Chapter Text
Shane has always sworn he would avoid situations that compromise his routines. His very strict, meticulous, extremely thought out, spreadsheet-formatted routines. And he hasn't. Not really. He tells himself that he hasn't.
Which is why he's choosing to ignore Ilya's text, waiting for him like an unspoken rule he refuses to break. If he picks up his phone to read the text for a third time, he'll consider replying. And if he considers replying, he'll definitely respond. In the locker room, Hayden on the bench next to him, with the rest of the Montreal Metros performing their pre-game rituals.
He scolds himself mentally, and tries to think about anything, literally anything else, like water parks, or Christmas decorations, or fuck.
He can't afford to get a hard-on, which he definitely doesn't have, as a result of Ilya's text.
Lily: I'm going to make you cum for every goal you score tonight.
Shane knows he's beyond fucked.
He's especially fucked because they're playing Boston tonight. Why is he even texting him right now? They're supposed to be on the ice in ten minutes. Shouldn't he be giving his last-minute, extremely motivating captain's speech? Personally, that's Shane's least favorite part about game days. He hates giving speeches. It always feels intimidating, and he's never been good at public speaking. Even if it is just his teammates.
Reporters and interviews are different, though. He almost always knows what questions he'll be asked, and what answers to respond with. He has a spreadsheet for that, labelled as "Questions and Answers.”
They'll ask him about the plays during the game, what motivates him on and off the ice, how proud he is of his fellow teammates, the goals he scores.
It becomes exhausting and predictable after doing it for so long, which is why he is able to respond with perfect, thought out, inconspicuous answers.
He knows Ilya's pre-game speeches are nowhere near as underwhelming as Shane's. Shane has never heard one of his speeches, but he imagines they're along the precipice of 'let's fucking destroy them' and 'I want to fucking win' and 'don't let those fucker's have the puck'.
And well, fuck, now he's back to thinking about Ilya. His text still sitting ignored in his phone.
He takes several deep breathes, mainly to calm the pre-game anxiety he always gets before leaving the locker room, and also, he really needs his dick to go down.
"Hey man, you good?" Hayden manages to break through Shane's deep headspace of never-ending thoughts.
Shane finishes tying his skates, left lace over right, because if he does it backwards, he'll think about it during the game, and he can't afford distractions.
"Yeah, Hayd, I'm good. Just thinking about how we're gonna beat Boston".
Hayden doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't question him further. He never does. It's kind of an unspoken rule between the two of them. If Shane says he's fine, it means he's really not, but Hayden knows he won't talk, even if someone is pointing a gun at his head. So, Hayden makes a mental note to talk to him after the game, when Shane isn't so anxiety-ridden.
Hayden's lips curve upwards in a soft smile, and gently pats Shane's shoulder, before standing to join J.J. and Mitty who are doing their last-minute stretches by the door.
Shane takes a deep breath, ignoring the slight pressure behind his eyes.
"Alright guys. We're gonna go out there, perform our best, and make sure Boston doesn't have a chance at stealing the puck. We're better than them, faster, and we know this rink like the back of our hands. So, yeah. Let's go beat these guys".
He internally grimaces at his half-assed speech, but the rest of the guy's whoop and holler like that was the most exciting speech they've ever heard.
He's pretty sure he heard a "fuck Rozanov!" from J.J., but that's no surprise.
Shane knows they'll never give him shit for it, and it seems to do the trick regardless, because they're all piling out of the door and heading for the ice.
Shane takes a few deeper breaths and follows the rest of the team through the doors, and to their bench.
The rink is full of thousands of fans, as per usual, and the base of the music revibrates through his body, in a somewhat grounding way. The jumbotron is lazily dragging through the crowd, occasionally drifting over to the Boston bench, highlighting their captain, and over to the Metros bench, where Shane tries very hard to not look in their opponent's direction.
He failed miserably, though.
He catches view of Ilya in his peripheral, dramatically waving his hands and speaking with his whole body. He always does that when he's passionate about the conversation, probably telling Marleau to check every Metros player into the boards when he gets the chance. Marleau laughs and slaps Ilya's back, then Ilya turns to look in the direction of Shane. Their eyes meet immediately.
And fuck, seeing Ilya in his uniform, home or away, never fails to take Shane's breath away. Probably never will. His helmet is on, chin strap unfastened, a few wild, brown curls sticking out from underneath, where Ilya failed to tuck them in. His gloves are off, stick in one hand, the other on his hip. He's just close enough to where he can see the slight pout of his lips, his cupid's bow on display, looking so fucking kissable. His eyes quickly drag down Ilya's body, trying to be discreet, but lingering on his clothed dick.
Oh, how he wishes they were laying naked, on Shane's bed, moaning into each other's mouths, as Ilya slowly unravels him.
Shane knows that's exactly what will happen after the game, because he has no self-control when it comes to Ilya, and knowingly, himself.
Ilya takes a quick glance around, and when he decides no one is looking, he shoots a wink at Shane, his lips curling into a cocky smirk.
That cheeky motherfucker.
"Shane, buddy?" Hayden taps his thigh with his own.
Shane directs his attention back to the team, and Coach Theriault calls Shane to center ice for the face off. And, well, where Shane goes, Ilya follows. Because that's what the NHL have spent the past three years dedicating their time to. The rivalry.
If only they knew. Fucking with each other on the ice and fucking like rabbits off of it.
Shane skates out to the face off dot, Ilya behind him, matching his speed. When Ilya takes his position in front of Shane, his eyes burning holes into his visor, Shane stares at the puck. He will not look at Ilya, because his erection is already threatening his physical state, and if he looks at Ilya, he will definitely have, yet again, another raging hard-on that he just recently got rid of.
This isn't new for them, though.
On center ice, Ilya staring at Shane, and Shane avoiding eye contact. Because Shane knows that if he looks at Ilya before the puck drops, it won't end up in the hands of the Metros. Well, sticks actually. If Shane looks at Ilya and sees that stupidly handsome smirk he always wears, he'll rip his clothes off, right in front of the cameras. That definitely won't be a good look for their image, and his PR manager would have a brain aneurysm.
"You look pretty tonight. You having fun?"
The deep, soothing Russian accent makes Shane's knees weak, and tingles shoot up his spine. He caves in and glances up to meet Ilya's gaze, remaining silent.
"I make bet on how many goals you score. Let's say three. You think you can make three?"
Shit. Shane's eyes widened slightly, and he shifts back and forth, his composure slipping just for a second as he thinks back to Ilya's previous text.
"I don't care how many goals I score, as long as it's more than you, asshole." Shane says, finally snapping back into himself.
Ilya's smirk widens, and his eyes glisten at Shane's snarky attitude. The puck drops, and Shane takes it. Which is what usually ends up happening every time the two of them start the game together.
Shane takes off towards the goal, skates gliding smoothly on the ice. It's second nature for him, and he doesn't need to think twice about how to move his body. Every time he steps onto the ice, whether that's game days or practice, his body naturally falls into rhythm. It's expected, after spending the majority of his early and young adult life perfecting his performance. His feet move without trying, and his body moves without resistance. Hockey is the one thing that proves Shane's dedication to something he's committed to. Something that fans and reporters alike praise him for. He has the Rookie of the Year award, and the Hart Memorial Trophy to prove it. The Cup still waiting to join his most-likely-to-expand collection.
Shane's focus is centered on the goal, as his hands grip his stick, fingers clenched in a vise-grip. His breath coming out in short pants, as his ears pick up on chirps and calls being made by his own team, and their rival's. His body is fast approaching, and as he moves to flip his wrist to make the first goal of the night, a body slams into him from behind, throwing Shane against the boards.
At first, he assumed it was Marleau, as a result of Ilya's probable directions to distract the Metros. But as he felt the other player's hot breath against his ear, his body pinned to the boards by the other, puck most likely in the sticks of a Bear, he realizes, that no it is in fact, Ilya.
"I think you look better like this, kotonok. Da, better."
Shane's face flushes, and his head fills with fluff. Oh, so this will be a dirty game. And in the sexual sense, that is.
It only took a split second for realization, becoming aware of his surroundings and where they were. He heard Marleau shout as he snapped the puck into the goal, stealing the first of the night.
Well, guess that's where the puck went. Shane thought, as Ilya shoved himself off and away.
Hayden skated over to Shane, concern written on his face, mouthguard in hand.
"Are you okay man? I mean that wasn't a dirty hit but shit we've barely started the game."
Shane laughed and made his way to the bench, Hayden's eyes following. "Nah man, I'm good. Besides, it's expected."
As Shane sat down and looked out to the ice, Ilya was skating laps, waving up to the fans and smiling. Marleau laughing, and Hayden shaking his head at the ideocracy.
Shane took his helmet off, and ran his hand through his already sweaty hair, un-sticking it from his forehead. That did not go unnoticed by Ilya, who was skating past the Metros bench, before joining Hayden at the face off dot.
Ilya's eyes darkened, lips parting so he could lick them. Shane isn't doing anything sexual, but after not seeing each other for four months, between games, events, flights, and interviews, Shane could be folding laundry and Ilya would cum in his pants on the spot.
Shane looked up at the jumbotron and watched as Hayden and Ilya shared a brief exchange, before the puck dropped and Ilya took off with it. Marleau seems to be Ilya's right-hand man, specifically on the ice, and also off of it. But this time it was St-Simon that had the assist, and Connors snapped the puck into the goal, becoming the second of the night.
Fuck. Well, shit.
Shane sucked in a breath and watched as Hayden shook his head in defeat, the Bears piling together in a rough group huddle.
Bears, two. Metros, zero.
"Hey so, how do you think this game is gonna go? Because the Bears seem to be out for blood." Mitty said, as he fiddled with his stick and rolled his eyes.
Hayden was called back to the bench, so Shane could take his spot.
Ilya was already waiting at the face off dot, bottom lip between his teeth, eyes sultry, and Shane felt his pulse jump.
"Are you enjoying game? Because I am. I love winning. I need prize for playing such good game."
Shane tried to glare at Ilya, but he can never fake anger towards him. He either is or isn't.
"Fuck off Rozanov, we're not even halfway through the game."
Ilya snorted, his eyes shining. "Da, true, but who has more goals?"
Shane looked at the ref, silently begging with his eyes to make Ilya stop antagonizing him.
The whistle blew, puck dropped, and Ilya sped off, stick in hand, with the puck. Shane was not too far behind though.
He skated quickly behind Ilya, feet moving fluidly, watching the strong glide of Ilya's own. Players from both teams surrounded them, and Shane silently prayed that his left wing was following behind him, ready to take the puck if it slipped out of Ilya's control.
Think, Shane, think. They can't score again so think!
He saw an opening, and he took it. Probably not a smart one, seeing as Ilya will definitely get him back for it, in more ways than one. Ilya made him a promise, and Shane was not willing to give that up.
He picked up speed, breath exhaling in heavy puffs, his feet working overtime, as he gained enough distance to see the fine hairs on the back of Ilya's neck.
They skated closer to the goal, and Shane observed his surroundings, making sure no other body was in line of physical contact, and made the split-second decision to shoulder check Ilya. Hard.
His shoulder collided with Ilya's shoulder blades, Ilya's posture faltering and this time, it was him who collided with the boards, Shane in tow. The puck slipped out from the end of his stick and thank God, Drapeau was there to catch it.
Bears, two. Metros, one.
But Shane stopped paying attention to the game. His body slammed into Ilya's, and he dropped his stick to grab onto his arm. Ilya's feet were shuffling beneath him when their bodies met, and as a result, Ilya went down on the ice. Not before grabbing onto Shane, though.
They landed together, Ilya on top of Shane. Their legs were intertwined, one of Ilya's hands planted on the ice beside Shane's head, the other on his hip where he managed to grab before they went down. One of Shane's hands was still gripping Ilya's bicep, the other was wedged under his back, not completely pinned beneath the heavier man, but immovable enough.
Ilya's face was close to Shane's, too close, as he stared down at him, his eyes full of partly anger, but mostly undeniable heat. Ilya looked at Shane like he was ready to devour him. Shane gulped and tried to avoid his gaze, but he could feel the heat radiating off of Ilya, however, he could only focus on the heat where their arousals met. Ilya's gaze flickered down to Shane's lips, subconsciously licking his own. Shane's eyebrows furrowed, attempting to look angry, while also trying to hide his immediate hunger.
"Fuck Shane." Ilya groaned quietly. "You need to score goal. Right fucking now."
And with that, he shoved himself off of Shane.
Shane lay there for a moment, trying to get his heart rate under control, and his breathing evened out. He was also sporting a raging hard-on, being in close proximity to Ilya after not having it for months has caused his body to react instantaneously. Thank God for jocks and hockey pants. Otherwise, he might die from embarrassment.
But he can't lie to himself. He is also incredibly turned on.
He managed to stand up on shaky legs, Hayden, Mitty, and the other players watching him with concern and hesitation. To everyone else, it was a short altercation, and on the outside, it looked like two rivals that just enjoyed getting a rise out of the other. Which is partly true.
No one would have second thoughts about it, but that doesn't ease the anxiety starting to claw at his throat, and the thin layer of sweat starting to coat his body.
If anyone zooms in on the video that will soon be posted everywhere on social media, if anyone decides to slow it down, frame by frame, if anyone decides to dissect every little shift of a body part, they will notice, that the hit was not just two rivals who like to piss each other off, but the undeniable sexual tension that is bleeding through their pores.
Ilya is already seated on the bench, helmet off, jaw clenched, his hands forming fists so tight, that his knuckles are four shades too light. If Shane didn't know any better, he would assume that Ilya is just pissed off because they lost the goal. And because he got checked so hard that he went down on top of another player. But Shane does know better, and as Ilya's heated gaze follows him to his own bench, Shane knows that Ilya is definitely, probably not, angry with him.
If he is in the same state as Shane, he is probably most likely, very much turned on.
As he sits down, he rips his helmet off and takes several long gulps out of his team-branded water bottle. Hayden and Mitty are having an animated conversation about who actually had the assist to Drapeau, who scored their first goal.
He is not paying attention though, as the refs call intermission, and as he felt his phone buzz beside him. He definitely shouldn't look. He knows who it is, and what it is.
Lily: Shane.
Lily: That is not fair.
Lily: I'm so hard.
Lily: That was so hot Mr. Golden Boy.
Lily: I will drag you to nearest bathroom and fuck you until you can't remember your name.
Lily: You like that, da?
Shane knows that Ilya's English becomes sloppy, even dropping words and sentences, when he's horny or angry. Shane can feel the sexual tension through the phone, and he's trying hard, so hard, to not get up from his bench and walk over to where Ilya is sitting just feet away from him and dragging him personally to the nearest bathroom like Ilya requested. But Shane is a professional. He's playing a game. This is his job. He is typically very level-headed and controlled during games, and his concentration levels are usually through the roof. They're a little less than every time he plays against Ilya, but even more so tonight as a result of their time apart.
He knows he can't continue to be distracted; they only have a few minutes left in the game and he needs to score. At least once, so he gets a mind-blowing orgasm as a reward.
Shane picks up his phone and types his response and sends. Before he changes his mind and silences Ilya's notifications for the time being.
Jane: We are playing a GAME against each other! Stop distracting me.
Jane: You're messing with my head and I'm losing focus. Fuck off.
Ilya's response came ten seconds later.
Lily: I don't care about game. We are taking a break. You know intermission, da?
Lily: You still have not scored.
Jane: I wonder why, asshole.
Lily: Are you as hard as I am right now?
Shane scoffed in annoyance, but something else laying underneath. Fondness? Relief? Anticipation? He really needs to stop responding so he can focus on the game that is about to start again. He looks up to the stands to see the fans taking their seats, and the refs joining together on the ice.
Jane: ...yes.
Jane: Now fuck off and fuck you.
Ilya responded almost immediately.
Lily: Later;)
Shane put his phone back on the bench beside him and turned his attention back to the game.
-
The rest of the game was a brawl, both teams scrambling for a goal, and bone deep exhaustion was starting to take its toll. Every Boston-Montreal game is intense, and both teams hate to lose against the other. But it runs a bit more personal for Shane and Ilya. Ilya and Marleau were checking the Metros left and right, Hayden was hit twice, one of those hits sent him flying into the boards.
Marleau managed to check Shane once as well, and when he recovered and looked over to Ilya's stance on the ice, he looked...well, pissed.
His stone-cold stare burned holes into the back of Marleau's head, who was completely oblivious to his anger. Ilya skated a lap, his jaw clenched and eyes focused, and when they met Shane's own, he noticed a look he hadn't seen on him before.
Jealousy? Protectiveness? Possessiveness?
Shane didn't want to unpack and decipher that look. The possibility of it. He wouldn't let himself think about it. That is not a conversation that he's willing to have with himself yet.
"We get together, we fuck, it's simple." Ilya's words echo inside his end-of-the-game brain, exhaustion fully setting in.
Shane has to repeat those words, like a mantra, over and over again when he lets himself think about it too much. It's simple. Simple simple simple.
Shane did manage to make a goal, with an assist from Mitty, twenty seconds until the clock ran out.
At the end of the game, the Metros were dazed and defeated, gathering on the ice in an attempt to re-group before heading back to the locker room.
Bears, three, Metros, two.
The fans were screaming in excitement for the rival team who managed to score the winning goal, with five seconds to spare. Ilya was shouting at his teammates, joy evidently written into his usually chalant features. The Bears were slapping each other on the back in a congratulatory manner, and the coaches were beaming with pride. It's always a head rush when they beat Montreal.
As Shane watches, making his way out of the rink, preparing himself to be bombarded with questions about the tiring loss, he realizes that in the three years of his relationship with Ilya, he has never seen him look so happy. He has certainly never looked at Shane with so much joy, but then again, they have never let themselves feel more than lust and need and want.
Shane knows that if Ilya looked at him like that, in the intimate, secrete confinement of a hotel room, he would allow himself to feel what he's known for months now, probably even long before then. He does not have the emotional bandwidth to open that can of worms now.
Reporters and interviews were already waiting for the team in the hallway, waiting for a chance to speak with the Montreal captain. Shane follows the rest of the team through, stopping to answer the anticipating questions.
"Shane how did it feel, to finally play against the Boston rivals after months apart?"
"Shane, did you see what Rozanov said to the press in his interview this morning?"
"Shane, you only scored one goal during this game, are you feeling deflated, and how will you bounce back?"
Shane replied to every question with his spreadsheet-formatted answers, because this part of a game day, is predictable. Reliable.
"It is always gratifying, to play against a team that is equally matched in speed, strength, and game intelligence."
"I did not see what Rozanov said in the press, I focus all my energy into my team and myself."
"I am extremely proud of Drapeau for scoring our first goal, and I am going to keep practicing and working my hardest to prepare for our next game."
After the team made their way back into the locker room, Shane couldn't stop the anxiety making its appearance. It always does after a game, when he feels as though he did not perform to perfection. His passes were sloppy. His lack of goals was obvious. His energy was not convincing. His body was in the game, but his mind was not.
Tomorrow, when he sits down to review the game tape, he'll sit down and dissect every move he made, every decision that came from hesitation, every pass that was missed, and every opening for a goal that he did not take. By the end, he'll have a two-page, MLA formatted, Times New Roman essay about how to perform better at their next game. How to push himself harder. How to convince himself that he is, in fact, invincible.
Hayden must have felt Shane's internal defeat, because the knowing look in his eye, and the way he smiled was not congratulatory.
Sympathy, maybe? Understanding?
"We'll get them next time, buddy. We all have off days. You did great, so don't beat yourself up over it."
Shane tried to smile, tried to show his gratitude, but he can't pretend to show emotions that he doesn't actually feel.
Hayden knows that. Yuna and David know that. Rose knows that. Hell, Ilya knows that.
Shane and the rest of the team strip off their gear, shoving the sweat-soaked articles into their bags. Mitty and J.J. chattering excitedly as they head for the showers, talking about the club they want the team to go to, celebrating regardless of their loss.
Shane grimaces as he finishes putting his jersey into the top compartment of his bag, not the bottom, because it gets less airflow, and his jersey will become the smelliest after rotting away in his bag for hours. He makes a mental note to wash his clothes back at the hotel, because he cannot stand the smell factor.
"I know you're not one for the social scene, but do you wanna come out? We don't have to stay long, if you don't want to. I'm sure you could use the distraction." Hayden stood against his locker, watching Shane as he pulls on his clean sweats. He knows something is bothering him, something that doesn't have to do with the game, or the rivals, or the team.
Shane felt his heart skip a beat but wouldn't let Hayden see his visible anticipation. Oh, he definitely has a distraction.
A six-foot-three, muscled, extremely-good-with-his-dick, Russian. Who is probably finishing up with his own interviews, or maybe he's even finished gathering his things, and loading the team bus to head to their hotel.
Shane shakes his head and moves to gather his bag and other belongs he remembered to bring. "No, it's okay. I would rather decompress in the silence of my room."
Hayden nods, and as the rest of the team gathers together to leave, he felt his phone buzz. But he knows it's not Ilya, because he has Ilya's notifications set to vibrate twice, when the ringer is off.
He knows it's Yuna, because he has her notifications set to vibrate once.
Yuna: Hey babe, I watched the game. You didn't play like you normally do. Is everything alright? Did you eat before the game? Is something else bothering you?
He bit his lip and sighed. He knows that it's probably a crime and disrespectful to ignore your mother's text, but he doesn't care. He always debriefs with Yuna after games, but right now, he just wants to go to their hotel and let the scalding hot water of a shower wash away his shame. He can't shower at the rink, because he knows it doesn't get cleaned thoroughly, and he can't stand the smell of mildew, or the slimy texture of the floors.
The team finally leaves the locker room, and as they make their way to the team bus, he catches sight of the Bears' gathered around their own. Ilya is speaking and his teammates are listening with a single-minded intensity. Probably making plans of their own to go out and celebrate their win.
Shane catches his eye, and through the distance he sees Ilya lick his lips and wink, reminding him of the promise he made three hours ago.
When they finally make it to the hotel, as soon as they gathered in the lobby, they learned that the Bears were also in the same hotel. A chorus of groans and pleas to switch hotels filled the hollow space, but Shane couldn't bring himself to care.
Ilya was in the same hotel. Maybe even rooms apart. Within walking distance. Within it's-time-to-shred-our-clothes distance.
As Theriault handed out key cards and gave the team his 'don't be stupid' lecture about alcohol, the Bears entered through the massive floor to ceiling doors, and huddled behind Shane, who was standing just beside the rest of his teammates.
He wouldn't let himself look, but he could smell Ilya's expensive cologne, the one that smells like Cedarwood and musk, the one that doesn't make Shane's nose burn. Ilya knows he needs to be specific about the scents he wears around him. Shane has commented about this specific one, and it makes his heart flutter at the thought of Ilya caring enough to remember. The heat of his body close enough to Shane's, wrapping around him like a wool blanket.
Ilya stood so that their closeness wasn't so obviously intended, Shane standing against a massive concrete pillar, Ilya's body angled to the side, so no one would notice Ilya's hand resting on Shane's waist, his fingers touching bare skin, thumb rubbing gentle circles in a soothing motion. Shane visibly relaxed, his eyelashes fluttering softly as he let out an exhale he didn't know he was holding in.
Ilya continued to laugh at a joke that St-Simon made, and Marleau let out a howl as he grabbed his keycard from their own coach. Ilya was handed his own, and his eyes drifted down to catch the number written on the inside. Before Hayden grabbed Shane to head to the elevator, Ilya leaned down to whisper in his ear.
"One one two one."
Shane felt his face flush, and he nodded just visibly enough to where only Ilya would notice.
Shane, Hayden, and Mitty joined in casual conversation as they rode the elevator up to their floor, Shane's heart clamoring in anticipation. When he finally made it to his door, after convincing his best friend that yes, I'm sure I don't want to go out, and no, you don't need to stay with me, he dropped his bags on the floor when the door clicked shut.
His shoulders dropped, his jaw unclenched, and his brain slowed down, just enough to realize how wound tight he had been.
He unzipped his overnight bag, grabbed all of his skincare and shower essentials, and laid them out methodically on the counter, in the order that he applies each product. He set his shower soaps along the wall, also in order. He decided on a pair of light grey sweats, and a worn-down Metros sweatshirt, his favorite one that has started to fray at the edges.
As he stepped into the shower, he let the burning water beat down onto his back, running in hot rivulets down his ass and legs. He tried not to think about the game he just played so poorly, but his mind runs in circles consistently. He knows he should probably wait until tomorrow, when he's had time to sleep off the frustration. He can't remember the last time he was genuinely proud of his performance, because there's always something to nitpick at.
After thoroughly washing his hair, scrubbing at his skin for probably longer than needed, and taking several deep breaths, he turned off the water and slowly got dressed. While he was extremely excited to be in close quarters with Ilya again and wanted nothing more than to cum on his cock with his name on his lips like a prayer, he was also nervous. Four months is the longest they have gone without seeing each other, since they started regularly hooking up a year and a half ago.
He finished getting ready and made his way down to Ilya's room, careful of the remaining strangers walking to their own rooms or lingering outside doors, watching for someone he definitely wouldn't want to run in to, as he makes his way to his hook-up's door.
He doesn't need to knock, before Ilya is opening the door and dragging him inside.
Ilya pinned him against the door, his lips already on Shane's. One of his hands landed in Shane's hair, the other gripping his ass. Shane's hands flew up to grip Ilya's shoulders, feeling the muscles ripple under the movement. Ilya's tongue licked at the seam of Shane's lips, and he parted them with ease. Shane let out a soft moan, as Ilya licked into his mouth, his lips moving effortlessly with his own like they have done this a million times. At this point, they probably have.
Ilya pulled him away from him, just enough so that his lips ghosted against Shane's. His hand coming to rest against his cheek, thumb rubbing softly over his freckles. "I missed you, dorogy."
Shane smiled up at him, already visibly relaxed as he kissed the pad of his thumb. "I missed you too, Ilya."
Ilya let out a breath of relief and kissed him again, softer this time. He breathed Shane in like water, parched from a week-long hike in the dessert.
Shane deepened the kiss, his lips moving fervently against Ilya's, hips rutting into his thigh. His hard cock aching for relief. Shane doesn't know when he got hard again, probably before he even made it to the door. Ilya groaned against his lips and moved them along the floor until Shane's legs hit the back of the bed, his hands grabbing at Shane's ass. His cock now fully hard and begging to be touched.
"How do you want me tonight?" Ilya's heated gaze raked over Shane's face, memorizing every freckle that he swears he doesn't fantasize about. Shane's beauty never fails to take his breath away, and he wants to memorize every line and beauty mark.
Shane pulls away to really look at Ilya. His hair has grown out slightly over their time apart, curls flipping over his ears, slightly untamed from Shane's fingers. His gold cross chain that Shane has never seen him without, dangling around his neck. The tight black shirt stretching over his broad shoulders, his bulky arms threatening to rip the cuffs of the fabric. He could see the hard line of his abs, the dip of his waist, where a pair of loose black sweats clung to his body.
"I- I want it hard. And rough. I don't want to think anymore tonight." Shane whispers.
Ilya smiles with fondness, and gently rubs his hands up Shane's chest, moving his sweatshirt over his head. He throws it somewhere on the floor, not caring about where it lands. His lips leave soft kisses over his chest, tongue swiping along his nipple, and Shane gasps, hands grabbing at Ilya's hair. Ilya swirls his tongue around the sensitive peak, teeth grazing, as he bit down gently.
"Fuck, Ilya." Shane moans as his hard cock ruts into his thigh. "D-don't tease me."
"Be patient, kotonok. Let me make you feel good."
Ilya moves his mouth to lick and suck on his other nipple, his hands moving down to pull Shane's sweats off of his hips, and down his legs. Shane is panting now, eyes screwed shut in pleasure.
Ilya pulls away to look down at his body, as he notices that Shane is not wearing underwear. His hard cock already red at the tip, a bead of precum slipping out of the slit.
"Oh, fuck Shane. You did this on purpose? So, I would not need to work so hard."
Shane moaned as Ilya wrapped his hand around his cock; long, slim fingers working up and down with precision. Shane pulls Ilya's shirt off, and drools at the hard plain of his chest. Moles and freckles scattering his skin, the skin that Shane has traced with his eyes many times over the years. Shane's whole body trembled as Ilya swiped his thumb over the tip, spreading the precum around. Ilya crashed their lips together, devouring him with a single-minded pleasure.
Shane had enough of Ilya's teasing, so he dropped to his knees.
His hands pulled Ilya's sweats down and off, and the sight of his thick, angry cock made his mouth water. If Ilya knows Shane at all, he knows nothing satisfies his hunger more than having his mouth filled. Shane wrapped his lips around the head, tongue swiping along the tip, tasting the slightly salty, slight musk, and the underlying taste of Ilya. Ilya groaned and his hands grabbed Shane's hair, not shoving, but holding. Shane took a few more inches into his mouth, his tongue running along the underside of his cock, hollowing his cheeks in the way that makes Ilya slowly unravel. When his cock breached the back of his throat, Shane forced himself to breathe through his nose as he swallowed. Tears springing to his eyes, spit dribbling at the corners of his mouth. Ilya let out a string of Russian curses, and Shane had to restrain himself from touching his own cock.
"Oh, fuck sweetheart, taking me so well, da?" The petname made Shane shiver, and another bead of precum slid out from the slit of his cock.
Ilya moved Shane off of his cock, and looked down to the state Shane is in. Hair disheveled, lips red and glistening, pupils blown out and dazed.
He pulled Shane up off of the floor, and pushed him onto the bed, climbing on top. Their lips met again, and Shane let out a content sigh. Ilya grinded down, their cocks sliding together effortlessly, Shane's spit making the glide easier.
"So easy for me, yes? So responsive."
Shane moaned as Ilya grinded down harder, hips moving like water onto Shane. "I-Ilya please." Shane whined. "Please, I need you."
"I know what you need." Ilya said as he moved his lips away from Shane's neck, where he was leaving soft kisses that made Shane's toes tingle.
He kissed his way down Shane's body, leaving wet trails on his chest, his abs, the dip of his waist. His lips reached his cock, where he swallowed him down in one motion. Shane's back arched off of the bed, hands grabbing at the sheets, needing purchase. Ilya's mouth worked up and down, stopping to swirl his tongue around the tip, in the way that he knows Shane loves. Shane is panting again, moaning as Ilya swallows around his cock. He heard, distantly, as Ilya reached for the lube on the nightstand. The cap flipped open, and then he felt the pad of Ilya's finger circling his hole.
And oh God, did Shane miss this.
Ilya slowly pressed his finger inside, and Shane let out a whimper. Ilya's mouth did not lose its pace, trying to distract Shane from the slight sting. Even though they fuck regularly, he still wants to take his time and be gentle. Hurting Shane is the last thing he wants to do.
His finger pushes all the way in, Shane's hole fluttering around his knuckle. When he felt Shane loosen just enough, he slowly added a second finger, working him open with precision. He pulled his mouth off of Shane's cock, to meet his eyes. The sight before him made his cock pulse.
Shane looked thoroughly, utterly, completely, fucked. And Ilya hadn't even done anything yet.
His eyes screwed shut, lips red where he had been biting them, chest heaving as he struggles to breath.
"Ilya please. I'm ready just- please I need you." Shane's eyes were glassy and unfocused, and Ilya's breath caught in his throat.
"Okay, okay. I don't want to hurt you." Ilya gently tapped his hip. "On your stomach. Move for me baby."
Shane did. Shane always does what Ilya asks. He just wants to be so good for him. That's why it works.
Shane loves to not be in charge for a while. When there's no cameras, no captaincy taking the reins, no teammates asking him for guidance. No expectations. So, he lets Ilya move him and order him around. And he'll always let him. Because Ilya always knows what Shane needs, without having to ask.
Shane settles on his hands and knees, back arched, ass up and ready for Ilya. One of Ilya's hands is rubbing circles into his lower back, the other is reaching for a condom, that he honestly, doesn't want to use. He knows Shane is not sleeping with anyone else, and he stopped sleeping with anyone other than Shane about a year ago, when he realized that nobody will ever make him feel the way Shane does.
But Shane insists on using them, so he doesn't complain.
He slicks himself up, and rolls the condom on, as Shane cranes his head to meet Ilya's eyes. "Don' go easy. I want it hard. Please?"
Jesus fuck, Ilya could cum just from hearing those words alone.
Both of Ilya's hands settle on Shane's ass, as the tip of his cock gently presses against Shane's hole. Shane takes a deep breath as Ilya slowly slides in. Ilya groans at the feeling of just the tip being inside him and tries to think about anything but the feeling surrounding his cock, so he doesn't cum early.
He feels like a teenager again, orgasming in ten seconds after seeing a nude picture in a magazine. Shane just makes him feel so fucking good.
He slowly slides the rest of the way in, bottoming out, and Shane is honest-to-God, crying. Tears leaking from his shut eyes.
The feeling of Ilya inside him, splitting him open on his cock, after so long, makes his vision white out, and his cock is pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
"Oh, fuuuck Ilya. God, yes. Please move. Please fucking move. I need it." Shane is babbling incoherently, lips moving slowly in his fucked-out state.
Ilya starts to thrust, slowly at first, but quickening his pace as soft ah ah ah's slip from Shane's parted lips. His hands leaving fingerprints from how hard he's gripping his waist, his own hips slamming into Shane's ass. Ilya moans as he feels Shane's hole clench around the base of his cock.
Ilya loves fucking Shane from behind, because he loves watching Shane's back muscles ripple and flex while he tries to hold himself up. The sight of his ass, faint stretch marks painting his skin, bouncing with every thrust, makes Ilya feral. But he wants to see Shane's face when he falls apart. When there's nothing holding him back, and he completely succumbs to pleasure.
Ilya slowly pulls out, and Shane whines at the loss.
"Hold on, sweetheart. I want you on your back. Want to look into your eyes when you cum."
And oh, did Shane love the sound of that. Shane loves I-no. No no no. Shane did not let himself finish that thought.
He settled onto his back, legs spread as Ilya leaned down to capture his lips in a rough, messy kiss. Fresh tears staining his skin, cheeks flushed in a way that made his freckles stand out. Ilya quickly thrust back in, and Shane's back bowed off of the bed. Ilya picked up speed again, hips slamming into Shane's ass, his cock bouncing between them, smearing precum on their stomachs.
"Ilya, m' not gonna last. M' gonna- gonna cum." Shane moaned as his head slammed into the pillows, trying not to release too soon.
Ilya groaned as he leaned down to suck and lick at Shane's lips, cock spasming inside the condom. He too, is going to cum. It's hard not too, when the gorgeous man in his bed looks like he just walked out of a wet dream.
Ilya reached a hand down, wrapping around Shane's weeping cock, moving in time with his thrusts.
"Cum, Shane. You're doing so well for me. Show me how good I make you feel. You scored one goal, so let go and come for me, baby." Ilya groans out through clenched teeth, panting vigorously.
That was all it took for Shane.
Ilya's rough voice, his cock so impossibly deep inside of him, his hand working his cock. Shane's vision blacked out, and his cock exploded, spilling over Ilya's hand, ribbons of white landing on his chest and even his neck. Ilya worked him through it, his thrusts unrelenting. Shane's mouth parted in a silent oh, his body rigid at the overstimulation.
It only took a few more thrusts for Ilya, and his body stilled as his cock spilled inside the condom. Shane let out a loud moan as he felt his cock twitch and pulse inside of him, his name on Ilya's lips.
Ilya was trembling as his body dropped onto Shane's, muscles screaming with exhaustion from the game, and the earth-shattering sex.
Shane combed his fingers through Ilya's hair, kissing his forehead, his eyes, his nose. Ilya's breathing slowed, and Shane slowly came back to full consciousness. He was sweaty and sticky from the cum drying on his body, and Ilya was still inside him, cock now soft and spent.
"Mmm Ilya m' sticky." Shane whispered as he planted another kiss to his forehead.
Ilya grumbled in protest, his hands moving to wrap around his waist. "Just give me moment. You killed me, Hollander."
Shane smiled at the former name; they have both moved on from referring to the other by their last name. Ilya is Ilya, and Shane is Shane, or sweetheart, or baby, or another name that Ilya calls him in Russian. Shane wants to ask what they mean, but he loves hearing Ilya speak in his mother tongue.
Is this still simple? Convenient? Casual?
They haven't spoken about their relationship, but lately, it feels different. Shane doesn't know exactly how, but softer. Warmer. Gentler. More intimate.
He'll think about it tomorrow, where he can write it all down.
Ilya slowly unravels himself from Shane, and he treads to the bathroom, where Shane can hear running water. When he comes back, he has a washcloth in hand, and he grabs a water bottle from the nightstand.
He gently cleans Shane, who sucks in a breath as he wipes his now sensitive cock. He helps Shane to sit up, bringing the water up to Shane's lips. Room temp, not cold, because Shane doesn't like to drink cold water. It makes his head hurt.
"Thank you." Shane whispers, and Ilya places a soft kiss on his forehead.
They both know what happens next. After they've had their pleasure and served their purpose.
Ilya pulls his sweats back on, and sits back on the bed, up against the headboard. He watches as Shane grabs his own clothes, that were thrown around the room not methodically folded like he prefers.
He really wishes Shane would stay, climb back in bed and shove his face into his neck, and fall asleep.
This is Ilya's least favorite part of their frequent meetings. Shane gathering his clothes nervously, looking like he wants to say something more, but won't.
For whatever reason.
But Ilya really wishes he would ask to stay. And he would say yes, without hesitation. He doesn't know when this became more to him, but he knows Shane doesn't feel the same.
At least he thinks.
Shane pulls the sweatshirt over his head, and looks over at Ilya, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides.
"So um, when do you fly back to Boston?"
Ilya stared at him. "Early, in the morning."
Shane swallowed and nodded curtly. "Oh. Okay, well, then I guess I'll get going?"
Ilya hummed in agreement, mentally kicking himself for not getting up, or hugging him goodbye, or kissing him goodbye. He really should. But his body is tired and sore, and he can't bring himself to move.
Shane moves to the door and pauses with his hand on the handle. "I'll um, I'll see you soon?"
Ilya nods. "Da, goodnight, Shane."
Shane smiles softly. "Goodnight, Ilya."
Ilya feels his heart clench, a thousand words swirling in his mind, words he can't bring himself to say.
Stay. Come back to bed. Don't leave me. Don't leave me like Mama. I need you. This isn't just sex anymore. But I can't bring myself to keep you here.
Shane makes his way down the hallway, and back to his own room, his head full and body sore. He closes the door behind him and throws himself into bed, burrowing under the covers, making mental list of all the things he needs to do.
They have a few rare days off after their flight home tomorrow, and he needs to clean his apartment. Grocery shop. He should probably text Hayden and ask about their night, but he can do that on the plane. He should probably call Rose and fill her in on his night with Ilya. He also needs to reply to Yuna, as she's probably worried at his lack of response.
But as he falls asleep, the only thing on his mind is Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.
The rest of the world can wait until tomorrow.