You want?”
Shane pressed himself harder into the wall. The back of his head knocked against it, and a groan slipped out. He was hard. He was unmistakably, undeniably hard.
Shane crossed his arms over the front of his pants and prayed to every god he had ever heard of that Ilya didn’t notice.
Ilya’s eyes hooded. “Careful,” he said, his voice low. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
So much for prayer.
But Shane did want. Ilya’s mouth flashed through his mind. His hands. His hair, those curls, what they’d feel like between Shane’s fingers. The thoughts kept coming and Shane couldn’t make them stop.
Shane watched the cream drip off the strawberry and into the bowl.
He’d been in many locker rooms; he’d seen every body type, every state of undress. And he’d never looked, never wondered. Obviously he’d thought some guys were good looking, because he had, like, working eyeballs, but that was just being observant. It didn’t mean anything.
Shane had never imagined his fingers in a man’s hair, never noticed another man’s hands, never thought about another man’s mouth. And worst of all, he’d never gotten hard over someone eating a strawberry.
This was all extremely new information.
“Well? You always stare at cream this long, or is special occasion?”
Shane blinked. Strawberries. Right.
He reached for the strawberry Ilya was still holding up. Of course there was no fork. No utensil of any kind. The strawberry was small and Ilya’s hands were huge and there was no way to do this without touching him.
He tried. He really tried not to touch him. His fingers grazed Ilya’s anyway, and the light bulb thing happened again, worse this time, a full-body current that lit him up from fingertips to chest to knees. His scalp tingled. He imagined Ilya’s hands on him, everywhere, pressing, pulling—
Shane shoved the strawberry into his mouth before the image could fully form.
Cream smeared across his chin. Across his left cheek. The corner of his mouth. Shane reached up to wipe it off.
“Ne nado.” Ilya’s voice dropped into something lower, softer. Russian.
“What?” Shane whispered, his mouth suddenly dry.
“No need. Let me.”
Shane looked into Ilya’s eyes. His pupils were blown wide, his lips were parted, he was breathing hard. Was Ilya—was this affecting him too? Was he—
Shane dropped his hand.
Ilya’s thumb swept slowly across Shane’s cheek. Then his chin. Then the corner of his mouth, where it lingered. Shane’s breath came in short, shallow bursts. He couldn’t feel his legs.
Ilya brought his thumb to his own mouth and sucked. His eyes never left Shane’s.
“Better?”
Shane opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He closed it. Opened it again. Finn Gretzky, alive and flopping on the counter.
Ilya reached for another berry, biting into it, letting the cream drip down over his mouth and chin. He didn’t wipe it away, a silent dare.
Shane watched the cream drip. Two could play this game, whatever this game was.
Before he could talk himself out of it, Shane reached up and swiped the cream from Ilya’s lower lip with his thumb.
He should have pulled his hand back, then. He should have wiped it on his pants and joked about the no-napkin situation at Wimbledon.
Instead, he pressed his thumb against Ilya’s mouth.
Ilya’s lips parted. And his tongue—
Shane stopped breathing.
Ilya’s tongue was slow and deliberate, swirling around Shane’s thumb. His lips closed around it. Shane felt the pull, the slight scrape of his teeth. Ilya watched Shane watching him, his eyes never leaving his face, never closing.
If Ilya didn’t stop in the next two seconds, Shane was going to embarrass himself in a way that no dry cleaner on this planet or the next could fix.
Ilya released Shane’s thumb.
“You taste like mints.” His voice came out rough.
“You should be grateful. The alternative was Fisherman’s Friends.”
Ilya laughed, the sound vibrating off the walls.
“Fisher what?”
Shane blushed. “Never mind.”
“You look good when you go pink. Better than when you complain about shirts.”
“Shut up.”
“One strawberry left.” Ilya picked it up and held it out, cream dripping down his fingers.
Shane reached for it. Ilya pulled his hand back, slowly, wordlessly.
Shane tried again. Ilya tilted his head, pulling his hand back even further, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk.
“You’re an asshole, you know that, right?” Shane said.
“You want last one, come get it.”
Shane couldn’t believe this guy. He was the captain of a professional hockey team. He’d never eaten anything out of a man’s hand. He’d never wanted to eat anything out of a man’s hand before. And anyone could walk in. He’d have to retire. Grow a beard. Change his name. Move to Poland.
Shane leaned in. His lips closed around the strawberry and Ilya’s fingertips. Cream and skin and sugar.
Oh.
Oh.
This wasn’t about strawberries, was it.
Ilya’s breath hitched, almost nothing, but enough that Shane heard it. Satisfaction shot through him, like scoring a short-handed goal no one saw coming.
Shane pulled back and licked his lips, tasting sweetness, cream, and something that was just Ilya.
Ilya’s phone buzzed against the metal counter.
He glanced at the screen, frowning. Something harder replaced the heat in his eyes. He pocketed his phone.
“I must go.”
“Go?” Shane heard the panic in his own voice and hated it. “There’s still—the match isn’t over.”
“Izvini. I’m sorry.” Ilya picked up his jacket from the counter and slung it over his shoulder. “Business.”
“Oh. Okay.” Shane’s voice sounded small in the room. He wanted to say something else. Wait. Stay. Don’t go. Anything that wasn’t “okay.” An hour ago he didn’t know this man existed. An hour ago he was watching tennis and his life made sense. Now Ilya was walking away and Shane didn’t like it and he had no idea why.
Ilya paused at the door before turning around.
“Shane Hollander.” He said it the same way he had said it earlier, heavy, slow, every syllable weighed down. “You should break rules more often. It suits you.”
And then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
♪ Let It Happen — Tame Impala
Shane walked back to the Royal Box, back through the staff door, across the linoleum to the carpet, and past the Clubhouse.
His gift bag was still on his seat.
The match was still going.
You should break rules more often.
He had broken so many rules today. The swearing in the Royal Box. The mid-match exit. The staff-only door. His own hands, his own mouth—all of it. Every single one. And Ilya said it suited him.
His whole life was rules. Rules were structure. Rules were architecture. Rules kept him upright. Rules kept him a captain and a son and the version of Shane Hollander everyone expected.
Shane touched the corner of his mouth.
Everyone except Ilya. Ilya didn’t expect Shane to follow any rules. Not social rules, not his mother’s rules, not hockey’s rules. Not even his own rules.
Shane had never felt so free and so terrified at the same time.