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Shane is being pulled along through the darkened hallways of the Centaurs’ arena, hand clasped firmly in Ilya’s. Their fingers are laced tightly together, and although Ilya has refused at all to let slip what they’ve come here for this late at night, there’s plenty of comfort shared through brief squeezes through their grip.
As it is close to midnight and in the middle of the week, the place is entirely deserted. At first the only lights on are the green emergency lights above most doors, then as they trek through the buildings some additional overhead lights automatically turns on. However, Shane likes everything about his sport. Obvious to anyone who has ever seen him play or heard his name, Shane loves playing hockey. Granted, some do call it an obsession, which it definitely is too, but he loves it. There is nothing that can make him feel alive the way a great game can. There’s nothing that can make every breath taken feel like oxygen was made specifically so a puck can fly past a goalie and into the back of a net, created just for that and nothing else.
The insects that pollinated the various plants that down the line was turned into fuel for his body, to Shane they too feel like they were made for this purpose and this purpose only.
Although he’d never admit this out loud, a part of him wants to believe that the very first life forms on Earth sparked to life just for him. He knows this is illogical, of course he does, but how could they not have been, when hockey is this important? Layers and layers of tiny lives lived, the cells they once were sinking to the bottom of the oceans, stacking higher and higher, compressing further and further, becoming oil and power and fuel that would one day aid humanity into growing. To make this sport possible.
Yeah, he knows he can’t say these things out loud. And yet, he lives and breathes hockey because he was born to do so.
But he can’t just play hockey, that’s not how it works. That’s not how anything works. It’s a collaboration, and the roster consists of a lot more people off the ice, than the fairly small group of men who actually don their skates and gear to play the game itself.
Back in Montréal he made an effort to get to know all the people working in and around the arena, the people who made it all possible. His goal was to know every worker, big or small, to know them by name, to respect them and the important job they did to make every game possible. From the owners and the coaches to the sanitation workers, to the caterers and their schedule, the equipment managers and their assistants, even the volunteers working the kiosks during games. People would sometimes find it surprising that he made an effort with the social media crew as well, as he rarely, if ever, showed up in anything less than official player or team photos.
Did he ever manage to actually get to everyone? Far from it, but he tried and it showed. Call it a part of a captain’s responsibilities, call it a fanatic’s hunger for more, people noticed. People appreciated it.
Shane might not be a captain anymore. He might not have the same amount of responsibilities balanced on his shoulders, but he still cares. He still needs this sport to live. He still considers it a part of his job, of his duty to give back to the community, to be able to recognize the people milling about. To know their names and what they do, to make sure they know they are appreciated. Perhaps not through actual words, but through actions.
If there’s a children’s team that temporarily needs an extra coach and he’s available, Shane’s there. If there’s half a mountain of skates that needs sharpening and he’s got the time, he’s there. When all the supporters have left the arena, Shane can be found with a broom and a trash bag, walking the stands, helping out, because that’s a part of the game too.
And that’s why they’ve got the arena to themselves. Not even the team’s company cars could be seen in the parking garage. There’s only the two of them.
The smile on his face would be impossible to wipe off, even if he wanted to try to.
Their gear bags have been left at home, and the only things they’ve brought are their skates and a backpack, all of which are being carried by Ilya, slung over the shoulder of his free arm.
So far, Shane hasn’t said much. Earlier that morning, Ilya had told him they had plans late, later on, and to not ask him much about it. ‘It’s a secret, my love’, Ilya had told him, before adding on, ‘A surprise. Do not ask, because I will not tell.’ Ilya’s teeth, though not exactly pearls on a string, had gleamed brightly, lit up by the full-body giddy smile he’d given Shane. And Shane had nodded, promised to be good and patient.
Now, though, as they’re opening door after door towards the rink, Ilya keeps turning to look at Shane. He’s practically bouncing as the last doors– this a double set of doors– are slung wide open. Ilya throws his arms out, turning so he can walk backwards into the arena, grinning at Shane.
“Surprise! You ready?”
Shane snorts, and is delighted to see that Ilya predicted this reaction. They’re going to be skating in the middle of the night, with all of the lights turned down low?
“We’re here just to skate?” He asks even though he knows there’s more he doesn’t know about.
“Not just. But first, yes!”
A theatrical eye-roll shudders through Ilya, put on but not strong enough to make him stop smiling. He nods with his entire body, leading the way over to the bench, where he first places the skates down neatly, then shoves his backpack under the bench, away from Shane. He scoots over to make more space for Shane, which isn’t strictly necessary, but Shane still sits down close enough for their thighs and arms to touch while they lace their skates up.
“You know,” Ilya says with a conversational tone, “I am team captain, but you are team chief. Did you know?” He tightens the laces as he glances over at Shane.
“Team chief, huh?” Shane replies, double-knotting the bow knot before tucking the ends behind the lip of his skate. He bumps his shoulder into Ilya’s and starts working on the other skate.
From his peripheral vision he can sense Ilya looking at him, nodding softly.
Oh, how he loves the tingle caused by Ilya looking at him like that. One day that look will be enough to let his jersey be displayed under the arena ceiling, playing days left behind. Now, though, he basks.
Ilya hums, standing up. He steps through the rink door, immediately turning so he can lean on the top edge to watch Shane finish up. “Yes. You are loved. It barely took any convincing to let us be alone here tonight. Didn’t even have to say it was early birthday present for you.”
The loveliest heat blooms through Shane’s chest, trailing down his skin like sweat after a good workout. It settles deep in his gut, where it slowly trickles towards his dick.
(He’s barely ever fully flaccid with Ilya around. Ilya knows this. Sweet moments like these easily keep him at half-mast. Ilya knows this too.)
Shane steps onto the ice too, planting a soft little kiss on Ilya’s cheek as he passes. He circles around the middle, relishing the way the muscles in his legs and core immediately wake up when he’s on the ice.
Ilya follows, coming up to skate next to Shane. Unspoken and unannounced they take a lap around the ice, which turns into two, and then three, with both of them racing against each other at full speed. It ends after the third, when Ilya breaks off to grab their sticks from the stick stand, as well as the bucket of pucks usually kept right by the bench. He pours them onto the ice, then finds a small speaker in his backpack.
It’s endearing. Instead of connecting his phone to play music on the literally massive arena music system, Ilya places a small, round speaker right next to the bench door. He chooses one of their day-to-day playlist, one full of songs they’ll listen to when they’re hanging out. Then he pulls both their pairs of gloves out of the backpack, throwing Shane’s pair over to him.
“We will play a game. The one that manages to score more goals wins. The other will go in the sin bin. Shamed for not being the best.” Ilya lays out the rules, moving all the pucks into the center ring while he speaks.
Once a puck enters either of the goals, it’s out of game. They will both keep track of how many goals scored by counting out loud. Shots on goal must happen behind the drop zones only to count. Two goals cannot be scored in the same goal twice in a row, which will force them to yo-yo from one end of the ice to the other.
The only strange thing is that there is no prize for the winner, only shame for the loser. Shane debates asking about it, but decides to chew his lip to avoid asking.
Judging by the wicked glint in Ilya’s eyes, he noticed.
Without saying more, Ilya hooks a puck with his stick and takes off towards one of the goals, stealing a head start large enough that Shane doesn’t manage to stop him sinking the first puck into the back of the net.
“One!” Ilya shouts over the music, raising his fist in a classic celly. He swings around the net, avoiding the puck where it’s slowly sliding back out in front of it.
“Hey, you cheated!” Shane can hear the incredulence in his voice, sounding far younger than he prefers. Ilya knows better than anyone how to make Shane’s inner competitiveness go through the roof in no time at all.
“No, you were slow!”
And he’s off again, but this time Shane knows it’s coming, so he’s the one who gets his stick on a puck first.
The race to the other end is much closer, and Shane shoots the puck the moment they’re past the drop zones, Ilya’s stick close enough to knock against his. Annoyingly, the puck hits the left bar with a loud zing before it pivots into the goal.
“One!”
This time too, Shane is ready, and it’s damn good that he is, because where Ilya was just moment ago there is now a cloud of shaved ice from his sharp stop and return back to the center for a puck.
The music coming from Ilya’s speaker gets drowned out by the sound of skates on ice, shouted numbers going up, and profanities in various languages.
Shane feels alive, and after every goal he scores he quietly thanks the universe for this eternal joy gifted to him.
Slowly but surely the crowd of pucks in the center shrinks and two new gatherings of scored pucks collect near both goals. Some pucks have even managed to get tangled in the net, resting all the way on top of the net where the net has curved around the back bar.
For every goal scored, the tension rises. Most of the time they’re equally matched, with almost every other goal scored by each man. As they get closer to running out of pucks, though, Ilya takes a lead, pulling cheap tricks to throw Shane off and score. Ragebaiter Rozanov chips away at Shane’s steel focus, managing to make him forget this is a fun game. Well, almost he’s having a lifetime of fun, but his temper rises enough to throw proper out of the window to replace with dirty.
Shane wins the second to last puck by bodily checking into Ilya’s side right at the blue line. He expertly flicks Ilya’s stick up, pushing the edges of his skates hard down and back as he strides forward. He scores with his backhand. With this goal, they’re tied.
“‘Weak backhand’, you say?” He grumbles under his breath before shouting his count loudly.
Right behind him, Ilya barks out a laugh, tapping the blade of Shane’s stick. “Yes, weak,” he taunts, shoving Shane into the boards behind the net.
There is one puck left, and Shane will be damned if he doesn’t get to it and scores it first.
It is a tight race, the tightest yet, which is really fitting as to how intense this little game has grown to be.
Fucking unfortunately for Shane, he can tell early that Ilya is going to beat him and get this. But that won’t do. That won’t fucking do, and Shane will not let him.
He wants to win.
It’s almost as if it happens in slow motion. Shane is close behind Ilya, but not close enough to grab the very last puck first. He’s a step too far behind, and he can see how damn gorgeous this upcoming goal would be in an actual game. He can tell, and in the heat of the moment he forgets. Forgets that it’s all for fun. Doesn’t realize that Ilya’s laughter and upbeat music is a trap. A trap to rile Shane up, to make him let loose and do what he wouldn’t do in a live game.
Shane moves, calves burning from the explosive motion he’s putting them through, adrenaline pumping through him, the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears like a herd of stampeeding wildebeest. Everything is drowned out by this intense desire to win, brought out by the man he loves the most.
He notices the way Ilya’s elbow twitches– the first tell before scoring through a slapshot. He sees the move before it happens, and his only choice to stop Ilya scoring the last damn goal is to trip him.
Which is exactly what he does. Shane throws himself forward and, in the normally most out-of-character move possible, whacks his stick into the front of Ilya’s leading skate, sending them both flying ahead on the ice on their stomachs. But, and this is the most important but, but Shane knew this was coming, and is back on his feet first. Shane scores, triumphantly shouting out his final score of twenty-three goals scored.
The moment he shouts he would have realized what a dirty play he just did, if not for the loud, shrill thrill of a whistle coming from the whistle now in Ilya’s mouth.
Ilya, who is still down on the ice, covered in snow and now with a black whistle held between his teeth. He whistles long and loud, then in five loud bursts before he pushes himself up on his feet again.
“Dirty play! Tripping! No goal, Hollander! You cheat!”
Shane’s chest bubbles with passionate indignation, wanting to argue against the penalty. And he does, brows furrowed and his stick held out as far as possible. “That’s only because you–”
It takes him a moment before his brain registers that they’re not actually in a game, and it takes another for him to rewire his thoughts into playing along. This involves the same emotions, only now with a dick growing more interested, trapped by his clothes. When they get home they’ll definitely have a late nigh–
Ilya slams into his side, gloves and stick discarded on the ice where he’d been tripped. He wraps one arm around Shane’s shoulder and begins to steer him towards one of the penalty boxes.
“Five plus five!” Ilya announces to the empty seats all around them, putting on a strict but playful referee tone. “Player number twenty-four, Hollander, five plus five in the bad boy box for being dirty, dirty cheater!”
Shane fakes struggling against being pushed towards the penalty box, knocking huffing and puffing, glaring increasingly aroused daggers at Ilya as the door is opened and he’s guided inside.
“You’re an asshole,” he tells his prettiest love, which only earns him a loving snort. Muscle memory makes Shane plop down onto the bench, breaths still coming in hard and fast after their racing back and forth across the ice.
A white bottle of water is shoved into his hand, and only when he’s guzzling down water does he realize Ilya followed him into the penalty box and closed the door behind him.
Shane’s black sweatpants as well as his boxers are pulled down before the next reality crashes into him; Ilya is on his knees in front of him, and Shane has no time to stop him from swallowing down his cock.
“Fuck, Ilya, what?” Shane sputters, the shock of it makes him grip the bottle so hard water squirts out of the top, and Shane slams the bottle down next to him on the bench.
Ilya’s head bobs up and down, already having set a vigorous pace while Shane threads his fingers into his sweaty curls, half-heartedly trying to shove him off.
People could see. Fuck. Fuck. There are cameras everywhere, and Shane knows. He got a tour of the security office once, which had been when this fantasy-come-true had sparked into existence. A fantasy he’d mostly discarded, because being blown in the sin bin would never be possible. The most he’d done had been to admit it to Ilya once, one single time, when talking about silly hockey-related sexual fantasies they didn’t actually think would be possible.
“Ilya,” Shane pants, torn between letting his eyes flit around to find the cameras he knows are everywhere and keeping his eyes on Ilya. More specifically, watching the way all of him disappears into Ilya’s mouth, how Ilya buries his nose into his pubic hair, how he feels rather than hears Ilya squeeze his cockhead with his throat.
Until now, Ilya’s eyes have been closed in concentration, likely splitting his focus on sucking Shane’s cock as well as actually breathing when he can, because hot puffs of air billows onto his slickened cock every few seconds.
His eyes flutter open, and Shane’s breath catches in his chest at the sight. It’s beautiful. Ilya’s skin is flushed red, glistening from the sheen of sweat covering him, curls sopping wet with it and sticking to his forehead. His lips, never leaving Shane raging hard cock, are darkened and swollen, and Shane wonders if this is why the Big Bang happened eons ago.
Like the fucking asshole he is, Ilya’s mouth does let go of his dick, replaced by his hand– pumping at the same pace he’d just been working with his mouth.
Shane whines, instantly feeling cold and pitifully disappointed.
Ilya grabs the water bottle and gives Shane a quick nod as reassurance, squeezing what must be half of the contents of it as he drinks, drinks, drinks, hand never stopping to move. Clear water joins the thicker sheen of spit covering his chin, and he nudges the bottle back into Shane’s hand instead of putting it on the bench again.
“More,” he croaks, voice oh-so-fucking-wonderfully hoarse, all out of breath and it is by far the most gorgeous sound Shane has ever heard.
Shane obeys, one hand leading the bottle up to his mouth for another drink, the other intensely aware of Ilya’s curls wrapping around his fingers as he grabs a fistful of hair– not to steer, only to hold. To stabilize himself.
Ilya grunts a praise, and Shane grunts back, words lost on him.
The hand on his dick moves over, making room for Ilya to lick a hot stripe up the underside, tongue flattened as it travels from root to tip. He circles the edge of his cockhead, flicks the frenulum, then tilts his head sideways to plant kisses all the way down again.
Shane’s not going to last long and they’re both aware of it. Ilya’s hand slides below his balls, the pads of his pointer and middle fingers settling into place on his perineum, where he begins making small circles.
Sparks of pleasure sets off inside of him, intensifying as Ilya swallows him down again, moving quickly. The back of Shane’s head hits the plexiglass and he doesn’t care who can hear him moan, if the security cameras record sound as well.
Ilya does the circling motion again, pressing slightly harder, sucking more intensely, and is pretty sure he can’t see anything anymore. Everything is is made out of stars and he feels amazing.
Shane is a supernova in its last moments of life, and the very last thing he consciously notices is the way all the muscles in his legs and core have tensed up and are shaking wildly. At least, he thinks they are. Maybe. The only thing left for him to think about is Ilya.
Ilya.
Oh, Ilya.
Fuck, Ilya.
Maybe he’s chanting Ilya’s name as his climax bursts through him, shooting thick, hot ropes of cum into the back of Ilya’s throat, where they’re swallowed down. Kept safe for the rest of time, made for this.
Made for him.
He comes to fully dressed again, vision and ability to breathe, to think slowly buzzing back into being again. Shane feels his head resting on Ilya’s shoulder and an arm keeping him upright before a drunken-sounding giggle erupts out of him.
It takes him several tries before he manages to say the words he’s aiming for. “Ilya, that was– Fuck, so good.”
Next to him, Ilya nods, jostling him lightly by the shoulders. “So good,” he affirms, pressing a surprisingly dry kiss to the side of Shane’s face. Must’ve wiped off the wet while he was out.
Shane wants to point out that people will know, people will see, but the words– most of the words– won’t come out right. Ilya understands though.
He makes a lightly dismissive noise in the back of his throat, then clears it before speaking up. “Chief privileges,” he says, as if that explains anything.
“Cameras,” Shane murmurs, closing his eyes so he can find that string that runs through him, the one he usually holds taut to keep control of himself.
“They’re off.” Ilya holds Shane closer, supporting him both physically and mentally. He knows what Shane needs. He always knows.
The cameras are off. What feels like a formal wave of relief washes over him, though really he is too spent to do more than take note of it. A half-hummed breath puffs out of his nose, relaxed and content.