Work Text:
March 2015 – Montreal
“…no way Rozanov will do that. He can’t even go two weeks with the same girl.”
Shane let out a bracing sigh as he exited the Metros’ showers and hurried to his locker. He really didn’t want to hear about Rozanov’s latest exploits. He wasn’t jealous, of course. Rozanov and he weren’t exclusive, so there wasn’t anything to be jealous about. That didn’t mean he liked hearing about Rozanov’s monthly roster.
Shane managed to tug on his jeans before Hayden called out, “Shane, Shane, you gotta see this.”
Hayden and J.J. were huddled by J.J.’ s locker, motioning toward his phone.
“I, uh, I gotta run, guys. My mom booked – ”
“Rozanov did an interview for GQ,” J.J. said, undeterred. “They asked him about his life in ten years.”
Oh, Shane really didn’t want to hear this.
“Married, two kids, five dogs, and four Stanley Cups,” Hayden said, smile wicked. “The guy can’t even keep a girl for a week. There’s no way he’s going to be married with kids.”
Shane pulled on his T-shirt. “Not all of us can have three in four years, Hayd.”
“Hey! We didn’t plan on twins.”
Oh, crap. Was this Rozanov’s Adidas shirt? Hopefully, no one would notice, especially his mom. And how did Rozanov even leave his shirt at Shane’s? He must have worn a sweatshirt, too.
“That’s not the crazy part,” J.J. continued because of course he did. “Rozanov says he’d love to be a Metro.”
Shane dropped his shoulders and glared up at the ceiling. “I’m sure the Boston fanbase is going to love that.”
“The Metros are historically the best team in sports,” J.J. read. “I love Boston. Best city and fans in the league, but Montreal will want me one day. When Pike is old – ”
“He’s such an asshole,” Hayden grumbled.
“ – and the roster needs depth, the team will come to me. And then they will finally have the best center in the league and Hollander.” J.J. paused for a second, eyebrows pushed together. “Is he saying he wants to play with you?”
Nope. Shane would absolutely not even entertain that idea, no matter what emotions it stirred in his gut and lower. “All Rozanov wants to do is beat me. He probably thinks he can take my place on the first line.”
“I don’t know. That’s not how I read that.”
“Look, guys, you know how he feels about me.” Shane finished tying his shoes and grabbed his jacket. “He’s just talking shit to get under my skin.”
J.J. stood and clasped Shane on the shoulder. “I will fuck him next time he’s in town.”
“J.J., we’ve discussed this,” Hayden said with an exasperated laugh. “You’ll fuck him up. You’re not going to fuck him.”
“He could only be so lucky.”
And Shane silently agreed.
Lily (12:47 PM):
Will you murder me in a dark alley in 2 weeks?
Shane (12:49 PM):
I don’t think that’s a good idea.
Lily (12:49 PM):
Nothing we do is a good idea.
This is not new.
Shane (12:54 PM):
I can’t do this anymore.
Sorry.
Lily (12:55 PM):
What is going on?
Why are you saying this?
Shane (12:56 PM):
No reason.
I’m just done, okay?
Lily (12:56 PM):
Done with what?
It’s just sex.
Lily (12:59 PM):
Jane, it’s not a big deal.
Lily (1:03 PM):
Jane.
Lily (1:23 PM):
Hollander.
The media requested to speak with Shane prior to the next home game against the Raiders, which was how Shane found himself in the hallway outside the locker rooms. With less than ten minutes before warmups were set to begin, he wore his hockey pants and lower pads but was still in his long-sleeve base layer. It showcased Shane’s upper body in the best way possible.
The reporters asked their usual questions – What would the Metros need to do to beat the Raiders? How did he think the division would eventually end up? Would the Raiders keep the Metros out of the playoffs?
Shane gave professional responses, and despite not saying Rozanov’s name three times, the man materialized behind him. Wearing similar attire to Shane but in the Raiders’ color scheme, Rozanov leaned against the arena’s concrete wall, arms and ankles crossed, attempting to look nonchalant, Shane thought.
It was stupid, even for Rozanov’s levels.
But God, was he fucking hot with all his pectorals and biceps on display.
“We need to talk,” Rozanov said as soon as Shane stepped away from the reporters.
Shane made a beeline for the Metros’ locker room. “Not here,” he hissed.
“Then where, Hollander? You blocked my number.”
“Then take the hint, Rozanov.”
“That’s it?” Rozanov stepped in front of Shane, blocking his path. His hazel-blue eyes were wide, fuming, and so very intense. His voice was low growl, one that stirred desire deep in Shane’s core. “You just get to decide we’re done?”
Shane stopped short and looked left and right. The reporters were still huddled down the hall, safely out of earshot. The closest person to them was an arena employee who was pushing a cart of water toward the concession area.
“We are not anything. Your words. Not mine.”
“But that was – ”
“It stands. I don’t owe you an explanation, and you don’t own me anything. Okay? Now, we have a game to play.”
With that, Shane turned and rushed into the locker room.
“Hey, you okay?” Hayden asked two minutes later when Shane simply sat, staring at the elbow pads in his hands.
Shane blinked and resumed getting ready for the game. “Uh, yeah. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. You look like Ruby when she’s hung upside too long.” Hayden leaned close to whisper, “Did something happen with Lily?”
Shane tugged his head. “What? N-No. That’s not – We’re not – ”
Hayden clasped him on the shoulder. “Buddy, it’s okay. Really. Just send flowers. All girls like flowers.”
Shane sighed and mentally gave up. There was no way to explain to Hayden that his situationship with the captain of their division rivals got too serious, and Shane just broke up with him in the hallway.
If what happened with Rozanov could even be categorized as a “break up.”
Rozanov had looked so dejected, his eyes glistening in a way Shane had never seen them do before, so vulnerable and concerned.
But this was for the best, the only way Shane could survive their evitable parting. He just couldn’t give Rozanov what he needed.
“Flowers, you say?”
Hayden’s smile widened, like he was happy to finally give Shane relationship advice. “Yeah, man, but don’t skimp on them. Big ass bouquet. Nice card with an apology and make sure to tell her you want to see again. Be specific. Say when you want to see her.”
“I’ll, uh, keep that in mind.”
“After the game,” Drapeau said from the locker room floor, down in a deep frog stretch. “You have to fuck up Rozanov first, Hollzy.”
Shane fought the urge to sigh. Mission accomplished already.
“Remember what I said, Captain,” J.J., in full hockey gear, hit him on the shoulder. “If Rozanov fucks with you, I will fuck him up.”
“Yes!” Hayden cheered, shooting to his feet and knocking his helmet against J.J.’s. “That was perfect!”
Shane allowed a soft smile to cross features, even if his heart wasn’t in it.
The game was an absolute shit fest. The fans were booing by the end of the first period because of the lackluster effort by both Shane and Rozanov. Rozanov alternated between intensely glaring at Shane like he could burn a hole through Shane’s head and ignoring him like he didn’t exist.
This was for the best, Shane told himself, even as he lost another face-off, this time to Connors. His percentage was going to be in the gutter tonight, but he just needed to get through this game. The first one was always the hardest. By the end of next season, playing against Boston would be like playing against any other team.
Maybe. Hopefully.
Did he really want that?
Maybe Shane would finally stop thinking about Ilya, about his cock and how good it felt inside of him. Maybe he would find a girl he actually wanted to be with, and maybe he’d feel the same goosebumps and butterflies in his stomach when he looked at her like when he looked at Rozanov.
Maybe he wouldn’t have to think of Rozanov or that hot guy from the X-Squad movies to just get it up.
Maybe he would get over Ilya Rozanov. Sure, they’d been hooking up since the summer before their rookie season, and yes, objectively, sex with Rozanov was better than anything Shane had done with anyone else. But he was twenty-three. He was still young. He could find someone who wasn’t an asshole who could make him happy.
Maybe.
Hopefully.
The loud banging on Shane’s Westmount penthouse door would have woken him up if he wasn’t sitting cross-legged in his living room chair, scrolling through his feed to see if anyone had tabs on Rozanov.
Which he wasn’t, of course. He just couldn’t sleep after a terrible game in which he had two shots on goal and did little else.
A few pictures of Rozanov at a club in Montreal – Ciel – found their way into Shane’s feed. Three months ago, he’d liked one picture of Rozanov in his hockey gear, smiling brightly with his helmet off and curls untamed, and suddenly, Instagram threw Rozanov in Shane’s face every other post.
Tonight, one such picture showed Rozanov dancing with a dark-haired woman with freckles. Shane wasn’t jealous or weird about it. He had normal feelings about a coworker enjoying his night after a shitty win. It wasn’t like Shane wanted to charge into that club and stick his tongue down Rozanov’s throat just to show everyone to whom Rozanov belonged.
Because Rozanov didn’t belong to Shane, didn’t want Shane, not in the long run, and so Shane would now be cursed to sit in his quiet apartment, at 4:17 a.m., pushing up his glasses and scrolling through photographs of Rozanov who was too clothed for Shane’s taste.
As it was, the banging startled Shane, but it was Hayden, awoken from a sound sleep on the couch, who yelled, “What the fuck is your problem?!”
“Hollander!” a familiar, bitter voice called from the other side of the door. “Hollander, open up!”
There was absolutely no way Rozanov was at his door, but the person who was absolutely not Rozanov continued to bang and yell. “I am not leaving until you open this door, Hollander!”
“Is that Rozanov?” Hayden asked, bewildered, and Shane was up like a shot.
“It’s – um…look, just…”
What could he possibly say?
Another bang. “Hollander!”
Fuck it. Rozanov wouldn’t leave until Shane answered the door, so Shane cursed under his breath and hoped Hayden was the person he thought he was.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Shane demanded the moment he opened the door.
Rozanov pushed his way through, holding his phone out to Shane as if it were on fire. “What the fuck is this? Why did you send this shit to me?”
Rozanov was a madman, those incredibly beautiful eyes wide and furious, his curls a riot. He wore an open-collared Cuban shirt and designer denim under a winter topcoat – perfect for Montreal in March.
Shane felt underdressed in Rozanov’s old, worn Adidas shirt. He’d kept it because it felt good against his skin and for no other reason.
But damn, did Rozanov look good. Shane shook his head to clear out the inappropriate thoughts. He couldn’t be thinking of ripping open that shirt and licking Rozanov’s abs if they were doing the loud breakup scene.
Not that there was anything to “break up.”
Rozanov’s eyebrows rose again, demanding. “Hollander? I asked you question.”
Shane cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. “I, uh, I thought I made it pretty clear.”
“What is clear? That you are coward?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Hayden sat up on the couch, arm thrown over its spine. “You don’t get to come into Shane’s home and insult him like that.”
Rozanov had jumped slightly when Hayden first spoke, but he settled quickly. “Why are you here? Don’t you have six babies at home?”
“Holy shit, man. It’s only two right now. The third’s not due until – ”
“I do not care.” Rozanov swiveled back to Shane. “Is this why you don’t want to get together anymore? You are with the Metros’ fifteenth best player now?”
“I’m married!” Hayden squawked.
“Hayden was worried about me,” Shane shot back, “and he scored a goal today, which is better than what you did on the ice.”
“And you, too.” Rozanov scoffed. “So what is it? You have boyfriend now. You found some nice man in Montreal who swept you off your feet?”
Shane’s cheeks blushed. “No.”
“Girlfriend?”
Shane refused to analyze why that thought was so repulsive. “No. Come on, man.”
“Then why don’t you want to be together anymore?”
Something inside Shane snapped. “Because we’re not together.”
Hayden’s eyes widened, and he sucked in a loud, prolonged inhale. Shane ignored him completely, and seemingly, so did Rozanov.
“We were in Russia,” Rozanov admitted, his voice a weak murmur. “I had just lost horribly to a horrible team. I was not in right mindset.”
Shane crossed his arms and glared at his own socked feet. “But what you said wasn’t wrong. We’re not together, Rozanov. We never were, so I don’t know why you’re here.”
“You can’t just show up being all crazy and shit.” Hayden now stood, leaning back against the couch’s arm. “You need to go.”
Rozanov waved a hand at him. “You and your twelve babies are not a part of this.”
“Geez, man –”
Shane took a step forward. “Rozanov –”
“You seriously do not know why I’m here?” Rozanov asked, his voice gutted in a way Shane had only heard during sex. “Really, Hollander?”
Shane couldn’t bring himself to hope. “No, I don’t know. You’re the one who banged on my door at 4:17 in the morning. You tell me.”
Rozanov glanced at Hayden, who hadn’t moved from his position against the couch, then back at Shane. When his eyes rose, their intensity and desire stole Shane’s breath.
“We are not exclusive, but this – it is not casual, yes? Not like other hookups. You cannot tell me you don’t feel it, too.”
Oh, God, but Shane did. He counted down the days to the Montreal vs. Boston games. He devoured every piece of media about Ilya Rozanov. He kept the one piece of clothing Rozanov left in his house, and he debated about buying Rozanov’s favorite Raiders’ sweatshirt just because he wanted to wear it at home.
He thought about cuddling and breakfasts and summers at his cottage. He thought of impossible things every waking moment, like how he never wanted the smell of Rozanov’s shampoo to leave his pillowcase.
Rozanov must have misinterpreted his silence for disagreement and said, resigned, “Okay, I will go, but only after you tell me to my face why you send this shit to me. You will not hide behind text message like a coward. That is not who you are, Hollander.”
As if Rozanov knew what kind of person Shane was.
But Rozanov’s face was so open, his eyes so earnest, that they trapped Shane’s voice in his throat. He struggled to get out, “Because…”
“Yes, I am listening,” Rozanov said, short.
God, he was so annoying. And hot, arms crossed, biceps on display, trapped and pushing against the fabric of his jacket.
“You want to be married and have kids.”
There, he said it. Rozanov would understand the issue, agree, and leave.
Only, he didn’t.
“What are you talking about?” Rozanov asked, voice tight, worried. “When did I say this to you?”
“You didn’t.” Shane fought his own heavy jaw to spout, “You said it to GQ.”
A beautiful, breathtaking, annoyingly smug smile found Rozanov’s face, all crooked and wicked like the Cheshire Cat’s. “You read my interview.”
“Of course I read your interview.” It wasn’t a big deal. “The whole Metros’ locker room read your interview.”
Shane had planned to read the article anyway – in the comfort of his bed, in briefs, because that photoshoot was criminal. Rozanov – so devastating handsome that he ruined Shane in ways he didn’t want to admit – looked like he was a centerfold in an adult magazine. He was laying back on his prized Porsche, linen button-up shirt open to showcase those incredible, oiled abs; bulging biceps threatening to rip the shirt sleeves; fly open; thighs straining against those impossibly tight jeans –
If Shane had been at the shoot, he wouldn’t have been able to control himself.
He hadn’t been able to control himself in a Toronto arena, all those years ago.
“You stare at the pictures?” Oh, Rozanov was going to be insufferable now. “You like my abs?”
“Just shut up.” Shane’s eyes shot toward the ceiling. “You want to be married and have kids in ten years.”
“And four Stanley Cups, three more than you.” Rozanov was the only one of them with a cup so far, the bastard. “What is your point?”
“So…” Why was Rozanov making him say it? “…we shouldn’t continue doing this.”
“Why? That is in ten years.”
“Yeah, but…”
“So what, Hollander?” Rozanov continued to demand. Why couldn’t he just let this go? Why couldn’t he let Shane go? “What does it matter what I want in ten years?”
“Because…”
When Shane’s arms tightened about his torso and his tongue refused to form the words, Rozanov took a telegraphed step forward. His hands lifted, giving Shane enough time to back away if he wanted, before rubbing up and down Shane’s biceps.
It felt good, encouraging. He could say it. Rozanov wouldn’t laugh. Not now.
“Shane, why does it matter?”
And so he said it. “Because that means we’ll eventually have to end this.”
“Why? You don’t want children?”
Why did that matter? “No, of course I do. I think. I don’t know.” Frustration made his voice terse, his words sharp. “I’m only twenty-three! That’s so far away!”
“Exactly! So what is problem?”
Shane’s carefully constructed walls fell completely. “Because I can’t give you that. Eventually you’ll need to find someone who can. We’ll have to end this – ” He motioned in the small space between them. “ – so let’s end it now so I’m not dreading the day you decide it’s over.”
Rozanov hadn’t stopped touching Shane. If anything, he leaned closer and ducked his head, so he could meet Shane’s eyes. His lower lip puffed out a bit in a soft, adorable pout.
“You want to give me little Shane babies?”
“Oh, my God,” Shane muttered, dropping his face into his hands. “Why are you like this?”
“You did not answer question.”
“Yes!” he finally admitted, then realized he’d just shouted out his greatest want and maybe his greatest fear. “No! I dunno!” He really didn’t. “Ilya, I don’t even know what I am.”
Shane hadn’t meant to utter that devastating truth. He hadn’t even allowed himself to think it, but here he was, just blurting it out in front of Ilya, in front of Hayden, in a broken declaration.
Shane didn’t know when the tears had formed, but he refused to show Ilya or Hayden, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths.
“Okay, okay,” Ilya encouraged, never stopping his soothing ministrations. “Is okay, Shane. I understand now.”
Shane stiffened and awaited Ilya’s rejection. He finally saw what Shane did and would now accept that they needed to ends things, even if it wasn’t what either of them wanted.
“I agree. We cannot continue like this.”
Shane wouldn’t cry, not in front of Ilya, but Ilya was ruthless, placing a bent knuckle under Shane’s chin and tipping his head up. Ilya’s incredible eyes weren’t cold or full of pity. Shane wasn’t sure what he saw in them, but he thought at least affection. Perhaps something else, too, which he feared to name.
“I like you, Shane, and not just because you have a good mouth.”
“Oh, come on, man!” Hayden huffed.
Ilya sent him a quick glower. “Oh, you are still here?”
“Come on, guys…” Shane muttered. He was barely holding it together as it was. “Can you just not for two whole minutes?”
Ilya nodded, shoulders drooping, while Hayden rolled his eyes but remained silent.
“I like the way you fold your clothes before sex,” Ilya began. Shane couldn’t keep the heat from rushing to his cheeks. “I like your slutty glasses.”
Shane touched the rims. He forgot he was still wearing his glasses, and shit – Rozanov had seen them…and liked them? Really?
“They’re normal glasses.”
“They are slutty, like slutty professor’s,” Rozanov laughed softly. “I love your freckles and how I can see them better when you blush – like now.” As if to punctuate his statement, Ilya brushed his opposite knuckles across Shane’s flushed cheek. “I love the way you say, ‘Fuck you,’ but you mean something else. I also like when you steal my clothes – ”
Shane scoffed. “You left this here.”
Ilya leaned in to press a chaste kiss to Shane’s lips. It somehow still took his breath away.
“I like it all. I want it all. I want to know everything that makes up Shane Hollander, but I get it.” A half-grin, like when they were in the hotel gym all those years, found Ilya’s face, and he gestured toward Shane’s crotch. “You need to figure out this first.”
Shane rolled his eyes. “I mean…I should, right?”
“Tell you what.” Ilya was somehow even more in his space now, so close Shane could smell his spiced bergamot and amber cologne. And vodka. There was definitely vodka from the club on his breath. “This was our teams’ last meeting of the season. Take the summer. Find out what you need to and then decide if maybe you want to have babies with me in ten years.
“A normal number of babies,” Ilya clarified hastily. “Not like Pike’s twenty-four babies.”
“Why are you such an ass?” Hayden spat.
“Genetics,” Shane laughed softly.
Ilya matched his tender smile. “Yes, exactly.”
Shane mulled over Ilya’s proposition. He thought of the discussion they had all those years ago in a Toronto hotel room, their continuous meetings, and his horrible locker room experiences – from his coach’s homophobia to even J.J.’s offhanded but still offensive comments. And there was Ilya’s nationality to consider. Shane didn’t know about Russia, but he knew it wasn’t easy for the queer community there. It wasn’t even easy for the queer community here.
“Can we have a future?”
Ilya inhaled sharply. Shock, uncertainty, fear, and eventually resignation settled in his gaze.
“I dunno,” Ilya admitted, his hands finding Shane’s hips and staying there. “Perhaps? My father is sick, so I have to go back to Russia. For now. But you signed extension last year, yes? Through 2016. And then Montreal will extend you for one more year because they can and then you will be unrestricted.”
Shane canted his hips to fit against Ilya’s. “You know when my contract is up?”
“It is on the internet, Hollander. I am not stalking you. Just needed to know when to ask you to come play for Boston.”
Shane draped his arms about Ilya’s neck, pulling Ilya’s body flush against his. “You’ll be unrestricted then, too. Maybe you can come play for Montreal.”
“Fuck no!” Hayden exclaimed.
“Isn’t that what I said in interview?” Ilya laughed. “See? We have same dream.”
Shane nodded, biting his lower lip. “You’re really okay with me exploring…what I need to explore?”
“I am only man you have ever been with, yes?”
Shane hated to admit this, especially in front of Hayden, but he shook his head.
“No?” Ilya seemed shocked, even a bit hurt, which was stupid. He had been with more people than Shane could count. “Who else have you been with?”
Shane wasn’t going to explain his encounters in Mexico and L.A. now. That was a discussion for when he and Ilya were alone. Maybe.
“There’s only been two,” he admitted, his tone harsh enough to tell Ilya to drop it.
Ilya listened. “Well, it would have been wrong to keep you all to myself, and you should know if you are gay just for me or for everyone.”
“Fuck all the way off!” Shane hit him in the shoulder. “That’s not how it works.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve had sex with women, too.”
“Yeah, and that’s why you’re not sure if you’re gay or not?”
“I’m not attracted to Hayden!”
“Please leave me out of this – whatever it is,” Hayden said with a tired sigh.
“I meant when I said you should do what you need to do.” Ilya’s hands slipped down Shane’s backside and grabbed two fistfuls of his ass. “But here is what is waiting for you next season.”
Ilya thrust Shane back against the clear wall of his apartment and devoured his lips in a heated, filthy embrace.
Yes. This was what Shane had been missing, Ilya’s warm lips upon his, his hands gliding over Shane’s hips and lower. His unique and tantalizing scent engulfing Shane in five years of memories and desires.
He craved this, craved Ilya – his deft touches, his warm lips, his incredible –
“Hey, guys?”
Oh, right. Hayden was still here.
“Maybe you should get a room, preferably not the living room.”
But then Ilya’s fingers tugged at his waistband, drawing him toward the stairs, and Shane went willingly. That was such a good idea, definitely better than stopping kissing because kissing Ilya was one of Shane’s favorite things in the world.
“So I’ll just sleep on the couch, and…use protection! You don’t want twin Shane babies!”
Ilya had an early flight, so they barely got in maybe-get-together blowjobs before Shane leaned against his front door, Ilya’s jacket in his hands.
“So October?” Shane said.
Their teams’ first matchup was always within the first month of the new season.
“October,” Ilya confirmed before he leaned forward for one last kiss.
“See you then, moy lyubimyy.”
Shane didn’t know what that meant, but his toes still curled and an unconscious smile twisted the corner of his lips.
With one last tender kiss, Ilya left.
Shane reclaimed his chair in the living room, perpendicular to the couch, where Hayden lay, pillows over his head. “You are fucking loud, Hollander,” he croaked, muffled. “Me and my forty-eight babies regret knowing you.”
“Sorry,” Shane offered, sheepish, and he meant it. “I, uh, I just…”
Hayden pulled the pillows off his exhausted face to glare at Shane. “We have off today, so we’re going sleep for another five hours or so. Then, you’re going to make me breakfast that isn’t a protein shake, and we’re going to discuss your sexual crisis.”
Shane felt his stomach flop. It must have shown on his face between Hayden pointed a finger toward him. “No, no freaking out. We’re sleeping, then talking. That’s it. No freak-outs allowed.”
“Okay,” Shane said with a yawn and curled up in the chair.
They did just that.
Later that morning, Hayden huddled about a warm cup of coffee while Shane maneuvered about the kitchen, grabbing rolled oats, berries, and other ingredients.
“So Rozanov is Boston Lily, huh?”
Damn. Hayden wasn’t going to let it go. Okay. Shane could talk about this and not freak out. Maybe.
“Uh, yeah.” He purposefully avoided Hayden’s eyes as he threw oats and milk into a large bowl. It helped him to continue confessing. “We met during World Juniors, and things kinda progressed from there.”
Hayden spoke over the rim of his mug. “So your type is asshole?”
Shane glared. “Hayd…”
“What? I’m serious.” His expression was anything but. “You like men who are great at hockey and tease you endlessly. I get it. You’re easy to tease.”
Shane could give as good as he got it. “You’re not going to make a move on me, are you? Cuz right now – ”
“Dude, no offense, I can totally see the appeal, but I’m married.”
Shane tried not to blush, even as he teased back, “So Jackie is the only reason you’re not – ”
“You are such an asshole,” Hayden laughed. “You two are made for each other.”
Shane decided not to linger on that comment and threw eggs, flour, and cinnamon into the bowl with the milk and oats. He placing the mixture in front of Hayden and debated about throwing the spoon at his best friend’s head. He eventually just slid it across the breakfast bar.
“Combine but don’t over mix. I’m going to melt some butter.”
“What are we making here?”
“Oatmeal pancakes.”
Hayden dropped the spoon in the glass bowl with a cling. “What the fuck, Shane? I said real food.”
“You said no protein shakes.”
“Please tell me you have real syrup.”
From the stove, Shane motioned toward his upper cabinets. “I have honey and agave nectar. Or we can try some maple balsamic vinegar with olive oil. That usually does – ”
Hayden’s head thunk’ed against the counter. “I have to listen to your sexual exploits with Ilya Rozanov of all people, and all I get for it is oatmeal pancakes and agave nectar? That’s cruel, Shane.”
For the longest time, the only sound in the kitchen was the sizzling of butter in the pan. Shane eventually glanced over his shoulder to see Hayden raise his head.
“So…you think you’re gay? Or bisexual? I mean, you said you’ve had sex with girls, but the way you spoke about it – it didn’t sound good.”
Shane couldn’t believe he was having this conversation in his kitchen, but then again, where was a good place? “I guess…? None of my experiences with women ever made me feel as good as when I’m with another man.”
“And you’ve had more experiences than just Rozanov?”
“Uh, yeah.” Shane scratched the back of his head. “I, uh, I’ve had two. One in Mexico and one in L.A.”
“I’m going to assume the Mexico hookup happened during our trip – ”
“Great deductive reasoning.”
“ – but two isn’t a large sample size. I can’t believe I’m going to say this,” and Hayden’s expression reflected that – raised eyebrows, widened eyes, slight cringe to this face. “Is there any chance that you didn’t have any other good sexual partners and Rozanov is just…geez…like a sex god?”
Shane fought the urge to laugh. “It hurt to say that, didn’t it?”
Hayden looked like he swallowed a shot of tequila. “Very much so.”
Shane thought about it as he took the batter and dropped it into the pan, two tablespoons at a time. “I mean, is it possible? Yeah, I guess. I’ve liked everything we’ve done. Hand jobs, blowjobs, back – ”
“Okay, no need to give me the full list.”
“And I can’t say I’ve ever been able to get through an encounter with a woman without… y’know, thinking of a man in some way.” When he was in a senior in high school, it was definitely Scott Hunter. He even had Scott’s poster on his wall back then.
“So I don’t want to jump to conclusions here, but I’m hearing a lot of checks in the gay column.”
Shane heard them himself.
“D-Do you…Do you want to test this theory?”
Shane couldn’t help himself. He threw his most flirty smile over his shoulder. “With you?”
“No, asshole.” Hayden balled up a napkin and threw it at him. “But maybe we could go – I dunno – to a gay bar or something.”
That sent a shot of ice through Shane’s veins. “In Montreal?”
“There’s no shortage.”
“Of cameras, maybe. And phones.”
“Right…” Hayden took another sip of his coffee, and Shane enjoyed the silence until –
“Okay, I’m just going to throw this out here for a second. Do you actually want to explore your sexuality without Rozanov?”
Shane blurted out a laughing, “What?” Nothing was funny, but he just couldn’t help it.
“I’m being serious. You think you might want to be with him, and look – I don’t like the guy. He’s a super asshole, but he was, like, really good to you last night. Other than the banging on the door at four o’clock thing.”
Shane flipped the pancakes and the sizzling continued. “Yeah, that was a little forward.”
“But kinda romantic, too. And a lot of people marry their high school sweethearts. This isn’t really that much different.”
“But he’s been with like, a million more people than me.”
“It’s not a competition, dude. And you said you weren’t exclusive then.” Hayden shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s been almost five years, and we’re only having this conversation because you freaked out about him maybe breaking up with you in, like, ten years.”
Shane set the first set of pancakes aside and dropped the next set into the pan, mulling over Hayden’s words. Hayden seemed to understand his need to process and busied himself by refilling his coffee and finding the agave nectar and honey in the cabinet.
Shane found other men attractive before, and he really didn’t have a need to test if sex with men was more pleasurable than sex with women. It had been, even if the others were hookups and not as satisfying as Ilya.
And why would they be? He liked Ilya. He looked forward to their games, and he even read a few things here and there on the internet or in magazines that he maybe wanted to try. And they already talked to each other about that stuff. Once, Ilya just reclined on his bed and said, “I want to watch you,” so Shane rode his thighs.
He really didn’t have a want to be with anyone but Ilya. He just wanted to understand what he – and his body – wanted. And what they didn’t want.
The more he thought about it – rather than actively not thinking about it – the more everything seemed to make sense.
He liked guys. He wasn’t into girls. At all. In a sexual way.
And he really liked Ilya Rozanov. He liked his cocky attitude, his asshole tendencies, the softness he showed very few, and the way he pretended to be mad when people worried about him. He liked his curly hair and how sometimes it was tame and sometimes it was wild. He liked how Ilya teased him in magazine articles and in interviews, and that wink. That always managed to make Shane’s stomach flip and his head float.
He wanted to learn more about Ilya. He wanted to see what Ilya looked like in the morning, if he’d like oatmeal pancakes, if he always smelled of amber and spiced bergamot. He wanted to see Ilya’s garage full of cars and wanted to know which one was his favorite.
And maybe he wanted Ilya to fuck him against his favorite, too.
Shane wanted to know everything about Ilya Rozanov. He wanted all of him, even if he didn’t know if he could have him forever.
“I think I’m gay,” Shane finally proclaimed, sitting across from Hayden and working his way through his first pancake. “I don’t know if I want to wake up next to Ilya for the rest of my life, but I know I don’t want to give him up without finding out.”
Hayden flicked a fork toward Shane. “Buddy, you got it bad.”
“So what do I do? We can’t just…come out. You know how the league is, and with Russia –”
“The hooking up part was the fun part, but now comes the best part – relationship management,” Hayden laughed. “You have to actually talk to each other and figure shit out. You’re gonna love it.”
Shane grimaced. “Sounds horrible.”
“Oh, it is, but it pays off when you walk in after a long road trip to find your wife asleep on the couch, waiting for you.”
A soft smile crossed Shane’s lips as he thought about Ilya on his couch, in his Adidas pants and favorite tank top, waiting for him after he won the Stanley Cup.
“You don’t get to have that look yet,” Hayden warned. “You gotta lock it down first. I don’t think you should text Rozanov today or anything, but if you’re serious about being serious with him, maybe don’t wait until October to seal the deal.”
Hayden hadn’t waited more than a month before being exclusive with Jackie. Shane knew because Hayden had given him the play-by-play through their entire relationship.
Even as his insides twisted, Shane nodded and took another bite of his oatmeal pancakes. Ilya had been brave. Shane could be, too.
“Just one more quick question.” Hayden wore a wicked smile. “Do you really fold your clothes before sex?”
Shane covered his face. “Shut up.”
“Oh my God. That is so you.”
Two Weeks Later – Boston
The Boston Raiders ended the 2014-2015 regular season with a two-week road trip to the West Coast. They snagged the second slot in the division rankings and would be battling Tampa Bay in the Stanley Cup Quarterfinals.
Montreal was ranked first and pitted against Buffalo, but Ilya tried to ignore that for now. He hadn’t heard from Shane since they spoke in Montreal, but they usually didn’t text after March. He wasn’t worried. He promised to give Shane the summer to figure out what he needed to, and Ilya would respect that.
Ilya walked into the TD Garden the Saturday after the season ended to a too-bright and sunny receptionist. Ilya nodded his good morning, not even taking out his air pods as he headed down the hall toward the locker room.
Connors hurried in the opposite direction, sneezing over and over. He croaked as he passed, “You must be a freak in bed.”
It was true, but Ilya didn’t exactly telegraph it, despite how the media portrayed him.
Ilya tugged open the locker room door and froze. He blinked once, twice, and still could not believe the sight before him.
There were lilies.
Everywhere.
Vases boasting large boutiques lined the black benches on either side of the room. Smaller boutiques burst from every single skate along the top shelf. The equipment team must have set up a physical therapy bench, where a bed of lilies lay, while single flowers covered all the room’s counter space.
There were yellow lilies and white lilies, orange lilies, and even pink and red lilies.
And on the bench in front of Ilya’s locker was a large boutique of red and blue roses along with white lilies.
Carmichael and St. Simon began putting the flowers in each other’s hair, while Hammersmith collected a few to bring home to his wife and daughter.
Marleau, of course, had no respect for boundaries and held the card that had been delivered with the flowers. “What the fuck did you do to this girl, Roz?”
Confessed his love at 4:17 a.m. after sending a love note in the form of a magazine interview.
Ilya snatched the card and winked. “All her favorite things.”
Ilya –
I know what I want, and it’s you. I don’t want to wait until October. Let’s meet up in June.
Good luck in the playoffs. You’re going to need it.
Jane
Ilya bit his bottom lip and pressed a thumb to his eye to stop the tears from falling.
How the fuck was he supposed to play for the Stanley Cup now when Shane Fucking Hollander liked him and couldn’t wait until next season to see him?
June 2015 – Montreal
Shane thought he’d never get the stench of champagne off him. He had showered extensively after he’d been released from the interviews and the team celebrations winded down. He’d changed out of his championship T-shirt and hat and grabbed his favorite Adidas shirt – Ilya’s shirt – and he still smelled like sparkling wine.
(His mom shot him a look when he walked them back to the Fairmont but said nothing. Reebok would probably be pissed at him in the morning, but he had just won the Stanley Cup and he wanted to wear his maybe-possibly-boyfriend’s T-shirt to feel like Ilya had been there.)
It had been good – ridiculously good, indescribably good – to hoist the Stanley Cup, and now he just wanted to go home and sleep for three days straight.
Shane’s drive to his Westmount penthouse took less than ten minutes. He parked his Range Rover, took the elevator to his floor, and then froze once the doors opened.
It had to be close to four a.m. in the morning, and there, lying in front of his apartment door, using his own jacket as a pillow, was Ilya Rozanov.
The elevator must have awoken him because he sucked in a sharp inhale and mumbled, “Congratulations, Shane. We are now tied.”
“Fuck you,” Shane laughed and walked forward to offer a hand. “What are you doing here?”
Ilya allowed himself to be hoisted to his feet and then rubbed his hands along his pants. God, he looked good in anything, including a dark T-shirt, worn jeans, and sneakers.
“The night I won the cup, it was lonely – after,” Ilya said, eyes not quite meeting Shane’s. “I thought you might like company.”
Shane had been looking forward to his quiet apartment after such a chaotic day, but he would have been alone lonely without Ilya there.
Who came to be with him. Flew or drove three hundred miles on a Thursday night because his maybe boyfriend fulfilled his lifelong dream of playing for the best team in the NHL.
This was the first time they’d seen each other since Ilya came to Shane’s apartment almost two months ago, and Shane wasn’t sure what to do or say, now that Ilya was here. It was also almost five o’clock in the morning, after Shane had a champagne shower, on the biggest night of his life so far, and he just wasn’t in the right mindset.
So he gave into his desires and wrapped his arms around Ilya’s neck, pulling him flush against his body. Ilya came easily and willingly, his arms wrapping about Shane’s waist. Perhaps it was Shane’s lustful mind, but he thought Ilya’s hold was more tender than it ever had been.
“Thank you for coming, for being here.”
“I’ll be wherever you need me, whenever you need me, moy lyubimyy.”
Shane pulled back just enough to see into Ilya’s eyes. “You’ve called me that before. What does it mean?”
A light pink dusted Ilya’s cheeks. “It means ‘my darling’ or ‘my beloved.’ Is masculine form.”
Now it was Shane’s turn to blush. “Say it again, please.”
Ilya rested his forehead against Shane’s and whispered in the small space between then, “Moy lyubimyy."
Shane surged forward, capturing Ilya’s lips in a fiery, demanding, filthy kiss, and he didn’t care how needy he was. He didn’t hold back the tiny noises from the back of throat any longer. Ilya wanted him, and he wanted Ilya. There was no pretense anymore. They could be, together.
When they broke, Ilya let out of a breathless laugh. “You taste like champagne. You smell like it, too.”
Shane grumbled, “I think it’s never coming off me.”
“Not tonight, no, but perhaps I can help you with that in the morning. Get it through your system with some slow and thorough exercise.”
Shane was looking forward to that. “How long can you stay?”
Ilya hesitated. “If I said forever, would you let me?”
“If you didn’t need to go back to Russia, maybe.”
That drew one of Ilya’s giddy, child-like smiles that lit up his whole face. “I am here through the awards ceremony.”
That was only a few days away. Shane would make the most of them. “Stay here? With me? And maybe have lots of sex and meet my parents and let me make you oatmeal pancakes with agave nectar?”
“I am not sure about the oatmeal, but yes. I can stay.”
Shane leaned forward to peck Ilya’s lips. “Good.”
When Shane attempted to open his front door, Ilya crowded him from behind, arms wrapped around his waist, lips pressing soft kisses against the back of his neck. It did things to him Shane wasn’t afraid to admit anymore.
“You may have tied me in cups,” Ilya murmured against his skin, “but you have not won the Conn Smythe.”
Shane stiffened and glowered over his shoulder. “I’m not done yet, Rozanov. I’m going to win the cup again next year, and then I’ll double your cups and have a Conn Smythe.”
“Big words. Let’s see you back them up.”
Shane unlocked the door and pushed it open before turning in Ilya’s hold. He didn’t break it but instead walked backwards, drawing his probably-totally boyfriend with him. “If I do, what will you give me?”
Ilya thought for a moment, even as one of his hands moved toward Shane’s belt. “Hm. Likelihood is small.”
“Not what I asked,” Shane said with a sly little smirk, teasing the curls at Ilya’s nape.
“Okay, okay.” Ilya’s eyes shimmered in the soft light of the city. “If you win, I’ll sign with whatever team you choose.”
Shane froze. “Wait. Seriously? You’d leave Boston?”
“I can think of worse reasons to leave America than to be with my boyfriend.” Ilya shrugged. “But you will have to win back-to-back cups and then be the most valuable player in the playoffs. Tall order, even for Shane Hollander.”
Shane could imagine it – lazy mornings in bed, daily runs together, cooking in the same space.
It felt like winning a second time, and Shane couldn’t fucking wait.
June 2016
Lily (11:03 PM):
Fuck.
Shane (11:49 PM):
Pack your bags, Rozanov.
Lily (11:50 PM):
So where do you want me?
Shane (12:03 AM):
In the kitchen, on the floor.
Lily (12:03 AM):
Haha.
You think you are funny, but I am good either place.
😈
Shane (12:06 AM):
Will you really leave Boston?
Lily (12:07 AM):
I told you in magazine article.
I am ready to be Metro.
But you will need to share your Timbits with me.
Are you ready for that?
Shane (12:08 AM):
I like birthday cake.
Lily (12:08 AM):
This is not going to work out.
Shane (12:08 AM):
🙄
Lily (12:08 AM):
Favorite must be cookies and cream.
This is non-negotiable.
Shane (12:12 AM):
🖕
Lily (12:13 AM):
😘
September 2017 – Ottawa
“…and can’t wait to start a family in his hometown,” Ilya heard the second-year winger Troy Barrett read as he entered the Centaurs’ locker room. “He said something like two kids and a dog. He stressed the one dog part. Said five was an unreasonable number.”
“Sounds like a fight he’s having with his girlfriend,” Dykstra pointed out as he pulled on his base layer. “Hey, Roz. This is bat shit crazy. There’s absolutely no way he signed here, right?”
Ilya put down a McDonald’s bag in his locker and pulled out his first McGriddle. “You are talking about Pike, yes? He was the Metros’ fifteenth best player. It makes sense that we would have the cap space for him.”
“Not him,” Bood laughed and shook his head. “Shane Hollander, the best center in the – ”
“No passes for you this year.” Ilya balled up his McGriddle wrapper and pegged it at Bood. “I am the best center in the league. Have the Hart Trophy to prove it.”
“I dunno,” Dillon groaned as he leaned forward to tie his skates. “Hollander has two cups.”
Ilya took an angry bite of his McGriddle, “I have cup, Conn Smythe, and Hart Trophy. And I beat Hollander last year for the Richard Trophy.”
“Because of Troy and me,” Bood replied with an easy smile and a pat on the shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
Ilya laughed and didn’t have a comeback because – well, Bood was right.
“You guys read his interview in Cosmopolitan, right?” Troy was sitting next to Ilya and had claimed that spot last season – his rookie year and Ilya’s first with the Centaurs. He leaned over to show Ilya the article. “Have you seen the pictures? They are so…”
Ilya waited. He had stamped out any homophobia in the Ottawa locker room, starting with an offhanded comment by Troy last season, and he was pleased with how easily the one-time rookie came around. He wasn’t a bad kid. He just had been raised by an asshole father and played in a toxic youth hockey environment. Ilya could relate.
He had also been closeted at the time, which didn’t excuse his earlier behavior, but Ilya learned quickly that it was a defense mechanism Troy used to cover his sexuality.
Ilya’s patience was rewarded with Troy’s excited murmur, “Hot. Oh my God, Roz. Have you seen this guy’s abs? They are unreal.”
“Yes, Barrett, I have twenty-five copies of the magazine at home.” The locker room laughed, not knowing that Ilya’s number was an understatement. Cosmo announced Shane as the “Hottest Man in Hockey” and showcased why – Shane shirtless and oiled up in hockey pants, leaning back with his elbows hooked on the boards, eyes intense and hair falling just so.
They also had a few fully-clothed images, including one of Shane in a tight henley, a leather jacket, and designer jeans – with his glasses.
Ilya wasn’t sure if Shane had done that on purpose or not. It felt like a violation of their privacy – and to borrow Troy’s word – hot.
Shane Hollander was so hot that it did things to Ilya he needed to menace Shane about.
But not in a crowded locker room on Shane’s first day with the Centaurs. Maybe his second.
“Well, good news, Barrett!” Ilya finished off his McGriddle and clasped Troy on the shoulder. “You will see Hollander’s abs in person today.”
Troy’s eyes went wide; his face flushed. He was adorable.
“Hollander said he wants to bring four cups to his hometown,” Dykstra asked, pulling on his black practice jersey with the stupid Centaurs logo in the middle. “Think he can do it?”
“Hollander rarely says anything frivolous,” Wyatt announced as he entered, followed by a chorus of Hayezzzzzz. “If he says he can do it, I believe him.”
Ilya shook his finger. “Oh, sure, you believe he will bring four cups to Ottawa, but when I said I’d bring one cup here, you all laughed at me.”
“We hadn’t made the playoffs in five years, Roz.”
“And we broke that streak last year.”
“And lost to the Admirals in five.”
Okay, it wasn’t the best end to the playoffs, but it was progress.
“I still can’t believe he signed here,” Bood said, then added quickly, “I still don’t know why you signed here.”
“He lost a bet,” Shane announced as a matter of fact when he entered the locker room. He approached the locker on the other side of Barrett, taking visual inventory of his new equipment. “The Metros also refused to give him an offer sheet when I asked them to. They weren’t willing to make cap space or let go of any draft picks. Ottawa was.”
The Centaurs’ locker room stopped, and it reminded Ilya of when he first walked in last year. When a generational player arrived, everyone took notice, and they offered their full and complete attention in reverence to all the hard work and talent the player put into their game.
And Shane Hollander – two-time Stanley Cup champion and one-time Conn Smythe winner – had game.
Right next to him, following Shane like a little duckling, was Hayden Pike. “I’m here, too, guys,” he grumbled. “Thanks for noticing.”
Ilya wanted to say something snarky to him, but Shane explained how Pike helped him through his sexual crisis after Ilya banged on Shane’s door at 4:17 in the morning. That act of kindness deserved some respect – like acknowledging his presence.
“We see you,” Ilya replied. “We all just chose to ignore you.”
“I don’t know why I came here.”
“Sure, you do,” Dykstra replied. “We have the best locker room. Our music is second-to – ”
“No,” Ilya snapped before yelling across to the room. “Dillon, you’re on DJ duty. Don’t screw it up.”
Tanner fucking Dillon was a slow fucking hockey player, but he had good taste in music.
“Aye, aye, Captain!”
The locker room fell into a loud rhythm then, and the team worked on getting ready for their first day of training camp. Ilya watched with delight as Shane began to separate his equipment into how he liked it – base layers and jock, pads, pants, socks, skates, and then jersey. Once he was satisfied with the order, he pulled off his jacket and went to work.
After Shane pulled on his hockey pants, Bood asked, “So you wanted to play with Roz?”
“Yeah,” Shane said, clearly confused, “shouldn’t everyone? He’s the second-best center in the league.”
Ilya scoffed. “Best.”
Shane held up two fingers. Ilya held up one specific one.
“So when Montreal refused to sign Roz –” Dykstra sounded like he was short-circuiting. “ – you came here. To Ottawa. To play with Roz.”
It wasn’t framed as a question, but Ilya knew it was one.
“Yes.” Shane looked over Troy’s head to Ilya, who knew he had a stupidly fond look upon his face. “Do you have my McMuffin?”
Ilya threw him the bag. Shane opened it and sent Ilya a glare that could cut glass. “Why is there a McGriddle in here?”
“I thought you might like to go crazy and actually eat something that tastes good.”
“McMuffins have 19 grams of protein.”
“You are not helping your case, moy lyubimyy.”
Unable to help himself, Ilya stole glimpses of Shane, who took bites in between getting ready. When Shane pulled off his shirt, Ilya noticed a change in the locker room. It was subtle, but Ilya raised his eyes to meet Wyatt’s gaze.
Wyatt gave a pointed look to the golden chain and ring hanging between Shane’s pectorals and then to the crucifix, ring, and chain hanging from Ilya’s neck.
He wasn’t the only one as Bood, Dykstra, and Hayden shared knowing looks. Troy was oblivious, of course, trying his best not to stare at Shane’s incredible abs and failing miserably.
“Hey, Shane,” Dykstra called as he finished taping his stick. “We were reading your Cosmo interview, and quick question – ”
Shane looked toward the ceiling as if dreading the next phrase.
“ – only one dog? Really?”
Ilya didn’t miss the way Shane’s eyes slid toward his briefly. “Well, if I want two kids, you really can’t have more than one dog.”
“Sure, you can,” Ilya interjected, pulling up his uniform pants. “You can never have too many dogs.”
“You absolutely can.”
“How would you know? You’d need at least one dog to test this.”
Shane narrowed his eyes, obviously debating his words, before finally settling on, “Did you put them up to this?”
Ilya didn’t miss the tiny smiles that flashed across his teammates’ faces, and by the tiny smile upon Shane’s face, Ilya knew his fiancé saw them, too.
The rest of the locker room, including Troy, who had yet to look away from Shane’s abs, spoke among themselves and hadn’t heard the conversation.
“How long?” Wyatt asked, low.
Ilya met Shane’s nervous eyes, but Shane simply shrugged. Might as well tell them the truth.
“Summer before rookie year,” Ilya supplied before motioning toward his ring. “Just last July.”
Shane sat down to pull on his skates, now that he had his pants, shin pants, and socks on. “We agreed not to announce it but not to hide it.”
Troy looked absolutely destroyed, though Ilya knew he was happy with the team’s new social media intern Harris. Bood just snorted and said, “I better not be in the room next door. That’s all I gotta say.”
“Can’t be worse than Pike,” Ilya offered. “He has ninety-six babies.”
Hayden rolled his eyes. “Oh, my God. It’s four. And I got a vasectomy.”
“TMI, man,” Dykstra laughed. “TMI.”
Weibe came in then and welcomed the new players. He gave a speech about new seasons, new beginnings, and second chances. Ottawa had been rebuilding. Last year, they’d brought in a new coach and signed their star captain. Their goalie played a breakout year, becoming a member of the First All-Star Team, and even their rookie winger took home the Calder Trophy.
This year, they added the final piece of the puzzle – a two-time Stanley Cup-winning all-star center –
“Who is not the captain and it will do you all well to remember that,” Ilya added, which drew laughter from the veterans.
Shane threw his McGriddle wrapper at Ilya.
“Boston’s loss, Montreal’s loss – they are our gain,” Weibe continued, undeterred. “This is it. This is what we have been waiting for. This season is ours, boys. Let’s show them what we can do – together.”
“Yes,” Ilya murmured, reaching behind Troy to thread his fingers with his fiancé’s. “Let’s.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Ilya glanced down at his hockey pants and cursed under his breath. Oh, this was going to be a problem in the best possible way.
Omake:
Earlier that morning
Ilya’s fork clattered onto his plate; his face was scrunched in a terrible grimace. “Are you actually trying to murder me?”
Shane looked up mid-bite, a look of innocence upon his face. “What? It tastes good.”
“These are not pancakes.”
“They are oatmeal – ”
“They are an abomination,” Ilya interjected. “You should not able allowed anywhere near a kitchen, especially mine.”
“It’s our - hey, where are you going?”
Ilya was already up and pulling on his jacket. “I am not eating this shit. It is not food. I’m getting a McGriddle.”
“We start training camp in less than two hours!”
“Yes, and I will be filled with greasy egg sandwiches for it.”
Shane huffed, elbow on the table as he took another bite of his oatmeal pancake. “You are unbelievable.”
“Why, thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment. How you are a professional hockey player and can eat like that is beyond me.”
“No need to be jealous, Shane. I can get you a greasy sandwich, too.”
“Nope. I’m good.”
“All right. See you at the arena.”
And then Ilya was out the side exit of the kitchen and into their garage.
Shane sighed and took another bite of his oatmeal pancakes. This wasn’t the morning he envisioned when he thought about their first day together on the same hockey team – the Ottawa Centaurs – but that was okay. Ilya always made things exciting, and they’d been together all summer, enjoying late mornings in bed, breakfasts out on the terrace, and incredible sex at all hours of the day, night, and in every room of the house.
(The laundry room was a challenge, but they made it work.)
One morning, eating alone at the breakfast bar, reminded Shane of his rookie year, but Ilya would be waiting for him at the arena.
He was truly happy.
The slamming of a car door, a grumbling from the garage doorway, and then Ilya was there again, seizing Shane’s cheeks and pulling him into desperate embrace. It started hot with Ilya nipping Shane’s bottom lips for entrance, before the kiss turned more tender, more indulgent.
When Ilya finally released Shane, he cringed. “Ugh. You taste like them.” Then he called back as he walked out the door, ”Ya lyublyu tebya.”
Shane sat there dazed for a few minutes, the feel of Ilya’s lips still fresh in his mind, their memory pooling heat low in his stomach. Once at the arena, he would had a few meetings with HR, the coaches, even the owners – but perhaps they could find an empty office to use for a few minutes.
Shane texted Ilya to pick him up an Egg McMuffin – It had 19 grams of protein – and headed out to meet his fiancé and new team.
Fin