Chapter Text
“We’re under two minutes to go here in Boston, and the Raiders have been in control from the opening faceoff.”
“Carolina pressed early, they had looks, but Boston answered every single time.”
“And this crowd knows it – they can feel it. Listen to this building, they’ve waited for a night like this.”
Shane could imagine the electrical feel of the stadium, he’d felt it often enough. The Raiders were on fire. They were playing great hockey. Ilya Rozanov was playing great hockey. He was leaning on Carolina’s top line all night. Backchecks. Battles along the boards. His mobility was unmatched. His fingerprints were all over this game.
“Your boy Rozanov is on a streak tonight, huh?”
He furrowed his brows, realizing his dad was talking to him. “What?” he asked, looking over at his dad.
“Rozanov,” Dave said again. “Would hate to be playing against him tonight.”
Shane nodded in agreement. “Oh, yeah,” he replied, looking back at the screen. Every time it showed #81 tonight, it was hard not to get sidetracked into his own head. It was hard to believe that it’d been only a few hours since they last made contact. After their meeting, Shane moved on what felt like auto-pilot – cleaning, driving to his parents’, having dinner, watching the game. Even now, watching the last play of the night felt like he wasn’t fully there.
The timer buzzed, the Raiders and their fans celebrating their win on screen. It showed Marleau barreling into Rozanov, their helmets clinking together. The captain smiled with an open mouth.
It felt wrong, knowing that Rozanov wasn’t feeling the same torrent of emotion that Shane felt. He couldn’t possibly be. He was too busy doing what he needed to. Dominating the ice, drinking adrenaline and victory.
Shane heard his mom call for his dad, who got up and made his way to the kitchen. He looked away from the TV screen, pulling out his phone just to have something else to do, to look at. To have something else to think about.
Do you want to?
The question rippled in his head. He didn’t not want to.
What did that make him? Gay? Curious? Sorry?
He didn’t want to think about it, sitting on his childhood couch in the room next to his parents.
Instead, he flipped through his calendar for the rest of the week. His work schedule was typically less busy around the holidays, but he did have a booking with Hayden tomorrow. The Raiders were back on the road in 2 days, and they’d be gone until Thanksgiving with four away games.
How was he supposed to feel about them leaving again? Normally he would care about the Raider’s prospects during the away week. He’d want to know who they were playing against and their odds. That’s all he was supposed to feel – but how much of that was the whole truth?
Weeks ago, it would’ve been wholly, entirely. Now?
Unknown:
enjoy the show?
Shane clicked on the text notification, reading it again. It really could’ve only been one person. Looking back at the TV screen showed that the commentary and highlights were on, the teams must’ve just gotten off the ice. That meant Rozanov texted him right when he got back to the locker room, or moments later.
Shane saved the number, eventually deciding that using his real name would be fine. Before he could reply, another text popped up.
Ilya Rozanov:
I know you liked watching the captain
Shane:
He did alright. Back hand could use some work.
Ilya Rozanov:
Ah! So you are more funny in text
Shane:
Fuck you
Shane:
What are you doing, anyways?
He tried to imagine the man in the locker room, after just winning a game, his attention on his phone, on this conversation. It made him feel strange.
Ilya Rozanov:
About to shower. Wash off your hard work
Ilya Rozanov:
☹
He typed out it’s just oil and deleted it. Then he typed the hard work was the massage, not the oil and deleted it.
Ilya Rozanov:
you are picturing me naked now?
Shane scoffed, unable to fight the smile on his face. What the fuck was going on? In what world does Shane Hollander text Ilya Rozanov about his naked body?
Shane:
I’ve practically seen you naked.
Ilya Rozanov:
not all
Shane:
I’ve seen enough.
There was no immediate reply or typing, so he assumed that the player went off to shower. He re-read their short text chain, smiled, and immediately felt dumb, locking and tossing his phone aside. He let out a sigh, falling back into the couch and pretending to watch the TV.
Shane’s phone buzzed from the sink counter. It was the third time already.
Pike – or, Hayden as the man preferred – raised an eyebrow at him. “Someone’s popular today.” A beat. “Don’t tell me you’re talking to someone? Because Jackie has been wanting to set you up with one of her ‘totally hot’ friends.”
Shane let out a sigh, continuing his work on the hockey player’s lower legs. “No, I’m not seeing anyone,” he said, choosing to ignore the latter half.
It was odd he was getting so many text messages though. Though if it were urgent, like if his parents needed him, they’d call.
“Yeah, okay Triple H, tell her I said hi. I’m happy for you, honestly. We can do some double dates. Also, you really should be using our relationship to your benefit. I’m a big deal y’know? Like I could get you seats at the game.”
“I have season tickets. And there is no ‘her’.”
“Yeah, but they’re not as good as mine.” The man let out a little groan as his calves were kneaded. “And that’s a shame.” A pause. “Damn, I bet the whole ‘Holy Hands’ thing is great with the chicks.”
Shane rolled his eyes, moving up to the man’s quads. “Don’t be gross Hayden.” His phone buzzed again. They both looked over at the counter and then back at each other. “Can’t we talk about hockey instead?” he asked, choosing to ignore any suspicious eyebrows. “You guys have a tough week coming.”
His client scoffed in disbelief at the subject change. He relented, though. “I’m not worried man. I’m already doing everything that I can,” he used his hands to gesture to his oiled-up body. “You saw Roz last night. He’s on one of his hot streaks again. ‘s got the whole team riled up. If I was a gambler I’d bet we win at least three of four. Might lose to Anaheim again. Those fuckers.”
Shane made a noncommittal noise. “Don’t think he’s going to switch up?” Rozanov’s face, his open smile from last night came to mind.
“Who knows man. I sure hope not,” he sighed. “It’s all highs-and-lows with that guy. Sure is up up now though. Must’ve gotten laid.”
His session with Rozanov ended early in the evening, he very well could’ve went out and found a girl. Or after the game. A star like him, getting some action was probably as easy as smiling. Or maybe he didn’t need to find anyone at all – maybe he had someone, privately.
And maybe Shane needed to stop thinking about the private life of someone he barely knew.
“You guys fly out tomorrow? Or tonight?” he asked, a little later as they finished up the session.
“Early morning. Then practice. Then hopefully kick some Cougar ass.” With that, he got up and stretched, letting out an exaggerated groan. “And I have to see you again after Thanksgiving because I already know I’m gonna feel like crap.”
Shane smiled. “I’ll keep a spot open for you, just let me know.”
The hockey player gave him a lazy salute before making his way to the en suite.
Shane washed his hands, grabbed his phone, and then made his way to the front. He forced himself to sit at his desk for at least a minute, checking his emails and calendar. Then he let himself open his phone to his text messages, looking for something he both anticipated and already knew was there.
Ilya Rozanov:
you are liar
Ilya Rozanov:
is okay to be curious
The next text was timestamped half an hour later.
Ilya Rozanov:
you make me curious too
The last text, sent a few minutes ago read:
Ilya Rozanov:
having great time with pike?
Shane huffed, ignoring the complicated feelings buried under the pure amusement he felt. His craft was physical – learning the language of body and movement. That was what he was good at. When Rozanov joined the Raiders, he had this fleeting vision of learning the captain in that way – muscle, range of motion, tension. How it got to this, to flirting – if that’s what this was – was beyond him, beyond whatever distant vision he could’ve imagined.
Shane:
I thought you were going to use my number for booking appointments.
He put his phone down to wake up his laptop, but it buzzed right away.
Ilya Rozanov:
you are so boring Hollander
Shane:
You’re curious about a boring person?
Ilya Rozanov:
other parts are not so boring
He quickly put his phone down upon hearing footsteps from the hallway and tried to look occupied with things on his desk. The ridiculous Hayden Pike walked out with a smirk already on his face. “Don’t worry, I’m already late and Jackie is going to kill me. So go ahead and keep sexting. Have a happy Thanksgiving, dude.”
Shane smiled at the jab but got up and gave the man a half hug. “Tell Jackie I said the same. Good luck on the games.” He sat back down at his desk, watching Hayden leave, the jingle of the doorbells following.
The clock read 3:57 PM. He had a little over 15 minutes until his next appointment. He resolutely decided to get everything prepared instead of picking up his phone.
Shane withheld a reply for the rest of the workday, all of the gym, and even after he got home. He went through yoga, dinner, and a shower without opening their text thread. There was no particular reason he’d admit to. No particular reason he could name, really.
He couldn’t decide if tailing Rozanov was saccharine sweet in a bad, indulgent way – or if it was brisk and refreshing, in a dangerous, exhilarating way. Maybe it was neither of those things. Maybe it was his brain, overthinking like it always did. How would he know?
“Fuck,” he mumbled to himself as he folded clean laundry into neat piles. Having Rozanov’s contact made this harder. Because he was curious.
And he was afraid, too.
Afraid of whatever would happen if he gave chase. Afraid nothing would happen at all.
His phone buzzed, next to his stack of folded sweatpants. He reached over to pick it up, letting out a breath upon seeing who it was from.
Ilya Rozanov:
I would like to make appointment with Mr. Hollander
He texted back after reading it again. The Raiders’ last away game would be on the 26th, nine days from now. They’d be back for Thanksgiving and then had a home game the day after.
Shane:
Next Friday? Before your game? I should have some free time.
The little dots popped up immediately. Shane felt like he needed to put his phone down, to act more casual but couldn’t.
Ilya Rozanov:
No
Ilya Rozanov:
Now
He furrowed his brows in confusion. Now as in now?
Shane:
What?
Shane:
Now? But I’m at home.
Ilya Rozanov:
even better. what is your address?
He wanted to come here? Shane looked around his room. It was neat enough, besides the laundry that needed to be put up and maybe a dish in the sink. He paused – was he even considering this? Having Ilya Rozanov at his place? Surely there was something wrong about that. Surely the man had to be joking.
Shane:
Are you being serious?
Ilya Rozanov:
Yes, very serious 😊
It felt like a challenge. He bit his lip, contemplating for a few seconds before typing out the word okay and then letting his thumb hover over the send button. “Fuck it,” he said, pressing send. And before he could overthink it all, he typed in his address sent that as well.
Shane arranged the pillows on the couch so that they were neat and aligned. Then he pushed them around so that they didn’t look neat and perfect. He couldn’t imagine Rozanov caring about his couch pillows. He didn’t know what the man cared about at all.
It’d been 15 minutes since the last text – okay. Will text you when I’m there – and Shane spent most of it correcting things in his home. He was freaking out, just a bit. There was no ritual, no method, no routine here. He couldn’t go turn on soft music. He had no massage oils to warm. He lit a candle but then blew it out right away. His dimmed the lights but then made them a little brighter.
This wasn’t his workplace. And Ilya Rozanov wouldn’t be his client. Not tonight. Not here.
His phone buzzed and so did the thrum in his chest.
Ilya Rozanov:
here
Shane:
Coming.
Shane hurried downstairs. Luckily the loft his complex was in was pretty private. He didn’t have to explain to nosy neighbors why the captain of the Boston Raiders was showing up at his place in the middle of the night.
He opened the door and Ilya Rozanov was indeed there – tall, broad, and smelling of cigarettes.
“Hey. Come in.” He stepped aside awkwardly so that the man could enter, then closed the door behind him. “It’s just ... up the stairs.”
Rozanov gave him a once-over and then headed up. Shane followed behind, acutely aware of the imaginary balloon wedged in between them.
“Um. Welcome in,” he said lamely, as he led them into the loft. He leaned against the kitchen island as Rozanov walked into the space. It was a basic loft layout – open floor plan with the kitchen, living room, and dining space all connected. There was a short set of steps that led up to his ‘bedroom’, which was connected to the office – really his sculpting studio. The interior design was mostly Japandi – clean and uncluttered, but functional, cozy, and lived-in. Not unlike the clinic.
“Wow,” Rozanov said, taking in all of the furniture and home decor. He seemed somewhat interested in the neat line of framed photographs of Shane and his family on the bookshelf. Also, a finished bust of a Apollo, his first completed piece. Seeing Rozanov in this space – in his space – felt so strange. There must be hours upon hours logged of Shane watching Rozanov on the ice, only on the ice – and here he was now. Like sunlight during rain, strange but not unwelcome.
His eyes finally landed on Shane again. He had a playful look on his face. “Mr. Decorator, huh?”
Shane couldn’t help but grin back. “Fuck off. I like when a space is warm, okay?”
“Right.” Rozanov walked towards him, seemingly no longer interested in anything else in the loft.
For some reason Shane couldn’t bring himself to look at the man’s eyes, instead flittering to his lips, nose, jaw, and lips again. “So did you really want some work done?” he asked, voice getting softer near the end of the question, because Rozanov hadn’t stopped where a normal, regular person would stop.
No, he kept going, kept walking. “Not really,” he said, shaking his head, lips pursed. He didn’t stop until they were barely apart. Shane was afraid the man could feel his heartbeat, from how close they were.
“No?” he asked, quietly.
“No.” They stood there, sharing the same breaths for a few seconds. Then slowly, so that every second of it could be seen, the man reached up and took Shane’s jaw in his palm, thumb brushing against the skin under soft lips. Shane leaned into, without thinking, like a flower reaching for sunlight. Surely Rozanov could feel the torrent of his heart, now. “Have you thought about it?” he asked.
It.
He’s thought about a lot of things. It was hard to remember any of it now, with Rozanov’s hand, warm and calloused, against him. “I’ve thought about you,” he muttered, instead.
“I know you have.” The thumb pressed onto his lower lip, tugging it down.
“Asshole,” he replied, softly, as soft as he would’ve said sorry or please.
Strong hands shifted to the back of Shane’s head, to the nape of his neck. That’s when time began to blur, seconds melting together until they barely existed at all. That’s when Rozanov leaned in – and when Shane followed. Like the strike of flint against wood. They existed in that moment, and in the wildfire that followed.
Their lips met and all that Shane could really think about was how it felt like having cotton candy melt on your tongue for the very first time. Pleasant, and then gone. Saccharine and subtly addicting.
They kissed again, and again, and he opened under Rozanov’s want. He breathed in through his nose – because he was forced to – and found that underneath the cigarette smoke, Rozanov smelled like something deeply sweet, almost feminine – honey, maybe. His hands found the man’s sides, feeling the ridges of his obliques, sliding up to his strong chest. He knew the language here, knew these muscles and this body, and yet it felt completely different now.
“Where is your bed?” Rozanov said once their lips broke apart.
“Upstairs,” he replied, not completely sure he was sober.
“Take me. I want to show you something.”
Something made him afraid. But the way Rozanov was looking at him made it impossible to be anything but needy. So he led the way, feeling the uncomfortable press of his hard dick against his pants and the unmistakable feeling of eyes watching him.
Once upstairs he turned, looking up at the other man, not sure what to do.
Rozanov only let him doubt for a second before approaching, hands finding the hem of Shane’s shirt. They started kissing again, breaking apart only to pull each other’s shirts off.
“Get on the bed. And take off your clothes.”
Shane complied, sitting on the edge of the bed to take off his socks, and then pants. He folded them and set them aside. He looked up to see that Rozanov was undressing too. It was when the man slid off his briefs did Shane finally take pause. Because besides having incredible hockey talent and an adonic body, Ilya Rozanov was also very well endowed. In fact, the biggest Shane had ever seen.
He looked up at the man who seemed every bit amused, cocky, and hungry. “Don’t be scared, it will fit.”
“I’m not scared,” he said, defiantly.
“This is your first time with a man?”
Shane nodded.
Rozanov smirked, eyes half-lidded. “Lay down. I will show you. You are fast learner, yes?”
He could only respond with a mhm as he scooted up the bed, laying down. The other man crawled up after him, not stopping until their lips met again and kissed him, once, twice, three times.
They separated and Rozanov positioned himself between Shane’s legs. “This okay?”, he asked, lips hovering just above Shane’s dick. It was – it was a ridiculous thing to see. Shane nodded. “Pay attention,” he said finally, before taking the hard dick into his mouth.
Shane buckled, eyes fluttering shut for a second, head thrown back. “Oh, fuck,” he moaned, feeling the wet heat enveloping him. He brought his attention back to watching the best he could, not wanting to disregard his instruction to pay attention.
That seemed to please Rozanov, who took him deeper. It was almost too much, too good.
“Fuck, wait – wait,” he yelped, sitting up and putting a hand in the man’s curls.
Rozanov stopped, letting Shane’s dick pop out of his mouth. “What?” he asked, with that ever-smug look on his face.
“Let me,” Shane said, or asked, feeling a bit embarrassed by how close he was to cumming. He nudged the man’s body so that they could swap positions. Rozanov let himself be moved, laying back on his elbows.
Shane positioned himself between the man’s legs and took his big dick in his hands, both hands, suddenly feeling anything but afraid. The weight, girth – it was all so different than what pleasuring his own dick felt like. He gave it a cursory stroke, enjoying how it filled his grip, enjoying the drawn-out fuck that dripped from Rozanov’s mouth when he let his thumb rub at the pre-cum covering the fat head. Shane looked up at the man as he slot his mouth over it, tasting the mess that it made. It shouldn’t have felt natural and yet it was.
“Da, like that,” Rozanov said, the smug grin from his face gone.
He took the dick deeper and it filled his mouth, stretched it. Rozanov jerked a bit, then reached down and put a hand of Shane’s head. For a second, he was afraid that the man would push down but he didn’t. He just held his hand there, fingers lacing into hair.
“Suck, Hollander. Suck my dick,” he commanded.
And that’s when it no longer felt like Shane was a piece in Rozanov’s game, because he was wanted, needed – in a primal way, primal like how he felt laying there between Ilya Rozanov’s legs, with his horse dick in his mouth. He bobbed his head, following what he thought a blowjob should be like and trying not to get lost in how intense he was feeling. He continued this repetitive motion, somehow tasting Rozanov’s constant stream of pre-cum on his tongue.
When Shane used his hand to stroke in tandem, Rozanov moaned, his mouth wide open now. The man was watching with such intensity. Shane should’ve felt scrutinized under the limelight that was his attention, but it felt like wordless praise. Taking the dick deeper, feeling it slide a little down his throat felt unreal – like doing a trick on ice successful for the first time. He felt it pulse, felt Rozanov’s fingers tighten their grip on his hair, felt his mouth, his chin wet with what could only be described as shared passion.
“I’m going to cum. In that fucking mouth.”
Shane couldn’t even process the words before Rozanov’s body tensed, dick swelling and unloading straight into the back of his throat. He tried to swallow as much as he could, but it was too much. He pulled off, the final spurt landing onto his lip, dripping down to his chin.
“Fuck,” groaned Rozanov, breathing heavy. He watched Shane for a few seconds before grabbing at him, pulling him up urgently. “Come. Come here.”
Shane let himself be maneuvered until he was laying flat, with the other man above him. A thumb wiped at the cum at his mouth before pushing onto his tongue. He sucked on it, without being told to – by Rozanov or by his brain. He thought it would be over then, but Rozanov moved down and took him into his mouth.
“Rozanov, you don’t have to, fuck –” He couldn’t have possibly said anything else, the way his dick was getting sucked. He let his hand grab onto the man’s shoulder and his head fall back, afraid watching would push him over the edge. Though it didn’t matter much because – “I can’t – you better stop,” he muttered. But that only seemed to motivate the man, who doubled his efforts.
And then he came, hard, right into Rozanov’s mouth, who unlike him, swallowed every drop.
He collapsed onto the bed, breathless.
Rozanov did the same, falling down next to him. After a few breathy seconds, he leaned over and found Shane’s lips, who’s eyes fluttered closed as they kissed. It was the most intimate experience he ever had – eons away from anything he experienced with past partners.
They broke apart both grinning.
“So you are good with your mouth too, not just hands,” he said, eventually.
Shane laughed, feeling roses bloom in his chest. “Shut up.”
“Hey maybe you need new nickname. Holy Mouth Hollander.”
“Oh my god, fuck you Rozanov. That's terrible.”
The man looked amused though. He leaned in for a few more kisses and then leaned back, letting out a happy sigh. “I should go. I have 6 AM flight tomorrow”
Shane nodded, understanding that. It was already pretty late. “Okay.”
Rozanov looked at him for a little bit longer and then gave him one more kiss. Then another. Then he got up and started to get dressed. Shane watched, admiring the man’s muscles in a way that he never did before, still in slowly clarifying disbelief at everything that just happened.
“Goodnight,” Rozanov said, that grin back on his face.
“Goodnight,” he replied. And then the other man was gone, his steps echoing until inaudible. Shane laid in his bed, looking up at his ceiling while his body returned back to normal. While his mind tried to return back to normal.
Mostly, he thought about how kissing Rozanov felt. Sweet, indulgent, and leaving him wanting more.