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Shane Hollander had learned the definition of ambition from a young age.
He was eight when he decided he was going to be a professional hockey player, ten when he swore to be one of the best the NHL had ever seen. Shane was committed to what he wanted. He wanted to be the first draft pick, so he was. He wanted to win a Stanley Cup, so he did – two of them, just in case someone had forgotten about the first. He wanted to prove to everyone in the entire fucking world that he belonged at the top of the hockey food chain, so he did. Time and time again, Shane fought for what he wanted and he got it.
He wanted Ilya Rozanov desperately, and it was the first time Shane was ashamed of his ambitions.
There were hundreds of reasons Shane shouldn’t want him. Rozanov was a rookie, completely new to the NHL. He played for Boston, Montreal’s mortal enemy. He was an entire decade younger than Shane, a very crucial decade when considering that Shane had played professionally for that entire time period. He was a man, though that argument only held so much weight when Shane had known he preferred men since he’d first discovered what sexual attraction was. Rozanov was infuriatingly annoying and a cocky asshole, and he seemed to live for making Shane’s life harder.
Hollander! Did you know I learn that from you? Rozanov had taunted after scoring on Shane during a game.
Did you hear what Sports Illustrated said? They called me ‘the next Shane Hollander’. I am thinking they will soon call me ‘the new and improved’, yes? Rozanov had chirped while two of their teammates threw punches.
Shane felt his eye twitch every time he heard Rozanov’s voice say his name, already preparing himself for some bullshit. But, sometimes, it wasn’t. And that was harder for Shane to ignore.
Hollander. Your eyes are like a drug. Addicting. But I bet they would look prettier with some tears in them, Rozanov had said, his voice low and rumbling when he cornered Shane in a bathroom after the game.
You are always chewing on your mouth guard. It’s a bad habit, Hollander. I can give you a different bad habit to put your lips around, Rozanov had whispered only milliseconds before they walked out to a press conference.
Fuck, Rozanov drove him crazy. There was something about his energy – a drive to be the best, a youthful determination, a need to prove himself – that reminded Shane so much of himself when he was first drafted. God, he could only imagine what it would have been like if they’d been drafted at the same time. Shane would have hated him, maybe, always competing against him. Or maybe it would still be the same, and Shane just wouldn’t feel as creepy for wanting Rozanov.
The hardest part to cope with wasn’t Shane’s own desires, but the fact that Ilya Rozanov seemed to want him. All of the flirting and all of the innuendos suggested a man that was interested in Shane, and Shane just didn’t really know what to do with that. He knew, objectively, that people found him attractive. Even if it took him a second to figure out when people were flirting with him, he knew. He’d been named the hottest man in hockey three times and the amount of phone numbers that made their way into his pocket seemed to just increase each year. Shane had never really taken anyone up on those offers. He didn’t have an interest in the women – although his short stint with Rose Landry had been his best attempt, and a failure – and none of the men had interested him enough to risk something going public.
He’d tried with one man, once, and had shown up to the guy’s house after prepping himself for everything, only to find out the other guy had done the same. He’d seen Shane’s physique and assumed Shane would want to throw him around; Shane had turned and left and never tried that shit again. Everything from there on out was between him, his own hands, and his own toys.
Hence, his Ilya Rozanov problem. Rozanov wanted him, but he had no idea that Shane was probably one of the most inexperienced people he’d ever met. Shane had messed around with a few women in his life – kisses in high school, fumbling around through awkward makeouts in his rookie days, his only real sex experiences with Rose Landry – but had never touched another man.
Fuck, he wanted to touch Rozanov. He wanted Rozanov to touch him, really. He’d seen the videos online of Rozanov and his conquests as well as the pictures of Rozanov shirtless in the rink that always seemed to be circulating. Shane’s mouth always watered a bit at the idea of Rozanov using those strong arms to mold Shane into whatever position he wanted him to be in. Shane would see those pictures and force himself to go on a run or to take a cold shower and then Rozanov would ruin his progress, every single fucking time, with some taunt or flirty remark.
It was unbearable, but Shane endured. He’d pushed through a lot since becoming a public figure, so this was just another obstacle in the way.
He should have known that mentality wouldn’t last.
Shane stood in the United Center in Chicago with a barely concealed frown. He didn’t want to be there – NHL propaganda, his mom had cheered gleefully, they love you, Shane – and neither did any of the other team representatives. Everyone except Ilya fucking Rozanov, apparently. Rozanov looked like he was having the time of his life as he mixed and mingled with everyone, easily moving from having a conversation with the other rookies to joking with the veterans and captains like he was just another one of them. Rozanov tossed around his sharp smiles like they were nothing and he taunted people with pouting lips and Shane ached and wished Rozanov’s mouth was doing something much more productive on something that was much more Shane Hollander.
“You are watching me.”
“No, I’m not,” Shane denied the moment Rozanov stopped in front of him. Rozanov raised an eyebrow and reached out to wipe something off of Shane’s shoulder even though Shane knew nothing was there; still, it sent a shiver down his spine.
“You were worried you wouldn’t get a hello from me?” Ilya teased. “Hello, Hollander. You look pretty today.”
Shane coughed like it could hide the flush taking over his ears. “You can’t say that to me.”
“Why not? Montreal captains cannot be pretty? This is some stupid rule you have in Canada?”
“No,” Shane argued. Rozanov stared at him and Shane felt his stomach twist under the attention and he rushed to continue. “I mean- I’m not.”
“Not…?”
Shane grit his teeth. “Pretty.”
Rozanov blinked. “This is saddest thing ever. The Great Shane Hollander is losing his eyesight. He will need to retire and give up hockey forever and-”
“Fuck off,” Shane interrupted, scoffing.
Rozanov skated to the other side of Shane, leaning against the boards and fuck his legs looked so long like that. How the hell is he doing that? Shane wondered, swallowing around the words in his mouth. Rozanov groaned, tossing his head back while practically pouting, and it was the single most performative, immature thing Shane had ever seen from him. Shane still wanted him – he was beyond saving.
“You are the prettiest, Hollander.” Rozanov sighed, putting a hand on his chest and nodding. “I swear.”
“You’re so fucking dramatic.”
“Yes,” Rozanov agreed with a grin, “that is one of the many things people say about me. You want to hear the others?”
“Not particularly.” Shane denied.
“Sexy, charming, smart. Stupid, asshole, player. All of these somehow describe me,” Rozanov said, standing up straight again and easily closing the gap between them. His voice dropped lower and Shane felt desire flicker down his spine as Ilya said, “How would you describe me, Shane Hollander?”
Shane’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, suddenly far too dry, and Shane watched as Rozanov’s eyes dropped to it instantly, his gaze stopping on Shane’s lips and lingering until Shane cleared his throat lightly. Rozanov’s darkened gaze snapped up to Shane’s eyes and Shane felt all the air get sucked out of his lungs, the air tight and suffocating between them. Rozanov moved just a millimetre closer and Shane felt his knees weaken beneath him, completely betraying him as his eyelids joined the campaign against him and fluttered like he was some movie heroine and-
Shane blinked and Rozanov was stepping back, his chest rising and falling heavily for a moment, his eyes wide. Rozanov scanned Shane from top to bottom, eyes roaming over him wildly before laughing to himself for just a moment. Shane scrambled to keep up – his head felt like it was swimming, like he was still drunk on Rozanov’s proximity that had been so suddenly and rudely taken away from him. All at once, Rozanov was back in his space, tilting his head right next to Shane’s ear and Shane stopped fucking breathing.
“You will find me after this and I will give you hotel keycard,” Rozanov whispered, his breath ghosting over Shane’s ear and sending goosebumps across his skin. “Understand?”
Shane stood firm for just a few seconds – Fuck, am I really going to agree to this? Am I really about to risk everything for this? Do I need- yes, yes I fucking do. – before nodding sharply. Rozanov pulled back, a satisfied expression on his face, and clapped Shane on the shoulder like players so often did, like it didn’t send sparks across Shane where they were in contact.
Shane stared at the ice for a few seconds after Rozanov skated off to talk to another player. “Fuck,” he whispered aloud before running a hand over his face. He glanced at Rozanov, who was pointedly not looking at him, and then surveyed everyone else to see if anyone had seen the exchange that had just happened. No one did, everyone in their own little worlds as they discussed their stick brands and sponsorships and everything else that dominated their lives. Shane took a deep breath. Brands, sponsorships. Wide and narrows, bag skates. Hockey, hockey, hockey. He forced himself to run through names and stats and drills until he didn’t feel like he was on the precipice of popping a boner at a mere glance from Rozanov, like he was a teenager. Then, he joined up with a group of other players so he could do what the hell he’d come there for.
He’d come there for promotion material, not for Ilya Rozanov. Shane told himself that he wouldn’t look at Rozanov for the rest of the shoot, that he wouldn’t give Rozanov any attention. Maybe, just maybe, they could ignore whatever was buzzing between them that way.
Rozanov held no such opinions. He said Hollander twenty-eight times in the span of three hours. Not that Shane was counting – it was a casual observation and nothing more. He casually observed the fact that Rozanov was particularly close with the other rookie in attendance. He casually observed the way Rozanov seemed to rotate around Shane like the sun rotated around the earth. He casually observed the way Rozanov’s thighs looked beneath his gear when he mimed a celebration and slid across the ice on his knees.
It was so casual – Shane was being so very casual about all of it.
Shane couldn’t lie to himself anymore when Rozanov’s hand found its way into his sweatpants pocket afterwards, after they’d changed into their clothes and stuffed their belongings into their duffel bags. It was brief but Shane held his breath nonetheless, the heat of Rozanov’s palm painfully close to where Shane wanted it most. It retreated quickly and Rozanov launched into a series of questions, asking the other players where they were staying and what their plans were for the night. He was the perfect social butterfly, jumping from one conversation to the next and uniting the other players in their annoyance at him.
Then, those sharp eyes were fixed on Shane. “Hollander, what about you? Where are you staying?”
“Um,” Shane said, frowning. He didn’t remember – he had it on his phone in his fully-fleshed out itinerary and he was planning on just copying it into his Uber app. Rozanov looked at him, then looked at him more intensely like he was trying to communicate something with his mind. After a few seconds, his gaze jumped to Shane’s pocket that Rozanov had stuck his hand in. Shane stuck his hand in his pocket and felt it close around a hotel keycard, quickly drawing out the plastic card that he hadn’t even noticed Rozanov put in there because of how focused he’d been on the proximity of Rozanov’s hand to his dick.
Shane flipped it over and read the writing quickly. “The Langham,” he said.
Rozanov gasped and walked over to Shane, putting on a performance for the other people watching him with irritated expressions. “We are at the same hotel, Hollander. We can travel back together, yes? I can be big, strong, and scary and protect you.”
“I was going to take an Uber,” Shane countered, because that had actually been the plan. Rozanov’s exaggerated smile dropped.
The Pittsburgh captain laughed. “Never change, Hollander. You’re the only one who can take him down a peg.”
He could, couldn’t he? Shane was the only person who Rozanov seemed to be calm around, like all of his energy was directed at Shane rather than wildly bursting out of Rozanov in every direction. Focused, almost. Shane glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw Rozanov already looking at him – always, always looking at Shane. A strange satisfaction curled in Shane’s gut. Rozanov was paying attention to him. Of all the people in the hockey world and outside of it, Shane had caught the hotshot rookie’s eye. It didn’t matter that Shane had been playing professionally since Rozanov was still in primary school, and it didn’t matter that their teams had it out for each other. For at least one night, Rozanov wanted him.
Shane had given enough to hockey over the years. It was only fair to let himself have this, wasn’t it? Sure, he could take Rozanov down a peg like they’d suggested. Or, maybe, he could let Rozanov take him down, could let Rozanov finally make good on his endless promises.
“You’re thinking hard,” Rozanov said quietly, his voice barely more than a murmur.
Shane glanced at everyone else and looked at Rozanov when he realised everyone else had moved on and was otherwise occupied. A flicker of confidence settled in Shane’s chest. He whispered, “Are you gonna impress me tonight? I’m only giving you one chance.”
Shane watched in real time as Rozanov’s pupils dilated.
“Yes,” Rozanov said firmly with no room for any disagreement. Yes, he would impress Shane. Shane knew it was true the same way he knew the sky was blue or that he was good at hockey – it was an undeniable fact.
He nodded. “Alright,” Shane said, forcing confidence to the forefront, “I’m going to my hotel first. Then, maybe, I might come to yours.”
Rozanov’s eyes dropped to Shane’s chest and dragged back up to his eyes, Rozanov cocking an eyebrow once they held contact again. “Maybe?” He questioned.
“Probably,” Shane relented instantly. It was almost a little humiliating how quickly he gave in to Rozanov. Shane cleared his throat and stepped away, following the group of other players closer. He caught a dawning smirk on Rozanov’s face as he looked away. Shane swallowed and took a deep breath, thinking about just how stupid he was being by entertaining the idea of fucking another player, a rookie at that.
“Mm, yes. Probably,” Ilya repeated, mocking. “Unless you chicken out.”
“Fuck you, I’m not- I’m not a chicken.” Shane snapped back before realising just how dumb that sentence made him sound. It seemed to amuse Rozanov, at least, whose eyes lit up as he grinned.
“No, not a chicken. Just a man who wants to be impressed,” Rozanov said, his eyes darting towards the group of other players that was still walking away from them before he stepped entirely into Shane’s space, running a hand boldly up Shane’s side and squeezing at his hip.
“Maybe,” Rozanov said, his voice low, “I will do this. My ‘maybe’ is the same as yours, Hollander. ‘Maybe’ means ‘probably,’ which means ‘definitely’. Definitely, I will make it worth your time.”
Rozanov’s fingers trailed across his side as he retracted his hand and walked off, again leaving Shane floundering for his composure. It drove him a bit crazy that Rozanov could completely disable his defenses so instantly; Shane had spent a decade building his reputation and maintaining an unaffected facade and it took Rozanov less than a year to break it down until Shane was milliseconds away from dropping to his knees. It was for the best that Shane hadn’t met him until this year, really – he’d have had a stroke from the stress of Rozanov if Shane was any less established than he was. Now, though, it meant he watched Rozanov walk away while fighting to swallow around his suddenly very dry mouth, his skin buzzing from where the rookie had touched his ribs.
Yeah. Rozanov was definitely going to make it worth his time.
Shane blinked and forced one foot in front of the other, a mindless march that he’d made many times as he was consumed by his thoughts on the way out of an arena. He called for his ride and swallowed down the nerves that were sending goosebumps across his skin. The driver tried talking to him a few times and Shane really did try to be polite and answer, but his mind kept drifting back to Rozanov’s cocky grin and his long legs and intense eyes, so he really wasn’t a great conversation partner.
Fucked, Shane thought, running a hand over his face and laughing at himself behind his palm for just a second. I’m so fucked.
–
Ilya Rozanov had never wanted anything in his entire life the way he wanted Shane Hollander.
He was eight when Hollander completed his rookie season with both a Calder and Art Ross to his name, a feat that literally everyone had deemed impossible. He was ten when he watched Hollander lift the Stanley Cup above his head for the first time, a proud and yet still reserved smile on his face as the cameras focused on him and the crowd went wild. Ilya had felt something twist in his chest even then, sitting on the floor at a sleepover with Svetlana and Sasha while watching a foreign team win a trophy.
For years, he’d thought it was envy. Ilya thought he wanted to be like Hollander, thought he wanted to be the one with the trophies to his name and the crowds of screaming fans. He did, of course, but it wasn’t until he was a teenager and kissed a boy for the first time that he realised his obsession with Hollander might be a bit more than just a crazed idolisation.
Then, he met Hollander – not as a fellow professional yet, but as a highschooler. His junior team visited the US for a week-long intensive training camp and they managed to get tickets to a Montreal-Boston game. The Montreal PR team had capitalised on their presence and asked if they wanted to meet the team; later, posts about the Metros being inspirations even internationally would go viral, but Ilya hadn’t cared about any of that. He’d buzzed with energy up until he’d gotten to shake Hollander’s hand and gotten an autograph on his ticket. God, Ilya had felt alive for the first time in years and he felt like he was going to explode out of his skin, knowing and hoping and praying that this would be the moment where the great Shane Hollander saw him.
Hollander signed his autograph, thanked him for his support, and moved down the line.
Ilya had stared at the empty space in front of him for a long moment. Slowly, he’d dragged his eyes to Hollander and watched as the man quickly signed as many things as he could as they were thrust in his face before a manager was pulling him away for interviews. For a millisecond, Ilya had hated him. He’d hated that he’d spent so many years obsessed with Shane Hollander to get nothing more than a glance, hated that he’d finally let himself have high hopes only to be let down for the millionth time.
Then, Ilya looked down at the ticket. You’re good – keep up the hard work. Next to the phrase was Hollander’s signature.
No one had ever told Ilya he was good or called him a hard worker. Everyone had always just pressured him to perform, to put in more effort, to stop being so lazy and live and breathe hockey like his life depended on it. He traced a finger over the word, good written in a hasty scrawl across where his ticket said he was the #2081 paper printed. Ilya devoted himself to the sport after that, dedicating every waking moment to getting so good that Hollander would have to pay attention to him, counting down the moments until he could declare for the draft and see Hollander again.
Ilya changed his number to 81 and brought the ticket to every game as a good luck charm.
Now, in a hotel in Chicago with Hollander’s lidded eyes and shaky breaths so fresh in his memory, Ilya traced the faded pen and crinkled paper for what had to be the thousandth time in his life. His plan had worked – Hollander was paying attention to him. He couldn’t avoid Ilya, not when Ilya was shattering records and practically forcing himself down Hollander’s throat with how hard he worked.
Forcing myself down Hollander’s throat, Ilya thought gleefully as he carefully tucked the ticket away and tried to keep himself from creaming his pants just at the idea of getting Hollander’s mouth on him. It would happen – it was inevitable now that Hollander was finally within reach. Months of trying his best to just get Hollander to look at him had gotten Hollander staring at Ilya’s mouth and trying his best to ignore the fact that he’d gone pliant against Ilya when he’d stuffed his hotel keycard in Hollander’s pocket.
Hollander was even better than what he’d expected when he spent so many years staring at posters and pictures of him. Hollander had fluttery, big eyes and gorgeous lips that would part for shaky breaths. Hollander sank against him and blushed behind the constellations of freckles on his cheeks. Hollander, Hollander, Hollander. He was the only thing Ilya could think about, and he was coming over to Ilya’s hotel room.
Ilya jolted and carefully tucked away his lucky ticket, looking around his room. Everything sat tucked away in his suitcase, save for the few condoms and travel-size lube he’d stuffed in the nightstand drawer. There wasn’t anything for him to do other than wallow in his nerves about Hollander coming over.
Ilya had never been nervous for a hookup before.
Ilya Rozanov was good at sex. The people back home and the unknown contacts in his phone knew this. The tabloids that plastered him and random women across covers of magazines knew this. Everyone knew that Ilya was good at what he did, and often enough people recognised how physically attractive he was. Ilya was confident in his looks and what he could do with them, but Shane Hollander was an entirely different story.
He didn’t care about his past hookups. He cared about hooking up with Shane Hollander, though. Ilya was going to see Hollander a few times a year for the foreseeable future, and would likely spend his entire career compared to him. Even outside of the professional capacity, he had a deep need to prove himself to Hollander, to show him that he’d saved the original ticket and that he’d worked hard, just like Hollander had told him to. Hollander had brought him joy and hope, and the least Ilya could do to repay it would be giving him the best sexual experience of his life.
Ilya could do it – he would do it.
He ran his palms over his jeans and took a deep breath, glancing at the clock. Any minute now, Hollander would knock on his door. Or would he just use his keycard and let himself in? Ilya laughed at the idea and shook his head – Hollander was too polite for that. He’d knock, and he’d probably blush all shy the way he often did when Ilya directed his attention at the older player. Fuck, Ilya needed to stop thinking about it.
Ilya lowered himself to the ground and forced himself into pushups, losing himself in the repetitive up and down as his triceps and shoulders burned. Slowly, of course, without exerting himself too much to where his ability to do literally anything Hollander wanted could be impaired. He could see how his arms had gotten a bit redder, not hidden by a shirt after Ilya had chosen to remain shirtless after his shower. Ilya had just sat back on his haunches and wiped a bit of sweat from his brow when a sharp knock hit his door, quickly followed by a softer one, like the person knocking hadn’t meant to hit the door as hard as they did the first time.
Ilya bit back a grin and forced his face into something more neutral as he stood and walked over to the door, pulling it open with a practiced ease.
“Hello, Hollander,” he greeted, stepping to the side. Hollander glanced over his shoulder like he was looking for someone in the hallway before stepping through and walking past Ilya. Ilya felt his mouth water at the scent of Hollander’s light cologne wafting past him and he swallowed as he pushed the door closed, rolling his shoulders back and taking a deep breath so he could focus on Hollander.
Hollander, who was standing with his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, the soft lamp light of the room catching him and making him almost glow as he looked at Ilya with an almost nervous expression.
He looked like every one of the dreams Ilya had about him. No – he looked better.
Ilya stalked forward, slow, carefully measured steps that seemed to make Hollander simultaneously more nervous and more relaxed; his hands found each other and wrung themselves together anxiously while he stepped backwards until he was pressed against the wall, a tentative smile creeping onto his face when he caught Ilya’s eyes and realised there was nowhere else for him to go.
“You are nervous,” Ilya said, his heart skipping in his chest at the shaky breath Hollander took just from hearing the rookie speak. It drove Ilya crazy – if anything, he should have been the one on the edge of a panic attack. Hollander could destroy Ilya in a second; all it would take would be for him to say something about Ilya propositioning him and Ilya would be ruined. Everyone would believe anything he said and nothing Ilya could say to try to cover it would work. Hollander held all the power in their field and in the dynamic between them.
And yet, Hollander was sinking against the wall and reaching his hands out to land on Ilya’s hips, looking at him with wide eyes and going pliant against Ilya the moment they were close enough. Hollander had all the power, and he was giving it up to Ilya without a fight.
“You’re nervous too,” Hollander countered. His fingers dug into Ilya’s belt loops as he said, “You’re sweating.”
Ilya shook his head. “Not nervous,” he lied, “I was just working out. I needed to make sure I could impress Shane Hollander, yes? Lots of pushups to test my muscles.”
Ilya leaned forward, eyes tracking Hollander’s as they fluttered and dropped to Ilya’s lips, his tongue darting out as he stared at Ilya’s mouth. A rush of something coursed down Ilya’s spine, the need to hide Hollander away and fucking keep him stronger than ever before. Ilya hovered just out of reach of Hollander’s lips, his gut twisting as Hollander seemed to sway towards him subconsciously.
“Do you want to test them?” Ilya asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Hollander shivered – miniscule, but there. “Test- test them? Test what?”
“My muscles. Keep up with the conversation, Hollander.”
“Fuck you,” Hollander countered, scoffing lightly and finally looking Ilya in the eyes again only to drop his gaze to Ilya’s bare chest. “I’m a little distracted.”
“Well, we cannot have the Shane Hollander being distracted,” Ilya replied, his tone a little more condescending than he’d typically go for. He went out on a limb and, if the way Hollander took in a sharp breath was any indication, it was exactly what he should have done.
“You wanna give me something to focus on, then?” Hollander asked, his eyes tracing Ilya’s pecs and collarbones before blinking just slightly up at him. Ilya felt his resolve crumble the moment Hollander’s eyes met his and he stepped forward, pushing Hollander entirely up against the wall and descending on his mouth.
Hollander’s fingers tightened on Ilya’s waist as he leaned against Ilya, Ilya pulling the air out of Hollander’s lungs with each insistent kiss. Ilya’s head spun when Hollander moaned into his mouth – Ilya had made him make that sound. Ilya had him pinned against a wall. Despite all odds, Hollander had chosen Ilya.
Ilya ran a hand up Hollander’s side, tracing over his chest until his hand made his way up Hollander’s neck and held his jaw. Ilya’s fingers spanned the side of Hollander’s face as he held his head in place, trailing his lips over Hollander’s chin and jaw and neck while Hollander made a sound akin to a whine.
“Are you focused?” Ilya asked between kisses.
Hollander huffed, a short puff of air hitting Ilya’s ear. “You’re an asshole.”
“And you are avoiding the question.” Ilya pulled back, taking in Hollander’s reddened lips and cheeks, his freckles standing out against his flushed skin. “Fuck, Hollander.”
A small smile split Hollander’s spit-slick lips. “Now you sound distracted.”
“No,” Ilya disagreed, dropping his hand from Hollander’s jaw to his chest and pushing him into the wall, pressing just hard enough that Hollander could feel it with each breath he took. “I’ve always been focused on you.”
Ilya’s breath caught in his chest when he realised what he’d admitted. Hollander, however, didn’t seem to catch it. “Focused on me? Maybe that’s why Boston hasn’t beat us yet this season.”
“Wow,” Ilya commented, cocking an eyebrow. “I thought you came here to get your dick sucked, but you came to chirp at me? Not very golden boy of you, Hollander.”
Ilya barely finished his sentence before Hollander had pushed off the wall and brought Ilya into a kiss with a hand on either side of his face, his entire body pressed against Ilya’s front and his very hard cock poking against Ilya.
“You’ll suck my dick?” Hollander asked against Ilya’s mouth, pleading, sinking against him the moment Ilya’s arms wrapped around his waist.
“I need to impress you, yes? Let me show you how a rookie does things these days,” Ilya murmured back, his voice low enough to have Hollander panting and moaning against his mouth again, rocking his hips forward against Ilya.
Ilya grinned against Hollander’s mouth. “You sounded excited about the blowjob. Do you want to get off against my leg instead?”
Hollander chased Ilya’s mouth as Ilya pulled back just slightly. Ilya memorised the absolutely gone expression on Hollander’s face; it was enough to fuel his wet dreams and fantasies for the rest of his life. Ilya put his fingers under Hollander’s chin, lifting his face until he made eye contact with Ilya.
“Which do you want?” Ilya asked.
Hollander blinked hard. “I- I’m…”
“Use your words.”
“Fuck,” Hollander responded, shuddering as he rubbed up against Ilya again. “Fuck, Rozanov.”
Ilya really couldn’t do anything except drag Hollander back into a kiss at that; it was the first time Hollander had said his name since coming to his room and it was like a shot of adrenaline was injected into him. Ilya shoved his hands underneath Hollander’s shirt, his hands skimming warm, hot skin as he pulled it up and over Hollander’s head, immediately attacking Hollander’s lower neck and shoulder with his mouth. Hollander’s head tilted back and only Ilya’s hands keeping him in place kept him from falling over.
The angle forced Hollander’s hips forward, a sharp gasp escaping him when his cock rubbed across Ilya’s thigh. Hollander’s head dropped forward, his forehead colliding with Ilya’s shoulder as he rocked into it; Ilya forced Hollander’s hips into a back and forth motion, guiding him as Hollander used Ilya’s thigh to bring himself closer to the edge.
“Rozanov,” Hollander almost-whimpered and that hit Ilya harder than any enforcer ever had.
“Do you want to use your words now?’
“Fuck you- fuck.”
“I am the one who is still learning English, Hollander. I know you have a bigger vocabulary than that,” Ilya teased, pushing Hollander’s hips into the back and forth pattern even when Hollander seemed to lose the rhythm himself.
“You’re a dick,” Hollander gasped, laughing weakly against Ilya’s neck. There was a brief moment of quiet before Ilya pushed his fingers into Hollander’s hips just the slightest bit harder and Hollander slammed his mouth closed, cutting his moan off halfway through.
“Please,” Hollander requested, “do that again.”
Ilya gripped Hollander’s hips with both hands, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises the next day. Hollander’s hands flew to Ilya’s hair and fisted in it with both hands, dragging him into a kiss that was desperate and hot and wet and everything Ilya had ever hoped for with Hollander.
“Please,” Hollander repeated as Ilya tugged on his bottom lip with his teeth.
“Please what?” Ilya growled.
“I don’t know, just- please, Rozanov.”
Ilya could die in his sleep and his life would be fulfilled because he’d had Shane Hollander begging for him, squirming against his thigh as precum leaked through his pants and threatened to stain Ilya’s. Hollander was getting desperate; Ilya could feel the stilted jerks that Hollander tried to overcompensate for, pulling himself away like it was painful before pushing himself back like he couldn’t stop chasing his pleasure. Ilya lifted his leg just slightly and tensed his thigh muscle and Hollander’s hands in his hair tightened, his mouth connecting with Ilya’s neck and kissing and panting against the bare skin as he shook in Ilya’s arms.
Ilya held him in place, one hand sliding from Hollander’s hip to his ass and he pulled, his hand grabbing the meat of the muscle and pulling Hollander into a particularly strong thrust. It was the final push Hollander needed as he fell apart with what sounded like a sob, his entire body locking up and clinging to Ilya before he went limp in Ilya’s arms, only the rookie’s strength holding him up.
“Good,” Ilya praised instantly, the satisfaction of bringing someone else pleasure coursing through him. That was the best part of sex to him – knowing that he could focus on nothing else other than making his partner feel good. Based on the way Hollander was still panting in his arms, chest rising and falling while he clung to Ilya, he could guess he’d made Hollander feel more than just good.
Hollander lifted his head, his eyes glassy and searching and- oh, Ilya realised, his chest warm with pleasure.
“Look at you,” Ilya murmured, wrapping one arm around Hollander’s waist tightly to keep him up before bringing the other to Hollander’s chin and lifting. He placed gentle kisses to Hollander’s lips, the older man lax as he accepted the kisses with enthusiasm.
“Hollander. Are you okay?” Ilya asked, tracking each breath Hollander took.
“I’m so okay,” Hollander admitted, his eyes fixed on Ilya’s mouth. “You were gonna suck my dick.”
Ilya laughed. “Wow. You remember this? You didn’t seem to care about it a few minutes ago.”
“Please.”
Ilya’s breath caught in his chest. “You don’t know what you’re asking for. You can’t even stand up, Hollander.”
“I can stand up,” Hollander protested, stubborn as ever, pushing off of Ilya and swaying just slightly back and forth. His gaze dropped from Ilya’s mouth to his chest and continued down, following the trail of hair from his navel downwards until Ilya saw Hollander visibly swallow.
“Hollander?”
Ilya caught the eyes that had fueled numerous jerk sessions over the years before Hollander was looking back down and sinking to his knees, his hands running dual, fiery trails down both of Ilya’s sides as he went.
–
The moment Shane saw the bulge in Rozanov’s pants, his entire plan disappeared. Shane loved his plans, but this one was entirely irrelevant because he’d forgotten to include getting my mouth on Rozanov in the steps. It was the greatest oversight Shane had ever made.
His knees collided with the wooden flooring harder than they probably should have if he had been more aware and had lowered himself more gently. He heard Rozanov prompt him with his name but Shane couldn’t stop staring at where Rozanov’s jeans were pulled tight across him, where something he’d fantasised about was hiding away behind some measly fabric. Shane brought his hands to the zipper, desperate to yank it down and get to what he really wanted.
Rozanov seemed entertained when Shane peeked up at him, dark eyes pinning Shane in place as Shane shakily undid his jeans before stopping. Black briefs showed through the unzipped denim and Shane wanted but something in him was stuck, unable to make the final move.
“Hollander?”
“Can I?” Hollander asked, looking up at Ilya.
A string of Russian words escaped Rozanov before he cursed, “Fuck, Hollander, yes, you can. So fucking polite, always.”
The permission settled in Hollander’s chest, the thing he’d been waiting on without knowing. His hands flew to Rozanov’s waistband, fingers connecting with skin and coarse hair until he’d pulled Rozanov’s cock free, hard and reddened and so tantalising that Shane was helpless to do anything except lean forward and press a small kiss to the side of the head. Ilya shifted forward, a hand connecting with the wall above Shane’s head as Shane tentatively licked the tip.
“Just like that, Hollander, yes,” Rozanov groaned, his free hand resting on top of Shane’s head and his fingers sliding through the short strands of hair. Shane wanted him to be harsher, to pull at Shane’s hair until pinpricks of pain mixed with the pleasure of what they were doing. Instead of asking for it, he just leaned forward and brought the entire head of Rozanov’s dick into his mouth in the hopes that it would make Rozanov pull at his hair.
It didn’t, but he got a shaky moan from Rozanov in response instead, which was just as good. Shane sank lower and lower until his jaw started to hurt and he had to pull back so he didn’t gag or cough, his mouth and throat entirely unused to such a large intrusion. It was dizzying and Shane knew he was never going to be able to move on from this. Desperate to shake the thoughts out of his head, he brought his mouth back to Ilya and tried again, hopeful that his enthusiasm made up for his inexperience.
Rozanov pushed forward with the movement – not too far, but enough to take a bit of the control back away from Shane and Shane moaned around the dick in his mouth, earning a series of curses mixed with praise from Rozanov above him.
“Hollander,” Rozanov gasped, “so good. Relax your throat.”
Shane had no idea what the fuck that meant but he tried, eager to please, and went down as far as he could go before he could feel his tongue slam against the bottom of Rozanov’s dick, intensifying the suction while following the vein that seemed to twitch with each happy movement of his tongue. Rozanov’s grip tightened in his hair and Shane felt an animal being scruffed into submission and fuck, it was the best thing he’d ever felt.
“Shit, Hollander, don’t moan like that unless you want me to cum in your mouth,” Rozanov hissed. Shane wasn’t even aware that he’d done something, but he nodded anyway.
“Nodding- yes, you will not do that again or yes, you want me to cum in your mouth?” Rozanov asked.
Shane pulled off carefully, Rozanov’s dick popping out of his mouth with a wet sound as Shane held it with one hand and mouthed along the opposite side of it. “Whatever you want,” he said a bit breathlessly, his voice a bit hoarser than normal.
“Whatever I want?” Rozanov echoed. “Anything?”
“Anything,” Shane agreed. The combination of the salty taste on his lips and the heat of Rozanov’s body and the dull ache where his hair was being pulled was leaving him almost mindless. He didn’t care what happened as long as it meant Rozanov kept giving him this feeling, kept giving him every part of Rozanov he could get his hands on.
Rozanov made an almost wounded sound. Shane blinked and he was being tugged into standing, colliding with the wall only a moment later before Rozanov was kissing him again. Shane felt his muscles betray him as they melted, his hands palming Rozanov’s very sturdy chest as Rozanov kneaded his ass and thighs. A warm tongue made its way into his mouth and Shane’s head lost its strength, chasing the feeling. His head dropped backwards against the wall and Rozanov’s hand held his chin again, his thumb slipping between Shane’s lips; Shane eagerly sucked on the digit until Rozanov pushed a bit harder until he was holding Shane’s mouth open.
“Pretty,” Rozanov said, complimenting him the same way he had at the photoshoot. “So pink and pretty. Messy, too, Hollander – want me to add more to the mess?”
Shane shuddered and nodded as much as he could. He would take anything Rozanov gave him.
He expected to be pushed back to his knees, to have Rozanov in his mouth until he came.
“Tongue out,” Rozanov ordered.
Shane obeyed and only had a second to process before Rozanov stuck his own out, a puddle of saliva dropping from his mouth to Shane’s tongue and pooling there. It was dirty and should have been genuinely gross but all Shane could do was think about how a part of Rozanov was going to be inside him when he swallowed; no one would know what the two of them had been up to, but Rozanov would still have this claim on Shane.
“Swallow.”
Shane worked his jaw against the strain of Rozanov holding it open and swallowed, his tongue lulling back out alongside desperate panting to show he’d succeeded. Rozanov growled some Russian again before pressing a demanding kiss to Shane’s lips, tongue working around the thumb that held Shane’s bottom lip in place. Rozanov pulled away after a moment and grabbed one of Shane’s hands with his own. Rozanov stalked towards his bed, tugging Shane along with him.
We haven’t even made it to his bed, Shane realised deliriously.
“Take your clothes off.” Rozanov said once they were only a few steps away from his bed, releasing Shane’s hand and scrambling for his own clothes.
“I already came.” Shane pointed out, a bit confused, even as his hands made his way to his waistband.
“Yes. And?” Rozanov questioned as he tugged off his jeans and briefs, abandoning them in a pile on the floor.
Shane’s face flushed both at the words and at the sight of Rozanov’s full nudity. He looked away and efficiently took off his clothes, folding them carefully so he could easily access them afterwards. When he looked back, Rozanov had a wide grin on his face and his gaze was scanning Shane from top to bottom. He beckoned Shane closer and Shane went to settle on the other side of the bed next to him. The moment he sat down, however, Rozanov leaned over him and kissed him again, trailing kisses across his cheeks and nose before briefly making contact with his mouth. Each press of Rozanov’s lips to Shane’s jawline and neck felt like he was being torn apart at the seams. How could he ever want to do anything else when he could just be this? When he could have no other responsibilities or stressors? When his only function was to be whatever Rozanov wanted him to be?
Shane jolted, a little caught off guard by how quickly his thoughts had devolved.
“Still okay?” Rozanov asked, pulling back to check on Shane. Shane nodded, smiling softly, and brought his hands up to Rozanov’s biceps to hold on when Rozanov kissed him again, more gentle this time. Shane was entirely entranced by it, lost in the kisses to the point he almost missed what Rozanov whispered against his lips.
“I want to fuck you,” Rozanov murmured against Shane’s mouth. It took him a second to realise what Rozanov had said but he jolted when he did.
“No?” Rozanov questioned, tilting his head slightly to the side almost like a dog when trying to listen closer.
“Yes,” Shane exhaled, because he did want that, so fucking bad, “but not here. Not with more media tomorrow.”
Shane knew that if they did this – if he completely gave himself over to Rozanov – there was no way he could act normal on camera the next day. A flicker of anxiety settled in his chest, worried that Rozanov would just leave when denied what he wanted. Instead, Rozanov just hummed and kissed Shane again. Shane scrambled to keep up, insistent kisses demanding obedience from his own lips and tongue, and it made his head swim. He could be distracted by Rozanov’s mouth for hours if he let it happen.
Rozanov’s very hard dick pressed against him and Shane remembered exactly what he’d been planning. He slid his hand down their frontsides until it could curl around Rozanov where he needed the attention most; Shane earned a harsh nip at his ear in response, quickly followed by a stifled moan that sent hot puffs of air across Shane’s skin.
“Fuck, Hollander,” Rozanov groaned. “You going to get me off? Going to, eh, practice your stick work?”
“Don’t make dick jokes about hockey stuff,” Shane countered immediately. I won’t be able to stop thinking about you on the ice more than I already can’t if you keep doing that.
Rozanov laughed, little huffs of amusement that were interrupted by staccato sounds of pleasure. Shane slid his hand all the way down to the base of Rozanov’s cock and thumbed at his balls, a rumbling sound of satisfaction tearing itself out of Rozanov’s chest right afterwards. The warm body pressed against him and the sounds Rozanov was making had Shane’s dick twitching, steadily waking back up and preparing itself to go again. Shane kissed Rozanov urgently as he worked his hand faster, twisting at the top and sliding his thumb down the vein he traced with his tongue earlier on each pass. His mouth watered at the memory, at the sheer idea of getting his lips around Rozanov’s cock again; he was close to asking if he could do it again – begging to do it again – but he shelved the idea when Rozanov’s entire body jerked just slightly, his mouth dropping open before his hand joined Shane’s.
Rozanov pushed himself off of Shane where he’d fallen down a bit, holding himself up with his knees and one arm as he wrapped his hand around Shane’s own, guiding Shane as he worked Rozanov to the edge.
“Fuck,” Rozanov cursed, followed by something in Russian. Shane didn’t know what he said, but Rozanov’s strained voice and thicker accent had his gut twisting a bit anyway. “Ah, shit, Hollander, gonna-”
“On me,” Shane begged before he could put a filter on his thoughts. “Please.”
Rozanov cursed again and Shane tightened his hand just as Rozanov came, glistening streaks coating Shane’s navel and abdomen as Rozanov pulled him into an aggressive, biting kiss. Shane knew that this memory was going to be at the forefront of his mind for the rest of his life – or, at least until he got to have Rozanov again. He prayed that his lips would be a bit bruised when he woke up so he could remember this every time he worried at his lip.
Shane blinked and Rozanov was tearing himself away, kissing down Shane’s neck and chest before pushing himself completely away from Shane and making his way down further. Rozanov swiped his hand through the cum on Shane’s stomach and Shane winced at the mess for just a moment before Rozanov brought it to Shane’s dick, using his release as lube. Shane’s knees jerked up, his body curling in on itself; Rozanov’s strong hand collided with Shane’s inner thigh and forced his legs open.
“Rozanov,” Shane moaned at the show of strength.
Rozanov just grinned up at him from his position between Shane’s legs before he took Shane’s dick into his mouth all at once, sinking down to the hilt all while maintaining eye contact with Shane.
Shane felt his eyes roll to the back of his head as he dropped against the mattress, his back arching just slightly at the sheer amount of pleasure. Both of his hands flew up to his head, his arms crossing over his face like he could hide away from Rozanov seeing just how good he made Shane feel. Rozanov reached up a hand to smack at Shane’s elbow, the only part of his arm in reach, before he continued to deepthroat Shane. He worked his way up and down, teasing and taunting while sucking at the tip like he could milk Shane’s cum out of him and while humming just slightly whenever he made it to the base.
Shane had experienced blowjobs before from two of his exes, but he’d never experienced them like this.
Maybe it was because it was a man, or because Shane had already came once, or because it was Ilya Rozanov, but Shane had never been so close to the edge so quickly.
His hands flew down to Rozanov’s hair, fingers twisting in curls as his knees bent and his legs shook on either side of Rozanov’s head. “Fuck, fuck,” he moaned, “Rozanov you gotta pull off. You gotta-”
Rozanov just took him deeper in response, lidded eyes locking on Shane’s wide and desperate ones. Really, Shane was only so strong. Seeing Rozanov’s satisfied expression and his lips pulled taut around Shane was his undoing; Rozanov pinned open Shane’s thighs as he sucked and blew him. Shane came with a sharp cry, his entire body vibrating as Rozanov worked him through it and continued even after Shane was shaking from overstimulation.
Shane heard a whimpering sound that he belatedly realised came from him and it was only after that sound that Rozanov pulled off, swallowing and licking his lips before smacking the outer part of Shane’s legs and settling on his haunches, grinning down at Shane.
“Did I impress you?” Rozanov asked, his voice rough.
Shane was caught between wanting to kiss him and wanting to hit him. “You’re so fucking-”
“Yes, I am so fucking,” Rozanov interrupted, leaning forward quickly and pressing a quick kiss to Shane’s lips. “I am so fucking, you are so fucking.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Shane sighed even as a satisfied smile stayed on his face. Rozanov sank down against the bed next to him and Shane threw a leg over Rozanov’s hip, propping himself up on one elbow to kiss Rozanov again.
“It makes sense to me.” Rozanov protested, his large, warm hand raising up to hold Shane’s face. He repeated, “Did I impress you?”
Shane shook his head in amusement. “It was adequate, I guess.”
“Adequate? What is ‘adequate’? Better than good, better than the best? I’ve never heard this word before.”
“Of course you’ve never heard adequate. All you hear is praise, Rozanov?”
“No,” Rozanov argued, a flicker of something crossing his face before he looked at Shane and swiped a sweaty bang off of Shane’s forehead. “But what is ‘adequate’?”
“Like…sufficient. Satisfactory. Acceptable. Fine.”
“Fine?” Rozanov echoed, outraged. “I blow your fucking mind – don’t argue with me, Hollander, I saw you – and you call it fine?”
Shane grinned as Rozanov used his body weight to push Shane into the mattress, holding him in place with no escape. Shane hadn’t had Rozanov like this for long, but he couldn’t imagine letting him go. No one had ever called Shane Hollander selfish but he definitely felt that way as he thought about all the things he wanted with Rozanov; Rozanov was a hot, young rookie that could have people falling at his feet in every city or country he went to. The idea of it had Shane’s stomach twisting in discomfort, though. He didn’t want Rozanov to do this with anyone else because it meant it didn’t mean anything to him, which just wouldn’t work out when it meant so much to Shane.
“You have your sexy face on.”
Shane blinked. “What?”
Rozanov lifted a hand and thumbed at the spot on Shane’s forehead between his brows. “Your thinking face. Your planning face. The one you make when your team is losing and you think you can fix it. What are you trying to fix now?”
Shane swallowed. “You,” he answered after a shaky, anxious breath.
Rozanov jerked backwards, his eyes wide and almost hurt before quickly narrowing. “Me? Why do I need fixing?”
“No- you don’t- I’m fucking this up,” Shane scrambled to reply. He brought both hands to his face, hiding the open nervousness as he tried to regulate his suddenly rapid breathing.
“Enough of this,” Rozanov said, pulling one of Shane’s hands away. “Hollander, you are having a panic attack. Explain what you meant.”
Shane groaned. “I’m selfish.”
Rozanov laughed. “Okay, sure. I am too.”
“No, it’s…” Shane trailed off, taking a deep breath. He closed his eyes for a moment, preparing himself for the discomfort that came when Rozanov rejected anything else from him. “What are we doing?”
Rozanov blinked at him. “We are laying in a bed.”
Shane rolled his eyes. “You’re an asshole. That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
“Yes, but you are still panicking. My stupid, annoying joke made you take a deep breath.” Rozanov countered easily.
Shane had taken a deep breath after rolling his eyes, huffing in amusement and compensating for it with a better breathing pattern. He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them to see Rozanov’s own eyes wide and open, almost youthfully curious. It just made Shane feel worse.
“You can’t tell anyone about this,” Shane said quietly but firmly. “I’m serious, Rozanov.”
Rozanov nodded immediately. “I won’t. I have to keep this secret too, Hollander, do you understand? For both here and home.”
Shane didn’t understand whatsoever, but he nodded anyway. “Okay. Okay, so we just move on.”
“Move on?” Rozanov echoed, incredulous. “You said I could fuck you.”
“Well, yeah, but I don’t want to-” Shane stopped, gesturing with one hand like it could fill in the gap of what he wanted to say. I don’t want to chain you to me. I don’t want you to waste your youth on me. I don’t want to see you with a different model or actress every other week while knowing you changed something in me.
“Don’t want to what, Hollander?” Rozanov pressed.
Shane felt like he might vomit. He had no idea how to put it into words – all he knew was he didn’t really want Rozanov to ever leave him behind and he was terrified by it.
Shane Hollander, Montreal Captain and holder of more awards than most people could even hope to qualify for in their life, was a force to be reckoned with. Shane Hollander, #24, was determined and focused and unwavering on the ice, renowned for his athletic prowess and skill.
Shane, a guy who was having his first real crush in his life, was spiraling. Shane, a guy gone on a rookie ten years younger than him, really didn’t know how to talk to a man he liked.
–
The moment Ilya heard Hollander sigh and look away from him, Ilya felt his stomach drop. He’d always been a little too into Shane Hollander and he’d clearly scared him away by the intensity of it; of course Hollander only wanted the one night with him – he’d said it, verbatim, just earlier that day. Ilya had one chance with him, and this was it. Of course he was confused by Ilya proposing another night where they could fuck. Ilya had gotten to be too much too quickly, just like always, and it was rapidly backfiring in front of him.
“Is okay, I understand,” Ilya said, even if it made his chest ache a bit. He slowly pulled back his hand from where it had been resting in Hollander’s hair. “You said one night, so I give you one night. You don’t need to push yourself into another with me.”
Hollander’s gaze narrowed and Ilya felt his stomach twist. Hollander looked pissed off and Ilya had always been happy to be on the receiving end of his attention; now, though, he knew what the more positive attention felt like and this felt cold in comparison.
“That’s not what I was going to say at all,” Hollander responded. “Is that what you want? One night with me just to say you did?”
Ilya blinked. “No, that’s not it. No, Hollander. One night is not enough,” he confessed.
A bit of Hollander’s irritation dropped from his gaze, almost softening instead. “What do you want, then?”
Rozanov wanted Hollander. Whatever that entailed, anything and everything.
He wanted Hollander looking at him across the ice, knowing that they had a secret that was just for them. He wanted Hollander in his bed, laughing or thinking or anything at all. He wanted Hollander willingly giving up his power and submitting to him, a side to the great, legendary captain that no one else got to see. He wanted Hollander to play against him until he retired and then come to Ilya’s games, cheering for him from the sidelines even as it went against everything Hollander felt for his team loyalty.
“I want you,” Ilya said quietly, regretting it the moment he’d said it. Hollander, however, held no such reservations. His hands flew to Ilya’s hair and brought him into a kiss, his body arching up against Ilya’s not in lust but like he could meld their bodies together into one being if he pressed hard enough. Yes, Ilya thought as he licked into Hollander’s mouth and swallowed down the responding whine, this is what I want.
“If you have me,” Hollander said against Ilya’s mouth, “you don’t get anyone else. Do you understand? I don’t share, Rozanov. I don’t care if you’re a hotshot rookie that everyone wants.”
“Yes,” Ilya panted, pressing their foreheads together for a moment before kissing him again. “Yes, okay, perfect.”
“I’m serious.” Hollander did look serious, his eyes all focused and his jaw set like it was when he was talking with the media after a bad loss.
“I am serious too,” Ilya responded, elated to be getting this much of the man he’d spent so much of his life idolising and wanting. “I will do anything you tell me to.”
“Really?” Hollander asked, a bit surprised. “You’ll give up all the other people for me?”
Ilya nodded enthusiastically. “You want my phone? To delete them from the contacts? Yes, I will give it to you. Hollander, I want you.”
I’m obsessed with you, he wanted to say. I know all of your stats. I know your entire play history. I’ve studied everything there is about you – why would this be any different? You were the only thing that kept me going after losing my mama and I think I could need you for the rest of my life if you let me. I’ve carried around a paper you touched once for so many years that I’ve memorised every centimeter of it.
That was exactly the kind of too much that Svetlana had warned him about, the type of crazed neediness that previous relationships had broken up with him for and she’d had to sit with him through. No one else had ever even been close to comparing to Shane Hollander. Ilya missed a girlfriend’s birthday because Hollander was leading his team to their second Stanley Cup. Ilya forgot an assignment for school because he’d been too busy watching Hollander’s interviews the night before. Ilya studied Hollander’s plays and spent hours on end practising them so he might play even a fraction as well as Hollander did.
“Why?” Hollander asked, sounding genuinely confused. “You could find any other hot, young rookie, Rozanov.”
It always came back to this with Hollander, didn’t it? The fact that he thought being older than Ilya was a downside rather than something that had Ilya foaming at the mouth. Through barely concealed attraction, Ilya said, “I don’t want them. You are like wine, Hollander. What’s the saying?”
“Finer with age?” Hollander scoffed.
“Mm, yes,” Ilya said happily, running a hand down Shane’s cheek, his thumb caressing Hollander’s freckles before settling on his jaw and holding him in place while Ilya leaned in, whispering, “And you are so fine, Hollander.”
Hollander looked a little dazed when Ilya pulled back from kissing him. Ilya bit back a grin as he continued, “And I do not mean adequate fine. Not that type. More like sexy, drive me crazy hot, fine.”
“Yeah, I, uh-” Hollander coughed weakly, his cheeks flushed as he looked away. “I got that.”
Ilya hummed and kissed him again, Hollander quickly getting his head back in the game and curling into Ilya, chasing his lips as Ilya threatened to pull back. When they finally separated, Hollander made a small, punched out sound that had Ilya’s stomach flipping. He managed to ask, “And you? What do you want?”
Ilya watched Hollander’s throat bob as he swallowed, staring at nothing like it could force his mind to work. “I don’t want to have to be who I am all the time. With you, I don’t have to be.”
Ilya frowned. “Sex? You want me to get you out of your head with sex sometimes?”
“No,” Hollander said. Then, quicker, “Not no, I mean- fuck. I’m not good at this. Yes to that, Rozanov, but also yes to everything else. You never seemed to care about who I am and I think I need that.”
Ilya felt his heart skip in his chest and he almost did something stupid like confess his undying love to Hollander, something that was definitely way too early for the man who got flustered by the mention of sex or attraction and was seemingly grappling with his morals and their application to Ilya. That was fine – he was still in his first season, after all. He had plenty of time.
Hollander laughed lightly and Ilya looked at him in confusion. Hollander shook his head. “Just thinking about how crazy this is. And how Hayden is trying to get me to go out with Jackie’s friend when I get back.”
Ilya knew he was prone to possessiveness – even as a child, his friends were his friends and he didn’t like when they went off with other people. He’d never felt it like this, though, this unbridled jealousy at the sheer idea of Hollander going out with someone else.
“You can’t,” he practically growled. “If you are not sharing me, I am not sharing you.”
Hollander looked amazed for a moment before a real smile broke out on his face. “I’m naked in your bed, Rozanov. Use your brain for a moment and think about whether that’s indicative of me wanting to be with anyone else.”
Instantly placated, Ilya dropped his weight onto Hollander and laid across him like a weighted blanket. Hollander gently ran his hand through the back of Ilya’s hair even as he complained about Ilya’s weight on him. Ilya nuzzled in further, biting and kissing at Hollander’s neck not to incite anything but just because he could. If highschooler Ilya or even the Ilya from the draft could see him now, they’d probably spontaneously combust.
“What are you thinking about?”
“About how I worked hard to get you,” Ilya answered. “I tried so hard, Hollander. You did not make it easy, you know this? I thought you hated me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“Yes, I know this now.”
“Well, I thought you just had a twisted sort of puppy love. Like hero worship or something.”
Ilya popped his head up. “Yes. Both. And I really want you – not the captain like you said, but you.”
Hollander looked at him for a long moment before delicately kissing Ilya’s forehead.
It was the softest thing Ilya had felt since he was twelve.
Ilya dropped back down and Hollander hummed in contentment. “We have to figure this out, Rozanov. We need to plan this – we’ll only see each other, like, four times a year if we’re lucky other than the summer season and bye weeks and-”
“Hollander. I can still taste your cum in my mouth. I do not think we worry about this right now.”
“Oh, God, gross. Okay. Maybe we should get up and shower. You can, uh, rinse some mouthwash or something. This is probably really unhygienic, right?”
Ilya barely had the start of a protest out of his mouth before Hollander had extracted himself from Ilya’s hold, standing up and wincing at the state of himself and the bed and booking it for the en suite like his life depended on it. Ilya just laid on the bed for a moment, grinning at the ceiling.
Me and Shane Hollander, he thought deliriously. He was with Shane Hollander – he was still a bit confused about what exactly they were to each other now, but he was sure that Hollander would come up with some intensive plan about it. Right after he showered and probably yelled at Ilya for his pants having a certainly dried stain on it and-
“Rozanov?”
“Yeah?”
“You have three seconds to get in here if you want me to give you a blowjob.”
Ilya collided with the ground in his rush, cursing and pulling at the sheet that was wrapped around his ankle as he practically sprinted to the bathroom. All the other plans could wait – he had time.