Chapter Text
The Voyaugers tie a neat little bow on their first play off series in a 3-1 victory on home ice, so of course Shane Hollander is cornered by reporters the moment he steps out of the locker room.
Whatever shower he must have taken in between stripping out of his jersey and putting on his sweats has done little to dull the flush of his cheeks or the adrenaline left over from a play-off game.
Winning is a good look on Hollander. Ilya has always thought so. The lighting is bad, Hollander’s hair sticks to his forehead, and he keeps biting his lip in between words Ilya can’t understand. French, which is a stupid language. French media then, which is stupid media too. French cameraperson unable to keep the camera steady, so it runs the length of Shane’s chest before snapping back to his face when they must notice in their receiver.
French media is not so bad, maybe.
It is a good view, and Ilya is alone in his house. In four days, he will fly back to Russia. It is just enough time to speak with his GM about their own failed play-off run, meet with the team’s trainers and doctors for an adjusted summer workout plan that will give his twinged wrist time to heal up before the pre-season. Not enough time for Svetlana to stay, not with everything he has to finish before leaving for the summer. And so he is alone.
And winning is a good look on Shane Hollander.
Ilya’s hand gropes along the couch cushion beside him until he finds the remote and pauses the program. Shane’s listening intensely to the reporter, head ducked down to hear her. It makes his shoulders curl in, the material of his shirt loosening around his neck and collarbones.
Pretty. Even like this, in bad lighting and still sweaty. His freckles are harder to see, like this. But Ilya knows they’re there.
Hollander’s eyebrows are drawn down. He is probably thinking about how to answer her question, which is probably about the rest of the play-offs. He cannot sound too smug or overconfident, even though the Voyaugers are predicted to have a deep run this year, maybe even go all the way. He must measure his words, stay humble. These are things Captain Hollander must think about. Not Ilya.
Winning is a good look on Hollander, but Ilya knows better ones. Like the way he looks just after he’s gotten off, when he’s still panting from it and soft all over but softest in his eyes—just for Ilya. Or like the look he gets when Ilya fucks into him after teasing him for ages, all scrunched up and pleading, cheeks red and big brown eyes wide like the stretch still surprises him.
Faithfully, like clockwork, Ilya’s dick twitches and he palms himself through the cotton of his sweats absently.
Last time had been too rushed for his tastes. Hollander had arrived at his hotel room already worked up, desperate for it even if he wouldn’t admit it. They’d fucked right there in the hotel room’s entryway, shoved up against the wall by the door. It’d taken Ilya longer than usual to shake off the press, everyone interested in how he felt about their slim chances for the Cup this year. And Shane had apparently used that time to stretch himself open, get himself ready for Ilya like coaxing Hollander’s entrance into taking his fingers while he ran his mouth over the length of him was a fucking chore for Ilya and not one of his favorite parts of—of whatever this is.
Ilya’s cock is fully hard now, insistent, stiff at the memory of Shane’s body against his. The way it gave ground, sucked him in like he was just as eager for it as Ilya felt every time they met up.
He rolls his head back against the couch, fingers tapping against the waistband of his pants as he considers his options.
He is alone right now. That could change, if he wanted it to. There’s no reason he should jerk off on his couch to old memories when he could drive into the city proper and find someone for the night. For the moment.
But then again, that is so much work and Shane is right there in front of him, lips parted and frozen still. And really, no one has to know that Ilya Rozanov jerks it to pictures of his biggest rival. It’s not like Ilya’s going to tell anyone, including Hollander, and it’s not like it’s the worst thing he’s ever done either.
His fingers slip into his sweats and wrap around his cock, giving it a lazy stroke. The tug is dry in a way that borders uncomfortable, but the pleasure is sweeter when it hurts slightly. Shane thinks so at least. Likes it when Ilya sucks at the buds of his nipples—goes crazy when he bites them.
Ilya lets his head thump against the back of the couch as he moans, rubbing his thumb over the tip of his cock and then down beneath the head. This is what Shane likes, how Shane touches himself. Ilya has watched enough to have it memorized, the way Shane grips his dick and spreads his legs so he can thrust up into his own palm.
It has been months since they saw each other. He must be so tight now that it would be work to make Ilya fit. It’d be so good to fuck into him, fill him to the brim. Shane goes wild for it every time. Arches his back into the press of Ilya’s hips like it breaks his heart to be empty. So good. It’s so good every time.
Alone in his house, Ilya raises his hips just enough to slip his sweatpants down his thighs so he can fuck his fist in earnest. Too fast, like the last time he fucked Shane. But the time before that—had been here. In Ilya’s house. They’d gone slow, gone twice before Shane had collected his clothes from the floor of Ilya’s bedroom and flown back to Montreal.
He’d eaten him out in between rounds, put a hand on the small of his back and pressed down to keep him still and good for him. Shane had rubbed himself against the sheets of Ilya’s bed until he’d come, hiding his face and noises in a pillow until Ilya had ripped it away from him.
But no, Hollander is good for him always.
Ilya’s cock pulses in his hand like it agrees, and the edge is right there, rushing closer. He opens his eyes, just enough to see the television, Hollander’s face frozen in thought. Stupid French media with its bad cameras and worse lighting—Ilya wants to see Shane’s freckles the way he gets to when they meet in person. Wants to see Hollander on his knees for him, wants to stick his cock down his throat and then bust right across his face, paint those freckles, those eyelashes, hear the way Shane gasps with a sore throat, the way he’d say “Roz,” like it’s a prayer, and—-
And Hollander’s tee shirt is too big for his frame.
It gapes across his collarbones, leaves small folds of fabric across his chest, and the French camera lighting is stupid, is bad, but not so bad that Ilya cannot see the shadow of dark ink across the inside of the cotton hemmed collar, like a dirty smudge. Except it’s not, it’s a last name written careful and small on the inside of the crew neck, a funny habit Ilya formed after years of sharing crowded locker rooms as a boy—makes it easier to make sure you’ve grabbed the right shirt, if it’s marked, if it’s yours—
Because it’s Ilya’s shirt, Ilya’s Shane, and Ilya is hit by a lightning bolt of heat that has him coming all over his hand and sweats before he can blink.
It takes a few minutes afterwards for his brain to come back online. When he does, he forces himself to stand—awkwardly, fumbling now to keep the mess as contained as possible, something he didn’t even care about until years ago after meeting Shane.
Shane, who stole his shirt. Months ago, probably after the last time they slept together. Ilya hadn’t noticed, but then of course he didn’t. Hollander would have had access to his entire closet, and Ilya had been quite distracted at the time. Defenseless to any and all theft.
Ilya turns off the faucet in his bathroom and wipes his hands dry on a towel before returning to the living room to grab his phone. There is a warm and funny feeling sparking in his chest. He loses two minutes to just staring at the television, phone held loosely between his fingers.
His shirt. On his Shane, like the man missed him. It is one thing to take a piece of clothing, accidental. But it is another thing to wear it later when it is too big, when it doesn’t fit you. It means something then.
Ilya isn’t sure what exactly it means. But he’s sure it’s something. It must because the bonfire in Ilya’s chest that roared to life at the sight of Hollander wearing his shirt, post-game, flushed off of a victory, so pretty and so claimed, needs it to mean something. To Hollander.
He pulls up Jane’s messages. The last one was a week ago, from Shane. An earnest-sounding sorry about the play-offs that had made Ilya’s teeth hurt from clenching. Captain Hollander would never be too smug or too confident where other people can hear him.
But for Ilya, he is.
Lily: are you eating enough?
It’s not even five minutes before Shane reads the message, a texting bubble popping up and then away. Then up again.
Ilya leans his elbows on his kitchen counter, necklace in his mouth as he watches and waits. There have been many times over the last ten years that he has wished he could see what Hollander types and then deletes. What he wants to say and what he decides against saying. It is inconvenient, how much Ilya wants to know about Shane Hollander and how he thinks. It’s even more inconvenient how much Ilya cares what Shane Hollander thinks about him.
Jane: Yes, of course. It’s play-off hockey. Why?
Lily: saw interview after Nashville game.
Lily: shirt too big ;)