Work Text:
Erik Fogel, Boston center, their first round draft pick, and fifth place in the goal race this season, kept his smirk fixed when the Ilya Rozanov skated towards the faceoff circle, waving cheerily at the resounding boos from the Boston crowd. Fogel had been on the ice with Rozanov before and even faced off against him once, but Coach recently moved him to first line center and this was the first time they played since all the comparisons between him and Rozanov exploded. His mouth earning him several on ice fights this season only fueled the speculations.
When Fogel asked Marlow, his captain and right winger—which still felt like a dream—for tips on how to handle Roz, Marly just patted his shoulder unhelpfully before deigning to give: Roz has an easy trigger point. You can figure it out. Then a more stern: If you get any fights, make him throw the first punch.
The social media manager was quick to jump on the hype, bullying Fogel to be mic’d up. Rozanov apparently wanted to be mic’d up too but was denied. Fogel preened that he could spark such a reaction from a NHL legend, but, like most legends, they had to die some time.
“Glad you can find the faceoff circle,” Fogel said. “Vision’s the first to go.”
“Aw baby’s first chirp.” Which was accurate for Rozanov specifically since the one time they faced off, Fogel was too tongue-tied to speak, but it didn’t stop Fogel’s scowl. He overplayed how much it annoyed him though. He was a fan of giving people easy targets that didn’t matter. “Want a picture for your baby book?”
“I’m getting a hat trick tonight,” Fogel said. “To remind you of your heyday.”
“Big talk means nothing if you can’t back it,” Rozanov said. Rozanov, who notoriously announced he’d get 50 goals his rookie season and scored more. “I will win faceoff and score. To remind you of good hockey.”
Fogel watched the puck. “I’d like to see you try, old man.”
Rozanov won the faceoff.
Rozanov didn’t score off that puck, but annoyingly stole it from Hanson, the Boston left winger, about thirty seconds later then scored with a classic Rozanov fake out. He blew a kiss at jeering crowd and skated by the Ottawa bench. Hollander’s face was obscured, but Rozanov had a wide grin when he turned.
He didn’t pay attention to Fogel.
Rozanov ignored him in the next faceoff too, chatting with Marly as if they weren’t in the middle of a hockey game.
“You can’t hurt my heart like that,” Rozanov said.
“They closed four months ago,” Marly said. “Tony retired and no one wanted to take over.”
“But, the chicken parm…”
“I know, man.”
“I didn’t eat there last time we played in Boston.”
Marly sounded genuinely regretful. “I didn’t know they were closing till day of or else I would’ve told you.”
“I didn’t think you could eat solid foods,” Fogel said.
“Shush,” Rozanov said, still facing Marly. “Adults are talking.”
Rozanov won the faceoff.
He checked Barrett into the boards. He was striking up close. Blue eyes and dark hair looking straight from the runway. So glad he has only knew Barrett from after his Kent days.
“Respect that you came out, man.” Not that there was an overwhelming number of out NHL players, but there was enough momentum and positive responses that Fogel didn’t hesitate coming out as pan when he was drafted.
Barrett grunted as Fogel swiped the puck and passed it back towards the Boston defense line.
“Love when dick sucking lips live up to their full potential.”
He winked before he raced away.
He scored past Hayes, a beast of a goalie who had been on a shutout streak until now. He whooped as Boston players collided into him.
“That’s one!”
Hollander skated up for a faceoff, cold and intense as always. The epitome of a hockey robot, somehow reading plays and positions before anyone moved. Fucking insane.
Hollander was someone he had faced off against before, but he was no less intimidating. Fogel had yet to get a rise out of him and, depressingly, he’d only won a fraction of their faceoffs. Hollander was currently also on a streak and hadn’t lost a single faceoff during the Centaur’s last game. And it wasn’t even against a shit team like Buffalo. It was Philadelphia, who were projected to make it to playoffs.
Hollander remained incredibly gorgeous, lashes dark and freckles scattered across his cheeks. His Calvin Klein ad was the core of Fogel’s sexual awakening. The Centaurs landed too many sexy players.
“Hey, baby,” Fogel said. Flirting remained his favorite chirping method, especially against Hollander. “Invitation is always open. I know married life can lead to a lull in your sex life.”
Hollander's indifferent mask stayed firm.
“I do yoga too,” Fogel said. “We can get all sorts of knotted up together.”
It was like his chirps rolled off him. Of course, he did play against and choose to marry Rozanov, notoriously a mouthy asshole. His tolerance was too high.
“I’m flexible other ways too but, no matter the position, I’ll take care of you.”
Hollander won the faceoff.
Hollander scored when Fogel was on the bench with a tauntingly accurate top shelf goal. His control and accuracy were sharp as always.
“I can’t even be mad,” Fogel said, wedged between two Boston legends, Vic St. Simon and Marly. Each time the shine of their legacies wore off, they managed to pull off something to reignite it. Luckily, Fogel had long since kept anything close to awe shoved deep down. “It’s Shane fucking Hollander.”
Vic snorted. “That gets old fast. Give yourself a couple more games.”
Fogel doubted Hollander’s legacy would ever fade.
“Just think, if Roz wasn’t so whipped and moved to Canada, Hollzy would’ve signed on with Boston when he was a free agent,” Marly said.
“At a discount too,” Vic said. “We have less cap available than Ottawa so we could get rook here.”
Fogel preened. His rookie salary wasn’t more than Rozanov’s or Hollander’s had been their rookie years but, after this season, he could brag he made more than the Shane Hollander for at least one season.
“You think he’d take something lower? He’s only making a million more than the average salary,” Fogel said.
“Roz isn’t.” Marly huffed. “Guess he’s the sugar daddy.”
“With Hollzy’s brand deals?” Vic asked. “Doubt it.”
Hollander’s most recent ad campaign was Reebok’s pride line which featured an oiled up Hollander. Fogel was a fan.
“Rozanov is in commercials now too,” Fogel said. His most recent stint was a nonsensical cologne commercial that featured him in an unbuttoned white dress shirt sprawling on top of expensive cars.
Fogel was a fan of those too.
“Guess Roz is the sugar daddy.”
The old age chirps, while solid, moved to backburner. Fogel thought they’d get to Rozanov based on all the dinosaur chirps he threw at Hunter over the years, but no luck.
“You know people compare us,” Fogel said.
“They do, 18,” Rozanov said, crouching for the faceoff.
Fogel refused to flush. He hadn’t officially acknowledged he took 18 in homage to Rozanov’s 81, but it wasn’t the most subtle secret. “But I never saw it.”
“Yes, I am much more handsome,” Rozanov said.
“I mean, you’ve never won Rookie of the Year.”
Fogel won the faceoff.
Fogel whooped as he chipped in a goal off Hanson’s rebound. “Let’s fucking go!”
Hayes whacked the top of the net as the Bears crashed into Fogel.
“Atta boy, Foggie,” Marly said.
The goal wasn’t as sweet since Ottawa’s heaviest hitters were on the bench, but he’d take it. He heaved away from his team and circled by the Centaur bench.
Rozanov did have one glaring trigger point. Fogel was too willing to exploit it.
“See that goal, baby?” Fogel leered, doing everything in his stance to make it obvious Hollander was his sole focus. “Almost as sexy as you.”
Hollander, unsurprisingly, was unflappable. He was retaping his hockey stick when Fogel skated over and Fogel doubted anything would make him falter.
“I’ll give you my number after the game,” Fogel said. “You deserve some fun.”
He dared a look at the Ottawa captain. For the first time this game, Rozanov made hard eye contact. The Russian cocked his head, smiling like a threat. “Hollander is not a child predator. Go celebrate your insignificant goal with the team who last won a Cup because of me.”
“Don’t worry, the team will win more Cups because of me,” Fogel said. He skated away when a ref skated closer. He smirked at the Russian conversation that broke out behind him.
Marly shook his head when Fogel joined him on the bench. “You got balls, kid. I’ll give you that.”
Fogel shrugged. “What comes around goes around.”
“Just remember what I said earlier.”
Make Roz punch first if they fight. Fogel’s favorite trick. “Easy.”
Interlude
Shane caught Ilya’s arm, tugging him to the side of the hallway. Press would be near the locker room and Shane wanted to get to him before a camera did.
“Tы в порядке?” Shane asked. Are you ok?—one of the first Russian phrases he learned.
Ilya gave a nasty scowl Shane didn’t take personally. He took out his band to shake his hair from the bun. Ilya predictably got distracted.
Montreal totted around the “new Shane Hollander” earlier this season, but the center’s lackluster stats grinded that nickname into the ground even if he was also Asian. Shane knew once Fogel—a mouthy European—shook off his rookie nerves and maintained truly impressive hockey, the “new Ilya Rozanov” was destined to stick around longer.
Ilya mocked it and pretended he was unbothered, but it was a weird feeling seeing your old team force a newer, younger model to take over your legacy. His husband started this game slightly annoyed, but the thrill of teasing the Boston crowd outweighed it. At first.
Shane finger combed out a tangle. “моя любовь?”
Ilya deflated, the pet name tearing down his walls with brutal efficiency. “Fucking Fogel. Why didn’t you tell me how he gets?”
“It’s just dumb mind games. I ignore it like I ignore most things on the ice.” Shane learned early on his lack of chirping ability didn’t matter if he feigned indifference. Not that that strategy ever worked around Ilya.
“You should tell him to fuck off,” Ilya grumbled. “He’s attracted to you.”
Shane rolled his eyes. “On the drive to the arena, some women flashed you and you laughed.”
“Was harmless,” Ilya said, fighting back sheepishness.
“This is harmless,” Shane said. “Ilya, I’m married to you. I want you and only you.”
Ilya softened, but his arms were still crossed.
“And even if I wasn’t, he’s a fucking teenager,” Shane said. “I’m not an Admiral. I don’t go for younger men.”
Ilya’s crooked grin flashed. Finally. “I’ll have to tell Bennett and Hunter they’re bad influences.”
“Unlike you, of course.”
“I make your life more exciting,” Ilya said. “It’s a good balance for your boring.”
Shane pulled his hair back into a bun, accepting Ilya’s quick peck before resuming their trek to the locker room. Even after all these years, he ran through media’s probable questions and his harmless responses.
“You have a good poker face, moй единственный,” Ilya said.
Shane raised an eyebrow at his husband who made fun of his red cheeks daily.
Ilya smirked, reading Shane as easily as ever. He booped Shane’s nose. “On the ice. Not against me. Fogel’s chirps didn’t ruffle you at all.”
“Well, yeah,” Shane said. “If I took everyone’s chirps like that seriously, half the league would be flirting with me.”
“Half the league?”
Shane rolled his eyes, opening the door to the locker room.
Fogel met Rozanov for another faceoff. Rozanov’s face was indifferent but shoulders tense. This was a hard game, both teams fighting but the game refused to break its stalemate. This was also their first faceoff against each other since he chirped their bench.
“Bear cub,” Rozanov said. “Still scratching at your better’s knees? Can’t reach much higher, really.”
Short jokes. Rozanov must be desperate.
“Do you think he’ll be a good boy for me even after we beat you?”
Rozanov’s eyes flashed.
Fogel won the faceoff.
Rozanov slammed him against the boards, harder than necessary but the refs didn’t notice since Rozanov’s blade found the puck and he shot it to the Centaur winger, Boodram.
“Like taking candy from a baby,” Rozanov said. “The saying makes sense now.”
“I’ll suck—” but Roz already left. He didn’t want to resort to ‘fuck yous’ to the master ragebaiter himself, but he couldn’t think of another short quip at the moment.
Vic swooped towards Boodram, hopefully to steal possession. Fogel hesitated on darting closer or anticipating the pass. Rozanov was all action, grabbing the puck Boodram dropped behind him and passing to Barrett who slapped it into the net. Fuck.
Boos shook the arena.
Barrett and Rozanov were arguing. Nothing loud enough to overhear and he was too far for the mic to capture anything so he could get answers later, but clearly arguing. Well, Barrett was arguing. Rozanov looked peaceful.
In sync, they turned to the bench where Hollander sat, looking every inch the Prince of Hockey. Rozanov held up a finger and thumb, an inch apart. His profile was pleading.
Hollander gave the barest of nods and Rozanov whooped.
“Are you hungry?” Rozanov asked at the faceoff circle.
Fogel shouldn’t have let Rozanov speak first and control the flow of chirps. “Always hungry for something tasty. Maybe Canadian.”
“You are growing boy,” Rozanov said. “Probably.”
“I need something thick and juicy,” Fogel agreed.
Rozanov’s grinned like a shark. “Don’t bite off more than you can handle, baby bear.”
The puck was poised to drop. Both centers stilled, mouths going on autopilot.
“I leave everyone satisfied at the end,” Fogel said.
“I leave everyone only wanting one thing,” Rozanov said. “Me.”
Rozanov won the faceoff.
Fogel skated across the blue line, seeing a clear path to the Centaur goal and bypass their defense line. He could pass, but he could taste the goal. Speed was his friend. His edge work was unmatched. He was nimble. He was—
A stick tangled with his skates and he tripped, skidding on the ice.
“Oops,” said a too familiar accented voice. “Didn’t mean for you to eat shit.”
Fogel glared.
Marly sighed and skated until he was an inch from Rozanov’s face. Rozanov was unbothered.
“Really, Roz?” Marly asked.
“Was an oops,” Rozanov said. “A minor oops. Look, the baby didn’t even bleed.”
Vic helped Fogel to his feet, arm not budging when Fogel tried to charge at Rozanov. He was more startled than anything. Such a cheap trick. Not that anything was too low for Rozanov. Fogel wanted to punch the smirk off the Russian’s face, which, he realized, was the point.
“I’m fine, Marly,” Fogel said. “Ready to get a hat trick on our power play.”
Marly took stock of Fogel before returning to stare disapprovingly at Rozanov. “Don’t pull shit like that again, Roz. I am willing to throw hands.”
“I know, Marly,” Roz said, “but you’re too scared of Ottawa’s power play.”
Ottawa’s lethal power play with Hollander and Rozanov on the ice at the same time had yet to meet any significant opposition from any team. It was terrifying.
“You’re such an asshole.”
“Yes, you know this.”
“Minor penalty on 81,” a referee said. “Two minute power play for Boston.”
Rozanov skated backwards to the penalty box, waving like royalty to the crowd.
Shane Hollander came out, replacing Boodram and leaving Barrett and Hollander as forwards. Not a duo seen too often, but they work well in the typical three player line. Boston booed Hollander on principle, but now the jeers were aggressive as if Rozanov’s tripping made everything personal. Or as if the crowd wanted to do anything in their power to give Boston even more of an advantage. It was 3-2, Centaurs in the lead. Fogel didn’t want to tie up the game. He wanted to put Boston in the lead.
“Ready for some good hockey, baby doll?” Fogel said, crouching for the faceoff. “I can kiss any pain better later.”
Hollander’s mask was smooth, skin flawless and eyes sharp. No response, as usual.
“I can kiss anything you like.”
The referee readied the puck and he tightened his grip on his stick.
Hollander winked.
Hollander won the faceoff.
Not only did Boston not score on their power play—a terrible combo of Hayes masterful blocking and Barrett and Hollander’s annoying game of keep away—but when Rozanov came out of the penalty box, Hollander stayed on his line and the Centaurs scored in less than thirty seconds.
It was infuriating.
The game ended 4-2 and Boston’s chances of making playoffs got that much slimmer.
Rozanov’s grin widened when they made eye contact. “That was only two goals. Sad when baby can’t count.”
“Fuck you,” Fogel said because sometimes a good fuck you was needed.
Hollander smiled at Fogel from where he trailed Rozanov. “Good game. Nice stick handling.”
Any irritation evaporated and Fogel felt giddy. “Thanks.”
Then smugness rose as Rozanov skated back, wide grin nowhere to be seen, grabbed Hollander’s arm and dragged him away.
When Ilya agreed to hang out with Marly and some of the Boston team that night, he imagined it was key Boston veterans and no annoying rookies. The teams ate separately—though he, Shane, Marly, and Vic ate at the second best Italian restaurant downtown—and most met at one of his go-to clubs back in the day. The menu updated and the bartenders now wore an all back uniform, but the atmosphere was the same.
Well, the atmosphere was the same minus the taint coming from arrogant rookies.
Shane’s hand stayed in Ilya’s, not paying too much attention as he sipped his ginger ale and chatted with Wyatt. They were in the VIP section, giving everyone, but importantly Shane who was the reason Ilya even reserved this section, a much needed buffer from the throng of club goers.
Fogel leaned against the bar next to Luca, staring as if seeing him for the first time. Unfortunately, Luca looked equally enthralled so Ilya couldn’t even righteously intervene. He didn’t think he’d have to worry about karma sending a playboy to terrorize his loved ones until he had kids.
“You ok to dance, мой будильник?” Ilya shifted to press behind Shane, not letting go of his hand so he looped that arm over Shane’s head and wrapped it around his waist.
“Yeah,” Shane said, adjusting. “You know nothing actually happened, right? There’s no need for you to cling to me all night.”
“There’s always a need to cling to you,” Ilya said, mouthing down to Shane’s ear. “You like it.”
“I’ll take that as my queue to bounce,” Wyatt said.
“Sorry,” Shane said.
“Prude,” Ilya said at the same time.
The goalie raised his glass as he backed away. “Just happy you’re happy, Cap.”
Wyatt wandered towards Fogel and Luca because he was a traitor. More rationally, he wandered that direction because Bood nursed a beer a couple seats down but Ilya wouldn’t decide how generous he was until later.
“I think I should never let you out of my sight since half the league wants to fuck you.”
“Fuck off. They don’t want to fuck me,” Shane said.
“You’re not to be trusted. You have the social perception of a rock.” Ilya nuzzled closer when Shane protested. “A sexy rock.”
“Thanks,” Shane said dryly. His face was mostly obscured since Ilya refused to move from encasing his back, but his side profile was deliciously irritable. “I’ll bring this up the next time someone asks me about your charisma as captain.”
“You’re sweet to me, котенок,” Ilya said. “Is not your fault hockey takes up so much brain power. It is better you didn’t pick up on any maybe flirting. You would’ve provoked fights when you responded and your pretty face would get bruised.”
“Fuck off,” Shane said. “No one was flirting. They were chirping.”
“Our chirping is flirting,” Ilya said. If only Shane deigned to be mic’d up more, then Ilya could hear their flirty chirps firsthand to determine their intent. It wasn’t like there was another way to hear their chirps. Or another person who stood near the faceoff circles as winger since basically rookie year. Ilya sighed. “Fuck me.”
“No thank you,” Shane said. “Unless you mean ride you, then yes please.”
“Mr. Comedian with the jokes,” Ilya said. “Mocking my pain.”
“I’m literally not.”
“Not caring I’ll have to ask Pike what chirps he’s heard over the years as your winger. He’s an idiot but maybe his hindsight has gaydar.”
“It definitely does not.”
Ilya gave a dramatic sigh and finally released Shane to better lead him from the front. “Let’s dance.”
“Do you want to talk with Fogel at all?” Shane asked.
Ilya turned to stare incredulously. “Husband, why? You want a threesome? The original and the replacement Rozanov? Am I no longer your heart’s desire?”
“Fuck you, he’s not your replacement,” Shane said. “Just… Marly said he’s big fans of ours. I’m sure it’d mean a lot.”
Shane’s brown eyes and freckles made a lethal combination. Ilya sighed dramatically again. He turned to the bar. Fogel loudly talked about mountains for some reason. Again though, Luca was enraptured. Such a cute baby gay.
Fogel’s German accent was still basically non-existent even when he was wasted, which was annoying. Logically, Ilya knew his lack of accent was because Fogel grew up between Berlin and Ohio, but all the comparisons between the two just made him envious since he struggled with English his first year.
“Fogel,” Ilya called. The players at the bar quieted and Shane groaned, “you’re not that insufferable and you’re alright at hockey.”
“Really, Ilya?” Shane muttered.
“But use protection or else I will bully Marly until he makes you bag skate all practice.”
“You got nothing on me,” Marly called. Ilya waved him off.
Luca’s face resembled a tomato and Ilya realized the appeal of being an embarrassing parent.
Fogel just waved cheerily. “I think you’re ok at hockey too. Can’t wait to win more awards you couldn’t get.”
“Ok, we’re going,” Shane said. “Come on.”
“Bye, Shane,” Fogel sang. “Love the look.”
“Ok, first,” Ilya said. “It’s slut behavior to—”
Shane dragged Ilya to the dance floor, using unfair tactics such as brute force and scowling sexily until Ilya was too busy groping his husband in public to care about a hyped up rookie. That night at least. At the airport, Ilya googled facts about Fogel until he had a plethora of chirps ready to go.