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1: December 2008, Saskatchewan
“Ilya Rozanov?”
Ilya huffed in annoyance at the constant mispronunciation of his first name. He looked up from the lighter in his cold-numbed hands and found himself face-to-face with Canada's Golden Boy, clad in a jacket and sweatshirt with a dark green knit hat pulled over his eyebrows, emphasizing his bright brown eyes and the field of dark freckles spread across his nose and cheeks. He had his hands in his pockets as he swayed in place just a few feet away from Ilya.
“Hi, I'm Shane Hollander,” Shane Hollander said, as if Ilya had been living under a rock for the past five years. Even in the far reaches of Russia Ilya could not escape from the mention of Canada's rising hockey star. His name was said in both awe and spite amongst Ilya's coaches and teammates, like the perfect cousin that your parents would always compare you to. Everyone was expecting him to compete with Ilya for the first draft pick for the MLH next June. Ilya had already been hounded by his father to beat Hollander long before he even stepped foot in Canada. Ilya couldn't help the instant scowl that came to his face at the thought.
The scowl instantly melted away when Hollander came closer and held his hand out for a handshake, his pink lips stretched into a shy smile as he waited patiently for Ilya to return it.
Ilya pressed his cigarette between his lips so he could reach out and take Hollander's clammy hand, squeezing perfunctorily. He couldn't understand why his breath stuttered when Hollander squeezed back.
Ilya pulled away, fighting the impulse to wipe his hand on his jeans. Hollander put his hand back in his pocket, biting his lip in what looked like nervousness. Ilya couldn't fathom what he could be nervous about. Ilya had yet to play against him, but already he knew that Hollander would give him a run for his money after watching his games and hearing what sports commentators have been saying about him.
Shane Hollander was a generational talent, exceptionally good at hockey, and already captain of his team and representing his country at just seventeen years old. The pictures of him that Ilya had seen online depicted a serious, stoic boy just on the cusp of manhood but already having years of practice and discipline under his belt that would bring him to greatness. He looked light-years different from the guy standing in front of him now, his cheeks lightly flushed from the cold and pink lips bitten as if he had to steel himself into talking to Ilya.
Ilya belatedly realized that he had been staring at Hollander without saying anything as he made these observations. Hollander’s hands moved in his pockets, almost flapping at his sides like a Canadian goose as he waited anxiously for Ilya to say something.
“Hi,” Ilya said finally.
Hollander's smile lit up his entire face. Ilya hated that he was finding it difficult to keep up his bad boy persona when his insides were fluttering just from a smile.
“You're an awesome player to watch,” Hollander added.
That, Ilya understood well enough, but he didn't know how to follow that up with anything other than a, “Yes.”
Hollander looked delighted just from that one word. Why Shane Hollander wanted to talk to Ilya of all people, he had no idea.
“So it's looking like we'll do pretty well at the draft,” Shane went on. “I'm hoping I get signed with Montreal. That's my mom's favorite team, even though we live in Ottawa. Have you ever been to Ottawa?”
Ilya blinked at him. “...Ottawa? No.”
“It's great, although some people might find it boring. I love it, though. We have a koi pond at our house. Have you ever seen koi fish before? They're beautiful. But you really gotta take care of the pond especially during the winter. The water will ice over so you need to drill a hole so the koi can breathe. It's so cool watching them sleep under the ice. Mom used to get on my case ‘cause I'd sit outside in the snow just to watch them but the orange under the blue ice is so pretty–”
Ilya thought he understood all those words individually but was rushing to comprehend Hollander's word vomiting. Hollander smiled and laughed as he continued talking about his fish. His eyes flickered from Ilya to everywhere else, his hands flapping inside his pockets as he went on and on. Ilya himself was breathless trying to keep up, his cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers, completely forgotten.
“--I wish I had pictures to show you. Hey, you'll definitely get drafted, which means you'll be able to play Ottawa someday! When you do, you should totally come to my house and see the fish!” Hollander finally paused to take a breath, his cheeks rosy and his chest hitching slightly.
Against his better judgement, Ilya was hopelessly endeared. He also felt no little pride that Hollander already assumed that Ilya would get drafted. “You are inviting me to your house?”
Hollander nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! We'll be seeing a lot of each other, so it'd be nice to have a friend even if we end up on different teams.”
Hollander was… different from what Ilya expected of him. He had assumed that Hollander would have the typical arrogance and egotism of someone who knew he was one of the best, who had the medals and work ethic to show for it. Ilya himself knew he could be cocky at times, and he felt he had earned the right. Players like Ilya and Hollander didn't bother reaching out to practical strangers and invite them to their homes and see their koi fish. Players like Ilya and Hollander focused on the ice and the next game; making genuine, friendly connections was not hockey. Or at least that was what Ilya's father had drilled into him for as long as he could remember.
Ilya had never met anyone so earnest and with their heart on their sleeve. He always had to keep his guard up around the people around him, with their endless criticism and double-edged insults disguised as compliments; always wanting something from him. It was refreshing to talk to someone who spoke to him without farce.
Hollander took that premise and tossed it in the trash, with his shy but heartfelt introduction, and his invitation to his home in Ottawa. Hollander talked a lot, maybe a little too quickly for Ilya to follow what with his limited English, but it wasn't to boast about all his achievements in his relatively young career. He just genuinely wanted Ilya to get to know him. He very clearly wanted Ilya to be his friend. The last of Ilya's guards came crashing down like a waterfall.
“Then we are friends, Shane Hollander,” Ilya said, offering his hand for another handshake which Hollander returned gratefully. His hands were still a bit sweaty but Ilya didn't mind this time, his fingers squeezing Hollander's slightly.
“Great!” Hollander said, finally showing some signs of breathlessness from running his mouth for so long. Ilya was surprised to find that he didn't find it annoying at all. If anything, he found Hollander to be absolutely endearing and adorable.
“What's your favorite Russian food?” Hollander asked suddenly when they finally pulled away, stuffing his hands back in his pockets and swaying from the side to side. His brown eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled exuberantly, like Ilya had done something monumental instead of just engaging him in conversation.
Ilya couldn't do anything but smile back. “Pelmeni. Is Russian dumpling.”
Hollander repeated the word after him, mimicking Ilya's pronunciation exactly. Ilya jumped at the opportunity. “And my name. Eel-ya. Not Ill-ee-ya,” he mocked in a terrible mix of American and Canadian accent.
“Ilya,” Hollander said perfectly, and Ilya's heart did a weird flip in his chest.
They exchanged phone numbers, and Hollander immediately texted Ilya his address in Ottawa. Ilya couldn't let him go without a chirp, some shit about beating them during their game tomorrow, to which Hollander shot back, vehemently denying it. Ilya felt the swell of something rise inside him as he watched Hollander walk away and trudge through the snow. It wasn’t the ugly green envy he had felt towards Hollander ever since his name was first used as an insult to Ilya, but something warm and comforting that he couldn't put a name to, not just yet.
Ilya watched him walk to the parking lot, then tossed his cigarette in the trash and headed back to the bus.
2: July 2010, Toronto
During lunch time, in between takes for their CCM shoot, Hollander sheepishly approached Ilya with a plastic container with what looked like frozen dumplings inside.
Ilya arched an eyebrow. Hollander held out the container like one might hold out a stick of dynamite.
Biting his lip, Hollander spluttered, “I followed the recipe you sent me for pelmeni. When I tried it the first time I completely fucked it up so I've been practicing now and again because I really wanted to get it right. According to your recipe, it said to use any kind of meat but I wasn't sure what you'd prefer so I went with fish because it's healthier than beef. Eating too much red meat can lead to heart disease later in life, you know–”
Ilya found himself nodding along at his rushed explanation, absolutely confused at the situations he kept finding himself in when he happened to be in the vicinity of Shane Hollander. He hadn't had homemade pelmeni in years; not since–
“–and I know it might be a little weird eating homemade food from someone you barely know, especially since we're supposed to be ‘rivals’ and all that,” at this, Hollander rolled his eyes, as if this wasn't the main thing that made the both of them the most marketable players in the MLH, “But I also typed up a list of ingredients so you know what’s in them. I could eat one in front of you so you know I didn’t poison them or anything.” Then to Ilya's horror, Hollander opened the plastic container and proceeded to eat a single pelmeni whole, thawing and all. When Ilya could do nothing but gape at him, Hollander took that as a signal to reach for another dumpling. Ilya, desperate for this madness to end, hurriedly grabbed Hollander's thick wrist before he could stuff another nearly-frozen dumpling in his pretty pink mouth.
“Oh,” Hollander gasped, his face turning bright tomato red. Ilya was utterly baffled by this boy, who was so different from what the commentators said about him, yet he also felt helplessly attracted to him.
Although Ilya had given him his phone number, the only texts sent between them were Hollander asking for the pelmeni recipe and Ilya sending it to him two days later. They had run into each other sporadically in the last two years for games and award ceremonies, but Ilya had yet to take up Hollander’s offer in coming to his house.
Then just last week, CCM had reached out to Ilya and asked him to join in on their latest equipment ad in collaboration with Hollander. It was a lucrative offer that Ilya couldn't say no to, and not just for the money. The past two years had been hectic for Ilya, what with getting drafted and moving his entire life to Boston, and playing an amazing first couple seasons of his professional hockey career. But he couldn't forget his first ever meeting with Hollander, and how it gave him a warm sense of hope that he hadn't felt in a long time. When the opportunity to see the Canadian for more than just a game or press conference came, Ilya took it, even if he had to drag himself all the way to Toronto for it.
And now, even though they hadn't really spoken to each other since that very first day in snowy Saskatchewan, Hollander had somehow found the time to cook Ilya’s favorite dish from his homeland. Hollander had remembered an offhand comment that Ilya had made two years earlier.
Ilya loosened his grip on Hollander's wrist in silent apology, carefully choosing his next move. Two years ago, he had walked away from this boy feeling a lightness that was hard to come by in his world, and he suddenly realized he couldn't walk away this time without at least trying something. He caressed the inside of Hollander's wrist with his thumb, where he could feel his pulse pumping wildly. “No need for that, Hollander. I will eat it. But only if you join me for dinner tonight.”
Hollander swallowed, and Ilya inhaled deeply as he watched the lump in his throat slowly move up and down. “...Okay. That makes sense. Then I could heat it up for you.”
Ilya barked out a laugh. Who was this guy? “You will definitely be heating up tonight, Hollander.”
Watching Hollander's blank face made Ilya anxious; he wondered deliriously if Hollander truly thought Ilya was inviting him over for dinner just so he could heat up the pelmeni for him. Exasperated, yet utterly fond, Ilya was about to explain further when Hollander turned impossibly redder and bit his lip.
“Okay,” he said softly, his eyes darkening as they focused on Ilya's lips.
Got him, Ilya thought, squeezing Hollander's wrist once before letting him go.
Later that afternoon, Ilya was mindlessly scrolling on his phone while waiting for Hollander to arrive. He had ordered a little tub of sour cream once he got back to his hotel room, placing it in the mini fridge right next to Hollander's tupperware. He wondered briefly if they could ask room service to heat up the dumplings for them, and was not-nervously picking out an outfit to wear for what he hoped would be a nice dinner followed by a sweaty romp with Hollander when a text from his agent came in, answering a question he had asked earlier:
Viktor: It turns out Hollander asked CCM to invite you to do the ad campaign with him.
Flabbergasted, Ilya’s mouth fell open.
Me: Why?
Viktor: Apparently he thought it'd be good PR for the both of you. I got the vibe from his agent that he's not a big fan of the whole ‘rivalry' narrative.
Interesting, although Ilya could see that for himself after speaking with Hollander earlier.
Hollander arrived ten minutes earlier than planned, awkwardly holding two liter bottles of coke and ginger ale.
“You like coke, right?” he asked as Ilya let him inside and closed the door. He held the two bottles close to his body like a shield. “I wasn't sure but I saw that you brought one with you for the shoot today. I've always liked ginger ale, and it goes well with the new meal plan that my dietitian put me on. It's really good for you, you know? It has antioxidants and helps with nausea and migraines…”
Ilya found himself smiling as he listened to Hollander ramble about the health benefits of ginger ale, lightly guiding him further into his room with a hand on his shoulder. Hollander kept talking as Ilya took the bottles from him and set them down on the little desk near the window which would serve as their dining table for tonight.
“...I've always been picky about food, though,” Hollander said, trailing behind Ilya as he dialed room service to ask to heat up the pelmeni. Ilya found his voice to be soothing background noise as he went through what felt like a domestic affair, being in a hotel room and preparing dinner with the man who was supposed to be his rival. “It worked out for me once I got serious about hockey, though. Being able to control my diet helps me focus more on practice and games instead of what to eat every day. Mom and Dad always tease me about it, though. It's not bird food; it's just eating healthy!”
Ilya nodded along, finding his face slowly starting to get sore with how much he was smiling. They ate their pelmeni with sour cream and their respective drinks. Later, Ilya ordered a chocolate lava cake for dessert and Hollander interrogated him about life in Boston as he watched Ilya eat it. As much as Hollander loved to run his mouth, Ilya was delighted to find that he was just as much as a good listener. Ilya found himself breathless by the time they finished clearing up their dinner and he finally pulled Hollander into bed with him.
They ended the night with Hollander's pretty cock lodged deep in Ilya’s throat, the other man babbling about how glad he was that he came up with this idea as his thighs shook on either side of Ilya's head. Ilya’s cheeks hurt from smiling so much, and he paid Hollander back for his pelmeni as best as he could.
3: March 2011, Boston
They started meeting up several times each season, either before or after their games whether at home in Boston or in Montreal. For the first time in his life, Ilya had found a regular sex partner who he enjoyed talking to more than fucking, even though Hollander was just as talented at sex than he was at hockey, if not more.
Earlier that evening, Hollander had scored a beautiful goal right before the final buzzer, beating the Raiders by just one point. Ilya would have been pissed off if he hadn't been so turned on at the way Hollander handled his stick and how he moved fluidly across the ice, carrying his team to victory.
He let out his horny frustrations on Hollander later that night at his apartment, folding his thick thighs into his chest as he devoured his pretty little hole, torn between slurping as loud as he could and keeping quiet so he could hear Hollander yapping from above him.
“I just got my thousandth hockey card last weekohfuuuuuuck,” his hole fluttered around Ilya's tongue as he slid in deeper, deliriously trying to drown himself in the most intimate part of Hollander's body.
Hollander's fingers wound through Ilya’s curls, starting off with gentle tugs until he slowly lost control as Ilya upped the ante, fingering him desperately while leaning into the strong hands in his hair.
“I started my own collection when I was eight,” Hollander continued, panting and bucking his ass into Ilya's face. “I used my allowance to buy the cheap packs so I could trade with kids at school. No one wanted to trade with me, though. Oh God, hurry up and get in me, Rozanov–”
Ilya was rolling on a condom when his brain computed what Hollander just said. “Why not?” he asked in confusion.
Hollander pulled Ilya closer and wrapped his legs around Ilya's waist, his face red and ruddy from pleasure. “They said collecting cards was lame. Ah…” He closed his eyes and moaned breathily when Ilya slowly entered him. Ilya hissed at the tight, wet heat surrounding his cock. He cupped Hollander’s sweaty cheek as he carefully slid home, watching his face for any signs of discomfort.
Hollander smiled as Ilya seated himself, his hands finding their way back to Ilya's hair again. He continued talking as if Ilya wasn't nine inches deep in his ass. “But one time I saw Tyler Smith and his friends showing off their cards during lunch. He had a Sergei Vetrov! It was so cool.” His brown eyes crinkled with happiness at the memory, or maybe it was because Ilya started thrusting.
“I thought, ah, collecting cards was lame?” Ilya panted as he drove between Hollander's legs.
Hollander shrugged carelessly, arching his back to get Ilya in even deeper. “I think they meant that my cards were lame, and they were, so I get it. I didn't get any really good ones until later, though. Ohhhh, yes, Rozanov right there–”
Later, when Hollander was on his way out, Ilya casually said, “I know Sergei Vetrov. He is my best friend's father.”
Hollander’s jaw dropped. He looked at Ilya with stars in his eyes. “No fucking way. Do you still talk to him? I have his card now, do you think he'd sign it for me? Or actually, I don't have it on me now, but I got it last year–” He looked through his pockets as if he could summon the card right then and there. Ilya laughed and threw himself off the bed so he could get one last kiss in before Hollander left.
4: November 2013, Ottawa
Meeting the Hollanders made Ilya more nervous than he wanted to admit. On top of that, the Raiders had blown the Centaurs out of the park the night before, so Ilya was genuinely worried that he would be a sore spot as a guest in the Hollander household.
Hollander insisted on picking Ilya up from his hotel in downtown Ottawa even though Ilya could have just taken a cab to his parents’ house. Marley and St. Simon had been baffled when Ilya told them that he was meeting a friend and not able to go sightseeing with them. What there was to sightsee in Ottawa, Ilya didn't know.
Hollander was back in town for the short Thanksgiving break before having to return to Montreal. He looked nervous as he drove, fingers drumming on the steering wheel and his eyes darting at Ilya every few seconds or so, like he was surprised that Ilya had finally taken him up on his thousandth offer to come over for Thanksgiving dinner.
And to see his koi fish, of course.
“Congrats on your win yesterday,” Hollander said abruptly, like he could no longer handle the rare, awkward silence between them.
Ilya smirked. “Sorry, I cannot return the compliment. You played terribly last night, Hollander.”
Hollander's jaw dropped so hard Ilya thought he heard something crack. “Fuck you, Rozanov, I did not. I scored three goals! You know what, forget I said anything.” He scowled at the road ahead of them.
Ilya couldn't help it; Hollander was so easy to rile up. “How does it feel, being second best player in MLH?” Ilya asked with a grin.
Hollander scoffed. “I should be asking you that, asshole.”
“Mm, you will not be saying that when I fuck you tonight.”
Hollander's face grew increasingly red by the second. Ilya suspected it was from anger. Or lust. Most likely a mixture of the two. It made his freckles stand out.
“You better not say anything like that in front of my parents,” Hollander warned.
“‘Oh, yes, Mama and Papa Hollander, your son and I are very close. In fact, I even know what his asshole tastes like.’”
Hollander's face changed comically from red to ghostly white in seconds. “You wouldn't,” he said, horrified.
Ilya rolled his eyes. “Of course not, Hollander. I am very good with parents, if you must know.”
Hollander's lips twitched slightly, giving away his amusement at Ilya's tomfoolery. “Shockingly, I don't believe you.”
It wasn't long before they pulled into the driveway of a modest two-storey house; the kind that Ilya saw on TV with happy families and parents who loved each other.
“Come on, Mom and Dad are so excited to meet you,” Hollander said, practically vibrating as he got out of the car.
Ilya took a moment to fetch the paper bag he had brought for Hollander's parents from the backseat. “Should I be worried? I just destroyed their local team.”
Hollander laughed and shook his head. It was a nice sound. “No, they're Metros fans through and through.”
Still, Ilya couldn't help but feel nervous as Hollander led him through the front door and into the house. It was spacious and homey-looking, somewhere a boring guy like Hollander would have grown up. Ilya felt a smile stretch his face as he got sidetracked by the many pictures of baby Hollander scattered all over the walls. It was clear that his parents loved him very much. Ilya couldn't remember the last time he saw his baby pictures. His father had thrown out nearly everything after his mother passed away.
“We're back!” Hollander announced, leading Ilya to the kitchen. Ilya breathed in the heavenly smells of home cooking, and found himself in a sunlit kitchen with more pictures of Hollander and his parents on the refrigerator. A gray-haired man was carefully placing a delectable roast chicken on the dining table, while a lithe woman with long, dark brown hair was setting the plates and silverware. They both turned to Ilya with welcoming smiles on their faces.
“The Russian Menace himself,” said the man, making Ilya laugh. He wiped his hands with a kitchen towel before offering it for a handshake. “Nice to finally meet you. I'm David.”
“And I'm Yuna,” said the woman when Ilya turned to her. Her brown eyes gleamed mischievously, and he had a weird flash of what Hollander might look like in the future. “I have to say, I'm surprised you took Shane up on his offer. It’s not every day you have a Boston Raider over for dinner.”
“He was very convincing,” Ilya said with a smile, genuinely warmed. “I hope there are no surprises in my food.” That made them all laugh. He handed the gift bag over to David, who immediately took out its contents: an expensive bottle of vodka and chocolates from a popular shop in Boston.
“Wow, Rozanov, you brought the good stuff! We'll save it for after dinner,” David said with a chuckle. He clapped Ilya on the shoulder and gestured him to a seat at the table before putting the gifts away.
Hollander sat next to him, happier than Ilya had ever seen him what with his crinkled brown eyes and lopsided smile.
Yuna sat across from Hollander and began cutting and plating generous pieces of the chicken. “Dig in, boys. Do you celebrate Thanksgiving, Rozanov? Here, we do it a month earlier so you just missed our big turkey feast. Too bad Shane wasn't around, though. If I had it my way, the MLH would have a break for Canadian Thanksgiving and not the American one.”
Ilya grinned. Already, he could tell that he would really like Yuna Hollander.
“And that's why you should run for Commissioner,” David joked, dropping a kiss on the top of her head before sitting down beside her.
“Oh, please, Roger Crowell will never let that position go even when he's worm food.”
“Mom!” Hollander chided, sending a nervous glance towards Ilya.
“No, she is right, Crowell is like dirty politician." Ilya said after trying a few bites of chicken. He had to bite down a completely inappropriate moan at how good it was. He did promise Hollander that he'd behave, after all.
Yuna pointed her fork at Ilya, then at her son. “See? He gets it.” Hollander only rolled his eyes in jest.
David kindly pushed the bowl of mashed potatoes closer to Ilya. “It's been a few years since you moved to Boston. You liking it down there?”
Ilya nodded, chewing and swallowing his food before answering. “Yes. The city is beautiful and full of history. The night life is also very fun.” He wasn't used to being addressed at the dining table. Back in Moscow, meals with his family were usually silent save for his father's cutting questions about his hockey progress and insults at whatever Ilya replied with.
“Well, I'll bet. I hear you're very much a ladies man,” David said with a laugh. Ilya couldn't help but grin back and try not to blush.
“So you'll be playing Montreal in a few weeks,” Yuna chimed in. “Anything we should expect?” She asked casually.
Hollander stopped eating and glared at her, his cheeks flaming wildly. “Mom!”
“What? He's here, so I might as well ask,” she said, raising her eyebrows at Ilya innocently.
Ilya laughed and took a sip of his water so he wouldn't choke. “I will tell you team secrets if you tell me yours,” he shot a wink at Hollander, who blushed even harder.
He almost missed the look exchanged between David and Yuna, and the fact they both were trying not to smile.
“Sorry, my mom's a little too crazy about hockey,” Hollander said, embarrassed. He shoved a forkful of chicken into his mouth.
“I can see where you get it from,” Ilya chirped, feeling happier than he had even after winning the game last night.
The dining room was filled with laughter and easy conversation. Ilya found himself genuinely enjoying David and Yuna's company. He cackled loudly at their stories about Hollander's childhood shenanigans while Hollander jokingly begged them to stop.
“Hollander, I did not know you were a thief!” Ilya wiped tears from his eyes.
“I didn't steal it, I just accidentally took the cup out of the restaurant with me. I didn't realize until we got home,” Hollander said patiently, like he had tried to justify himself millions of times already.
“He thought the cops would come after him,” Yuna recalled affectionately. “He hid in his closet for the whole weekend until David had to drag him out for school.” Hollander groaned and plonked his head down on the table. Ilya could see the edge of his smile before it disappeared into the dark wood.
When they'd finished eating, Hollander zoomed around the table to collect everyone's dishes and organize them into the dishwasher.
“That's okay, honey, leave that for me,” Yuna said fondly. “Why don't you give Rozanov a house tour?”
Hollander smiled brightly, like he'd been rushing to do just that. “Okay. Thanks, Mom.”
Ilya thanked David and Yuna for dinner and followed Hollander for the house tour, starting back at the foyer and making their way through the living room, his parents’ office, the guest room, the bathrooms, and finally Shane’s childhood bedroom.
In each room, Shane had a story to tell. In the living room above the flat screen TV was a large, framed puzzle of the Canadian Rockies.
“That took Dad and I forever,” Shane said in exasperation. “We lost one of the pieces and it took forever to find it. The puzzle sat undone on the coffee table for weeks. It drove me crazy!”
In the office, Hollander showed Ilya a wall map with little pins scattered throughout North America and a few in Europe. “In the summer before the draft, we took a trip to this place called Moose Jaw in Saskatchewan and it was so much fun. There was a giant statue of a moose there and it was the tallest moose statue in the world. Well, at least until Norway decided to make a bigger one. I think the people of Moose Jaw petitioned their mayor to make theirs bigger to beat Norway. I wonder how that's going, actually.” Hollander looked at the picture of the moose in consternation, and Ilya thought nothing looked more adorable than he did in that moment.
And finally, Hollander's bedroom. The walls were painted a dark blue and covered with hockey posters and famous architectural works, including, to Ilya's delight, St. Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow. There were also multiple shelves holding various trophies and medals Hollander had been awarded when he was in the junior leagues, showcasing how early his hockey obsession had started. Ilya stepped closer to read the engraved words on each trophy, when he noticed a familiar poster hidden behind the open door to Hollander's wardrobe. Without thinking, he closed the door to the wardrobe and was face-to-face with… himself.
“Shit,” Hollander hissed, pulling Ilya away from the poster of himself and opening the wardrobe door to cover it again. His dark eyebrows scrunched in panic as he tried to tug Ilya out of his room.
“Ah, so you are fanboy,” Ilya teased, standing his ground and sadistically watching Hollander gasp and pant as he tried to kick Ilya out of his room. “Is this why you asked me to come to your house one million times? Your plan is to stuff world’s best hockey player with good food and keep him forever?”
That actually wasn't too far off from what Ilya secretly wanted.
“That's an old poster,” Hollander claimed, finally succeeding in pulling Ilya out of the room and slamming the door shut. “I got it before I realized that you're an asshole.”
Ilya put a finger on his chin. “Hmm, no, that was very recent picture. I am sure the photoshoot was few months ago–”
“Oooookay, let's go see the fish!” Hollander exclaimed, his cheeks blazing red as he took Ilya's hand and pulled him down the stairs.
Ilya laughed like a maniac during their quick journey of putting shoes and jackets back on and going to the backyard. He was choking and wheezing by the time they stepped back out into the crisp autumn air. Hollander glared from beside him as he led him towards a large pond that took up a good amount of the well-maintained yard. It was encircled by smooth rocks and potted plants with flowers of every color. As they got closer to the pond, Ilya could see flashes of red and orange darting to and fro in the water.
Ilya gasped, immediately plopping down on a flat rock to stare at the pond as if hypnotized. “These are koi? They are beautiful, Hollander.”
Hollander sat down on the rock next to Ilya. His light brown eyes were lit with pleasure. “My parents want to get more, but we've had these three since I was a kid. Sidney, Wayne, and Alex.”
Ilya laughed. “Wow. So creative, Hollander. The big one is Alex?”
“That's him. Do you wanna feed them?”
Ilya turned to him with a huge smile. “Yes!”
Hollander ran inside and came back out with a small bottle of pellets that he handed to Ilya. They sat there talking and feeding the happy fish until the sun set. Ilya couldn't remember having a more relaxed, content day.
Later, Yuna and David insisted on tagging along to send Ilya back to his hotel. Ilya smiled politely at them but when they left to get their coats he cornered Hollander with a panicked look on his face.
“Hollander! This must not happen. You promised to show me your dildo tonight,” Ilya said with a devastated pout.
“Shut up,” Hollander hissed, looking over his shoulder frantically. “Listen, I don't know how to spin this so they won't get suspicious. We're just gonna have to postpone until our game in two weeks.”
Ilya was literally going to cry. He had genuinely enjoyed spending time with Hollander and his parents, he really did, but losing the opportunity to fuck him was just a damn tragedy.
Hollander looked like he wasn't a fan of the idea, either, with his lips bitten to all hell and fingers twitching like he wanted to jump Ilya at any second. “I'm really sorry, Rozanov,” he said softly. “Will you wait for me?”
Somehow they had ended up with their faces just inches away from each other. Ilya could see every individual freckle on Hollander's face; he could count each long lash circling his eyes. His brown doe eyes that were starting to water, that looked at Ilya with anxiety and hope.
“I will wait for you,” Ilya promised, leaning his forehead against Hollander's for the barest fraction of a second.
Hollander smiled shyly, the apples of his cheeks bunching out delectably. He looked behind Ilya again, nodded to himself, then grabbed the back of Ilya's head and pulled him in for a wet, open kiss.
Ilya moaned quietly into Hollander's mouth, the tip of his tongue touching Hollander's like the fleeting touch of lovers saying farewell, before they both pulled away just as Hollander's parents reappeared, coats in hand and ready to go.
Later that night, Ilya stared at the ceiling and pressed a hand to his thumping chest. He had done stupid shit in the past, living on the edge and barely following the rules no matter what country he was in, even playing a dangerous, insanely physical game for a living. Yet nothing made him feel more alive than the barest caresses of a tongue, brown doe eyes, and endless words escaping pink lips.
5: February 2014, Sochi
Ilya couldn't do this.
From his vantage point in the rafters, he could see a familiar head of jet black hair and a white fleece jacket with a distinct red leaf making his way towards him.
It was bad enough that he had lost on the world stage in his own fucking country, but now Hollander was probably going to rub it in his face that he was a better captain and that Canada was still in the running for gold.
That was all good and well; Ilya was used to taunts and chirps. He had to be, given his profession, but he definitely was not in the mood for listening to Hollander run his mouth about how his parents were so proud of him and that they were waiting for him to come home and cook dinner and do puzzles with him, like the perfect little family they were.
Ilya's own family was most likely waiting in the lavish hotel room they had booked for tonight's gala with Russia’s top political figures. His phone buzzed constantly, no doubt flooded with missed calls and texts from his father and brother telling him to come back so they could curse him out and humiliate him in person.
He could feel the anger seeping out of him like a kettle about to blow, his nostrils flaring and breaths coming out in heavy puffs as he tried to rein in his temper when Hollander stepped in his view with a small smile.
“Hey,” Hollander said quietly, taking a step closer. He looked so soft and cozy in his fluffy white sweater, with his smooth, open face pale from the cold. He looked completely out of place with the cruel, sneering figures that Ilya found himself surrounded with, especially when he was back home with his family.
Ilya was suddenly reminded of how dangerous this was; the two of them openly being seen together in Russia, especially after everything they had done these past few years. He knew that Hollander was capable of being discreet, but Ilya couldn’t take any chances. Not when Hollander could unknowingly land them both in serious trouble.
“What do you want, Hollander,” Ilya said coldly, feeling a piece of himself wither away at the plain shock and hurt on Hollander's beautiful face.
He opened and closed his mouth like his beloved koi fish, visibly floundering for an answer. That in itself was unsettling, since Hollander never had a problem running his mouth around Ilya in all the time they had known each other.
“I just--I wanted to check on you and see if you're okay,” Hollander said finally. He looked deeply uncomfortable, standing ramrod straight and with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Ilya could see his fingers twitching from beneath the white fleece, like he wanted desperately to clutch at them but couldn't do that here, not with Ilya turning the full force of a cold glare on him.
It broke Ilya's heart to do it, but he would hate himself if someone caught wind of their relationship and used it against them. He didn't care much what happened to him, but he would be damned if anything happened to the man who had loved hockey since he was a little boy, with all his player cards that he couldn't trade with anyone.
“I am fine, Hollander. Go sit down.” Turning away from him felt like ripping off a limb. His view of the giant ice rink down below them was starting to blur.
“You don't look fine,” Hollander insisted.
“What, you want me to look happy?” Ilya snapped, taking pains to not let his voice carry down to the spectators sitting some rows below them. “You want me to smile and laugh because now I give you straight shot to gold medal?”
“No, I mean–” Hollander huffed impatiently, stepping closer to Ilya. Ilya looked at him then, his eyes begging him to read the fucking room and stop.
“I was talking to Hunter and Vaughn earlier,” Hollander continued, his brown eyes wide and pleading. “I know how hard it must be for you to be back here. Especially after that last game, and yeah it went badly but you did your best, so you shouldn't beat yourself up too much. Along with all the stuff about people like… us. I just wanted you to… not feel so alone, I guess.”
He looked so sincere, so earnest, but it was the absolute wrong time and place. Ilya knew Hollander meant what he said. But they couldn't do this here.
I am sorry, Shane.
“Did I ask you to do this?” Ilya said quietly, keeping his face a stone slab of cold difference.
Hollander's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “N-No, but we're friends, so I just thought–”
“You thought wrong,” Ilya cut in sharply. “We cannot be friends here. Go bother someone else with your boring stories. I don't want to hear anymore. We are nothing.”
I don't mean that, Hollander, I'm sorryI'm sorryI'msorry–
The crowd below them exploded in applause. There must have been an award ceremony going on. Hollander should have been down there, cheering on his figure skater friend that he had told Ilya about before they both left for Russia. Not up here getting verbally flayed by a man who had stupidly, helplessly, fallen in love with him.
Hollander's face crumpled for the barest fraction of a second before he schooled it back into the calm, cool as a cucumber expression that he was known for. His eyes were watery but somehow he was able to keep the tears from spilling over.
“Alright, then,” he said, with barely even a shake in his breath. “Stay safe, Rozanov.” He left without another word, his footsteps steady and sure, not looking back even once at Ilya.
Ilya closed his eyes and slumped over the railing. Somehow Hollander's quiet departure hurt worse than if he had left Ilya crying and screaming.
He thought he was doing the right thing. As much as he liked spending time with Hollander, whether that be fucking or just hanging out, this arrangement wouldn't last forever. Neither of them could come out, for all sorts of reasons. It would be better this way. A clean break, for both Ilya and Hollander. He did the right thing.
So why did he feel so dead inside?
+1: December 2014, Montreal
Ilya was on his second glass of champagne, a pleasant buzz running through him as his blue eyes tracked a certain dark-haired Canadian man from across the ballroom of the charity gala. He was leaning against the open bar while Svetlana and a few of his teammates chattered all around him, but his eyes were only on Hollander.
They hadn't spoken at all since their last interaction at the Olympics, not even during games and press conferences. Ilya strongly suspected that Hollander had even blocked his phone number. In all that time, Hollander had gotten himself a silver medal, a movie star girlfriend, and new brand sponsorships that had his face plastered in practically every city in both Canada and the U.S.. Ilya, on the other hand, had gotten a participation medal, a gnarly scar courtesy of Grigori Rozanov for dishonoring the country so openly, and another opportunity to redeem himself once the new season started in October.
He had to keep telling himself that he had done the right thing, that eventually they would have had to stop their fuck-in-different-cities-and-pretend-to-be-friends arrangement at some point. If anyone had found out that the rival captains of two of the best teams in the MLH were secretly fucking each other, it would have been an absolute shitshow. So really, Ilya had done Hollander a favor.
But right thing or not, Ilya was fucking miserable.
“...too bad they're not together anymore,” Marley was saying. “My niece is a huge fan of X-Squad. I could've gotten Rose Landry's autograph for her.”
Ilya's head turned so fast he almost got whiplash.
“You are lying liar who lies, Marley. You watched X-Squad on plane earlier,” Ilya said with a smirk, trying to hide the fact that his fingers were trembling around his glass. “Who said they are not together?”
Sveta's sharp hazel eyes flickered to him in suspicion.
“Shut the fuck up, Roz,” Marley whined, then mouthed “Not in front of her, you asshole” over Svetlana's curly hair.
“Rose Landry mentioned it in an interview,” Connors supplied helpfully, smiling at Marley’s antics. “Said some shit about them being just friends now.”
Head spinning, Ilya was slowly trying to juggle the new revelation that Hollander was single now, and that apparently his teammates were huge Rose Landry fans.
“I didn't think Hollander would be into movie stars,” St. Simon said.
Marley shrugged. “You never know with the quiet ones.”
“He is not quiet,” Ilya said absently, suddenly realizing that his champagne glass was dangerously tipping over in his loose fingers.
“Hollander? I sat next to him at the MLH awards last year and he didn't say shit. He's kind of a scary dude,” said Connors.
At this, Ilya shook out of his reverie and looked at his teammate in confusion. “What the fuck are you talking about? Shane Hollander is a yapper.”
“No, he's not,” Marley said, elbowing Ilya good-naturedly. Ilya narrowed his eyes at him, utterly baffled at the confused looks thrown his way.
“He is,” Ilya insisted. “The first time I met him, he would not shut the fuck up about his parents’ koi fishies!”
He was met with several stares of disbelief.
“Are you sure we’re talking about the same Shane Hollander?” Connors asked, nodding at Ilya’s champagne slowly dripping onto the floor. Ilya glared at him.
“There he is,” St. Simon gestured towards where Hollander stood across the ballroom. “Does he look chatty to you?”
They all watched as Hollander stood in a small circle with some men Ilya didn't recognize but whom he assumed to be sponsors with their perfectly pressed suits and gel-slicked hair. It looked like they were having a lively conversation but Hollander might as well have been on Mars for how he looked so tuned out of it. He kept his head down, only looking up to answer questions that were directed at him, and even then his eyes flickered all around the room as he fumbled for what to say. His fingers were wrapped oddly around his champagne glass, as if he was trying to mimic how someone else might hold it instead of just doing it naturally.
Pike then materialized out of nowhere and slung a casual arm around Hollander's shoulder, seamlessly inserting himself into the conversation and making the older men laugh. Hollander looked at him gratefully, but he didn't contribute much to the rest of the conversation. He chewed at his lips several times as if he wanted to say something, but ultimately ended up staying quiet.
“See?” Marley said. “Quiet.” They went back to their own conversation, but Ilya couldn't look away.
Suddenly, Hollander's eyes flickered up and gazed directly at Ilya, whose fingers tightened on his glass. His heart pounded in his throat, everything in him screaming to shy away from those laser sharp eyes that used to hold so much fondness for him, but his sheer Russian stubbornness forced him to stay where he was.
Hollander frowned, his face suddenly and almost comically morphing into one of unhappiness before he quickly schooled it into blankness once again, tearing his eyes away from Ilya to listen in to the conversation happening around him. Ilya swallowed down the disappointment in his throat as if it was a sharp rock.
Sveta noticed, like she always did. “What was that all about?” she asked in Russian.
Ilya downed the rest of his champagne before turning around and gesturing at the bartender for another glass. He was suddenly hit with a red wave of anger and frustration that almost knocked him over. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he said stubbornly.
“Hmm,” was all she said, her hazel eyes flicking towards Hollander, then back to Ilya. Her sculpted lips slowly turned into a smirk.
“Why does everyone insist that Hollander is quiet?” Ilya blurted out. “When I first met him he couldn't shut the fuck up!”
Sveta tilted her head in confusion. “And this bothers you because…?”
Ilya groaned and put his face in his hands. He couldn't even explain his ridiculous feelings for Hollander to himself; how could he expect to explain himself to Svetlana?
Sensing her best friend's inner turmoil, Svetlana elegantly pulled them towards a corner of the room that offered slightly more privacy. She leaned back against the wall and looked at Ilya expectantly.
Ilya sighed. The jig was up. It was impossible to hide anything from Svetlana, who knew him more than anyone else on the planet.
“He… introduced himself to me. Right before the draft. I did not know much English at the time; I probably came off as an asshole. But he smiled at me and shook my hand. Then he started talking. I don't think I said much; he just went on and on.” Ilya smiled at the memory.
“We used to hang out,” he continued. Svetlana snorted, somehow knowing exactly what he meant by ‘hanging out’. Ilya poked her playfully. “He was always running his mouth about something. His family, or his childhood... I never understood why.”
Sveta hummed in understanding. “Maybe there's something about you that makes him feel comfortable enough to talk more than he usually does.”
Ilya said nothing and nodded, sullen. Hollander had been sincere about their friendship and the time they spent together. It had been one of the few good things in Ilya’s life. Until he ruined it.
Sveta’s slender fingers rose up to cup his jaw and tilt it towards her. “Whatever it is, Ilyusha, I bet Hollander would love having someone he could talk to like that, yes?”
Ilya let out a shaky breath. “Not anymore. I fucked things up with him.” He pinched himself in the side to keep him from doing something utterly embarrassing, like cry in the middle of a MLH charity gala.
Sveta rolled her eyes and smacked Ilya's bicep. “So? You fuck things up with me all the time! Just go talk to him!”
Ilya felt a smile reluctantly crawl onto his face. “How dare you, I am the perfect best friend.”
She only smiled and ruffled his hair, then took his half-full champagne glass and walked back to the bar. It was so easy, being with Svetlana. Maybe he could have that with Shane someday.
But first, Ilya had to make it up to him.
.
.
.
Ilya felt like an idiot.
He was standing outside of Hollander's condo with a tiny gift bag and his shattered ego at nearly midnight in the middle of a Montreal winter. After the gala, he had returned to his hotel room only to retrieve the signed Sergei Vetrov card that he had carried around with him for years. He knew that no gift would ever make up for the cruel words he had said to Hollander all those months ago, but Ilya hoped it would help soften any ill feelings Hollander might still have towards him.
He buzzed in once, twice, then waited, holding the gift bag along with his heart in his hands. Hollander could very likely be done with Ilya and want nothing to do with him, but Ilya couldn't carry on like this, not without apologizing.
He remembered Hollander's earnest attempts to befriend Ilya, and not just because Ilya had become a big name in the League. For some unfathomable reason, Hollander liked Ilya enough to want to get closer to him, to even want to comfort him when it would have been dangerous to be seen together. Ilya didn't have anyone else in his life who liked him that way. Then he had gone and fucked everything up out of misplaced self-righteousness.
Ilya wanted to apologize, and to also float the offer of wanting to try to be something more with Hollander. He hadn't slept with anyone in months; no one could compare to Hollander's warmth, his eagerness to try new things, and most of all, his willingness to share his life with Ilya. Even though it would surely be difficult navigating a relationship with not just another man, but a rival captain, Ilya was hopeful that they could figure something out.
Because Hollander was so soft and so different from every other person in his life. And Ilya wanted him so, so much.
Which brought him here to Hollander's doorstep, clothes starting to dust with snow, and his fingers growing numb with cold as they gripped the handle to the giftbag.
Ilya's breath came out in clouds in front of his face as ten minutes went by, then twenty, then an hour. His heart sank at the realization that he had lost out on one of the best things he had in his life.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Ilya forced himself to turn away from Hollander's door and walk back to the street when his phone started ringing in his jeans pocket. That blasted hope filled his insides like warm honey as Ilya fumbled for his phone, eyes staring dumbstruck at the caller ID.
Jane.
Hands shaking, Ilya answered the call and brought the phone to his ear. He barely got his frozen lips to move when a familiar voice bit out,
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Ilya had to hold back a relieved laugh at Hollander's lovely, bitchy tone. But he couldn't afford to be an asshole now. Not when he was so close to losing the man he was starting to fall in love with.
“Hollander,” he stumbled out stupidly. “I… came to see you. I want to talk to you. Are you home?”
Silence. Ilya waited with bated breath until Hollander finally replied, “Yes.”
“May I please come up?” Ilya's cheeks burned with the humiliation of begging, but his pride was a thing of the past now.
“I mean… I'm home but at a different place. You're at my rental property,” Hollander said sheepishly.
Ilya turned to the steel door in surprise. “What? This is not your home?”
“...Not exactly. I'm only there… sometimes.” Ilya could practically hear Hollander's blood rushing to his cheeks in embarrassment.
“Ah, so this is your secret sex condo,” Ilya concluded. “And I thought I was so special that Shane Hollander would fuck me in his own home.” He couldn't keep the bitterness from leaking into his voice.
Hollander caught on to it immediately. “I don't see why you're complaining, since we're not exactly friends.”
Ilya winced at hearing his damning words thrown back at him. “Okay, okay,” he said, trying to appease him. “May I please come to your real normal house that you do not have sex in?”
“I do have sex here!” Hollander shot back. “Just not with you. ‘Cause you're an asshole.”
Ilya groaned, leaning hard against the brick wall behind him. Hollander was really going to make him fight for this wasn't he? Ilya tried to tamp down the green sludge of jealousy that rose in his throat at the thought of Hollander sleeping with other people. “Hollander. Please. I want to apologize for what I said to you. I want to talk things out. Please let me come over.”
He heard a little gasp over the line, barely there, but it was something. Ilya latched onto it like a drowning man, unable to stop a cheeky smile from stretching out his lips.
“...Fine. I'll send you the address. And you can wipe that smirk off your face.”
“How did you–” Ilya looked up and found a security camera pointed right at him. “You were watching me this entire time?!”
“I got an alert that someone was loitering at my door so of course I was!”
Ilya flipped off the camera. “Hollander, that is so creepy.”
“Then you can stay there and freeze.” Hollander's voice faded out towards the end of his sentence, like he was taking his phone away from his face so he could hang up.
“No!” Ilya shouted, then quieted down when he heard his own voice echo off the walls of the building. “Nooooo please Hollander, I want to see you, please send me the address pleeeeeeeeaase.”
Ilya heard him sigh, but he could swear that there was a small laugh before it. “If you insist. See you in a bit, asshole.” He hung up, and Ilya's phone chimed with his address almost immediately.
Ilya's smile could have powered the entire neighborhood. He looked up at the camera one last time, blew a kiss towards it, then walked away to call another taxi.
.
.
.
Shane looked as beautiful as ever.
He clearly had been in bed when he caught Ilya at the door of his “rental property”. His shirt was rumpled as if he had just thrown it on before answering the door, and his short black hair was slightly ruffled. Ilya couldn't help but think it he looked very similar to what he'd look like after getting fucked into the floor.
He filled the doorway with his broad, muscular frame, brown eyes staring at Ilya with a careful assessment like he expected the worst from him.
Ilya couldn't blame him for that.
Ilya cleared his throat and awkwardly handed the shiny navy blue paper bag to Shane. “For you.”
Shane looked at the bag in bafflement. “Why?”
Ilya forced himself to look straight into Shane’s distrustful eyes, wondering if that little sheen of moisture indicated that Shane secretly hoped that Ilya would try to make things right.
“I want to apologize, Hollander. For what I said that day.” Ilya had always hated apologizing and admitting his mistakes, especially when he had been conditioned to treat his entire existence like a mistake, but the discomfort of his wounded pride was nothing compared to losing someone like Shane Hollander.
“When I am home in Russia,” he continued shakily, “I am scared almost all the time. I did not want anything bad to happen to you. But I should not have spoken to you in that way. It was not fair to you. I'm sorry, Shane.” He felt a little lighter after finally getting the words out. Even if Shane wanted nothing to do with him ever again, at least Ilya could die in peace knowing that he had tried to do right by him.
Shane’s eyes widened in surprise, then he blinked rapidly and looked away. He sniffed. “Thank you. I accept your apology.”
Ilya sighed in relief, blinking back his own tears. He felt like a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders.
They stood there silently for a few minutes. Shane didn't make any move to let Ilya into his apartment.
There was his answer.
Ilya shakily held out the bag to him again. “Please. Take it, and then I will go.”
Shane frowned. “You’re leaving?”
“I will leave if you don't want me here,” Ilya replied quietly.
Shane bit his lip, eyes searching Ilya's face. “And if I do want you here?”
Hope sparked in Ilya's chest like lightning in a bottle.
“Then I will stay,” Ilya said simply.
Shane smiled, and Ilya finally felt tethered back to earth after months of being adrift. Shane finally stepped back and let Ilya through.
The first thing Ilya noticed about Shane's actual apartment was that it looked much more lived in than his sex condo. His minimalist, tasteful furniture was arranged practically, but there were plaid quilts folded neatly on the couch, a full shoe rack in the foyer, and a painting of koi fish on the wall between the living room and kitchen. Ilya wondered how he ever thought the sex condo could be where Shane lived, with its bare walls and hotel-like similarities.
He gravitated towards the painting and smiled as he recognized the Hollanders’ koi pond with its three inhabitants. “Did you paint this?”
Shane stood a few feet off to the side, his thumbs tucked into the pockets of his flannel pajama pants. “I wish. Dad has a coworker who likes to paint in her downtime. I commissioned her to paint a picture of our pond at home. It looks great, doesn't it?”
It really did. From a bird's eye view, Ilya would have thought this was a superbly high quality picture of the three koi. But at closer examination, he could see the individual brushstrokes that all together brought a beautiful scene of the pond at winter time, with the water frozen over and flashes of orange and white under the ice.
“It suits your home beautifully,” Ilya said, turning to look at Shane. He was expecting, maybe even hoping for, a long rambling of the latest shenanigans the fish had gotten up to, but the other man looked strangely somber as he fiddled with the hem of his shirt, looking at anything but Ilya.
“Thanks,” was all Shane said, before nodding over to the sofa. “Wanna sit?”
Ilya nodded, feeling uneasy at Shane's uncharacteristic silence. Shane had always gleefully shared even the most mundane details of his life with him. He hated seeing him like this; morose and anxious like Ilya wouldn't want to listen to him. He especially hated that he was the reason why Shane was so reticent now.
They sat at opposite ends of Shane's leather couch, with Shane sitting ramrod straight and avoiding Ilya's gaze. Ilya turned towards him and cleared his throat. Shane reluctantly dragged his eyes toward Ilya. Ilya nodded at the blue gift bag.
“Do you want to open it?”
Shane looked down at the bag in his lap in surprise, like he had forgotten it was there. “Oh, right. Sorry.” His fingers shook as he thumbed through the wrapping paper in the bag.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Hollander,” Ilya said sadly.
Shane hummed at that, but still avoided Ilya's gaze. He gently pulled out the card which Ilya had hastily wrapped earlier, and carefully tore the paper off. He squinted at the little note under the picture before gasping loudly. “What the–you got him to sign it?!”
Ilya smiled, monumentally pleased at the sight of Shane smiling and handling the card with reverent care. “I asked him when Sveta and I visited him in Moscow." Sergei had been so confused when Ilya suddenly asked for his autograph after having known each other for Ilya's entire life. “Also you must sign something for him back. He requested that as payment for his autograph.”
Shane was going to catch flies with his mouth opened like that. “Sergei Vetrov wants my autograph?” he asked, awestruck.
As if Shane wasn't one of the greatest players in a generation. Ilya was utterly charmed by this man. “Well, he already has mine, so he wanted second-best player to add to his collection.”
Shane didn't even acknowledge the chirp; he just stared at the card in a daze. “I need to find one of my cards to give him back,” he whispered to himself.
Ilya chuckled. “When you do, give it to me and I will pass it to him.”
Shane shook his head in disbelief, finally looking up at Ilya. “It took me years to get his rookie card. Have you been collecting for a long time?”
Fuck. Ilya was hoping he wouldn't think too deeply about it. He awkwardly took off his beanie and ran a hand through his hair to buy himself some time.
“...No, not exactly,” Ilya answered reluctantly.
It hadn’t been easy. Ilya had probably bought a million dollars’ worth of sets with the hopes that he'd find Sergei's card in one. He hadn’t had much luck until he came across some guy auctioning it online. He beat the other bidders easily for a ridiculous amount of money, but Ilya hadn't thought twice about it since he was eager to surprise Shane with it.
Shane looked at Ilya expectantly, like he had caught on to the effort Ilya had gone to find this and wanted him to say it out loud.
Ilya gathered himself, looking down at his slacks and breathing in deep. After Shane had shared so much about himself, he wanted to hear this one thing from Ilya. Ilya couldn't bear to lose him again. He needed to give something of himself, even if it hurt like hell.
“You once asked if I could get him to sign for you. So I started looking.”
“Why?” Shane whispered, his face lit with hope.
Here it was. Ilya took a deep breath, and put himself out there. “I missed you. I missed hanging out with you, and listening to your stories. I hated myself for pushing you away. I thought that maybe… maybe if I could see you again, I could apologize and give it to you.” He had to swallow down the lump in his throat, feeling raw and exposed.
Shane's jaw dropped yet again, his freckled cheeks blooming with that familiar red blush that Ilya had missed so much. His brown eyes were wet, and to Ilya's horror, they finally overflowed into streams down his cheeks.
Ilya reached out to him, but held himself back. “What--why are you crying?” he could feel the tears start in himself at seeing Shane’s face painted in utter heartbreak.
Shane’s hand slowly came up to his face, feeling the tears as if he didn't realize that he was crying. At that, his face crumpled and he brought both hands to his face, covering himself as he sobbed.
Ilya couldn't take it anymore. He reached over and pulled Shane into his arms, guiding him to cry into his shoulders. Shane came willingly, breathing out shakily against the skin of Ilya's neck. Although Ilya's heart broke for him, he couldn't help but feel that familiar joy at having Shane in his arms again. He caressed his dark hair, rocking him back and forth.
“Do--Do you really think we’re nothing?” Shane choked out against his shirt.
Shocked, Ilya pulled them apart just a bit so he could look down at Shane's red, teary face. “What?”
Shane was an utter wreck, face crumpled, snotty, tear-streaked, chest hitching with devastating sobs. “You said we were nothing,” he gasped out. “Did you mean that?”
Ilya was already shaking his head before Shane even finished his sentence. He leaned down and kissed Shane, tasting salt and tears, clutching tightly at his arms as if he could pull him into his body and keep him there forever. They breathed heavily when they pulled apart. “No, Shane. I was fucking wreck and idiot. I was mad at myself and my family but I took it out on you. I did not mean it. I never did. I have never had anyone like you in my life. I missed you so much when we stopped talking.”
“Really?” Shane asked hopefully, tears starting to slow down.
“Really,” Ilya said with a smile, leaning down to kiss him again. Shane returned his kiss eagerly, and their rocking and crying slowly transitioned into a heady make out right there on the couch. Ilya laid on his back and Shane followed him easily, lying his body fully on top of Ilya's, their crotches pressed together and slowly getting each other hard.
Ilya's hands travelled from Shane’s head down his back and to his ample, firm ass. He groaned as he cupped the round globes in his hands for what felt like the first time in forever. Shane moaned into his mouth, grinding back and forth between Ilya's stiffening cock and the hands on his ass.
The living room filled the sounds of their rising lust, gasps and moans and whines and the rustles of clothes as they pulled everything off until they were completely naked on the couch, pausing only when Shane sat up to quickly fold his clothes and place them neatly on the coffee table. They ended up with Shane straddling Ilya's hips, cocks getting wet from each other's pre-come, Shane gasping into Ilya's mouth.
There was just one thing missing. As much as Ilya wanted to escalate things, he desperately needed to hear Shane talk about everything and nothing.
“Tell me something,” Ilya begged, wrapping his hand around the both of them, sliding easily with their combined pre-come.
“Ah!” Shane gasped, resting his head on Ilya’s shoulder, nearly overcome. “Like what?”
“Anything,” Ilya prompted, cupping Shane's jaw and tilting his head up to look at him. “You are so quiet tonight.”
Shane’s eyes were still wet, and his lips turned down slightly. “But I talk too much, don't I?”
Ilya saw red. The fingers of his unoccupied hand tightened where they gripped Shane's shoulder. “Who told you that? What are their names? I will call the Bratva right now–”
Shane laughed and whined, thrusting into Ilya's hand when he stopped moving. “No one said anything, you maniac. They just… started ignoring me.”
That was it. Ilya pulled his hand away and sat them up, with his back against the couch arm and Shane seated firmly on his lap. He planted his hands on Shane's hips to keep him still. “Who is ‘they’?” he demanded.
Shane groaned, trying and failing to grind his ass against Ilya's cock. “It's not important.”
“Shane.” Ilya glared at him.
Shane sighed, and looked behind Ilya, trying to recall. “I came out to my team a while back, when things didn't work out with Rose. She’s great, but we’re just not compatible. She helped me realize that I'm gay.” Ilya scowled at the mention of her name, and Shane chuckled and kissed it off him before continuing. “They didn't really say much, except J.J. and Hayden. They were supportive, but the others kind of just… stopped talking to me? They’d rush to get out of the showers when I came, they stopped inviting me over, and if I started talking to them they'd just walk away. It was so fucking stupid, like school all over again.” He huffed, trying to come off like it didn't matter to him, but the tears in his eyes said otherwise.
Ilya's fingers tightened on him. “That's why they stopped passing to you. And defending you.” Montreal had been having a terrible season so far. Even Ilya could tell that the team was scattered and all over the place. He had no idea that it would be for such a dumb fucking reason.
Shane shrugged sadly. “I thought we were friends. We got two Cups together. But I guess they never saw me that way.”
Ilya cupped Shane's cheek and thumbed away some stray tears. “You don't need friends like them, if they can't accept you for who you really are.”
Shane sniffled. “Yeah, I know. It's just made hockey not fun for me anymore.” He gently nudged Ilya's hand away so he could wipe his own face. He then reached both hands back to hold himself open over Ilya's cock, leaning back so it could nestle between his firm asscheeks, the head brushing against his hole. “Can we please get back to business?”
Ilya moaned, thrusting upwards in between Shane's asscheeks. “Oh, you are sneaky, Hollander.”
But Ilya Rozanov did not lose easily. He lifted Shane bodily and guided him to lay on his back on the couch, taking pleasure in his shocked gasp. Ilya looked around, and happily retrieved his forgotten bowtie off the floor and tied it around Shane’s thick wrists, bringing them to rest over his head and on top of the arm of the couch. “Is okay?”
Shane moaned loudly, bucking his hips up towards Ilya. “Yes, fuck–”
Ilya gave him a deep kiss, shoving his tongue down Shane's throat and swallowed down his whine, before moving down and mouthing over his strong jaw, his neck, his collarbone, even to his armpit, nipping there and making Shane yelp and laugh, then down between his firm pecs, finally hovering over a brown, perky nipple. Shane arched up, trying to get Ilya's mouth on it, but Ilya leaned back and smirked down at him.
“Asshole,” Shane snarled up at him, arching and groaning when Ilya pulled away again.
“How are Wayne, Sidney, and Alex?” Ilya asked casually, resting his head on Shane's shoulder with a grin.
Shane was red-faced, eyes glazed over, mouth open with gasps. “What?”
“Your fishies,” Ilya prompted, gesturing to the painting behind them. “How are they?”
Shane's chest heaved, his hands struggling against the binding Ilya put them in. “They're fish; how else would they be doing?”
“Mm, not good enough,” Ilya said, looking at his nails like they were the most interesting thing in the world.
“Fuck you, Rozanov,” Shane swore, again attempting to shove his tits into Ilya's face. Ilya evaded them easily.
“I miss hearing your stories,” Ilya admitted, planting a wet kiss on Shane's smooth, red cheek. “Talk to me, Hollander.”
Shane pouted, looking plaintively at Ilya who only looked back fondly, not budging a bit.
Shane groaned, finally giving in. “They're good, I guess? I haven't seen them in a while. I went to my parents’ place a few weeks ago and I got to feed them, but I guess they've been bored so Sid fucking threw himself out of the water so I had to chase him, then right after I put him back in, Wayne did the same thing, and then Alex, like they fucking planned it. My clothes got wet and it was fucking freezing but it was so funny–”
They laughed, then Ilya finally leaned down and sucked hard at Shane's right nipple.
Shane arched up and moaned loudly, the sound vibrating through Ilya's eardrums. He sucked wetly at Shane's right nipple, his other hand cupping Shane's other pec and squeezing it lewdly. Shane’s tits were perfect. Everything about him was perfect. Ilya could never get enough of him. He wondered how he managed without him all these months.
After thoroughly devouring both dusky nipples, leaving Shane a crying mess on his couch, Ilya crept lower and lower down his body, hovering over Shane's straining cock that was completely drenched in pre-come. Shane whined and bucked up, the tip just barely missing Ilya as he pulled back again.
“Oh, come on!”
Ilya chuckled meanly, waiting for Shane to lock eyes with him before he blew a hot gust of air on his weeping tip. He felt himself grow harder as he watched Shane's pretty cock twitch in place, his massive thighs shuddering as his eyes rolled back.
“Please, Ilya, please please!” Shane wriggled uselessly against his bound hands, head whipping back and forth on the throw pillow.
“I want to hear more,” Ilya said calmly, blowing more on Shane's dick without touching it. More pre-come spurted out impossibly, and Shane sobbed.
“When--when I was ten, I went on a camping trip with my parents, and--fuck!” Ilya gave the barest hint of a kiss along his length. “Ahh… and I had just watched a Bear Grylls’ episode the day before. I really felt like I could handle being in the woods alone, so-ohhhhh Ilya please AHH–” Shane screamed as Ilya suddenly took his cock deep into his throat, sucking hard enough his cheeks hollowed, before coming back off again and watching Shane's cock bounce back against his abs.
“You watched bear live in woods and you thought you could do same? Silly boy,” Ilya smiled sweetly at him as he laid his head on the top of Shane’s thigh and stared up in adoration.
“No, Bear Grylls is a person--but yeah, I thought, ‘I’ve been on enough camping trips, I can definitely survive on my own at Takakkaw Falls late at night.’ So once my parents fell asleep, I snuck out of the tent with my gear and hiked out on my own.” His black hair was plastered to his forehead, chin bunching as he looked hopefully down at Ilya. Ilya pressed a soft kiss against the sharp line of his Adonis belt.
“Brave baby Shane,” Ilya cooed, nosing closer and closer to where Shane wanted him the most, his cock a mountain in the periphery of his vision. He nuzzled into the neatly trimmed black hair at the base. “Then what happened?”
“Ilyaaaaa,” Shane whined, trying to get Ilya's mouth on him again. Ilya tutted at him, his hands slowly rubbing up and down Shane's thick, hairy thighs.
“I got lost, obviously,” Shane huffed out, closing his eyes in focus. “It was so dark out that I felt like I was stuck in a maze, and I freaked out and screamed and cried. The only smart thing I did was wave my flashlight all over the place. That got my parents awake and they found me and took me back. Once I got back to the tent I realized that I didn't even get that far.” Despite his desperate lust, he had a soft smile on his face at the memory.
Ilya forgot momentarily about his mission and gazed adoringly up at Shane's open face. “Silly boy. Your parents did not get angry?”
Shane shook his head, still smiling. “They thought it was hilarious. They wouldn't stop bringing it up for weeks after. I was so embarrassed and it started a few fights with them. Then finally Dad took me on another trip and taught me what to do if I ever found myself alone in the woods again. Then I really felt like Bear Grylls.” He chuckled and opened his eyes, looking down at Ilya.
Ilya felt so soft for this man. That was Shane Hollander for you. Fuck up once, then learn immediately how to improve afterwards. Ilya abruptly gripped Shane's thighs in each hand and pushed them towards his chest, practically folding him in half.
Shane gasped, pecs sticking out as he arched in surprise, his dark, fluttering hole laid open just for Ilya.
“That,” Ilya said, keeping Shane folded and lowering himself closer and closer to his hole, eyes staring confidently back at Shane, “Is exactly what I wanted to hear.” He smiled charmingly at Shane's gobsmacked face and finally leaned down and licked a hot wet line against Shane's hole.
“Oh fuck!” Shane shouted, hips rising to push his ass into Ilya's face. Ilya went at it like a starving man, licking and slurping at the rim, getting it to open little by little, taking breaks only to breathe before diving back in and shoving his tongue as deep as it could go.
“Oh my God, Ilya, I'm gonna come, you're gonna make come,” Shane babbled, his head tossing restlessly on the couch cushion, thighs trembling in Ilya's hands. His cock wept continuously, already forming a puddle on his lower abs.
Ilya reluctantly pulled away, wanting to watch Shane come untouched but his own needy dick throbbed painfully against his leg. He reached over for his abandoned slacks for the lube and condom he had tucked hopefully into his pocket before coming over. Shane watched him rip the packet open and spread the condom over his aching dick, bucking repeatedly while moaning out, “Yesyesyes hurry up, Ilya!”
Ilya spread the lube on his cock before pressing forward, his tip pressed right up against Shane’s fluttering hole. Ilya’s brow crunched in concentration, Shane's wet warmth waiting right there in welcome, but he needed to satisfy one last bit of curiosity.
“Tell me,” Ilya gasped out, greedily taking in Shane's teary eyes and red face. “Why did you approach me that day? After World Juniors. You did not know me. Why did you want to talk to me? After everything you heard about me?”
Even before Ilya made it to the big leagues, he was known as the brash, abrasive Russian, with boatloads of teenage angst and defiance that he stubbornly refused to let go of, not after a childhood spent being controlled and looked down on. He had been out to make something of himself, and he couldn't afford to be soft where anyone could just take it from him.
Yet Shane had looked past all that. He had approached Ilya with a shy smile and a handshake, before launching into a story as if they had known each other all their lives. Sometimes, when Ilya laid by himself alone at night, it really felt like they did.
Shane stopped his bucking, recognizing the moment as a more solemn and serious one. He was spread wide open under Ilya, cock leaking, hole winking open and close right against Ilya’s cock, utterly vulnerable, but he looked stronger and more confident than Ilya had ever seen him.
“I was never really good at making friends,” Shane admitted, gazing openly at Ilya. “I knew that I'd make my way into the MLH eventually, and I wanted to have a new start. Everyone thought of me as the weird Asian kid, so I thought it was a good time to meet new people. But once I started talking to the other guys, they were only interested in getting close with me because they knew I was really good at hockey. But you… you were so good that that didn't even matter. You listened when no one else did. And… you looked like you needed a friend, too.”
Ilya let go of one of his thighs and cupped his cheek. Shane leaned into his palm, eyelashes fluttering just above his freckles.
"I did,” Ilya breathed out, rubbing his thumb over those dear, dark freckles. “But now… I think I want to be more than just your friend.”
Shane's eyes shot open, brown depths glazed with hope. “Really?”
Ilya smiled. “Yes. If you will have me.”
Shane brought his bound hands up and over Ilya's head, wrapping around his neck to bring him closer for a deep, searing kiss. Their tongues intertwined, exchanging breaths and saliva, and Ilya finally pressed inside Shane's loving heat.
Shane gasped into Ilya's mouth, pushing himself further down Ilya's cock. They met each other in the middle until finally Ilya found himself seated deep inside Shane, his pelvis pressed right up against Shane's ass.
He breathed heavily into Shane’s mouth, eyes opened and staring at each other. Shane's walls clutched at him like a tight, wet sleeve, in tune with his heaving breaths.
“I've wanted that for a long time,” Shane said finally, with a wide, toothy smile.
Ilya laughed, releasing a breath of relief that he had been holding for a long time. He gave Shane another chaste kiss before sitting up and bringing Shane with him until he sat in Ilya's lap, sinking lower onto his cock.
“Ohhhhhhh,” Shane moaned, head tilting back and mouth dropping wide open.
Ilya's fingers spread wide on Shane's ass cheeks, lifting him up and down, watching mesmerized as Shane's hole swallowed him over and over again. The wet heat felt like coming home.
Eventually, Shane sat forward, stabilizing his knees before taking the reins from Ilya and riding his cock like a well-seasoned cowboy, seating himself deepdeepdeep and wriggling around until the head of Ilya's cock pressed right up against his prostate.
“Yes, fuck me, Shane,” Ilya groaned headily, hands resting on Shane's hips and letting him take control completely.
Shane opened his eyes and didn't let Ilya's gaze go, slamming himself down on Ilya's lap and bouncing over and over again. His cock flopped back and forth between their stomachs, drops of pre-come spraying everywhere.
Ilya watched it happen gradually, from the tremble of Shane's thighs, to his abs contracting, his cock twitching uncontrollably until finally it erupted, come surging out and splattering on Shane’s chin, Ilya's chest, and both their stomachs, Shane’s arms around Ilya's neck clutching him tightly as Shane leaned back with his eyes rolled back, his moans ringing loud in Ilya's ears.
That was more than enough to drag Ilya over the edge, his ass rising up off the couch to meet Shane where he was at, emptying himself into the condom.
They fell apart together, gasping and breathing heavily, Shane slumped into Ilya's chest with tears leaking down his cheeks. Ilya kissed all over his face, then carefully unwound Shane's arms from his neck to untie and massage his wrists.
Shane smiled sleepily against him.
“Good?” Ilya asked, pressing a kiss to his sweaty hair.
“Hmmm, could be better,” Shane teased, like he hadn’t just come all over the both of them thirty seconds ago.
Ilya chuckled. “We have more time to practice, yes?”
Shane nuzzled deeper into Ilya's chest.
“We've got plenty of time.”