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Ilya Hollander-Rozanov is good at a lot of things.
In the broad category: hockey, sex, being a husband and team captain.
In the specific category: card games (much to his husband’s dismay), driving fast enough that it’s exciting but not ticket-worthy, cooking perfect omelets.
He knows all of this because he and his therapist have been working on The List, which had at first felt like a humiliation ritual.
Galina, I’m supposed to what, write nice things about myself in my Notes app?
Well, we could use traditional pen and paper, if you want. Also, I’ve noticed you deflecting for ten minutes, Ilya.
…No, I will use my phone.
Begrudgingly, he gets it; when the insecurities start piling up, they all begin to sound like his father, who is dead and buried but still very much alive in Ilya’s psyche.
But despite years of being told the opposite, Ilya is good at a lot of things. While walking under the bright sunlight of late spring, he mentally adds eavesdropping to the list. Galina will get a kick out of that one.
When he was fresh to living amongst English-speakers, it’d been a necessity, born out of a scramble to learn as fast as possible. He made himself listen in on conversations everywhere he went; on the bus, in coffee shops, at the grocery store. It was overwhelming, to try and translate through the cacophony.
And for a long time, it had felt like an impossible feat, especially when he’d think he was getting better only to be blind-sided by idioms, regional slang, people who asked questions in stupid fucking ways. He still remembers Shane saving his ass in front of the press, when that journalist had strung together the most confusing sentence known to man.
Over a decade down the line, he sits comfortably in his fluency, but he still learns something new every now and again. So it’s habit, probably, that he has his earbuds in but no music playing as he passes by the throngs of people who wander the park. It’s a beautiful green space, only a few miles from his and Shane’s house, and most importantly – dog-friendly.
Ottawa is still chilly, despite it being the start of May, but Ilya’s built of thick stuff. The sky is a vivid blue, bringing the springtime into sharp relief, and Ilya’s restless. It had made sense to get himself outside, walking aimlessly with Anya at his side.
With the season over, he and Shane had spent several days straight doing nothing but sleeping and fucking and hanging out, and fucking some more. Shane had to practically pry himself from Ilya’s arms with a crowbar to fly down to New York, where he was shooting for some athleisure brand. And unfortunately for Ilya, Rose was also in the city for a film, so Shane had extended his initial stay.
Now here he is, roaming around, trying very hard not to blow up Shane’s phone just because he misses him.
He ends up on one of the quieter trails that loops by the pond, feet crunching on the narrow gravel path behind two girls. They’re chatting loudly, maybe unaware that he’s behind them. He’s in no rush, long realized he scares women if he tries to pass them with no warning. He hangs back, even thinks about turning around the other way, before his ears catch onto their conversation.
“She has this whole big plan for his birthday. She spent half of her paycheck on shit from one of those fancy sex websites.”
Oh. Now this is good.
“I thought she said birthday sex is cliché.”
“She did, but – don’t repeat this, by the way – she told me at brunch that things have gotten kind of stale. I think it’s an excuse to try and get back the way they used to fuck. You know, something crazy,” replies the one with the swinging ponytail, and her friend titters.
“How crazy is crazy?”
“Again, we don’t repeat this, but he definitely wants to get pegged. She got a super nice strap.”
There’s a surprised gasp followed by peals of delighted laughter, and Ilya has to stop himself from snorting.
“He does, really? Wait, that’s hot.”
“Right? I guess his birthday was as good of an excuse as any.”
“Fantasy come true?”
“Oh my god, yeah. I thought he’d be the type who wants her to like, get in a maid outfit. But no, he wants to get dicked down.”
The path is widening, opening up to a bridge that arches over the water. Ilya sees his opportunity, swinging his legs faster, Anya flopping along happily. He clears his throat with exaggeration, and they stop chattering for a second, staring as he nods at them while skirting past.
“What the hell, was that Ilya Rozanov?” he hears, and grins to himself.
Anything else they say goes in one ear and out of the other, Ilya’s brain already zipping miles ahead of him. Because it’s still chilly in Ottawa, spring wilting away to a balmy summer, which means it’s t-minus 8 days until Shane’s birthday. They’ve already got loose plans, typical plans. Go on a date – hiking, probably – before meeting his parents for dinner.
It’s simple. It’s easy.
And Ilya is scheming.
𓃾
He knows, with startling clarity, that he’s intense. He likes it that way, likes how his gaze is a weighty thing.
While learning English, it was crucial to watch other people closely. He needed to see how they shaped certain words, how their eyes and smiles gave away context. But before his move to North America, Ilya’s concentrated scrutiny was simply a different kind of survival skill.
The closer he watched his father, the quicker he’d realize what he was in for. It was like witnessing clouds rolling in before a storm, a slip of rage showing in how he held his eyebrows, letting Ilya brace for the screaming. Then, later, a haze of confusion sliding over him before he’d ask where Irina was.
Where’s your mother? Get her. No-good woman, as lazy as you.
Nowadays, his watchfulness is used for much softer reasons, better reasons.
He has a PhD in Shaneisms, finely attuned to the way his husband moves through the world. Years of learning Shane’s needs and patterns have taught Ilya to notice what he freely gives away: when he’s starting to get overwhelmed, when he’s pretending to be mad, when he needs Ilya to soften up or batter down.
Which is why Ilya is sure, with a scary amount of confidence, that Shane has a huge exhibitionism kink that he stubbornly won’t admit to.
Sometimes, he’ll leave the curtains half-open when Ilya fucks him in their team-issued hotel rooms. He’ll let Ilya blow him in the front seat of the Porsche, even though the windows aren’t 100% tinted. That isn’t to count all the times he’s come harder when there was the possibility that someone could overhear or see.
You’d like it if I showed you off, huh? Pretty boy. You want them to see how good you are for me, you slut.
The ‘them’ in question is just a puff of smoke. It applies as the situation calls for it, whether they’ve just been out to dinner with Troy and Harris, or played a hard game in front of a vicious crowd.
Them is whoever Shane might think of in the fantasy, and it’s such a huge gap from how their relationship had functioned for so long. Turned away in the dark, locked behind doors. He wonders if Shane has always thought the idea of being watched was hot, or if this cropped up as a result of their years of hiding.
Ilya isn’t a psychologist, so it’s not that it matters. Ilya would fuck him in front of the goddamn Pope, if that’s what Shane wanted.
But he knows Shane well, would live in his skin, if he could. He knows people actually watching, real people watching Shane give himself up to Ilya, would mortify him. Shane won’t even entertain the thought of a threesome, all of his vulnerability for Ilya’s eyes and hands alone. And now that the entire world knows, he thinks that they both cradle their privacy closer to their chests; in a lighter way, but still precious.
However, there’s a huge rift between reality and fantasy, and a slightly smaller rift between risk and reward.
He calls Hayes. Shane will be back from New York in two days.
Hayes doesn’t seem surprised by the call, as if he and Ilya talk on the phone every day, chatting a few niceties before Ilya cuts to the chase.
“Your friend, the one who works at Monks. He plays beer league, yes?”
“Oh, Jason? Yeah, man, it used to be in that old rink up the road from the space museum,” Hayes replies. “But the place is getting torn down, they already stripped it. I’m not sure where they’re moving to.”
Ilya knows this. Because he had done research – extensively. Still, he makes a noise in his throat to show he’s listening.
“The old rink, though, are people still allowed in?”
“Uh, maybe? I’d have to ask.”
“You think he can get me in?”
There’s a long pause.
“…into the beer league? Because I think you’re overqualified,” Hayes says, and Ilya barks out a laugh.
“Into the rink, Hazy.”
𓃾
He loves sex with Shane, loves it so intensely that it scares him at times, but what Ilya appreciates perhaps even more is the after. Holding Shane close to his chest, living inside the warm clutch of his body until he feels like slipping out, everything slow-moving and syrupy.
“I don’t know how I managed to leave every time. It is so impossible,” he says, voice hoarse, words pressed into the dark silk of Shane’s hair. Shane replies with a sleepy mumble, but turns his head, temple bumping Ilya’s jaw.
They’d fucked on their sides, and neither of them have bothered to move yet, even though the sweat had long cooled. It could be innocent spooning, if Ilya’s cock wasn’t still buried in Shane’s ass.
“Mm, after our hook-ups?” Shane states more than asks, and the morning sunlight catches his eyes, the rich brown of them almost amber. His freckles are already darkening with the coming summer. Ilya lets out of a gust of breath. “We did this, sometimes.”
“We did not do this,” Ilya replies, kissing Shane’s cheek. Ilya can count on his two hands how many times they’d actually reveled in each other’s bodies for more than a few minutes, post-orgasm. He can count because he had held those moments up on a pedestal. “A little bit, maybe. Not enough.”
He doesn’t haven’t to elaborate before. Before the disaster of Shane leaving, before Rose, before the tears in a crappy Tampa Bay hotel room, before the cottage.
“Well, we’re just making up for lost time,” Shane replies, and then laughs when Ilya keeps pressing kisses to his face with dramatic, smacking mwahs. “Did you miss me that much? I was only in New York for a week.”
“I miss you when you are gone too long on a run. Silly question.”
Gently, Shane rocks his hips, and Ilya slides out of him with a punched groan. He doesn’t have to mourn for too long, because then Shane is turning and pressing a deep kiss to his mouth. It’s just that for long, stretching minutes, slowly making out while Ilya runs his fingers between Shane’s ribs and hip.
“I can’t believe I’m going to be 31 tomorrow,” he whispers against Ilya’s lips, and Ilya grins.
“Old man. So old.”
“I’ll be older than you for like a month, asshole.”
“Wait until you are 32 and I have to visit you in retirement home. You will be roommates with Scott Hunter.”
Shane slaps the side of Ilya’s thigh, and then they’re both laughing. Ilya rolls until he’s on top of Shane and nuzzles into the side of his neck, ignores Shane’s noise of protest when he starts huffing dramatically. If only he could bottle the smell of his husband’s musky sweat and citrusy hair conditioner.
“I am thinking, tomorrow morning, we go to the ice rink,” he mutters against the thrumming pulse point of Shane’s jugular, and he can basically feel the confusion that works its way through his body.
“Um. Why would we go to the arena? I thought we were gonna hike.”
“No, not arena. Rink,” Ilya clarifies. Or tries to, because Shane hums in question. “Hazy’s friend is in beer league and plays at a kind of shitty rink. We’ll go and play a game, just us.”
“Did you get abducted by aliens? Is this really Ilya Rozanov?” Shane asks, tipping Ilya’s face up. His expression is incredulous. “Since when do you want to go to a random rink during off-season and just fuck around on the ice?”
And although Shane can’t know it, in the moment, the wording is so funny that Ilya almost breaks. Almost.
“So what? I can’t feel like playing a game with second-best in the league? And my name is Hollander-Rozanov, do not forget.”
“God, you’re annoying.”
“I’m serious! It will be so entertaining for me,” Ilya says, and his heart beats a little faster at Shane’s grin. He was worried that he’d have to cajole Shane into it, but he remembers then the difference between them. Ilya plays hockey because he loves it and happens to be good at it, but Shane loves it.
That, and he can never resist the lure of a competition.
“Yeah, okay. It’ll be a great present to beat you in a one-on-one for my birthday,” Shane says. “Now get up, I want to shower.”
Ilya groans, letting his head ragdoll down to Shane’s shoulder before biting it.
They pass the rest of the day easily, playing video games and chatting about nothing. Ilya dutifully makes Shane’s stupid salmon for dinner while his husband paces the house on a Facetime call with Rose, and before bed, he drops to his knees and makes Shane come apart.
It’s been a sweet day. Nothing extraordinary, but even better for its simplicity. Even still, the entire time, Ilya feels a buzzing under his skin that he can’t shake.
𓃾
“This is the place?” Shane asks with a raised eyebrow, and Ilya slides off his sunglasses.
“Is the address Hazy gave me.”
They’re seeing the same thing – an old ice rink with an empty parking lot that’s in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint, new signage, new everything. Which, Ilya knows, won’t matter in about week when they demolish the place.
“You know, I’ve played in about every rink in Ottawa, but never this one,” Shane remarks. “All my youth camps growing up were on the other side of town.”
“Hm, well, probably for the best. It looks like the roof might have fallen on your head.”
“I think that’s more of a danger now than it was when I was 8,” he replies. “C’mon.”
Before Ilya can even think to reply, Shane is off like a rocket, slamming the door and rushing to pop the trunk. Just to be a shit, Ilya takes his sweet time cutting the engine and climbing out, while Shane waits with both of their gear bags on his shoulders.
Shane’s impatience is obvious and sharp; it causes a deep curl of satisfaction knowing Ilya’d put it there. He’d woken Shane up this morning with kisses all over his skin, eaten him out and worked him open slowly until he’d had three fingers buried deep. Shane had been bleary and pliant, ready for Ilya to put him through the mattress without having to do an ounce of work.
It was his birthday, after all.
Which had made it worse when Ilya pulled his fingers out, brought him down from the edge of orgasm softly. Shane had wheedled and pleaded and kicked – literally, he’d kicked Ilya in the thigh – but Ilya hadn’t relented.
Good things for those who wait, Mr. Birthday Boy.
Oh, fuck you.
Shane had eventually accepted that he was being edged for some unknown reason, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t pissy about it. He’d done everything to get Ilya to soften up to the idea, handsy in the shower and over breakfast, getting visibly more frustrated. Shane had been bouncing his leg and chewing the string of his hoodie during the entire drive to the rink, a fixation he’d never been able to kick.
“You are eager,” Ilya comments as they walk across the parking lot.
“I have a lot of energy to burn, thanks to someone.”
“I don’t know what you could mean,” he replies, and his eyes find the lockbox by the side of the doors. Hayes had texted him the code and said his buddy had dropped the rink keys off, giddy as hell that he was doing a favor for the Ilya Rozanov.
A wave of cold air sluices over them when Ilya unlocks the main door and pushes in, bringing with it the distinct, frigid smell of maintained ice. Ilya immediately finds the main electric box and flips the lights, which come on with a hum. For an older place, it’s well-loved, clean and tidy from the buffed benches and slick ice surface. Shame.
“Huh. Could be worse,” Shane says out loud, and Ilya watches as he trots in, curiously looking around. Swiftly, he locks the door behind him and buries the keys into the inside pocket of his jacket.
Shane thumps their duffel bags on one of the benches and studies what will turn into their own personal fighting grounds in about 10 minutes, ever the critical eye. There’s something about the shining white of ice under fluorescent lighting that immediately kicks excitement up in Ilya’s chest.
“It could be,” Ilya says. “One big problem, though.”
“What’s that?”
“No ref to tell me to fuck off. I have been going easy on you all of these years.”
Shane replies with an unimpressed glance. His cheeks are already going pink with the cold.
“Right. So you’re that slow on your skates just because there’s a ref around, is that it?”
Ilya presses a kiss to one of those pink cheeks, and bites Shane’s ear lobe, whispering, “Ah, good try. There’s only one thing that you are faster at than me.”
Despite his insulating compression shirt, Shane still shivers. Ilya grins, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek so it bulges and jerks his fist. Immediately, Shane shoves him hard, but a laugh rips out of his throat.
“Dickhead. Get your skates on.”
Ilya dutifully plops next to Shane on the bench, and they’re both quiet as they tightly lace up their skates, blades dulled after the last few games of the season. For once, Shane had had to replace his more often than Ilya, playing viciously for his first year with the Centaurs. While they hadn’t made it to the end of the line, everyone adjusting to the new team dynamics, they’d at least qualified for play-offs. Just long enough to get knocked out, but still.
“See you on the ice,” Shane says, unstrapping his stick.
“Wait, wait,” Ilya says before Shane can unlatch the gate, and opens the side compartment of his duffel. He tosses a piece of bright blue fabric to Shane, who catches it on reflex. It only takes a second for him to realize what he’s holding.
“Seriously, Ilya?” he asks, and holds up his own jersey. His retired jersey, branded with the Voyageurs logo and HOLLANDER printed fresh and bold.
“For old times’ sake,” he replies, and can see Shane pondering it, twisting the fabric between his fingers. “If it makes you mad, don’t wear it. Was just an idea.”
“Fuck them,” Shane says quietly, but after a second, he tugs it on. “But, you know what, I worked my ass off for years. This is my jersey.”
And with that, he’s hopping onto the ice, gliding away with a certain grace that Ilya has never exuded. It was one of the biggest differences between them, when it came to the game – Ilya played like it owed him something, while Shane treated it like an equalizer. It was a trait Ilya had envied when they were much younger.
He watches for a moment as his husband skates to the goal ends, latching excessively tiny accuracy targets to each net. They’d decided on the shooter targets to make it at least a little challenging, since an undefended net was child’s play.
Ilya isn’t far behind, ripping off his jacket and tugging on his old Bears jersey. When Shane sees it, he snorts, gaze flickering over Ilya’s face with a calculating edge.
“What kind of roleplay is this?” Shane asks as he skates over, and Ilya flips a puck between his fingers, tapping his stick on the slick surface of the rink. Ilya had turned over the decision countless times in his brain, wondering if it was something Shane might find at least a little hot.
“One we won’t get again,” he says. “Right?”
“True. You didn’t get enough of me beating your ass for a whole decade?”
“Probably, yeah. I’m much happier when we are winning together,” Ilya says casually, in a way that’s more earnest than Shane probably expected, if his blush is to judge. “Mm, but I’m winner either way. You lose or you win, doesn’t matter, both makes you horny.”
“Shut up,” Shane replies, and taps the side of Ilya’s hip with his stick blade. “I want left goal.”
“Okay. Start on my count, we go on three.”
Shane doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t have to. Instead, he bends at the waist, and Ilya dutifully drops the puck on center ice between them. It’s not as exciting as a real face-off, lacking a screaming audience and critical ref, but something still zips white-hot through his belly.
His body is Pavlov-trained to get a little turned on at the sight of Shane locking in for the drop. Shane practically vibrates, eyes darting between Ilya’s face and the puck.
“Three.”
Shane digs his skates in and slaps their blades together.
“Two.”
Ilya shoulders forward, then buoys back.
“Fuck you.”
Shane lunges, scooping the puck and just barely swerving past Ilya to get to the wing. Ilya dives after him, and then they’re flying, soft shards of ice exploding behind them as they bully their way down the sidelines.
There’s no one to pass to, no one to defend the goal netting, and certainly no one to throw themselves in the line of fire. It’s just Ilya snapping at Shane’s heels like a dog, keeping pace until he can see Shane try to gear up for a direct shot.
Which, no chance.
He takes the split second of an open to slingshot the puck hard into the opposite direction, and it ricochets off the boards, flying wildly out into the open of the ice. They’re on it in a second, and it’s almost impossible to get the one-up. They careen wildly back and forth, both getting so close to the goal before it’s blocked.
Shane makes the first goal with a sharp ping to the target, and whoops as he skates away, leaving Ilya to groan and re-center them. They continue exactly like that, and for each minute that passes, it’s like pulling back on a trigger. Enough that they’re both worked up, sweating, frothing for an advantage, but the gun doesn’t go off quite yet.
That is, until Ilya takes the risk; he wants to see what Shane will do. He’d never check him a fraction as hard as he would in an actual game, when they’re both padded, but he still doesn’t hold back as he dives right into Shane’s body. Shane’s shoulder slams into the boards, and Ilya can see an incredulous look on his face as he steals the puck back.
Ilya scores, and Shane is panting behind him.
“What the hell? We’re playing an open game, you dick,” Shane exclaims, and rushes to center line as Ilya drops the puck.
“Yeah, and I still see no ref,” Ilya replies. “We’re tied. Keep up, Hollander.”
It’s really all the permission either of them needs to start playing dirtier, pushing each other harshly to try and get the upper hand. Shane gives it as good as he got, managing to check Ilya hard enough that it knocks the wind out of him. It’s stupid to be engaging any contact without gear, but it’s just too fun.
Score for Shane.
They’re both sheened in sweat, and something about seeing Shane in his old jersey makes Ilya giddy in a strangely delirious way. In the smallest of ways, it’s like they’ve gone back in time. He’s overjoyed to sink teeth into the thrill of competition that runs heavy between them, and judging by the ruthless way Shane is going after him, he feels the same.
They get trapped in the corner, rallying, before Ilya manages to bounce the puck up and twist backward, popping it against the target.
2-2.
Shane rests his hands on his knees when Ilya meets him for the final time. His face is ruddy and he’s breathing hard, but he’s smiling so brightly that it almost hurts Ilya to look at. If this was all, if this was the singular reason Ilya had gotten them here, it would have been more than enough for him.
“Ready to lose to me one last time?” Ilya asks, and Shane slams his stick against the ice, gone dull from their blades.
“You wish,” he pants. “Drop it.”
There’s no count this time, both diving in the second it hits the surface. Shane’s body is a wall of solid muscle, true, but sometimes he’s so fast that it sort of defies logic. Despite Ilya’s best efforts, and not that he’d ever admit it out loud, he knows Shane is faster than him. By a fraction of a second, but it’s enough.
The flash of Hollander’s unhyphenated name, emblazed on his jersey as Ilya chases after him, sparks something hot and heavy in his groin.
All the times he’d seen this exact view, deafened by the roar of a crowd, clawing to get to the next buzzer, the next pass, the next win. Always after the same goal, clashing against each other, just to collide again later in a hotel room.
It pushes him faster, lungs burning, and maybe – probably – he’s going too fast when he bulldozes his way right into Shane’s back. It pushes Shane chest-first into the plexiglass, and instead of giving him room to bounce away, Ilya just crushes forward. Does something he’s always wanted to do, in his nastier fantasies, the ones he kept hoarded to himself.
Still holding his stick, he brackets his arm beside Shane to keep him from thrashing sideways, uses his free hand to reach around and grab Shane’s crotch. Not with enough force to hurt, but it shocks Shane into freezing, breath stuttering in his lungs before he’s back to panting.
He’s half-hard. Half-hard, just from playing an open game in a shitty rink.
“Ilya–”
Whatever Shane was going to say is cut off by Ilya roughly massaging his cock through the thick fabric of his joggers. A noise rips out of Shane, some combination of defiance and pleasure, and the heat that’s been bubbling low in Ilya’s abdomen flares up so hard it almost chokes him.
He crooks his stick into the bend of his elbow so he can free up the hand that isn’t cupping Shane’s dick. He threads it into his husband’s hair and presses his face forward, harder, watching the way the soft curve of Shane’s cheek squishes against the glass. His heavy breaths fog it up, mouth forced open and lush. Ilya leans in, meeting his wide eyes, already glazing with something needy.
“Wow,” he enunciates, low. “Like a wet dream come true.”
Without finesse, he shoves his way down the front of Shane’s pants and briefs, getting a grip on his cock. His skin is so hot that it nearly burns, and Shane makes a strangled sound. The smallest amount of spit bubbles at the corner of his mouth, forced out from the pressure, and smears on the glass. Ilya can’t help but groan at the sight.
He works the skin beneath Shane’s ear into his mouth, sucking hard, and feels a wash of triumph when he can feel Shane thicken in his hand despite the chill of his fingers.
“Ilya, fuck – fucking, not…” Shane chokes, but it’s good. It means he’s capable of making words, even if it’s not a sentence. He knows that there’s only one word he ever needs to say if he wants out of something.
Red, lyubimiy. Easy. Unless you want sillier safeword, Ilya had said, a long time ago, and Shane had scoffed.
Red is fine. We don’t have to get creative with it.
He’s never had to use it, only yellowed out a few times, but Ilya nags constantly in reminder. And he’ll do it time and time again, even now, especially now, as he gently grinds Shane’s face against the glass.
“You know what you need to say,” he murmurs, “okay?”
As if punctuating his sentence, he gives Shane’s cock a few jerks before twisting his palm over the head, already rapidly getting wet. An airy moan works out of him, and Ilya lays a kiss to his hair.
Because he can be mean, and Shane likes him a little mean, sometimes.
“So easy to distract,” Ilya adds, and slips his hand back out. He gives it a beat, just to see the way Shane’s expression goes from hazy to stark understanding, before he zips away. The puck has floated from them, but Ilya easily directs it, ignoring the way his pulse is thudding maddeningly hard. So hard he can feel the blood rush in his head, whatever hasn’t gone straight to his dick.
He shoots the puck dead-on against the target, securing his third and final goal, right before Shane collides into him.
“You asshole!” Shane is yelling, and it blends with Ilya’s laughter, undeterred by Shane shoving him across the ice.
“I win,” he pants, and he gets a good look at the deep furrow in Shane’s brow, the flare of his nostrils. He loves when Shane is so turned on that he looks mad – and in this case, he’s probably both.
Frankly, he’s surprised at how quickly Shane recovered, but maybe it had been muscle memory to chase after Ilya. Not even a hard dick could stop him from trying to block a shot.
Shane is laying into him, each shove to his shoulders sliding Ilya backwards, before he twists his hands into the dark fabric of Ilya’s old jersey and yanks. Ilya groans the moment Shane’s teeth clack against his, mouth already open and wanting, and the slide of their tongues is so good, so exact.
Uncaring, Ilya tosses his stick to the side so he can fist both hands in Shane’s hair, damp with sweat. Shane doesn’t let up, kissing him so aggressively that it almost hurts, biting his lip until it’s sure to bruise. And Ilya lets him, loves it, uses it to his advantage.
Shane is preoccupied, probably doesn’t even notice himself sinking, a slow slide of his skates. Even when he doesn’t mean to, sometimes, he goes wobbly and relies on Ilya to keep him upright.
Ilya doesn’t bother. He lets Shane hit his knees, though he’s swift to tuck his hands beneath his elbows as he goes to try and soften the landing. Shane immediately presses his face to Ilya’s crotch, panting wetly against it, and he turns his gaze up.
Distantly, he thinks he could come from this sight alone. Shane Hollander, on his knees in the middle of the ice, swathed in the striking blue of his old jersey. The one that Ilya chased with a ferocity for years. Mouth red and swollen, lashes fanning his heavy, earnest eyes. Under the bright lights of the rink, he’s a vision of wild making.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” Ilya says, running his hands through Shane’s hair, the long sweep of it. He can feel the way Shane has started to shake slightly, maybe from realization of where they are, maybe from sweat cooling, maybe both.
“Ilya,” Shane manages, laying his forehead on one thick thigh. “Ilya, please take me back to the car.”
Ilya purses his lips. Lets out a long breath.
“No,” he replies, softly. That earns him a bleary look from Shane, whose brows are knitted together again.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I mean, I fuck you right here, or I don’t fuck you at all.”
Shane’s mouth snaps closed, then falls open again, clearly at a loss for words. Something like recognition dawns on his face, breaking through the haze. It’s not panic, but more like bald disbelief, already shaking his head.
“No,” he manages. “No way.”
“No because you don’t want it?” Ilya asks, letting himself fold downwards so he’s eye-level with Shane. He watches his husband’s face closely, each micro-expression that flitters across it. Indignation, fear. Heat, intrigue. It’s like a miniature war. “Or no because you want it, and it’s scary?”
Shane’s pulse is thundering so hard that Ilya can see the way it batters beneath his skin, and when he doesn’t get an answer right away, he leans in for a kiss. It’s always a good indicator, Shane’s anxiety sometimes forming such a wall that he has to consciously choose how his body moves, like he’s piloting from the outside.
This isn’t that, though, because Ilya finds no resistance, no stuttering lips.
“Trust me,” Ilya whispers, before slipping his tongue back into Shane’s mouth. He melts like butter, and Ilya is slow when he bears down on Shane’s shoulder. It would be a little comical, probably, how easily he’s able to slide Shane’s body lower along the ice.
Except Ilya doesn’t feel like laughing at the enthusiastic way Shane gives himself up, allowing Ilya to carve space between his legs. He gets a grip beneath Shane’s head to pillow it from the hard sheet of ice, his knuckles bearing the cold.
“Look at you,” he says, lowly, and he doesn’t think he’s imagining the way Shane’s body trembles harder. “So pretty. I had a dream about this once.”
“About what?” Shane asks, breathlessly, but he knows. He has to know. Ilya decides to indulge him anyway.
“Boston beat Montreal’s ass, and you gave me your ass,” he replies, can’t help the way his mouth quirks. “I fucked you right on center ice while all our teammates and whole stadium watched.”
Shane swallows, hard, and Ilya watches the bob of his Adam’s apple. He licks his bottom lip, seems to steel himself when he says in a gravelly voice, “I had a dream like that, too. Except we won the Cup for the Centaurs. And we couldn’t…”
He trails off, and Ilya doesn’t rush him, just slips a hand beneath the layers of jersey and shirt to stroke the soft, solid skin of his belly.
“We couldn’t wait, we had to fuck right there,” Shane finishes, and Ilya lets out a shaky breath. Of course his perfect husband had fantasized about this, had dreamt of it. Ilya will let himself gloat later; he was right, after all. All he wants to do is get Shane just naked enough so that he can open him fast and rough, knows his hole will still be pliable from earlier.
But he’ll get there, if he keeps this up. He can feel that Shane’s on the precipice of indulging this whole thing, of letting himself have. One wrong move and Ilya could easily force Shane back from the edge.
He clicks his tongue and makes a show of turning this way and that, to the old bleachers, the dusty rafters.
“Hm. No crowd or bad Montreal players here, though. Just a shitty old rink where no one needs to come to,” Ilya notes, though it’s obvious.
“Ilya, I just – what if…” Shane trails off, and his eyes dart around Ilya’s face, searching for some reason to poke a hole in the situation. But he doesn’t shrink away, nor does his face shutter in that familiar way where he’s already made up his mind. If anything, he starts breathing even heavier, like his own words just registered.
Slowly, Ilya rolls his hips down, grinding them together; it’s no shock that Shane is already hard, but it’s still gratification.
“Yes. What if someone, mm, forgot their gear?” Ilya asks, slowly. “What if crappy beer league decided they play today instead of tomorrow?”
He’s bluffing; he knows directly from Hayes that the league has already moved to the other rink and won’t be back. But that’s for him to know, not Shane. Ilya grinds down a little harder, and Shane’s gasp is sawed off, almost unbelieving. That’s all it takes for Ilya to see his window.
“What if all those men, who do this just for fun, come in and see the Shane Hollander getting fucked raw on the ice? Begging for it?” he hisses, and Shane surges upward, smashing their mouths together sloppily. Ilya immediately works the kiss into something frantic, and it’s just this side of nasty, too much spit and a lot of pressure. Shane is keening like he’s wounded.
Ilya knows right then that they’re doing this. But he won’t let himself slip away into the fantasy until he’s sure Shane is completely, totally down.
“You say stop, we stop. You want slow, I go slower. Okay?” Ilya says coarsely, breaking the kiss to speak, and Shane chases his mouth like a magnet. “Shane, words. Tell me you want this.”
“Shit. Yes, yes,” he mumbles, trying to kiss Ilya again, but he only catches his cheek.
“Yes, what?” he asks, and all the heat he’s been stoking for over an hour now – since this morning, since a couple weeks ago, fires up. Shane blinks blearily, looks a little lost, or drunk, so Ilya supplies, “Yes, you’ll let me fuck you right here on the ice? Yes, you’ll put on a show for them?”
And there it is, the mysterious and invisible them, but it works. Shane nods, quickly, and tightens his arms over Ilya’s shoulder where they’ve slackened.
“Yes, fuck me right here,” Shane whispers, like he can’t get his voice to pitch any louder, like he’s saving the strength. A wave of pure want washes through Ilya’s chest, and it’s always a sucker punch, the realization of how much Shane trusts him.
Shane, in his Voyageurs jersey. Shane, who’s rock-hard and frothing for it. Shane, who just lost their little game.
“Is what I deserve. I just won, didn’t I, Hollander?” Ilya asks, and Shane’s breath hitches. “So I get whatever I want. And what I want is a show.”
“You cheated,” Shane replies, shakily, but there’s a hint of real annoyance in his eyes that makes Ilya want to laugh. “You only won because you cheated, Rozanov.”
He’s not sure what possesses him to lean over and grab his stick where it was abandoned, closer to them than Shane’s. This wasn’t part of the plan. But still, he grabs it and sits up on his knees, twirling it so sharply that it audibly cuts through the air.
“Huh. If you weren’t so easy, would not have been a problem,” Ilya says, and Shane freezes like a deer in headlights when Ilya taps the stick’s blade down on his chest. He nudges the toe of it under Shane’s chin and forces his head back, watches as his lips part in a silent gasp.
“Look at that,” he comments breezily, even though the sight of Shane trapped under his hockey stick makes him so hard he’s almost woozy. “Shane Hollander, one of our best. Maybe not best player, but best at whoring himself out, no?”
“Fuck off. You know I’m the best,” Shane spits automatically, and God, Ilya loves this. The push and pull, how Shane always has the energy to fight and snap until he’s well and truly gone.
With no real force, Ilya smacks the blade’s curve against Shane’s cheek, pushes it until he’s forced to turn his head.
His dark hair fans out over the pure white of the ice, skin gone from pink to a flushed red. Ilya marvels at how the fat of Shane’s cheek gives beneath the pressure of the blade, at how he squirms, turned on despite the humiliation. Turned on more because of it.
Holy shit, Ilya mouths to himself, and he lightly runs the blade over the swell of his pecs, over his stomach, pauses it right above the bulge straining his joggers. Shane’s breath stutters hard as Ilya presses down oh-so gently against his erection. The air seems to truly catch in his lungs for a second, chest refusing to rise or fall, before it abruptly starts heaving.
“Ilya,” he manages, but nothing else.
“If you love hockey so much,” Ilya comments, “you should prove it.”
“I – I don’t –”
Ilya shifts his grip, angling so that the outward curve of the stick’s blade is pressing into Shane’s dick, and he keeps his tone intentionally light when he clarifies, “Fucking grind on it, Hollander.”
A loud whine rips out of Shane’s throat, and when he doesn’t move, Ilya thinks that this shove of embarrassment is too far. That he should reel back, pivot so the mood doesn’t go south, but then –
Shane starts working his hips, hands scrabbling over the ice as he thrusts against the unyielding wall of pressure. Ilya isn’t even sure it can feel that amazing, like trying to hump a wall or a wooden floor, but he watches in genuine awe as Shane follows instructions.
He grinds on the stupid fucking stick, because Ilya had told him to, and seems overwhelmed because of it. Throws his forearms over his eyes as if he can block out the choppy undulating of his own body.
“Oh, wow,” Ilya says, and can’t help the small tremor that bleeds into his tone. Because, yeah, wow. “Does it feel good? Humping the same thing that scores more goals than you?”
“F-fuck you,” Shane breathes, and he shakily gets himself up on his elbows, looking down like he can’t believe himself. Ilya can hear his skate blades scrape over the ice as he tries to find purchase to tense his legs, get more momentum in his hips. Not that it would do any good – it’s not like the carbon fiber of a stick can yield like a soft body.
“Fuck me? No, fuck you, and I will. Get yourself off first.”
Shane’s eyes flutter shut, and his brows pinch together so hard that they knit upwards. The arousal in Ilya’s gut has been pooling for hours, comes to a boiling point as he watches Shane writhe.
He’s trying in earnest to find enough friction. It’s a little pathetic and extremely, extremely hot. And it must work, because Shane’s small, shaky moans take on that desperate gasping edge that signals he’s close.
It can’t end here.
“Actually, I’m bored of this,” Ilya says, and tosses the stick to the side, leaving Shane to thrust up into thin air. Shane chokes out a noise that has an almost disbelieving quality about it.
“No, please, please,” he begs, and oh, they’ve made it to that stage. “I was so close, pozhaluysta.”
“It does not make me nicer just because you beg me in Russian,” he replies, which is a total lie. Shane knows it, too, because he pulls out the big guns. Blinks his sweet, glazed eyes at Ilya, rolls his bottom lip under his tongue.
“Pozhaluysta, Ilyusha.”
Ilya grits his teeth so hard it’s a wonder he doesn’t grind them into dust.
“Come here,” he snarls. He fists his hands in Shane’s jersey and yanks him up enough for Ilya to land a messy, heavy kiss. It earns him a sweet moan, Shane’s hands flying to bury themselves in Ilya’s curls. He yanks on them desperately, and Ilya’s cock twitches beneath the thick fabric of his sweats.
He’s suddenly aware that he’s hard enough for it to ache, and he needs to be inside of Shane yesterday. Still, though, he needs Shane so drunk on this that he slips under completely.
With no warning, he replaces his kiss with two fingers, shoving them into Shane’s mouth so abruptly he almost gags. He can feel Shane trying to grind against him, and Ilya pulls back just enough that there’s no chance of him finding the friction he wants.
He lets out a discontent groan around Ilya’s fingers, and Ilya lands a couple firm taps against Shane’s cheek, a silent command for him to listen.
“None of that. You’re too close to coming,” Ilya says. “Don’t focus on anything else. Blow my fingers.”
And Shane, ever obedient once he gets like this, starts earnestly sucking and bobbing his head along Ilya’s knuckles. He lets it go on for a couple minutes until Shane’s eyes start to flutter rapidly, like he’s actively fighting to keep them open. There’s spit running down his palm, and Ilya wants, wants, wants.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to suck your cock, and you’re going to get as close as you can, but you won’t come. You’ll only come once you’re sitting on my dick and putting on the best show of your goddamn life. Yes?”
“Yes,” Shane moans, and the word is garbled around Ilya’s fingers, but it’s enthusiastic. So Ilya goes as promised, shimmying down the length of his husband’s body and snapping the waistband of his sweats and briefs down.
He knows it has to be uncomfortable at this point, having been laying on the ice for so long, but Shane acts like he’s lounging in their pillowtop bed. Ilya gently laves his lips over the wet tip of Shane’s cock, which has gone flushed, and he’s so hard it looks painful.
Ilya has been obsessed with Shane’s perfect, thick dick since day one, and that hasn’t changed in over a decade. Normally, he might have more patience, but he swallows Shane down in one slide, even when his throat clicks and tries to protest.
He doesn’t care. He needs to get Shane back to the edge as quickly as possible.
“Ah, fuck, Rozanov, holy shit,” Shane pants, and his fingers predictably weave through his curls and clutch. God, that’s good. Rozanov.
He sets a punishing pace, slicking urgently over Shane’s length, urging himself to relax so that each plunge forces his nose to his Shane’s lower pelvis. His pre-cum is tangy and musky, seeping along his tongue, and Ilya wants to eat Shane alive. He tastes good, a pure weight.
It doesn’t take long. Of course it doesn’t. There’s always a breaking point, for Shane, where he forgets his manners and starts trying to fuck up against Ilya’s face. It’s incredibly sexy, and incredibly telling.
When Ilya pulls off and wraps one cold hand at the base of Shane’s cock, squeezing harshly, he’s rewarded with a spectacularly pained, wounded groan. He watches Shane slowly tiptoe away from the edge, jaw clenched so hard that it jumps.
This is, what, the fourth time he’s been denied? Something like pride flickers in his chest, at Shane’s withholding. Ilya waits until the worst of the squirming is over before he lays the sweetest kiss to his bare hip and kneels up.
“Hurts good, huh, malysh?” Ilya asks, and he can tell Shane really tries to answer. It’s like he’s moving through quicksand, lips forming around a wordless shape before pressing shut. “Go on, Hollander. You were always shit at chirping. I’m giving you one last chance.”
It takes a second, but then, Shane manages a wobbly, barely-there smile.
“Only losers run their mouths,” he practically slurs.
Of course Shane would find the energy for one last bitchy comment. Not that he expected less. It makes his blood run hot, and he reaches down to give his own cock a squeeze, just a moment of reprieve. Shane’s watching him closely, even if his eyes are terribly unfocused, and Ilya makes a little show of massaging himself through his sweats.
Shane draws his knees up, slowly, blades scraping dully against the ice. His gaze never leaves Ilya’s face as he intentionally, slowly parts his legs. His throat works around a thick swallow, before he whispers, “Hurry up, Rozanov. I don’t want to disappoint them.
Oh, fuck.
Quick as a wild thing let out of a starting gate, he scrambles down to Shane’s feet. He yanks one into his grip at random, deftly unlacing the skate that houses his left foot.
Shane makes a questioning noise, but Ilya just jerks the skate off, presses his thumb into the heel of his foot.
“Take it off, just need some of your pants off,” Ilya urges, and Shane clumsily pulls at his joggers and briefs, wiggling in an attempt to free himself. Ilya, impatient, knocks his useless fingers to the side.
The whole thing should be comical; them sliding around minutely on the ice, stretching the elastic on his briefs to the max while trying to get his leg out. They damn near rip the fabric, but Shane manages to get half out of his pants, jolting when bare skin meets ice.
“Good boy. Get on top of me,” he orders, pulling on Shane’s waist as he gets himself down onto his back. The chill is biting, drenching Ilya’s spine. Clumsily, with one foot still bulked by a skate and trying to keep his balance, Shane hangs onto Ilya’s shoulders and starts to swing a leg.
“Stop.”
Shane freezes, and Ilya twirls his hand idly in the air.
“Audience won’t get good look at your pretty face if you’re hanging over me the entire time,” Ilya says. “Go on. Other way.”
Shane’s pupils have blown out so far that his eyes look impossibly dark, a little wild, and his breath is practically sawing out of his lungs. Ilya feels impressively fond as Shane uses his shins for balance as he positions himself backwards over Ilya’s crotch.
And there it is. Swamped by Voyageur blue, Ilya is staring up at the blocky lettering that has haunted him since he was 17. Hollander. Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs. Three-time Stanley Cup winner. A prodigal son.
Shane Hollander-Rozanov. An Ottawa Centaur, streamlining them to greatness. One of the best players that the world will ever see.
He’s all of it and more of it, somehow less of it, stripped down to his basic wants and just a sweet man, shivering in Ilya’s lap.
He’s perfection. Ilya takes a deep breath before he shoves at the waistband of his own sweatpants and underwear, lets his cock slap against Shane’s lower back. Right between those deep, maddening dimples. He rucks up his compression shirt and jersey for a better view of his tan, smooth skin. Shane desperately tries to find an angle for Ilya’s dick to catch, and it serves as a distraction while Ilya fumbles in his pocket for a packet of lube.
He cranes his head to look back over his shoulder, obviously searching, just as Ilya shoves him between the shoulders. His hands fly out to catch himself on Ilya’s knees, and it bends him over just enough that Ilya can work two fingers into his hole. There’s no warning, and not much of a warm-up, not that Shane needs one. He’s still pliant from this morning, body willing.
The angle is extremely awkward, but Shane still moans about it, even though it’s perfunctory.
Ilya isn’t twisting and prodding for his prostate; he’s solely focused on just getting Shane stretched enough that he won’t be in pain. It might sting, a little, force him to grit and bear it, but Ilya has it on good faith that it’s a welcomed thing.
He slips in a third finger, just to test, and it gives satisfyingly enough. He hurriedly slicks his cock up with the thick lube and steadies himself, gets a good grip on Shane’s hip with his dry hand.
“This is a very good view,” he comments, tapping the tip against Shane’s hole, and Shane cants backwards, trying to hurry the process along. “Needy fucking thing.”
“I do. I need it, need you,” Shane says, so lowly that Ilya almost doesn’t hear. Not of shame, but because he can’t seem to find the air.
I know, Ilya thinks as he cruelly slips his dick between Shane’s perfect ass cheeks, letting it snag a couple times without ever pushing in. Shane tries his best to stay still, but he’s whispering pleas the entire time. I know, because I need you, too.
When Ilya finally sinks in, it’s with no warning. And he doesn’t pull his punches, either, wrenching Shane down his length in one swift, heavy motion. The moan Shane lets out is so loud that it’s a wonder the shitty building doesn’t start crumbling.
Ilya jaw flexes so hard that it threatens to give him a headache. It’s both a relief and torture, the vice grip of Shane’s ass, wet and clenching. The feeling is intimately familiar to Ilya, but it never stops fails to shock him.
He gives Shane a short beat to adjust, to ensure that his husband isn’t in any legitimate pain. He’s trembling in what Ilya assumes is overwhelm, and then he gasps, “So much. It’s so fucking much.”
“Is what you begged for,” Ilya replies, and fights to keep his tone even. He slaps his lube-sticky hand on Shane’s other hip and forces him a couple inches up before yanking him back. Testing.
Shane hangs his head and wails as Ilya strains to manipulate his weight, because it’s damn near impossible to get solid leverage on the ice to thrust up. But it works, because Shane loosens minutely, the stretch of his rim going easier.
Ilya watches, awed as always, at the sight of his cock slipping in and out of Shane’s body. Under the fluorescents, it’s obscenely shiny, nestled between the beautifully stretch-marked skin of Shane’s ass.
Ilya moves before he can think about it. Cracks his hand against the meat of that fat ass, hard enough that it reddens immediately, and his part is done.
He figures it’s time for the actual show.
Ilya gathers Shane’s wrists, tightens until the skin goes white from pressure. He tugs, hard enough to force his shoulder blades together, back arching so sharply that it looks like it hurts.
“Come on, Hollander. Whole crowd is waiting for 24 to be the best in the game,” Ilya commands, forcing his voice louder so Shane can perfectly hear him over the sound of his panting. “You’re a pro, right? Prove you take this like you were made for it.”
As if Ilya has set a taser to his spine, Shane really gets his knees underneath him. He rises enough that Ilya is almost slipping out, the tip barely snugging Shane’s hole, before he slams back down. All Ilya can do is watch, a groan ripped from his throat as Shane picks back up and repeats, dropping again and again and again.
“Oh my god,” Shane chokes, and Ilya’s mouth drops open as Shane starts honest-to-God bouncing on his cock.
“Good boy, look at that,” he says, breath punching each time Shane hits home. “Hollander, Christ, krasivyy. So pretty, so fucking slutty.”
“Yours,” he breathes. “Your – your slut.”
“What was that?” Ilya asks, just to bully it out of him.
“Yours, I’m yours.”
“Still couldn’t hear you. Use your words.”
“I said I’m your slut, fuck, Rozanov!” Shane blurts, and he somehow manages to pick up the pace, even though his poor bare knee must be raw to the ice and his muscles sore. His ass is slapping crudely down on Ilya’s hips, the wet shlick of the lube blending together into one nasty, long beat.
It’s so good. It’s so hot, and Ilya realizes with a flash of panic that he’s going to come. Like, soon. He needs to use every bit of ammunition, because he’ll legitimately walk into traffic if he blows before Shane after all this.
Hastily, he abandons his grip on Shane’s wrists, and his husband immediately fists his hands into his own jersey. To ground himself, probably, to show Ilya that he can keep his hands where he put them. With an elbow dug into the unforgiving ice, Ilya crunches up enough that he can get a good grip on Shane’s hair.
He gives a fierce tug. It forces Shane’s face skyward, neck craning, and there he is. Choking on his own gasps, beautiful face brought into sharp relief under the rink lights. A true champion, rolling his hips hard as he works over Ilya’s cock.
“You’re a real winner, Hollander,” Ilya says lowly, digging his fingers into the meat of Shane’s thigh. It’s hot to the touch, his quad muscle popping out starkly. “Pokazhi im. Show them that you’re always first.”
“Roz – Ilya, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna fucking come,” Shane babbles, and his rhythm goes senseless, just writhing and bouncing on Ilya’s dick in anyway that feels good. Just using Ilya to get off, as he deserves.
“Then stop running your mouth and do it,” Ilya pants, because he knows he’s almost done for. “They’re not waiting for a boring speech, Hollander. They want to see you come on my cock.”
Shane’s pace truly fails him; he bottoms out one last time and freezes, just for a second. And then his hips are jerking sporadically, high-pitched moans breaking over themselves as he comes without one single touch to his dick. Ilya’s favorite trick.
He wills himself to endure Shane’s orgasm, even though the constant clenching is making the pleasure white-hot and sharp. Ilya is probably melting a hole in the ice with how he’s boiling, holding on for dear life. It seems to go on forever, and Ilya rides that fine line, waiting until Shane slows just enough to show that he’s cresting the other side of the wave.
It’s the perfect time for Ilya to re-adjust, fitting both hands onto Shane’s sweaty waist. He digs the heels of his blades brutally into the ice, somehow discovering adequate leverage. He thrusts as much as he can manage while dragging Shane back onto his cock.
A sharp grunt punches its way out of Shane’s mouth, and his arms finally unlock so that he can brace himself, fingers clutching above Ilya’s knees.
“Feel good, lyubov?” Ilya asks, and moans lowly when Shane’s ass somehow gets tighter. It lights up the base of his spine, and he’s unraveling, wants the release to tear him apart.
“Hurts,” Shane groans. “I want – I want it, Ilya, please.”
Whatever smart retort he could have mustered in that moment dies when Shane clumsily straightens, leans back like he’s doing some yoga pose. His hands scrabble to lock around his own ankles, guarded by the thick leather of the Achilles guard.
Ilya has no idea how, considering he’s still riding a torturously drawn-out orgasm, but Shane finds the energy to meet Ilya’s thrusts. He rolls his body, serpentine and pleading, hair sticking to his sweaty cheeks and chest opened up to the rafters.
“Fuck, Shane, take it. Need to come inside you,” Ilya gasps, and there’s no finesse in their bodies joining, just heat and want and skin slapping, a mad dash to the finish line. Shane must hear the desperation, because he intentionally clenches around Ilya’s cock. “You’re perfect, tebya lyublyu, I love you, I – ”
He cuts himself off as he locks up, cock pulsing as he comes, gripping the soft meat beneath Shane’s ribs so hard it’ll probably bruise. Distantly, he can recognize that Shane is sobbing in earnest as Ilya grinds harshly into his body. It must hurt, it must really toe that line between pain and pleasure, because Shane is babbling something like, oh shit it’s too much it’s so good.
His orgasm is like being death-rolled beneath a current, so consuming that he wonders if it’ll ever be over. He groans his way through it with locked lips, and it’s hours and days, really, of anticipation coming to an end. Filling Shane up, pushing himself over, brain set to static like a TV knocked off its signal. Ilya isn’t a person anymore, he’s only sensation, the pleasure making bright spots pop beneath his eyelids.
Jesus.
When it finally eases, just enough that Ilya can get his bearings, it’s like his strings are cut. He allows himself to lay flat, stomach heaving, and he absently soothes a hand down Shane’s spine.
He returns to himself in fragments. Notices how his hot back is aching against the ice, how dry his mouth is, how Shane has become dead weight on his cock. He’s practically slumped over, head hanging low.
And because they’re locked as close as can be, he can feel the second that Shane starts to shake. Real shaking, like Anya does during a thunderstorm, and Ilya reboots so quickly that it’s impressive even to himself. It’s like a red alarm starts blaring.
“It’s okay, Shane, you are so good. So fucking good, huh?” Ilya says as he sits up, smothering the back of Shane’s neck with kisses, turns his face to the side gently. His cheeks are flaming red, streaked with tears, and he’s breathing hard. Not the safe kind of breathing, but the kind that warns of impending panic. “Okay, sweetheart, you’re okay. Let’s get you dressed.”
Shane allows Ilya to handle him, somehow boneless and rigid at the same time. As Ilya struggles to get Shane’s pants back on over his trembling leg, he feels the first bolt of real nervousness that he pushed too far. There’s cum all over Shane’s stomach and groin, sticking in his trimmed pubes, and Ilya doesn’t hesitate to soil his own jersey in an attempt to wipe it up.
“Ilya, please, I want to go. I want to go,” Shane mumbles, and Ilya has never shoved a skate onto a foot and laced it faster in his life.
He helps Shane stand, and his husband only wobbles for a second. It’s scarily impressive how fast Shane is, even post-orgasm. Ilya is dizzy trying to keep up, still reeling from the whole ordeal, but he refuses to let go of Shane’s elbow as he skates alongside him.
Shane nearly stumbles at the gate in his haste to get off the ice, and Ilya watches him sharply. Analyzing the way he falls to the bench, fingers fumbling to unlace his skates. It’s a sad attempt, like his fingers have severed connection from his brain.
The moment Ilya sees real tears of humiliation threaten to leak over Shane’s lashline, he swoops in. He fits his arms around Shane and crushes him to his chest, squeezing so tightly that he’s practically trying to absorb his husband into his sternum. Shane squirms, hard, before he goes abruptly still.
“None of that. We’re good here, Shane.” Ilya says fiercely. “Breathe.”
“That was so stupid, Ilya,” Shane mutters shakily, his voice muffled against the swell of Ilya’s pecs. “There’s going to be – fucking CCTV footage. Anyone could have walked in. That was idiotic. I’m – I can’t.”
“Hey. Look at me.”
Ilya holds either side of Shane’s face and tips it, and his heart breaks a little at the muted panic in Shane’s eyes, his mouth trembling. His hands come up automatically, squeezing Ilya’s wrists, as if they were a tether. Ilya needs to fix this immediately. It is Shane Hollander-Rozanov’s birthday, and they just lived out the hottest fantasy imaginable, and this won’t do.
“There will be no CCTV. No one was ever going to walk in. I told you to trust me, yes? Do you know how I know this?”
Shane takes a shuddery breath and shakes his head.
“Because they are tearing this place down, very soon. I paid good, good money to new owners to make sure the whole place was empty and that no one would bother us. Hazy’s friend dropped off key and knew I rented it.”
Ilya points at one of the outdated cameras mounted by the front doors, and emphasizes, “Those? Do not work. They haven’t worked in years. And any team who ever played or practiced here moved over to the new rink in Carlington.”
Shane’s eyes flicker over Ilya’s face, studying, obviously processing the words and trying to settle on one emotion. For Shane, Ilya has an endless well of patience. He waits, stroking his thumbs along those perfect freckles, as his breathing finally slows.
And because Ilya is oh-so good at reading Shane, he sees the moment that the panic drains out of him, replaced by something soft and satisfied and exhausted.
“Kiss me?” he asks, and the request is hardly finished before Ilya is leaning down to do exactly that, kissing him long and slow and deep. He slides his fingers into Shane’s hair, stroking the crown of his head before settling heavily at the back of his neck.
“You are okay?” Ilya asks, moving his kisses to Shane’s cheek and forehead. “You are going to let me take us home so I can be sweet on you?”
“Yes,” Shane murmurs. “Ilya. That was so fucking hot.”
“I know. I am a very smart husband who loves you very much.”
When Shane laughs, just a little, the burn of worry and guilt that had started to sizzle at the back of Ilya’s brain immediately dies down.
He helps Shane get his sneakers back on and laces them with the preferred perfect double-knot. Shane is a little unsteady on his feet, so Ilya hoists both the gear bags and steers him to their car with a guiding arm around his shoulder.
The drive home is less than fifteen minutes, but it feels like an eternity, because Shane is needy and kissing his knuckles and practically crawling over the center console to stay close. Ilya honestly doesn’t know how they’d gone on hooking up for years when they could have had this. The saccharine after.
Then again, during the infamous hook-up era, they weren’t testing the limits quite like they do now. Shane only gets like this after something particularly intense, and Ilya can admit this was an abnormally intense event.
Anya is still at Yuna and David’s, so there’s no responsibility dividing his attention when Ilya gets them inside the house. Shane is on him immediately, practically hanging off his neck, and Ilya kisses him all the way down the hall. Peels Shane’s sticky clothes off and gets the shower hot, because his skin is still chilled from the ice and adrenaline drop.
He holds Shane for a long, long time, nibbling the shell of his ear and telling him that he’s so proud, that it was so good, and Shane clings to the hard muscles of Ilya’s back. He rests his cheek on Ilya’s shoulder and lets himself by swayed under the pulse of water, mouth slightly open and eyes closed. Like he’s asleep, but Ilya knows he’s still there with him by the soft noises of content he makes.
Shane sort of comes back online as Ilya washes his hair, and for the first time in maybe an hour, he speaks.
“How the hell did you even come up with that?” Shane asks, voice rough. “How did you know it was something I wanted?”
Ilya smiles and shields Shane’s eyes as he rinses the suds out, before lightly pinching the tip of Shane’s nose.
“You are not good at hiding when you think something is hot. I thought maybe you liked the idea of being watched. So then, I think, where’s a place you get watched all the time? And hockey makes us horny. Especially when I win.”
“Again. You only won because you’re a cheater who put his hand on my dick in the middle of a game.”
“And you are horny pervert. The sky is blue.”
Shane grins, and Ilya practically kisses his teeth, a wave of endearment and intense love crashing through his chest hard enough to make him woozy.
“It was perfect,” Shane whispers then, and Ilya’s bones could melt at how he says it, with reverance. “Thank you so much, Ilya. I’m gonna think about that forever.”
”Anything for you.”
They hold each other until the water goes tepid, and Ilya towels Shane off, soothes a big Band-Aid over his scraped knee.
“Happy birthday, lyubov,” Ilya says as he stands back up.
“Thank you,” Shane says again, with a kiss to Ilya’s chest. Another kiss, and then he shoves his face into the dip between Ilya’s pecs.
“Now I can give you real present.”
“Wait, what?”
𓃾
When they pull into the driveway, Yuna is already standing on the porch with Anya wiggling at her side, tail wagging aggressively at the sight of the familiar vehicle.
“Happy birthday, baby!” she cries as Shane approaches, and she runs down the few steps to envelop him in a hug. Anya jumps and frantically snuffles Shane’s shirt before bounding over to Ilya, who picks her up as if she weighs five pounds and not nearly fifty.
“Did they feed you, prinséssa? Did mean grandma Yuna lock you in the cellar again?” Ilya coos as Anya squirms fiercely in his arms. “She did? This is horrible news.”
“That dog is going to get fat with how many treats we give her,” Yuna comments dryly, and then smooths the cotton of Shane’s button-up across his shoulders. “Shane, sweetie, your skin looks so good. Did you use that face mask I gave you? You’re glowing!”
Ilya practically bites his tongue in half to keep himself from laughing, and the back of Shane’s neck flushes red.
“Uh, yeah, I did. Last night. And we went hiking this morning, so. You know, good for circulation,” Shane says, in a horrible attempt at a lie. He still doesn’t know how his husband managed to keep being gay a secret for years when he can hardly fib.
Yuna gives Ilya a big hug, and the house is warm from the oven when they get inside. The smell of garlic and rosemary hangs heavily in the air, and David is busy searing steaks on cast iron.
“Hi, boys,” he says when they flood into the kitchen. He abandons his post to give Shane a hug and mighty slap on the back. “Happy birthday, kid.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Ilya, I’ve got the vodka in the freezer for you,” David says, and Ilya immediately pulls down one of the heavy crystal tumblers.
“Is like my birthday every time you import this,” Ilya says, and pours himself a glass. Yuna ushers Shane off to the living room when he tries to help set the table, and he’s only allowed back once the food is ready.
It’s an impressive spread, with herb-crusted steaks and roasted baby potatoes, bright green asparagus in case Shane doesn’t want the carbs. Predictably, he chooses the greens, but indulges in a glass of nice white wine.
“So, what did you get my son for his birthday?” Yuna asks, after Shane fumbles his way through a description of their supposed hike from the morning.
He doesn’t think Yuna wants the real answer to that. Shane coughs into his fist. But, thankfully, there’s another option.
Ilya catches Shane before he can lower his hand, and he rotates his husband’s forearm as if on a display shelf.
“Oh my God, that’s gorgeous,” Yuna says at the sight of the watch now adorning Shane’s wrist.
And it really is, a vintage white-gold piece that’s daintier than Shane’s other watches. If he’s not wearing a fitness watch, he’s wearing a Rolex, still locked into contract. But Ilya wanted something pretty for him, something he can wear to date nights and around their friends.
He’d scoured fine jewelry stores in each state that they’d stopped in during games before finally giving up and importing from Europe. The thing was over 50 years old, crafted originally by a private horologist in Switzerland.
What the world wouldn’t see, what his friends and family wouldn’t see unless Shane showed them, was the engraving on the back of the face. Simple, because the piece is small. люблю тебя. И.Х.Р.
Ilya had worried over it for months, that they’d fuck up the Cyrillic or that he should have ordered for something better, more mushy. But he figured a simple ‘love you’ and his initials summed it all up.
“Right? I really love it,” Shane comments, almost shyly, and Ilya kisses his pinkie finger before letting Shane return to his fork.
After dinner, Shane’s parents insist on cleaning, so Ilya joins Shane on the couch to watch the second-round play-off highlights.
“Philly is wiping the floor,” Shane comments, tucked snuggly under Ilya’s arm. “The Helaud trade was the best decision they ever made.”
“Mm, he’s okay. Great on shot accuracy, but he plays blind by third period. The pressure always fucks him over,” Ilya replies, and Shane snorts.
“God. Yeah. I had better hand-eye coordination when I was three than he does when they go into overtime.”
“Wow. I wish every player in the league could know you are secretly huge asshole,” Ilya says, grinning, and Shane pinches meanly at the tender skin of his inner elbow. “Ow. Yuna, your son is abusing me!”
“Good!” she calls back from the kitchen.
“Shut up, you big baby,” Shane says, but he hides his smile in Ilya’s armpit. Ilya drops a kiss atop his head, and they’re quiet for a long few moments, satiated and worn down to the bone from the day.
It was, though, a perfect day. One Ilya will lock up inside his chest and re-play constantly when other days prove to be much harder.
“You know,” Shane pipes up, “you should be worried.”
“Hm?”
“Your birthday is in a month.”
When Shane looks at Ilya, he’s got that gleam in his eyes that only arrives when he’s about to make a legendary play or, notably, do something to alter Ilya’s sexual psyche forever.
Ilya swallows.
“Yes, it is. What about it?”
“I’m already coming up with ideas to out-do you. Good luck to your balls.”
And Ilya, as proven, is good at a lot of things. What he’s always been best at is being in love with Shane Hollander-Rozanov.