Chapter Text
If there was anything anyone knew about him, first thing anyone would probably say, was that the world knew Shane Hollander loved playing hockey. He lived and breathed it. No one has dedicated their lives like him, cementing their own feet into ice skates and brain rewired for power plays the way he has, holding records since his rookie years that others worked for years for.
Now as much as Shane loves the game, the fast movements, passes, and team camaraderie, there were times where he could only feel regret at following the path of athletic fame. It had gotten easier since his rookie year, years of social practice and now the reassurance of his team captain and fiancé watching from the sidelines. Shane puts on the media smile he practices in the mirror as he brushes his hair each day, uses the bright lights of press conferences to erase his view of the audience, and keeps his answers simple and focused on hockey.
Tonight’s panel is not unique in that sense. Shane still dreads every part.
He can still feel the tenseness in his shoulders minutes after, body fighting against the thumb Ilya is pressing into the stiffness of the muscle. Despite the shakiness he feels, he lets the man crowd him into a dark corner off the stage as others move to join the main banquet area with all the donors and big leagues. Shane works to soothe himself, running the palms of his hands up and down, up and down, across the slightly scratchy fabric on Ilya’s chest, eyes closed and chin tilted down to his chest.
The deep chuckle he receives lowers his shoulders an inch, the sound fond and sweet. Shane can feel his own face break into a small smile. He lets himself fall into the soft press of lips on his for several moments, before reluctantly peeling himself away from the warm body in front of him. Ilya only lets him pull away a couple of inches before moving his hands from his forearms to around his waist, refusing to let the moment end, anchoring him in place.
“Ангел, eyes on me for a second”. Angel
Shane pries his own eyes open again, the loss of past anxiety leaving him tired and fragile at the edges. Shaky with lost adrenaline. Just the thought of going out to that floor and mingling among live music and buffet foods is already torture.
Despite it all, he meets hazel eyes nearly glowing with fondness. The sight almost makes him close his eyes again at the brightness.
“Ангел, Ма́ленький, only an hour, food and small talk with rich men, then we disappear from party and go home to fuck”. Angel, little one
At that Shane can’t help but let out an unattractive snort, leaning back in the man’s hold as a hand passes below his waist, sneaking a quick squeeze. Tapping his palm against the opposite shoulder, he twists out of the hands holding him, dodging a soft second attempt at a grab and turning towards the stage exit doors.
“Honestly, if anyone expects me to actually have some sort of conversation tonight, I better have a reward lined up in the end”.
He doesn’t bother to turn around to see the smirk on his fiancé’s face as he follows behind him.
-~-
@OttawaCentaursHockeyOfficial: THE WAIT IS OVER. 🏒🔥
The Playoffs continue in Ottawa as we take on the Detroit Angels at Canadian Tire Centre.
Puck drops at 7:00 PM — bring the noise, bring the energy, get hype!
@CentaurPowerPlay: The cup is ours this year!!!!
@OttawaCentaurs#24: Detroit has no chance tonight, can’t wait to see it live
@AngelOnIce_32: Thomas Reck’s power play is going to throw the centaurs clear out the ranks!
@CentaurPowerPlay: No chance, that man hasn’t score since 08’
@HollanderHockey_Updates: Tonight at 7pm in Ottawa’s Canadian Tire Centre Shane Hollander will be taking the ice against the Detroit Angels with good chances to lead his team to victory in this phase of the playoffs. Two nights ago, in Montreal, Hollander showed his old team what they were missing by scoring twice in the second period and assisting Haas in the third
@HollanderHockeyFan: my man, my man, my man
@OttawaTitan: Montreal all went home crying, showed them right he gave you all those cups, better with us
@LA_BeastOnIce: the consequences of homophobia
@RozanovBackhand: Hollander isn’t even alt captain
@TheGist: Captain Ilya Rozanov talks team strategy and the importance of nonverbal communication on the ice; “Team is just large family, rookies need big brothers”. Https:/huahuhshw_@TheGist/x.com
@NHL_Centaurs81: what a great fucking guy, ya’ll hate on him too much
@PuckChickLA: The only people who liked him until recently were Boston, don’t lie, all he does is fight like an asshole
@HollanderHockey_Updates: Douchebag ends up in the box every game, biggest trouble magnet, gets his teammates hurt
@NHL_Centaurs81: he defends his team well on ice and wins
@Ottawa_puckmasters: I didn’t know I could love him more
@OttawaRider81: Hope his man can fight
@Ottawa_puckmasters: @OttawaRider81 Idk if I could I love Shane Hollander too much he’s my baby
-~-
The sound of the crowd in the stands blends into the rush of blood in his ears, forming the white noise needed for his thoughts to flow with the movements he has practiced over and over again.
Ilya is circling the ice in the Centre, stretching his legs this way and that as he balances on individual skates, sharp eyes focused on his team as they stretch across the ice. Shane keeps his eyes down, focuses on stretching out his legs as he dips his chest down towards the ice, hips pressed flat. Every other moment he feels hazel eyes focus on him and his form against the ground, but he knew one of them had to be determined to keep the PDA to a minimum.
Ice skates stop feet in front of him. Before he can think he’s already glancing up, making eye contact with the large Russian man in front of him, wicked smile stuck on his face and hazel eyes bright, and Shane has to drop his head back to his chest to hide the redness that splashes across his face at the lecherous look. A chuckle rumbles through Ilya’s chest before he skates off again to round his teammates again.
Couch Wiebe calls them back to the bench before the game starts, sending out the starting line for both the National Anthems. He keeps his eyes on the lights shining on them from above, squinting against the glare that erases the thousands of people all around him, only Barrett and Dykstra visible in his peripherals and the line of Detroit across the ice.
He tries to put himself back into those practices, those years of grade school hockey, where the only people sitting out in the crowd watching his every movement were friends and loved ones.
It’s one of those nights the blaring music sits heavy and itchy in his bones. Shane can feel the coldness of the rink seep under his chest guards. He holds his breath for 7 seconds then lets it out in ten, letting the noise fade into the fuzz of his thoughts as he glides up to the center of the ice, stick ready for the face-off.
He wins it and sends it quickly back to Haas to take off towards Detroit’s goal.
-~-
The smile across his face in the locker room is almost painful. Across the room, his team captain and fiancés’ smile matches his as he jostles the players within reach. The room is chaotic, filled with the loud yells of the Ottawa Centaurs as they come off a 5-3 against Detroit, the win moving them closer to the Stanely Cup Playoffs. Boyle and Young are shaking his shoulder from either side as some of the others end up in a jumping pile of to the side to work out their excitement. Even as his head whips side to side it can’t wipe the grin off his face.
“We gotta go out and celebrate, there’s no game tomorrow!" Someone yells out, met with more cheers of enthusiasm from various Centaurs.
“Lucy’s!” a secondary roar sounds out
Young has moved off to grab some of the other rookies, moving for the showers. Boyle’s hand stays clasped on his shoulder, large hand tight. At another small jostle, Shane turns to face the taller man, the man’s blue eyes alight with mischief and a small smile on his usually passive face.
“You coming Hollander? We missed you last time.”
The man’s eyebrows raise further up his forehead at Shane’s hesitation.
“C’mon Hollander, lets have some fun tonight”, This time it’s Ilya goading him as he comes to stand in front of them both. Boyle just laughs again before giving him another small shake, moving off towards the showers as well and giving the couple some privacy in the crowded room to argue over after-celebrations.
Instead of meeting the man’s eyes, Shane turns around to continue pulling off his gear, placing pieces gently atop the bench in front of his locker. He feels a hand tug at the back of his shirt collar, then tangle in the hair at the back of his head as his fiancé steps up closer to his back. At the warmth and the feeling of fingers in his hair, Shane rolls his eyes, tilting his head to the side to finally make eye contact over his shoulder.
“Is that supposed to mean you want to go out with everyone?”
He’s met with a fond chuckle, “Party with team, party at home, does not matter to me. Will end up in some place no matter”.
Like often when he deals with his asshole of a fiancé, Shane merely rolls his eyes and continues to strip down to his under clothes. Grabbing a towel, he spins around and places a hand against the Russian’s chest, keeping the man at a distance but secretly enjoying the muscle he can feel beneath his hand. Ilya’s smile grows as he leans into Shane’s palm, chin forward, letting Shane hold him up and away.
At this point his eyes will get lodged in his head if he keeps rolling them at his man, Shane can’t help but think, snorting to himself and removing his hand fast, letting Ilya fall forward into the space he was just occupying.
“I need to shower, then I think we should go see how fast Hayes gets the rookies to do tequila shots with him”.
“Who are you, and what have you done to мой ангел, Hollander?”. My angel
-~-
Shane knows he’s not a small guy. Years of hockey and workouts have built up his muscles, and lucky genetics from his father’s side places him just shy of six feet. He’s checked hockey players half a foot and several pounds more than him, knocked Scott Hunter into the ice in the one fight he’s ever actually thrown hands in.
The number of people outside the arena still makes him feel crushed in on all sides, small. Not the good kind of small Ilya makes him feel.
Despite the ever-growing nerves and itch underneath his skin at the amount of people looking at them standing close together, the cameras flashing, he plasters on his media smile and starts following the others past the crowd of fans.
Ilya is only a step behind him, shoulders squared like he’s still on the ice, and Shane can’t help but give an amused huff at the attack dog that has taken up his side.
He ignores him most of the way, instead focusing on the steady movement between people, taking a pen and autographing, clapping hands with an obviously tipsy middle-aged man. A teenage girl with dark hair pulled back in a ribbon has him sign her jersey. He takes a selfie with two young college students, passing their phone back and being handed another for another group. He crouches down to sign a young boys team jersey, blonde hair curly in his face like his fiancé’s, he straightens up to sign another man’s hockey card with his own face on it.
Shane tries to forget the feeling of palm on palm, fingers brushing his as fans reach to pass him phones, pens, and notebooks. The itch of before crawls up his arms to the back of his neck.
He leads the both of them through the crowd, Ilya’s hand coming up to grasp his opposite shoulder as Shane is jostled closer to the guardrails. By the time they are sitting in Ilya’s stupidly high-powered car, Shane can feel his shoulder back at his ears.
A large hand squeezes tight over the back of his neck, then slowly moves to settle on his left knee. Air comes rushing back into his lungs.
“Дорогой, they hold us to nothing, we can go home”. Dear one
Shane lets the next breath out hard, “no no, I’m good, I want to go. It’ll be fun to see everyone have a good time, the rookies have been stressing themselves out”.
Ilya glances at him from the corner of his eyes quickly before focusing back on the road before them.
“hm, much stress in team”. Another look, “vodka will be good for heads”.
Like always Ilya Rozanov has a way of breaking his tension. With a snort, Shane lets his head fall against the car door, tiredly watching the lights of the bars and restaurants pass, then amusedly watching through the side mirror as Haas’ SUV clumsily changes lanes two cars behind them.
-~-
The pounding bass of the club did little to remove the itch still present under his skin from earlier. He had thought the win of the night would smooth him over, but as he and his team gather in public again, this time drinks in hand, he can’t help the static nerves that settle along his spine.
So much so that as he feels a heavy hand at his waist, he jumps a bit in place, sloshing his barely touched beer over the sides of the glass. Behind him, Ilya peers over his shoulder, studying his face closely, eyes flitting across his brow and down to his mouth. In any other circumstance Shane would be a blushy mess, pressed back into the chest behind him. Right now, he can only grip his glass tighter.
“What is wrong, Ангел”. Angel
If anything, the man’s worry made him feel worse. Here he was, NHL star Shane Hollander, barely able to go out with his teammates for a drink without acting like a nervous wreck. Just minutes prior Ilya had been grinning by the bar waiting for refills with Boodram, now he was fussing over him instead of enjoying himself.
Shane tries to plaster on a smile, one he knows doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and knows his attentive fiancé isn’t swayed in the slightest. He drops it and huffs out a breath, bringing his cup up to his mouth and chugging half of the gross beer that Boyle had bought him.
Feet away a few of the guys cheer as they watch him.
The taste on his tongue disgusts him, and Shane tries to focus on the tinkling of ice in Ilya’s vodka class just by his ear as he sips instead of the urge to go and wipe his mouth out with a napkin. The sound of Ilya swallowing behind him makes his leg twitch and he holds his breath slightly as he downs the rest of what’s in his glass.
He places it down on the empty table in front of his, the arm around his waist squeezing him back in.
He’s pressed tighter now to the strong Russian man standing behind him, hips pressed into the plush of his ass and keeping him still. Ilya’s now empty glass is being set aside his, the man’s free hand moving to his opposite hip, pulling him closer like it’s possible to fuse them together.
Shane has never been one for PDA, too anxious about keeping a secret that’s not a secret anymore, but with enough alcohol in him he finds himself losing his footing increasingly and wanting to fully lean into the warmth of his fiancé at his back. He’s desperate for the anchor the man provides despite feeling the itch of watchful eyes on his back.
Tucked into a corner on the opposite side of the room is a group of young girls, dresses tight and sparkling in the neon lights, whispering to each other with big smiles on their faces, not hiding the fact that they are looking over at the team. By the bar a young man sits with a beer in his hand, not bothering to look away when Shane makes eye contact.
Ilya’s arm around him keeps him upwards, turning them both to their teammates who are in various states of drunkenness, the most obvious being Young who is chugging a vodka redbull and lost his shirt an hour ago.
“Get home safely my loves, Playoffs too soon to replace lost hockey players!”, he lowers his voice a bit to those closer, “Time for home, boring couple activities”.
The laughter that follows them as they turn to head to the front door tells him no one believes them; the flush of his face streaks down his neck. The eyes of the Russian man besides him follow it down below his shirt collar.
-~-
Shane can barely remove his shoes from his feet before strong arms are wrapped around his waist, and he’s being twirled and pinned against the wall across the front door. The buttons of his fiancé’s shirt are completely undone now; several being popped open between the car and the house.
“You’re a man of little patience, Rozanov”. The words come out fonder than he means, his chin already tipping up towards the taller man.
Lips are pressed to his own, and his eyelids flutter shut to enjoy the warmth of the man in front of him. He’s rewarded for melting into the arms snug around his waist with heavy presses of lips, tongue coming out to trace his bottom lip before swiping over his front teeth.
Shane’s hums are turning into small moans, latching his arm around Ilya’s broad shoulders and pulling him down into his body, letting him press him against this wall. They turn breathier as cold fingers trace along the waist band of his jeans, skimming across the tight skin of his stomach, then under his shirt to ghost up his sides.
The feeling of rough thumbs on his chest makes him tip his head back to let out a soft groan. Hazel eyes watched his mouth move with pupil blown wide. The sight makes him groan again and tighten the arm he had latched around his fiancé’s neck, bringing the man down an inch so Shane could start laying open mouth kisses up and down the tendon of his neck.
Ilya’s thumbs press harder to his nipples, circling both and pressing his shoulders back to the wall. He slides his leg between Shane’s to line up their hips, pressing his own hardness forward into the bulge growing in his briefs, the sharp zipper of his jeans ignored. Shane’s head drops back to thump hard against the wall behind him, his fiancé taking advantage of his submission and deciding to get some payback for the little red mark Shane had tried to make behind his ear.
At a particularly hard suck of his neck, Shane pulls himself from the haze of kisses his fiancé has put him in. One hand leaves the other man’s shoulders to press fingers against his mouth, “No marks, c’mon Ilya!”.
The teethy grin and deep chuckle he gets in response does not help the straining in his pants, and the scape of teeth over his jaw only makes his breath stutter more.
“I’m just so hungry, Котенок, I’ve been starving all night”. Kitten
Shane tightens his hands on Ilya’s shoulders, the man’s hands drag and cress down his chest then to his back, large hands spanning over his waist.
He holds himself back from offering to make the man dinner before they continue, having not eaten since before the game, but he’s fallen for it before only to be laughed at fondly before being bent over the sofa.
Lips ghost over his and Ilya’s hands squeeze over his hips, then move down to grip his ass in both hands, squishing the muscle and fat in his hands, “You’ll let me taste you, Ма́ленький, da? Just a taste”. Little one
Shane breath comes out in a slow moan, his eyelids shuttering and hands tight on the strong shoulders in front of him. Another squeeze of his ass is all he gets in warning as the Russian sets his hands under the fat of thighs, lifts all 200 pounds of him, and wraps his legs around his waist.
Like this he has a much better angle, able to sink both hands into the curly blonde hair in front of him, tilting Ilya’s head back to connect their lips again and put his own tongue in the other’s mouth as the larger man slowly maneuvers himself through the cottage hallways, not bothering to turn on the lights.
They get lost in each other’s lips and tongue as Ilya settles him atop the kitchen countertop, freshly wiped down only this morning by Shane’s own hand. When Ilya leans back to pop open the button of Shane’s jeans, impatiently shucking the denim from his legs, Shane can’t help but think about how he’s going to need to get more Clorox wipes soon if this keeps happening.
A hiss leaves his teeth as his now bare ass hits the cold marble. The Russian man in front of him ignores this, too focused on pressing open mouthed kisses and teeth up the inner skin of both his calves up to his knees. Eyes with pupils blown wide are trained on his face, the want there enough to make Shane tip his head back and moan at the sight.
Ilya’s mouth spreads in a toothy grin, rough hands dragging down his bare legs before latching onto both his calves, lifting his legs up and tipping him back to lay on the countertop, legs propped on tan broad shoulders.
Shane’s breathing rasps in the quietness of the house as lips trail over sensitive skin, stopping to suck small red marks behind his left knee then up the inside of his thigh. The warm breath ghost across his skin makes him shudder, large hands sliding up to settle behind his knees, pushing them slowly up towards his chest.
The tongue running over the stretch marks across his thighs would usually be a turn on, Ilya always set to worship the parts of his body he was most insecure about, but instead of melting against the cold marble countertop beneath him, Shane can only feel the prickling itchiness across the small of his back return as his body decides ‘something is wrong’.
Ilya notices the change in his body almost before Shane notices himself, smoothly moving to glide his mouth back down the skin of his thigh towards his knee, gentling the hands behind his knees and slowly letting him unfold in front of him. Those hazel eyes are still blown wide but now shine again with worry, more prominent than earlier tonight.
Despite the love that glows behind Shane’s ribs, the liquid warmth he can feel in his stomach, he can’t help but twitch at the feeling settling in his lower spine.
“Дорогой, Сердце моё, you are tense all day. Before game, after game. What is wrong, tell truth, let me fix it”. Dear one, my heart
As Shane’s hand reaches out, going for a grasp on his hair to bring Ilya back to where he wanted him, the man moves back further, his hands moving to wrap loosely over his calves, Shane’s feet still propped by his ears. Sharp eyes trail over his body, looking for something or other, only pausing for a moment at the evidence of Shane’s arousal standing before them.
Shane can feel his ears go red.
“It’s fine! I’m fine, I’m all good, I want this… please? I just had a funny feeling or something, it’s just the nerves of the game still around”.
Ilya’s face is stoney, but his eyes show that he is still wary of his answer. The light of the moon shining through the big open windows of the cottage makes him look ethereal, almost made of marble.
“You are star NHL player, no need for worry outside ice. Most shots, most scores, beautiful assists”. Dark eyes meet his, “Yet you, Shane Hollander, know this. Game is worrying but not so. What is true issue?”.
Shane can’t quite find the words, the intense look, the warmth in his stomach, and the itch in his back are making it impossible to think. For a second he avoids the man in front of him’s eyes, looking over the corner of the fridge shinning in the moonlight, the tree tapping softly against the far window, the dark water of the river past the backyard.
Finally, he meets the love of his life’s eyes, and not quite knowing the real reason himself, but also not wanting to lie, Shane musters up a small smile and simplifies it as, “I think I just rather do this in the bedroom instead of in front of all the kitchen windows”.
“hmm”. Ilya obviously is hesitating to take his words as truth, but as Shane fights with himself to maintain the eye contact, the Russian drops his eyes first, first to his lips, then down the line of his still clothed shoulders, down to the hardness of his cock between his legs that has only flagged slightly at the questioning.
Shane tries to give his flirtiest smile, fluttering his lashes for good measure and tipping his knees farther apart. It does the job of distracting the man, attracting dark eyes back down to where Ilya was heading earlier.
“Bed first, c’mon”.
“Okay, Душа моя, dinner in bed”.
-~-
@Nhl: Tonight, the Ottawa Centaurs knocked the Detroit Angels out of the Playoff brackets, moving one step closer to raising the Stanely cup for the first time in 12 years. Ilya Rozanov seeks to win his third ever cup as the captain of his new team, alongside fiancé three-time cup winner former Montreal Captain Shane Hollander
@HollanderHockeyFan: Power couple!
@HollanovHockeyHQ: I need to see them win the cup together, it would cure me
@HollanderHockey_Updates: Fourth cup needed
@OttawaCentaursHockeyOfficial: HUGE playoff win at home 💪
Knocked out Angels and kept the momentum rolling. 5-3
@FrozenPond_12: Here we go boys!
@Ottawa_puckmasters: Screaming, crying, throwing up
@Sports_Illustrated: The Changing Dynamics; Interpersonal Relationships Within the Sports Community https:/ohohasff.Sports_Illustraded/x.com/akfohfjaaojsja
@NHL_Fanatic2013: Didn’t Hollander win three cups while dating his supposed archrival?
@PuckChaser_Wild: We’ve seen it in the woman’s leagues God forbid a boy kiss another boy
@HollanovInAction: They just need the clicks
@ZoneCoverageCrew: I want to talk about sports not gay people
@HollanderHockey_Updates: The Ottawa Centaurs were seen partying it up in downtown Ottawa, attending various music bars and clubs to celebrate their win against the Detroit Angels tonight. The real question is what is the effect of the Centaurs of their newcomers? Rookie Kyle Young was seen propped up by long-term Centaurs members and Shane Hollander was last seen with a beer in his head, a big difference than his previous years of sobriety at public events
@HollanderHockeyFan: Yo let the guy live he’s like 30
@RozanovIceLegends: I love the mix of straight vodka and shitty beer in this photo, shows who’s European and who’s from North American
@RinkRebel: Rozanov definitely drinks vodka like it’s water
@FrozenPond_12: the photos were circulated like a minute ago how chronically online are you?
@HollanovHockeyHQ: I saw them in seconds my brain just knew they were somewhere hah!
@HockeyHeartbeats: @HollanovHockeyHQ Why are they actually the cutest??? They’re both like six foot and I just want to put them both in my pocket
@OttawaTitan: Young is such a light weight, poor bby