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Ilya Rozanov is not obsessed with Shane Hollander.
Sure, the feeling of fucking Shane, kissing Shane, being with Shane was like nothing Ilya had ever experienced — but he is not obsessed.
Sometimes he would scroll through Shane’s social media and let himself get lost in it for a while. Pictures of Shane in wet t-shirts for sparkling water advertisements or a video of Shane working out for Men’s Health made for a great way to hold himself over until his next game against Montreal.
Everyone has a guilty pleasure… right?
Ilya wouldn’t see Shane for another couple weeks. Right now it was just boring texts and scrolling through Shane’s instagram for something that Ilya could make into good jerk-off material. He’d study Shane’s perfectly scattered freckles in his Dolce and Gabanna ad and stroke himself to the thought of finishing all over Shane’s beautiful face.
Jane: Did you see the schedule?
Ilya grins at his phone, knowing Shane had certainly already looked at the schedule for the season and knows they will see each other in two weeks.
Lily: Yes. See you soon ;)
Jane: How are things in Boston?
Ilya doesn’t know how to answer that. There are no things in Boston. He’s always just been here for the team, nothing else. When he’s not in Boston for the hockey season, he’s in Russia.
Lily: Boring. Like you.
Jane: LOL. Maybe you need to find some hobbies.
Ilya scoffs at the offensive message. He has hobbies… like going to clubs and flirting with beautiful women. Or buying expensive cars.
Lily: I have hobbies. Just not boring Canadian ones.
Jane: Sure. See you in two weeks.
Shane would never understand the way he occupied Ilya’s every-waking thought. What a burden it was to be unable to think about anything but a monotonous, Canadian goody-two-shoes — with the most handsome face Ilya has ever seen and a body he could spend hours worshipping.
The following week, Ilya went out on his usual morning run. Very scarcely did he follow a routine — but Ilya enjoyed his morning runs.
He speeds past a college campus, a park, and a coffee shop. It’s impressive how well he still tolerates running after all his years smoking cigarettes.
In his peripheral, he sees a convenience store. It’s one he’s been to many times before. They sell convenience store things, like the (boring) newspaper or chewing gum.
Ilya comes to a halt, his Nike sneakers scraping against the sidewalk when he sees an all-too-familiar face on one of the magazines inside the window.
“Fuck,” he whispers to himself.
Shane fucking Hollander, on the cover of GQ magazine.
Ilya walks closer to the glass to get a better look at the cover.
‘Sexy, Single, Stanley Cup Champion’, the bottom left corner of the cover reads.
Ilya feels like he could vomit all over the street. There he is, standing like the biggest idiot in the world, staring at a magazine with a shirtless Shane Hollander on the cover.
It feels like the image of Shane is staring holes into his soul. But Ilya can’t peel his eyes away from Shane’s expertly carved body, unbuttoned jeans, and crooked smile.
At this point Ilya has two options: he can go into the store and buy the magazine like a weirdo — because buying a magazine with your arch rival on the cover is very normal — or he can go into the store and buy a pack of cigarettes.
He does both.
There’s nobody else in the store when he opens the door, the bell chiming behind him. He grabs the first copy of GQ he can reach, and approaches the check-out counter.
He also grabs a can of Coke, maybe he’ll look less suspicious.
The clerk does a once-over on him, he’s not very recognizable in his long sleeve compression shirt and sunglasses. Unfortunately, he does have a Boston Raiders ball cap on.
“That’ll be nineteen-twenty-five,” the clerk says over static silence.
Ilya hands her twenty dollars cash, and tells her to keep the change.
He guards the magazine closely under his arm, not wanting any onlookers to see what he’s holding as he quickly walks home. The urge to open it up in the middle of the sidewalk just to see what other photos of Shane are inside is palpable — but he opens the cartridge of cigarettes and puts one between his lips instead.
Ilya arrives at his house, turning the lock and shutting the door like someone had been following him.
He tosses his keys on the counter, and sprawls on the couch. He flips through the magazine, finding Shane’s article right in the middle. There he is again — a horizontal centerfold of him lying on his back in nothing but white Calvin Klein underwear and his reading glasses.
‘Shane Hollander: Everybody Wants a Piece of the MLH It Boy!’
Despite being stationary, Ilya began feeling dizzy. He could see the outline of Shane’s cock through those pitiful underwear.
He felt like a horny teenage boy holding a Playboy he had stolen from his father. This is not something he was supposed to be looking at.
He flips to the next page. A more modest shot — Shane standing in the shallow end of a pool, his hair wet and slicked back with his hands running through it, and expression much more stern than the previous photos.
It still doesn’t give Ilya much reprieve. All those times he’d sucked and fucked Shane in the shower — looking up at Shane’s expression as water cascaded down the valley of his body — this photo left nothing to Ilya’s imagination.
He glosses over the interview questions printed in tiny font for now, flipping to the next page with a photo. They’re probably all dumb questions anyway like ‘what is your workout routine?’.
The last picture Ilya carefully looks over before closing the magazine is one of Shane spread on a mattress, arms outstretched over his head, a cream-colored cashmere sweater riding up his abdomen.
It’s perfect. It’s something Ilya would put up in a frame on his wall if he was a teenage girl, he thinks.
The soft curve of his hips that contrast the hard lines of his abs, his perfect stretch marks that thank god weren’t edited out, his brown doe-eyes that look so intimately at the camera.
Ilya could die.
He throws the magazine over to the armchair across from him in a fit of frustration. He can feel his dick straining against his shorts, and his heart aching in his chest.
He huffs against the pillow next to him, as his hand ventures under his boxers.
Resisting thoughts of Shane had become impossible. It didn’t matter what time of day it was or how inconvenient — Ilya had become completely consumed by Shane. He’s pretty certain at this point he had become programmed to get hard every time a text from ‘Jane’ appeared on his phone.
It’s miserable. He can’t fuck other people anymore. He can try, but nothing compares to the feeling of Shane Hollander.
Ilya slowly strokes himself, imagining mouthing Shane’s cock through those nearly transparent briefs or teasing his sensitive nipples under that sweater while they made out.
He scrubs over his face with his other hand, the tips of his ears heating up and beads of sweat accumulating at his hairline as he pulls himself closer to the edge. He has to get Shane back for this — it’s not fair that he’s constantly bombarded with seductive photos of his secret hookup, and Shane isn’t.
The following morning, Ilya makes a phone call to his agent. He doesn’t call her often, but he needs to ask a favor.
“I need to do… advertisement,” he says, struggling to find the correct English word.
“Okay,” she replies, typing sounds in the background of her call, “is there something in particular you’d like to advertise for? Or something you’re passionate about?”
“Ah… no,” Ilya shakes his head. “I want to be able to pose shirtless.”
His agent’s side of the line is silent for a moment.
“Sure, okay,” she clicks her tongue. “I’m sure I can find you something.”
It doesn’t take long for her to email Ilya a contract for an advertisement with Red Bull. He’d be committed to two years of advertising, with some commercials and photoshoots being a condition of his contract.
Perfect.
And that’s how two days later, he found himself in Atlanta, half-naked with a can of Yellow Edition Red Bull in one hand and a hockey stick in the other. A fluorescent light glows down on him aggressively, making him sweat.
“Oh, that’s the money shot!” The photographer raves as Ilya flexes his bicep and takes a sip out of the can.
The photographer turns the camera to show Ilya. And he has to admit, it is a fantastic picture.
His hockey pants hang low on his waist, and his whole torso glistens with sweat. His broad shoulders are accentuated by the angle and his hand looks very large wrapped around the small can. Several other images were taken that Ilya hadn’t seen yet, all he knew right now is that they’d be up on billboards and posted on social media with the tagline ‘Drink Like a Champion’.
The important thing was, they’d be made public before his next game against Montreal. And hopefully, they’d be all over the city of Boston by the end of the week.
“Nice pictures, Roz. I saw you driving through downtown,” Marleau claps Ilya on the back in the locker room.
Ilya finishes lacing up his right skate. “Photographer said I was amazing muse.”
“Sure,” Marleau scoffs. “Maybe we can celebrate with buying everyone vodka Red Bulls at the club tonight?”
Ilya purses his lips, pulling his jersey over his padding. “Maybe.”
The crowd roars as Ilya’s skates hit the ice, making his way to the center for the face off.
“Hollander,” he chews his mouthguard.
Shane glances up at him, freckled cheeks turning slightly pink.
“Rozanov,” he replies curtly.
The whistle blows and the puck drops. Ilya wins the face off — Shane chasing him across the rink. Ilya has always been faster than him, though. The puck makes it past Montreal’s goalie and into the net for the first goal of the night.
Ilya skates slowly past Shane, “You make it so easy,” he purrs.
“Fuck you.”
“Later.”
Ilya scores another two goals throughout the competitive game. Shane scores three. He didn’t play with his usual focus tonight.
When the final horn blows, Montreal wins, 4-3.
“We almost had ‘em,” Marleau throws his jersey into a pile with the rest of his dirty uniform. “Every single time. They have our number, man.”
“Da, we will still get to playoffs,” Ilya says mindlessly with his face buried in his phone.
Lily: 2886 Beacon. Will be there soon.
Jane: 👍
Ilya doesn’t wait at home for very long before he hears three gentle knocks on his door. Shane steps over the threshold, toeing his sneakers off in the entryway.
When he’s done his ritual of hanging his jacket on the back of the rarely-used dining chair, Ilya grabs him by the jaw and kisses him hungrily. He can smell Shane’s milky shampoo and faintly taste the chapstick on his lips.
Shane melts into him, holding on to the hair at Ilya’s nape, still damp from his locker room shower. He lets Ilya lick into his mouth, it’s not rough, just needy.
And Ilya is rock hard, he was before Shane even knocked on the door. His mind racing with thoughts of fucking that little pin-up in that GQ magazine…
“Rozanov,” Shane breaks the kiss.
Ilya mouths on his neck, knowing not to leave a mark. “Yeah?”
“You’re already hard,” Shane presses his muscular thigh against Ilya’s erection. “Were you like this before I got here?”
Ilya just shrugs, sliding his warm, calloused hands under Shane’s t-shirt. So what if he was already hard?
Shane gives him a look that’s partially disbelief, and partially annoyance. It quickly melts away when Ilya begins slowly rolling Shane’s nipples between his fingers.
“Ah—ah,” Shane’s face screws up just the way Ilya likes, his rosy lips parted as he attempted to beg for more.
“Tak krasivo,” Ilya nibbles his earlobe, making Shane arch into him. He had been fantasizing about this moment for weeks.
Shane’s ankle wraps around Ilya’s calf, pulling him closer. Even with Shane being at a loss for words, Ilya knows what he wants.
“Tell me what you want.”
Shane shivers. It doesn’t make it any better that Ilya removes one hand from his chest to trace the waistband of his jeans.
“I want you,” Shane says in the calmest tone he can muster, “please.”
Ilya hums against his sweet-smelling skin. “You are so good.”
“Shut up,” Shane says through gritted teeth as Ilya carries him to the couch.
Ilya carefully sets him on the cushions like precious cargo, then gives him some space to remove his clothes. Ilya is already deficient of a shirt, the hard lines of his abs and Adonis belt visible as he stands above Shane in nothing but low-hanging gray sweatpants.
Shane tries not to feel the heavy eyes — Ilya looks at him like a starving animal. He looks at him like that during face-offs on the ice, Shane knows he does it to make him blush.
Instead, he focuses on the coffee table in front of him.
His eyes drift to the plush armchair. Is that his face?
“Roz-“ Shane stutters, fiddling with his pant leg.
It takes Ilya a second to come back to reality, too infatuated with staring at Shane.
“Fuck,” he stumbles over the coffee table to retrieve the forbidden magazine, clutching it behind his back.
Shane stifles a laugh, “Did you seriously buy that and read it?”
“Uh… no,” Ilya contemplates telling the truth. “I did not read it, was full of boring questions.”
“But you looked at it?” Shane feels a sudden wave of confidence wash over him. Ilya has always had so much power over him, but for once — he has the upper hand.
Ilya nods, looking down at the hardwood floor.
“You liked looking at it?”
“Hollander,” Ilya sighs, “now you are asking me stupid question.”
A smirk creeps its way onto Shane’s face. He sits up a little straighter, his bare back warm against the cool leather of the couch.
“If you’re so obsessed with me, get on your knees.”
Ilya felt force bring him down like a magnet. He rarely submitted to Shane — but it feels right. It’s what he needs right now.
He kneels between Shane’s spread thighs, awaiting command. Shane’s cock has pitched an impressive tent in his briefs, Ilya just wants to put his mouth on it. He wants to breathe in the heat radiating through it.
“Okay,” Shane looks at him expectedly. Taking charge in these situations is foreign to him, but it makes his stomach twist.
Ilya rubs Shane’s thighs, the muscles tightening under his touch. He puts his mouth on Shane’s bulge, leaving sloppy kisses. Shane can feel it through the thin fabric, making him squirm and bite his lip.
Ilya looks at him with those tantalizing eyes — like Shane’s demand was what he’s been waiting for.
“Rozanov,” Shane pants, “come on.”
Ilya doesn’t have to be told twice. He shucks Shane’s underwear off like they’re nothing, exposing him completely. He’s flushing red and leaking.
This is what Ilya lives for.
Shane is enveloped by Ilya’s warm, wet mouth, his tongue swirling expertly around the base of Shane’s cock. It’s like Ilya knows all the places that make Shane tick.
Shane’s head falls back, he doesn’t care about controlling it. He’s pent-up — from the game, then Rozanov toying with him — frankly, he’s been pent-up since he landed in Boston.
Drink Like a Champion.
The walk through the airport was an exercise of restraint. The first thing Shane saw when exiting the terminal was a poster of Ilya that covered the entire wall.
Shirtless, sweaty, sexy Ilya Rozanov.
“What the hell, man,” Hayden had said. “We can’t escape that asshole.”
Shane had just nodded, eyes wider than usual, as if he was trying to capture the image of Rozanov sipping out of that Red Bull can with his eyes.
But now — with Rozanov’s mouth around him instead of some stupid can — it’s a new kind of high than their usual hookups. Anticipation built through private searches in his hotel room of ‘Ilya Rozanov Red Bull ad’,
Shane had arrived at the hotel and pulled the duvet over his head, feigning tiredness, and then spent hours studying every curve and dip of Ilya’s taught muscles — later that same night, he was in the shower covering his mouth to suppress his moans as to not wake Hayden.
“I’m-I’m close,” Shane lightly tugs at Ilya’s blonde curls, not wanting to finish yet.
Ilya pulls off, lips slick with spit and a devilish smile across his face. He crawls up onto the couch, laying Shane on his back.
“Wanna save it for when I fuck you?” Ilya whispers against his ear.
Shane can only clutch Ilya for dear life, feeling like this ordeal has gone on for far too long.
He just needs Ilya inside of him.
Ilya kisses him deeply, his large hands trailing down Shane’s neck and to his hips, and lips still slick with pre-cum and saliva.
“You are so beautiful, so eager,” Ilya continues. “Is like you were made for me.”
Shane’s heart stops at the sentiment. It’s not like him and Ilya were really a thing. The words go straight to Shane’s core — blood rushing to all the right places.
“I-“ Shane can’t think of a complete sentence.
Just fuck me, claim me, I’m yours.
The confidence he had when he arrived at Ilya’s was so easily washed away by the whispered words in his ear. Now Shane was pliant, submissive. He was no longer the self-assured Shane Hollander from GQ magazine.
And the image of Ilya Rozanov, sweaty and smirking at him from a larger-than-life poster in the Boston airport, had been haunting him for about forty-eight hours.
“Hey,” Ilya snaps Shane back into the present. “I will be back in a second?”
“Sure.”
Ilya returns to Shane staring at the fireplace with half-lidded eyes, perhaps this was better than the magazine.
Perhaps Shane would let him take a photo.
He cages Shane in his arms, leaving a trail of kisses on his collarbone. “Is okay?”
Shane’s lashes flutter, he can feel Ilya’s erection pressing against his hip.
Yeah, it’s so fucking okay.
A breathless ‘yes’ falls from Shane’s lips. The familiar sound of the lube cap clicking open is music to Shane’s ears. Ilya warms the liquid up between his fingers, and then lightly traces around Shane’s opening.
“This is much better than the magazine,” Ilya presses the first finger inside. “I get the real thing.”
Shane whines at the feeling and the words. Ilya’s finger curls inside him, hitting the spot that craves pressure.
“Does anybody else get the real thing?” Ilya’s breath is hot on his face, and another finger enters his body.
It’s a question that looms over the both of them like a dark cloud for a moment.
“No,” Shane shudders. “Nobody else.”
Ilya casually rolls a condom over his cock, as if those words didn’t just wrack his entire body and soul.
I don’t want you to be with anybody else.
“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya’s words come from deep in his chest. “Fuck, I want to feel you.”
Shane spreads his legs wider, encouraging Ilya to take what he wants. What they both want.
“Please, Rozanov,” a giggle begins to creep into Shane’s voice. “I’ve been waiting all day for the Red Bull guy to fuck me.”
Ilya quirks an eyebrow at him, tip prodding against Shane’s hole.
“C’mon. You know I saw it,” Shane rolls his eyes. “It’s plastered all over the airport, by the way.”
“Do I look good?”
“You haven’t seen them?”
Ilya shakes his head, holding Shane’s hips down, he sinks fully inside. “Saw one. Other than that, no.”
Shane doesn’t respond to that with anything but a choked-out gasp.
Ilya’s rhythm is languid, not wanting to tear Shane in half after months of not seeing each other — but deep down, he knows Shane isn’t delicate.
“Did you get hard?” Ilya leans forward and wraps a hand around Shane’s cock, leaking and warm. “In the airport?”
A flush of embarrassment falls over Shane — the taunting, Ilya stroking him, Ilya inside of him.
“I-yeah,” he hides his face in the crook of his shoulder. “Yeah I did.”
“You got off to it?” Ilya thumbs over his tip with a mischievous smile, knowing damn well he likes that a little too much.
Shane is heaving. It’s all a flurry. He wants more, he wants to be overwhelmed with it because he doesn’t know when or if it’ll happen again.
“Yes,” the word barely escapes his lips.
Ilya picks up the pace, sensing Shane’s impatience. “So did I.”
“Huh?” Shane doesn’t quite understand.
“The magazine,” Ilya gestures his head towards the coffee table, “I got off to it.”
Oh.
Shane’s eyes go wide with something carnal — maybe it’s lust, maybe it’s something stronger. All he knows how to do right now is pull Ilya down for a messy kiss, the cold metal of Ilya’s gold-cross chain hitting Shane’s chin as he snaps his hips.
“Ty moya,” Ilya mouths against Shane’s lips. “You have ruined me, Hollander.”
The sensual words feel just as good as Ilya hitting his prostate over and over again. It’s enough to make Shane arch his back, clenching around Ilya like a vice.
Shane finishes with a silent scream, hands gripping the couch cushions for dear life as hot spurts of cum coat his lower belly — Ilya keeps going until his release hits him and his hips stutter, things Shane has never thought of hearing fall out of Ilya’s dirty mouth as he’s about to come.
No one gets to fuck you like this but me.
I’m the only one who can make you come like this.
No one else can give you the pleasure you deserve.
It’s all disturbingly true — so Shane doesn’t say anything back. He just admires Ilya’s flushed face and blown pupils.
The way it becomes so casual in spite of everything makes Shane fold into himself. He watches as Ilya gets up and shakes out his now-sweaty hair, taking long strides to the bathroom to retrieve a towel and throw the condom away.
Ilya wipes Shane’s abdomen gently with the damp towel, it’s a gesture that can almost be read as loving.
This is just what they do, it doesn’t mean anything.
“The things I said,” Ilya started, “I’m sorry if it made you… uncomfortable?”
Shane covers his face with his forearm. “It’s uh, it’s fine.”
There’s a blanket of silence that covers the room. It’s familiar, soft. Maybe only the kind of silence you can share with your secret lover. Ilya tugs his sweatpants back on, and Shane pulls his shirt on over his head of mussed-up hair.
“Am I the only one?” Shane breaks the silence.
Ilya leans back against the arm of the couch. “Not always. But for a while now, yes.”
There’s a pang in Shane’s chest that he doesn’t quite know how to interpret. Was this just some casual thing between two people attracted to each other, or was it more fucked-up than he ever thought it was?
A few weeks later, Ilya is sitting in the Toronto airport when his phone buzzes in his back pocket.
Jane: Check my instagram page.
He opens the app quicker than he believes his iPhone 7 Plus was able to process.
“Yebat,” Ilya mumbles under his breath, eyes met with a photo of Shane shirtless in leather pants standing on center ice.
What the fuck is he advertising?
Shane’s hair wasn’t in its usual fringe, but voluminous and pushed back. His expression was seductive and kind of blank, jawline tense as he pulled a hockey glove off with his teeth. There were more photos, but Ilya didn’t dare scroll.
He looked like a siren trying to lure Ilya to the arena.
Jane: So… do you like it?
Ilya smirks at the message. Of course Shane Hollander was going to get his sweet revenge.
Lily: At airport. Will Skype you when I land to show you how much I like it ;)