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It’s foreplay when Ilya does something wicked with his tongue and his mouthguard as he stares at Hollander across center ice. It’s sex when he slams Hollander into the boards. Hollander’s sweating and his body moves against Ilya’s the way it does in bed. It makes Ilya want to fuck him against a wall. His dick twitches in his cup. Hollander shoves him away. Ilya watches desire flicker in Hollander’s eyes. He smirks and sees Hollander lick his lips. Ilya checks him again and skates away.
It’s foreplay when Ilya is talking to the cameras after with no shirt. The internet goes crazy for it, he knows, but he’s doing it for Hollander. He wants Hollander to see him like this. He wants Hollander to want to lick the sweat off his collarbones. He tells Hollander, and only Hollander, how many goals he’s going to score. Everyone is listening, but he’s saying it directly to Hollander and both of them know it. In front of everyone, their secret. Their connection. He winks at the camera. Hollander will see it. He’s always watching. Ilya is sure he can’t help himself.
It’s sex when he watches Hollander’s interviews, later, with his dick in his hand. Hollander, such a strange mix of awkward and cool. He’s the same when they’re fucking: one minute pretending he can make Ilya come to him, one minute begging for Ilya’s dick in a hole, any hole. Ilya likes the interviews where Hollander speaks French best. He comes hard, all over his stomach, gritting out Hollander’s name between his teeth. “Fuck you,” he says lazily to the screen. Hollander is smiling like a kid, a little shy. Ilya knows exactly how fucking shy Hollander isn’t when he wants something enough. Maybe a shiny trophy. Maybe to ride Ilya’s dick. Hollander usually gets what he wants.
It’s foreplay when Hollander steals the puck from him, because he really is that fucking good, and Ilya loves it and hates it at the same time. Finally, someone who can match him on the ice. It makes him want to suck Hollander’s dick right there behind the goal. It’s foreplay when Ilya holds onto Hollander’s hand just a little too long during the handshake at the end of the game. It’s sex when Hollander slips just the tip of his finger under the end of Ilya’s sleeve to touch the inside of his wrist. He’s so fucking careful. One second of contact and Ilya is hard. He’s sure Hollander knows it.
It’s good that they have so many other options, because Hollander is still shit at sexting. “Get bent,” he messages. Ilya has learned this phrase. It’s a good one. He imagines Hollander, the time he fucked Hollander over the back of the couch in some fancy hotel while both watched a West Coast game. San Francisco, maybe, too close to the playoffs to ignore. He messages Hollander back “remember when I got you bent” and Hollander sends something stupid and unsexy like “That’s not proper grammar” because he is a huge loser but Ilya knows he remembers.
He wanted Ilya to come all over his back that time. Ilya was so kind to do it. He pounded into Hollander as they watched the second period. Hollander was so fucking tight around him. Ilya almost didn’t pull out in time. And then when he did, Hollander made some sad little whimper like he missed Ilya’s dick inside him, even though he’d asked for this, and Ilya spurted all over his back with all its stupid sexy smooth muscles and more fucking freckles too. Then he had to pull Hollander up and swallow every drop of Hollander’s cum so Hollander wouldn’t be sad about making a mess. Terrible. He licked all up and down Hollander’s dick, making sure he didn’t miss any, because Ilya is such a nice person.
They missed the third period of the game because they were in the shower, because even when no one is coming they can’t stop touching each other, always. That time, Ilya lost the race to get hard again first. Still. It was a pretty good game. Ilya thinks San Francisco won. Mostly he remembers the way Hollander wrapped his wet hand around Ilya’s dick and pressed his forehead against Ilya’s shoulder and made Ilya come again like Hollander wouldn’t be satisfied until he felt the hot splash and heard Ilya pant his name.
Sometimes he likes it when Hollander wins. Only sometimes.
It’s foreplay when Hollander says foolish things like “We’re going to win the MLH Cup this year”, but Ilya likes it anyway, because that means that every minute he spends in the gym is foreplay too. He lifts weights and imagines his strength working against Hollander’s, their bodies shiny with sweat. He runs and hears Hollander breathing hard at the face-off or in his weird sex apartment where he doesn’t live. He burns out his legs on the exercise cycle and remembers Hollander half-hard in the gym after the draft. Ilya was drafted first, maybe, but he wonders which one of them came first in the shower when they went back up to their rooms, alone.
“What you smiling about?” Connors asks him.
“Mind your business,” Ilya says. “What I did last night with your mom, probably.”
Connors rolls his eyes but at least he stops asking questions.
It’s foreplay when Ilya texts Hollander pictures of lube to ask him which one he should buy. Hollander always texts back some bullshit about how Ilya shouldn’t send these things, somebody could see, but five minutes later, he tells Ilya which one. Probably he was doing research, his cheeks all red and only one hand on the keyboard. Ilya likes to think so, anyway. Hollander still won’t tell Ilya what color his dildo is, because Hollander is so boring, but Ilya will find out one day. Probably he can just dare Hollander that he won’t say it, and Hollander will immediately say that it’s purple or whatever. But Ilya can wait. The wait makes it sexier. Later, he sends Hollander a picture of the lube bottle on his bedside table, cap popped open and a little dribbling down the side. Hollander doesn’t respond. That’s okay. Ilya knows why. He can almost hear Hollander groaning.
Of course it’s sex when he’s spreading Hollander open under him, two fingers deep as Hollander arches and gasps. He’s so fucking pretty with his pink mouth open, begging Ilya for more. More tongue, more fingers, more of Ilya’s dick. “Greedy,” Ilya scolds him, but he gives Hollander everything he wants, just the way he always has.
It’s sex when he does fuck Hollander up against the wall. “Remember this,” Ilya growls, biting at Hollander’s ear, “remember this when I have you on the boards.” Hollander groans and swears and grinds his ass against Ilya until Ilya can’t hold himself together anymore. He pumps his fist around Hollander’s dick and sinks his teeth into Hollander’s shoulder and shudders into Hollander until he sees stars.
It’s sex when Hollander works Ilya’s foreskin back slowly like Ilya’s dick is a present wrapped just for him. When he’s on his knees for Ilya, those dark lashes shadowing the fucking freckles that Ilya can’t stop looking at and his serious little mouth swallowing Ilya’s dick. Ilya pushes his hand into Hollander’s hair. “Will you be good for me?” he asks, and Hollander moans with his mouth full and plays with Ilya’s balls just right. Maybe Ilya doesn’t always have the words, but he and Hollander have these moments of where they don’t need words and it makes something relax, deep in Ilya’s soul. It’s such a fucking relief when Hollander just knows what Ilya wants and gives it to him. To be always in a country where he cannot express himself the way he wants is so tiring sometimes. Of course talking dirty is easy. That doesn’t mean Ilya can say what he really needs. But Hollander knows anyway, somehow, even though he’s also not so good with words.
It’s sex, that’s all. Ilya tells himself that. He doesn’t get this kind of fuck from women in clubs, like Hollander is challenging him and surrendering to him at the same time. Like sex is hockey and hockey is sex. Of course he likes it better than fucking other people. But when he holds Hollander after, when Hollander kisses him with that lazy satisfied mouth, when Ilya’s heart thumps painfully in his chest, maybe it’s love.