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"Dibs on the back row!" Jones called out.
The other Bears groaned, the sound echoing around the lobby of the nondescript Montreal hotel loudly enough to sound like a pack of Grizzlies. Ilya didn't join in. Back row had never been his vibe – too cliché, too gauche. Let the other players, the ones without a letter on their chest, fight amongst themselves for such seats.
Ilya would save his dibs for the important things. Like the corner slice of brownie, next time Carmichael brought a tray in. Or maybe he'd dibs the only warm-ish shower in the Montreal visitor's suite. Something worthwhile, not the back seat of the coach on the way to the game, like a snotty little school child.
"Fuck you, man. You can't even see the fucking coach yet," Connors groused back, shifting the strap of his duffel on his shoulder.
The Bear Code of Dibs was unwritten, but this was a clear violation. Thou shalt not call transport dibs until the vehicle is in sight. Ilya wasn't certain what the penalty for such an infraction would be. If Marly and Connors had their way, it'd be at least a few years in prison.
"I can see the coach. It's just up there in the distance!" Jones argued back.
"That's fucking tenuous, Jonesy, and you know it," Marly replied, clamping a firm hand on his shoulder. Marly may have worn the A on the ice, but when it came to Bear Dibs, he was the Captain, through and through, and they all turned for his ruling. "You're sitting up front," he decreed, and Jones slumped in his hold. Marly straightened up, eyes focussed outside. "Also. Dibs."
Sure enough, the coach was outside. Marly patted Jones on the shoulder, and then strolled past, up to claim his seat at back of the coach, the rest of the team trailing behind.
Ilya made himself comfortable in the middle of the coach. Captain's privilege let him spread across two seats – plenty comfortable for the short ride to Montreal's stadium. He put on his headphones, letting the heavy beats settle him in, their rhythm getting his blood pumping, ready to see Shane on the ice.
He couldn't fucking wait. It was early enough in the season that they'd not been apart for long, which meant it was also early enough in the season that he remembered what it was like to have 24/7 access to Shane, to hold him and to talk to him and to caress him and to fuck him. Fuck, did he miss fucking Shane. He'd have to wait a little longer – both through the game, and through drinks after. It was the first game of the 2017/18 season, and as Captain he couldn't skip out on team drinks tonight. Nor could Shane. But after, God, after. They were going to have fun tonight.
He lost himself in the thought of it for a moment – dangerous, his cock twitched, heedless of the crowded coach – but was almost immediately pulled out of it by Carmichael tapping him on the shoulder.
Ilya lifted up one side of his headphones, annoyed to be torn from his memories. "What?"
"Did you hear about Hollander?" Carmichael asked, and suddenly Carmichael had Ilya's attention.
He removed the headphones entirely, hanging them around his neck. "What about Hollander?"
"A Montreal player apparently let slip that Hollander came out to their team." Carmichael whispered. More of a stage whisper than an actual whisper; everyone around them could no doubt hear. Ilya resisted the urge to swear. Shane had come out to his team a few weeks earlier, during pre-season. That they couldn't even keep it a fucking secret until after first game of the season was a dark mark on their record. "He told someone at Toronto, who told Jordanson at the Steelers, who told Remy at the Foxes, who told Connors."
"And Connors told you," Ilya surmised, dread wrapping around his neck. "Only you?"
Carmichael shrugged. He looked at Ilya waiting for further reaction. When Carmichael received nothing, he shrugged again, turning to speak to someone else, and Ilya tuned into the conversations elsewhere in the coach. Everyone was whispering – not the quiet talk of normal conversation, but the scandalized whispers of a gossip machine in full force, and Ilya felt his stomach hit the floor.
He pulled out his phone, dragging up his chat to Jane. He looked at it for a long while. Long enough that the coach started moving, cutting through Montreal traffic, bringing them closer and closer to the Montreal arena. What could he say? Especially this close to a game. He could not let Shane go into the game blind, but he also could not panic Shane. Not now. Not like this.
The whispers of his fellow Bears were loud, but not so loud that the sequence of solid thuds at the back of the coach didn't grab his attention.
Marly was banging on the overhead bins, making enough noise to silence the team. "Bears! Listen up!" Marly called, forcing everyone to crane their necks awkwardly to look to him. Ilya's stomach roiled with apprehension, text thread to Jane still open. "I know we've all heard the rumours about Hollander," he started, looking amongst them all. His face was serious and staid. "Well, I got something to say on the matter."
Ilya braced himself, knuckles white around the armrests. Marly had the ear of the locker room. When he spoke, everyone listened. He was everyone's favourite. It wouldn't take much for Marly to lead a riot against Shane, if he wanted.
Marly took a deep breath, looking amongst them all, and then, said a single word.
"Dibs."
For one brief, blessed moment, the whole coach was silent.
And then, a cacophony of noise erupted. Ilya could barely hear his own panicked thoughts above the riotous Bears, all either clamouring for Marly's head or revelling in the chaos of Marly's call of dibs. If anyone had anything to say about Shane or Marly’s sexuality, it was drowned out by the rest of the noise - a small victory in Ilya’s pit of despair.
"You can't call dibs on Hollander!" Hammersmith complained, and Marly pushed at his shoulder.
"I just did, asshole."
"Hang on, hang on, hang on –" Jones said, waving his hands dramatically as if he could stop the train from leaving the station.
He was too late. The train was half-way across Canada by this point. Marly had called dibs on Ilya's boyfriend. There was no getting around it.
"The rules are clear!" Connors declared, cutting through the noise. The rules were clear, too. "Marly called dibs on Hollander. No one else gets a shot at Hollander until Marly's been rejected." Even as Connors was speaking, he was typing away on his phone, pinging off messages.
Fuck. Ilya was so fucking screwed.
"OK!" Connors continued, cutting through Ilya's thoughts. "JJ from the Voyageurs has agreed to bring the Voyageurs to us. Disco Metro, 10pm." He put his phone in his pocket, smirking at Marly. "I can't wait to watch you get turned down, Marly!"
"Fuck you, Connors! What, you think he's gonna want your ass?" Marly chirped back.
Ilya ignored them all as they bantered back and forth. His chain with Shane was still open, and he took a steeling breath before typing his first message. The chain of his necklace rested between his lips, and if he didn't loosen his jaw, he'd crack a tooth.
The coach pulled up outside the stadium before Ilya could craft a response, the jeers of the Montreal crowd audible, even inside the coach. Ilya put his phone away, took a deep breath, and resolved to fix everything with Shane before they ever made it as far as Disco Metro.
Ilya did not succeed in fixing things with Shane before both teams went to Disco Metro. Shane ignored his texts, which grew more and more desperate with each passing hour, sending only a single message. See you at the club.
Ilya was certain this was what dying felt like. The inevitable pull into the abyss.
In the hotel room, he made an effort with his appearance. Tight trousers, barely buttoned top, enough gel in his hair to leave his curls as solid as a helmet.
When Ilya emerged from his room, he despaired to find Marly had put an effort in, too. He looked like a fucking movie star, and smelt like he'd bathed in cologne. "What do you think?" Marly asked, arms wide.
Ilya sniffed as haughtily as he could. "I have seen better."
"Aw, Rozy…" Marly whined, spreading his arms wider. "Come on, you're my wingman tonight!"
Ilya regretted every decision that had led him to this point, all the way back to October 1990, when his parents skipped a condom.
The club was dark and loud and oppressive, too warm and sweaty to be pleasant, and full to the brim with Voyageurs. Ilya looked amongst them, keeping an eye on the ones whose lips curled when he passed, and searching for a familiar face. It took Ilya a while, but eventually, the sea of average men parted, and perfection emerged from their midst.
Shane was at the bar, talking with Hayden fucking Pike. He looked like an angel – Shane, that was, not Pike. Never Pike. He was the hobgoblin of Ilya's nightmares.
Shane looked over at Ilya cooly, and then looked back to Pike. A knife in Ilya's gut. He looked so fucking good, even in the most boring clothes known to man. He could wear a sack and he'd look like a God. Michelangelo himself could not have sculpted such perfection.
"There he is," Marly whispered, buying a shot from a drinks girl and necking it quickly, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Ilya bought a shot, too, the cheap vodka an insult to his ancestors, but a necessary evil.
He waited with tense breath for Marly to go over. To flirt with Shane, to try his best, and to be firmly rejected.
But Marly did nothing.
Ilya watched from the corner of his eye as Marly lingered on the dancefloor, far from where Shane was holding court at the bar. The other Bears were all circling like sharks, but they all knew the rules.
Marly had dibs. None of them could do a thing. Marly took long enough that they slowly lost interest, moving around the club in search of other people to fuck.
The anticipation would suffocate Ilya, he was certain. The night ticked on, with no move from Marly, eating at his own time with Shane. He looked at his watch – 10:45pm. He'd hoped to be at Shane's home by now, indulging in his favourite pastime of eating Shane out til he cried.
Ilya bumped into to Marly, impatient. "You are meant to be romancing him, no?" He asked, nodding to Shane. Hayden had moved away, and so Shane was alone at the bar.
"I just need a second, okay?" Marly said, sounding more nervous than Ilya had ever heard. He chanced a glance at Shane, and then looked away. "Fuck. He's Shane Hollander, you know?"
Ilya unfortunately did know. For the first time tonight, he felt a sliver of compassion for his friend. Then, he remembered what Marly was about to do, and frowned again. "Get this over with," Ilya said, pushing Marly towards the bar, and Marly nodded, slowly making his way towards Shane.
Ilya watched from his spot on the dancefloor as Shane monitored Marly's approach, eyes growing round as Marly came near. Shane glanced to Ilya, just once, and it seemed to steel him.
He smiled at Marly like they were old friends.
Marly leant real close to allow himself to be heard by Shane, nearly plastering himself to Shane's side.
Shane let him. Fuck.
It wasn't enough to count as flirting. Not really. The music was so loud Ilya could feel it in his teeth. Of course Marly had to get close for Shane to hear him. Of course Shane had to lean just as close to respond, his plump lips, Ilya's favourite lips in the world, resting so close to the shell of Cliff Fucking Marleau's ear that he could reach out and run a tongue round the rim if he so wished. He could probably smell Marly's cologne – not much of an achievement, everyone in here could smell Marly's cologne – but, worse, Marly could probably smell Shane, too.
They kept talking, back and forth, mouth to ear, mouth to ear. Shane's voice would be getting raspy with overuse. He'd sound just like he did when he'd been sucking cock for too long, and his voice got all thready and broken from Ilya's cock down his throat.
Shane rested a hand on Marly's forearm.
It was perfectly innocuous.
Ilya felt like he was watching them fuck. Right there, on the bar. It was salacious and indecent and horrifying.
The conversation seemed to come to a close, and Shane patted Marly's arm with a gentle smile. An invite? Jesus Christ. Ilya would not survive this.
Shane headed towards the cloakroom, and Ilya beelined for Marly, shoulder barging Carmichael to get to him first. "You are going home with Hollander?" Ilya barked into Marly's ear, almost vibrating with anxious frustration.
Marly groaned, deep and long. "I wish, brother. He's got a boyfriend," Marly called back, straight into Ilya's ear, and Ilya resisted the urge to fall to his knees and promise his firstborn to whatever benevolent God had granted him mercy. Marly slumped against the bar, but didn't look entirely defeated. "Sounds like the boyfriend's a real asshole, though, so who knows. Maybe I can try again next time we play Montreal."
Ilya did not smile, though he was tempted. "You won't have dibs, next time."
Marly scoffed. "Come on," Marly boasted, gesturing at himself as if he were a victorious Gladiator, and not a recently rejected Bear. "The only Bear that could compete with me is you," he laughed. Ilya smiled back and said nothing at all. Marly looked around, curious, before leaning in to yell down Ilya's ear once more. "Hollander said the boyfriend's here tonight. Maybe the asshole would be open to sharing."
Ilya had never had to work so hard to keep his face neutral. "You would share Hollander, if you had him?"
Marly considered the question seriously, a crease between his brows. "I'd share him with you, Rozy," he answered eventually, good natured, and before Ilya could react, Marly had him in a headlock, roughing up his carefully gelled curls and then pushing him away with a laugh. "Fuck. I'm getting another drink. You want?"
Ilya watched Shane emerge from the corridor, coat across his shoulders. He raised his eyebrows at Ilya, impatient, and Ilya felt unbearably fond of him. "No. I must leave now."
Marly hadn't spotted Shane, too busy trying to get the bartender's attention. He glanced at Ilya, though, a knowing smirk growing on his lips. "Montreal Jane?" He asked, barking a laugh when Ilya shrugged a shoulder, as if Ilya's feigned indifference was answer enough. "Good for you. And less competition for me for Hollander, next time we're in Montreal."
Ilya snorted, but did not comment. "I love you," Ilya said, in lieu of a goodbye, as he always did, and Marly responded in kind, just as the bartender passed him two shots of tequila.
Ilya kept a safe distance from Shane as they left, following him down the street to a parking lot, and checking that no one was following them. Small mercies, the street was quiet, and the parking lot even more so. Shane's jeep was tucked away in a dark corner, and as soon as they were hidden from view of the street, Ilya crowded up behind him, pressing Shane to the passenger side of the car. "Marly tells me you are dating a real asshole." Ilya whispered into Shane's hair, which tickled at his nose.
Shane turned in his embrace, leaning back against the car. He still looked a little pissed off. "Yeah. He let his friend come over and flirt with me because he lost at dibs," Shane huffed. One hand came up to Ilya's face, framing his jaw firmly. Shane's grip tightened a bit, and it was as if he was squeezing Ilya's cock, the nerves firing straight down to his groin. "He lost a game of hockey tonight, too. I'm not all that interested in losers."
Ilya was too turned on to even argue his case – he'd scored two goals tonight, even if Montreal had come away with a scrappy overtime victory. Instead, he caged Shane in against the passenger door, feeling every bit like a tiger with its prey. "What do you say we make your boyfriend very jealous man, hmm? Since he cannot even win dibs for your hand," Ilya whispered into Shane's ear, revelling in the hungry shiver that ran down Shane's spine. "I will make you come so hard, you will forget why you were even angry with him."
Shane pushed Ilya away, and for a second Ilya frowned. He didn't have time to be too upset, as Shane wrenched the car door open, nodding impatiently at Ilya. "Get in."
Once they were both in the car, Ilya turned to look at Shane with a smirk. "You invite many strangers back to your home?"
"Only the really annoying ones," Shane snarked back. Ilya had no choice, really. He wrapped two big hands around Shane's face and pulled him in, until they were making out in the front seat like teenagers. Shane dragged himself away, pushing Ilya back too, and turning on the engine. "Fuck. Let me drive."
Ilya didn't touch Shane again on the drive. He settled, instead, for touching himself. Cupping himself through his tight jeans, groaning like a whore in the passenger seat. Shane's restraint was admirable – whenever the car was moving, he kept his eyes on the road.
But whenever they stopped at a red light, his eyes would sink down, landing in Ilya's lap.
Shane looked desperate in those moments, like he so often did, and Ilya was tempted to lead him down, let him lick at Ilya's cock, just a little – only until the lights turned green. Shane would like it. Still, he kept his hands to himself, and busied himself with other thoughts.
Ilya imagined, for a moment, a world in which he and Shane were not lovers. Where Marly had dibs, and Ilya stood by, watching as Marly made out with Shane on the sticky club floor.
Marly had a good reputation with women. Would he have blown Shane's mind too? Would Ilya have had to beg Marly to share, to crawl on his hands and knees to eat Shane out after Marly had taken his fill? Would they have ruined Shane together?
Shane parked up at the front of his home, and Ilya set out to fuck every thought of Marly out of Shane's mind.
It took almost an hour. He ate Shane out like a four-course meal, worked his cock into Shane's desperate hole with slow, gentle thrusts, fucked him hard enough to make the headboard dent the wall, all while Shane complained about his thoughtless, insensitive boyfriend, who had lost a game of fucking dibs and almost lost Shane too.
"Your boyfriend does not deserve you," Ilya panted into the back of Shane's neck as he pistoned his hips forwards.
Shane frowned, looking over his shoulder. "He does," Shane argued back. It broke the immersion, but somehow only made Ilya harder, his hands roaming over Shane's waist.
"And yet you're here with me," Ilya said. It was a gentle invite back where they'd been, but he wasn't sure if Shane would take it.
Shane let his head drop down, his chest following, until he was arched up against Ilya. "Only to make him jealous," Shane breathed back, returning to the game. "Besides, you have dibs, don't you?"
Ilya groaned, hips stuttering in their rhythm. The scene morphed again – was he Marly now? Or some other, desperate Bear, crying out Dibs in a desperate attempt to bag Shane Hollander? Ilya reached around, fisting at Shane's cock desperately, begging Shane to come.
Shane clenched around him with a cry, tipping over the edge just in time, pulling Ilya straight into the deep end with him. Ilya panted into Shane's neck as he came, mouthing at the sweat there, letting the salt hit his tastebuds.
He pulled out carefully, tying off the condom and putting it aside to deal with later, and then gently rolled Shane to his back. "You would not suck Marly's cock. Not even if he won a thousand games of dibs," Ilya said. He sounded more certain than he felt.
"I'm only sucking your cock. For the rest of my fucking life, no matter how many times you lose at dibs," Shane promised, touching Ilya's cheek gently. His stomach was sticky with come, and his hair was matted with sweat, and he had never looked more perfect and untouchable. Even his pissed-off frown had abated.
Ilya missed it.
He kissed Shane with all the love in his heart, and lingered close after. He waited until the moment was honey-sweet, and then whispered it, like a love note. "Dibs on first shower."
Ah, there it was again. The fucked-off crease between Shane's brows that made Ilya's heart sing. Ilya swung himself out of bed, straight towards the en-suite.
"Bear code of dibs doesn't work around here, asshole," Shane called after him, already in pursuit. Ilya slammed the shower on, stepping into the cold stream of water before it had a chance to heat up and closing the shower door firmly behind himself. "It's my fucking shower," Shane complained, hands on his hips, righteous and naked and glorious. Ilya smirked back, and Shane raised an eyebrow. "Where's your phone? Maybe I can see if Marly's still interested…"
Ilya groaned, swinging the door of the shower open. It was a satisfying loss. "On this one occasion, I can share dibs," he conceded. He beckoned Shane in, just as the water started to heat up, and pulled Shane close so that his body shielded Shane from the cold. He was kind like that, sometimes. Selfless, some might say.
Ilya kissed Shane firmly, chilled water on his back. He'd need to speak to Shane when they emerged from the shower, about timelines and changing plans and what their future looked like, but one thing was certain.
Before the Bears played Montreal next, Ilya would be making one thing very clear to his team.
He had dibs on Shane Hollander.