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Ilya wasn’t bored, per se, but an uncertain feeling gnawed in the back of his head that maybe Shane was going to get bored. They’d had a good thing going for them for the last seven or so years, and maybe his polite Canadian boytoy wanted more than hot passionate monkey sex a couple times a year. Maybe he wanted something stable? Someone boring. Someone from Mississauga.
The Metros had arrived that morning and from the moment their plane landed at Logan Airport, give or take a few minutes for Shane to take his phone out of airplane mode, Ilya had sent a series of whiny texts begging him to come over to his house. From the tarmac to the luggage carousel to the bus to the hotel, Shane had rebuffed him, bitched at him, called him several insulting names in English and Russian, only for Ilya’s doorbell to ring a little after 3pm to Shane Hollander in his airplane clothes. Ilya couldn’t even say hello before Shane slammed the door closed, kicked off his shoes, and hoisted himself up and around Ilya’s waist.
“You need to give me a key,” Shane growled against Ilya’s lips as his hiked his legs over Ilya’s hips. “Wasting fucking time making me wait outside.” As he pulled off Ilya’s shirt and kissed him with a hungry desperation.
“You want to fuck in kitchen or on couch?” Ilya had asked.
Shane had let out a low growl of frustration, dropped down from Ilya, and grabbed him by the collar to pull him upstairs to Ilya’s bedroom.
Now he was asleep on his side of Ilya’s bed. He’d come over before, never for very long, but for the last few years he’d always been on the right side of the bed. The familiar domesticity of it made Ilya feel warm, like the tension in a sore muscle was finally worked through and flexible again. Like finding out your body could always move like this instead of staying trapped with a bent back and limited range of motion and convincing yourself this was all your life could ever be.
Shane looked happy.
Ilya should have just asked him how he felt, but there was that pesky Y chromosome that got in the way of things like “common sense”. On the other hand, he knew girls and they would have dragged things out for years out of worry it’d blow up in their faces too. “AITA for not asking my fuckbuddy of seven years if we’re in a relationship” type of shit.
And the clock was ticking on how much time they had left before their game. The sun had drifted below the treetops and Ilya had clicked the remote to lower his shades so the light of the low winter sun wouldn’t disrupt them. But now the early night felt so comfortable and Ilya wanted to slide back around Shane’s body and close his eyes.
Shane would never forgive him if Ilya let him sleep in, but there was something that turned Ilya on about the idea of letting them fall back asleep in the comfort of his home, sleeping through the game, and setting the world on fire. Let all of Massachusets and Ontario burn to the ground when they find out they’d spent the day in bed. Ilya wanted to spend the rest of his life in Shane’s arms.
Ilya decided he was just drunk on the smell of Shane’s shower gel and it was time for both of them to get up.
“Hollander…” Ilya murmured, laying soft slow kisses along Shane’s deltoid.
“…mmm…” Shane sighed, still asleep and smiling.
“Time to get up. Hockey game.”
“Okay…” Shane looked so comfortable and content and Ilya couldn’t stand thinking about how he knew him so well that it would be an act of cruelty to let him sleep.
Ilya growled and bit Shane’s arm.
“OW!” Shane snapped. “Asshole! Oh shit—sorry, you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Ilya smiled, rubbing his cheek where Shane had accidentally elbowed him in the face. Shane sighed, rolled over and gently grabbed Ilya’s face to softly massage his cheek.
“…stupid…” Shane mumbled. His head fell back on the pillows and he let himself linger in his look at Ilya, like it meant something more.
“You want to skip the game?” Ilya asked.
Shane snorted, smiled, and rolled his eyes.
“Sure, Rozanov.”
“Stay in bed? Order UberEats? Watch Netflix?”
“Uh huh. Let’s make a sex tape while we’re at it.”
“Really!” Ilya grinned.
“No!” Shane shoved him and tried to stop smiling. “Fuck off.”
“We can piss off all of NHL!”
“All you do is piss me off.”
“Face it, Hollander. You like to be pissy with me.”
“Pissy?!”
“Mm. Like angry kitten.” Ilya kissed him. Shane tried to complain and wriggle away from him, which made him hiss and Ilya laugh. “See? Moy kiska.” He purred. My kitten.
“Moy dolbajób” Shane grumbled. My dumbfuck.
Ilya sat up to rest on his elbows. He never took his eyes off Shane. He let his hands rest on Shane’s chest and he gently fingered the hairs around his dark nipple. An idea was percolating and it only seemed like more and more of a good one the longer he stared at the beautiful man beneath him.
“What?” Shane asked, more suspicious than turned on.
Ilya smiled.
“I want to try something.”
“Yeah?” Shane smiled back softly. “What’d you have in mind?”
Ilya pursed his lips in an attempt to be coy.
“You will see.”
“What do you mean I’ll see? We have a game tonight.” Shane grumped.
“It is surprise.”
Shane would have been annoyed by that, but he remembered the Metros were staying overnight.
“You mean after?” He asked. Ilya looked away and waggled his head back and forth in playful contemplation.
“Maybe. You will see.”
“That could mean anything.”
Ilya leaned in and oh so softly kissed Shane, his lips gently pulling at Shane’s upper lip before releasing him.
“Do you trust me?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Shane looked into Ilya’s eyes and felt as soft and warm as the blankets of his bed. The safety he felt with him was something he never felt with anyone else.
Did he trust Ilya? How could he not?
Shane nodded. Ilya grinned.
“Kiska...” He mumbled as he kissed Shane. “What is English?”
“Mm…” Shane softly moaned into the kiss. “Kitten? Kitty?”
“Mmhmm kind of, but something else.” Ilya kissed him under his ear and lightly nipped at his jaw.
“I don’t know?” Shane squirmed. “Pussycat?”
“Da! Pussycat!” Ilya laughed.
Shane groaned and rolled his eyes, which only made Ilya groan and fold his body into Shane’s warm embrace, his hand gently holding his face as he kissed Shane under his ear, along his jaw, and finally taking his mouth. Ilya moaned as he inhaled, drinking in the scent of Shane, who tenderly kissed him back and chuckled at the stupid pet name.
They took another few minutes to make out in bed. If it wasn’t for Shane’s discipline about his career, they would have gone another round, but he pulled himself away from the comfort of Ilya’s bed, reluctantly put on his clothes, kissed Ilya a few more times and breaking each one with “I have to go” and “no seriously” and “Rozanov fuck off”, before he finally put on his shoes and jacket and left Ilya’s house.
Shane drove his rental car back to the hotel as night settled over Boston. He felt better being in control of where he went when he saw Ilya outside of Montreal. The glass house in Weston with its thick outlay of trees felt like it was in the middle of nowhere. No gossipy Uber drivers and their security cameras. No nosy neighbors within a half mile radius. And for once their game felt like something to get over with instead of something to look forward to, like there was more to life than hockey.
The game went on as normal until Ilya smacked him in the first period. A side swipe from a shoulder and a slap to the back of his head while other players had the puck and the referees were distracted. Shane could only give Ilya a quick confused look before racing back into the game.
In the second period, Ilya *shoved* Shane; a hand between his shoulder blades that almost made him trip. “Get your fucking head in the game, Hollander! Montreal pays for talent! Show up!”
“What the fuck is his problem?” Hayden asked as Shane got back on the bench.
“I have no idea…” Shane grumbled with utter confusion as he watched Ilya skate back to his bench with a simple smirk on his face. Ilya had checked him into the boards plenty of times, they’d gotten into arguments, but he’d never put his hands on him during a game.
Until tonight.
The third period had barely started before Ilya grabbed Shane by his jersey collar, swung him around, and spat in his face.
“Growl for me, pussycat. Tell me you don’t like to fight.” Ilya grinned.
Shane’s mouth popped open in shock, but he was so surprised he felt like his jaw had slammed into the ice.
The only hint the players, the crowd, and the officials got that something was up was the astonished look on Hollander’s face, and the commentators noticed he seemed to scream, “you’re insane!” at Rozanov. The same Boston center noticed there was just a thread of bemusement in Shane’s face that twitched the corner of his mouth into the faintest smile, only to vanish as Hollander thrust his arms into the gap between Rozanov’s grip, swung his arms out to knock Rozanov’s arms out to the side, and used the momentum to hurl his gloves off.
Ilya didn’t have time to wonder if he was more shocked by how fast he’d been disarmed or if Shane was angry about this surprise because in the same fluid motion of dropping his gloves, Shane had swung up to grab Ilya by the collar with one hand and punch him in the kisser with the other.
A dull sensation spread in his mouth, a sharp pain cracked in his nose, and Ilya hit the ice as the crowd erupted. Metros and Raiders paired off and floated around the ice in wonder at the two rivals actually going at it in a fist fight as the referees dove in to break up the fighting.
“Stupid! Mother! Fucker! Can’t! Believe you!” Shane snapped at Ilya as he punched him in the face, not really hitting him that hard as some punches missed or just grazed him because he was so shocked Ilya would do something so stupid. Ilya’s red face broke into a bloody cackle as Hollander was hoisted off of him by two of the refs.
“Out of your fucking mind, Rozanov!” Shane screeched.
“Hissy kitty!” Ilya laughed back.
“I fucking hate you!” Shane snapped as he was damn near tossed into the penalty box.
“What the fuck was that??” Hayden shouted, aghast that mild-mannered Shane Hollander, who couldn’t even look at a woman without blushing down to his toes, who would probably self-snitch if he did something that deserved a penalty, had thrown his gloves and taken out Rozanov with one punch like he was a bruiser from a farm team.
“Qu’est-ce qu’il a dit??” JJ yelled. What the fuck did he say?
“Qu'il est une pute!” Shane yelled back. That he’s a bitch!” He spat. “Tabarnak!” The box attendant looked back to make sure that was in fact Boy Scout Shane Hollander cursing in Quebecker.
For once the Metros were as scandalized as their captain during normal business hours. Anyone hungover or unfocused suddenly locked the fuck in and when Shane was released from the box of shame, he went on to score two goals for a final victory of 3-1 Metros.
Even Boston was so stunned by this break in character that they applauded the Metros’ win and shuffled back to their cars lest Montreal’s golden boy flip a lid at them too.
—
The beating Ilya got from his coach wasn’t as bad as the one he’d gotten from Shane, even if he was promised bag skates until he barfed for every practice until season’s end if he ever did something so stupid again. Ilya rinsed the blood out of his mouth, ran a tongue over his teeth to find all implants and naturals were in place, and waved the team medic away, insisting Hollander was a soft touch, assuming he had used the phrase correctly. If he had any incentive to do it again, it was when he’d been told not to talk to the press, lest he say or do something even more stupid. Ilya changed into his suit and sidled out to the garage and into the cold January air.
Once he was home, a trace of worry got into Ilya’s head that maybe he had fucked up. There were no new messages from Shane and he had expected a wall of text cussing him out or threats of what he’d do to Ilya in the bedroom. Silence was far from unusual, but Ilya had an uncertain feeling in his stomach. He tried to tell himself he was just hungry as he peeled off pieces of his suit and changed into a soft tanktop and track pants.
If Ilya never heard from Shane again, he wouldn’t be surprised, but he wasn’t feeling particularly upset. He’d messed with him before, but never anything as devilish as what he’d done on the ice. If Shane didn’t want to fight, he would have politely tussled with him until the refs broke it up and they finished the game. If Shane was really angry, he would not hear from him at all.
He certainly didn’t want to break up with Shane. He wouldn’t have done it if he didn’t think Shane would like it.
Maybe he wanted to see what he would do.
Ilya picked up his phone and hit the ‘voice to text’ button.
*chirp* “Since you are still here, can you get me Cubano sandwich? Go to El Oriental in Jamaica Plain. And get yourself something too.” *bloop*
Ilya thought some more and hit the button again.
*chirp* “Mwah! Ow. Thank you!” *bloop*
Ilya couldn’t remember if El Oriental was even open this late, but he was feeling peckish and playful.
And he was genuinely surprised when forty-five minutes later, his doorbell rang and Shane Hollander was on his stoop with a bag that smelled like pickles, mustard, and fried ham.
Ilya looked very handsome with two twisted pieces of toilet paper shoved up his nose and half of his face as red as a sunburn.
“Spasiba, Hollander. What you get for yourself?” Ilya opened the door wider and Shane walked inside, took off his shoes, and went directly to the kitchen. He moved like a monk; calm, methodical, and very patient.
“I am thinking—“ Ilya started. Shane glared at him and held up a finger.
“Not. Another. Word.”
Ilya nodded, placated, and kept his hands behind his back. He did wander over to the other side of the kitchen counter as Shane removed takeout containers from the bag. He only looked at Shane as his back was turned to get plates out of the kitchen cabinets. Ilya looked back at the floor and shifted his weight when Shane turned back around.
“Don’t do that again.” Shane said. He opened a container and put a Cubano onto a plate. “Seriously that was fucked up. I don’t mess with your game like that. You don’t ever mess with my game like that. Do you want fries?”
Ilya nodded, uncertain if he could speak, and now a little more certain he had pissed off Shane in the wrong way. Shane shook half of the fried yucca out of the container and slid the plate across the counter to Ilya with a handful of napkins.
Shane rifled through the bag to take out another container and put it in the fridge. Ilya saw it was a flan. Maybe he wasn’t that pissed if he got him a dessert.
Ilya was in fact hungry. He knew he’d make better decisions if he had food in his stomach so he picked up the sandwich and started eating. The pickle and mustard made the cuts in his mouth burn and his eyes water from pain, but Ilya supposed he deserved it a little. A 72oz take-out drink was set down hard by his plate.
“I don’t know why the fuck I got you a Coke.” Shane bitched. “The sugar and carbonation is just going to hurt your mouth.”
“Is okay. You don’t hit so hard.”
Shane’s hand dropped hard to the counter and Ilya jumped.
“You want to keep this up?” Shane asked, a little snap in his voice and also some exhaustion.
“No. Is good. Thank you.” Ilya took another bite and gestured to the rest of the food. “You should eat.”
Shane seemed to chew on his thoughts before he snapped the plastic lid off of his food and half-heartedly stabbed at his red snapper.
“I mean what was the point of that?” Shane asked with a mouth full of fish. “You want me to knock your teeth out for a better blowjob? Get you riled up so you fuck me at center ice?” He hesitated for a moment too long before looking up at Ilya, who didn’t even realize there was something in that sentence. “Not another word.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious!”
“I am too, Hollander! The fuck?”
Shane picked up his own drink and the swig he took made him recoil. “Schweppes. Fuck’s sake.”
Ilya gestured to the fridge, but Shane didn’t even notice his direction and invited himself to go into the fridge to grab a Canada Dry. Shane snapped the can open and took a swig as he walked down the hall to the bathroom with a small paper bag he’d brought with him.
“Why doesn’t your washroom have normal light switches?” Shane called, waving a hand by the motion detector switch in the darkness.
“You want it to?” Ilya asked. “I can ask contractor to change it.”
Shane didn’t hear him. So much for seeing if Shane still wanted to see him in the future. He heard the taps go on and off and Shane emerged from the bathroom with a wrung-out washcloth. He walked up to Ilya and the 16 stone Russian center for the Boston Raiders was suddenly feeling very small.
“Scooch.” Shane said.
Ilya did not know that English word. Shane sighed, squeezed into the barstool next to him, and firmly shoved the bottom rung of Ilya’s stool so they faced each other. Ilya whined in protest at the abrupt movement.
“Why you do this?” He complained, dusting bread crumbs from his fingers onto his plate. Shane realized he was maybe moving too quickly and nodded.
“Scooch.” Shane said. “It means ‘move over’.” He leaned in and gently tugged each piece of toilet paper out of Ilya’s nose. Shane reached into the small paper bag and pulled out a small blue bottle marked ‘witch hazel’. He took the cap off, tossed a few droplets onto the cloth, and pressed the warm wet cloth against Ilya’s face. It smelled strange and medicinal and made Ilya’s face tingle from what he assumed was shame.
“Let me look at you.” Shane said.
A very stupid impulse almost made Ilya say the team medic already patched him up, but what if this was the last time Shane was going to touch him? That he was too crazy and he jeopardized their careers because who knows what Ilya would do next and how could he trust him? Ilya was sure it was over.
Shane scoffed and even smiled a little.
“You’re insane…” He mumbled.
Ilya smiled a little at him, then winced. Shane gently took his chin.
“Yeah, see? That was so stupid.” He pressed the cloth against his nose. “What was your plan for after if you really got hurt?”
Ilya shrugged and Shane couldn’t help laughing at him. He took the cloth away and looked at him intensely.
“Seriously, what was that?” Shane asked. He seemed to really want to know. Ilya felt vulnerable in a way that almost made him squirm. He’d rather have Shane up to his knuckles in him in the middle of the locker room and a full press conference outside the door as he went deeper.
“I was thinking maybe you are bored.” Ilya confessed. “And we fight, so maybe…” As he spoke, the horrible truth that had simmered below his feelings came up to the surface to bite. “…maybe you have a reason to leave if I fight too crazy.”
Shane’s reaction was worse than anything he’d imagined. His sweet Canadian rival looked worried. He looked moved.
“Rozanov.” Shane said. “I am boring. I am not bored of you. You understand?”
“I think so.”
Shane laughed and pointed at his own chest.
“Ya skuchnyy.” I am boring. Shane leaned into each syllable and twisted his tongue in pronunciation. “Mne ne skuchko.” I am not bored.
Ilya never thought he was the type to swoon, but Shane’s earnest attempt to communicate with him almost made him tip off the bar stool.
Shane put a firm hand on his thigh so Ilya wouldn’t.
“Did I say that right?” Shane asked.
“Ya skuchnyy chelovek,” Ilya mumbled a correction of I am a boring person ”but yeah close enough.”
“Say it again?
Ilya felt like he was sat for an oral exam for school, and not the fun kind with Shane, but the gesture deeply moved him.
“Later.” Ilya said. “You punch me too hard. I need to remember my English.”
“So fucking stupid.”
Ilya felt a little better that Shane wasn’t completely over him for this.
“Miaow.” Ilya chirped and Shane burst out laughing.
“I can’t stand you.” Shane smiled. “Calling me a pussycat. Starting shit on the ice. Are you going to do more freaky shit like this? You like going around looking like this?” Shane asked.
“Help, my boyfriend, he beat me.” Ilya pouted, only to wince from the pain in his mouth since he sulked on the sore side of his face. All feelings of playfulness suddenly flushed into his stomach when he saw the look on Shane’s face.
“Boyfriend?”
If Ilya had been drunk off of his psychotic idea of a surprise, he was now very, very sober.
Ilya liked that he could read Shane’s body language, that he felt comfortable to ask him what he liked instead of clamming up and going through the motions so he could move onto someone else instead of sticking with a virgin Canadian. He wanted to see what Shane liked. Hell, he liked to figure out what made Shane feel good. He hadn’t felt arrogant about his sexual experience over him, but in a way he felt responsible.
And right now, Ilya felt very young and stupid sat before his handsome, emotionally mature, and amused…well, yes he would like him to be, boyfriend.
“Joke…just a…” Ilya mumbled.
“Paren’?” Shane asked.
Ilya almost blushed as red as his bloody face. Something prickled in the corner of his eyes and he blinked quickly to push away the tears.
“Paren’.” Ilya softly confirmed, unable to take his eyes away from Shane’s. “That is how you say boyfriend.”
Shane smiled and gently sponged the warm washcloth along Ilya’s jaw in little kisses of apology for hitting him and in little acts of care.
If he was really mad, Ilya knew Shane would have showed up, told him to never do that again, and then leave. Jury’s out on if he’d have brought food since he was always so fucking polite and awkward. But this Shane right here in his kitchen was smiling.
“What is so funny? Ilya asked.
“You.” Shane smiled.
“Oh hitting me is funny?” Ilya asked.
“No, it’s not. I don’t like doing that.”
“No-one make you.”
“Ilya…”
And at that Ilya blushed so hard and fast his face hurt and a trickle of blood slid out of his nose. Shane held the washcloth to his nose to catch the dripping. Shane leaned in closer, smiling, trying not to laugh, but very clearly enamored with him. Their foreheads very gently touched. Shane’s nose lightly grazed Ilya’s wounded nose. And his presence made him feel like all Shane had done that day was kiss his face.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” Shane smiled. “I don’t like to hurt my boyfriend.”
Ilya was really pleased with his surprise, but now really very disappointed in himself he was too sore to do very much with his mouth.
“I am thinking…” Ilya started and hesitated before going further. Shane gestured for him to proceed.
“Go ahead.” Shane said.
“I am thinking yeah that was stupid because now we cannot do sex stuff.” Ilya explained. Shane seemed only vaguely impressed. “And also you did not like it and I do not want to make you upset like that.”
“Yeah that was stupid, but we can still do sex stuff.” Shane put the washcloth on the counter. “I just can’t kiss you as much as I want to.”
Instead of kissing him, Shane gently ran his hands up Ilya’s thick thighs. Ilya felt sleepy and love-drunk and stopped himself from putting his sore head into Shane’s shoulder.
“So you don’t like surprises?” Ilya asked.
“Please don’t do that one again.”
“You did not say yes or no.”
“Keep it to the bedroom, and only if you’re really sure they’ll work. I don’t like fucking with our careers like that. Nothing on the ice. Okay?”
“Okay.” Ilya nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“I forgive you.”
“Thank you.” Ilya said.
Shane gently kissed him and Ilya moaned softly from the pain of his bruises and the desire from his touch.
“You should get back for curfew.” Ilya said. “Don’t want to get you in more trouble.”
“No, I’m okay.” Shane smiled. He ran his fingers along the nape of Ilya’s neck, gently fingering his curls. “Coach told me to go get it out of my system. See if Lily could set me straight.”
“Yeah?” Ilya smiled. “Coach know Lily is insane?”
“Lily is out of his goddamn mind.”
“Is kind of funny.”
“Is not funny right fucking now.” Shane laughed. “Maybe funny in the morning.”
‘In the morning.’ Ilya felt something warm bloom in his chest. He’d never gotten Shane for so long. He’d never gotten to see him in the light of dawn.
“Shane…”
“Yeah?”
Ilya looked into his warm brown eyes. He wanted every evening to end this way.
“You are very sweet boyfriend.”
Shane purred.