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Shane knew people thought he was boring. He liked to cook from his specialty cookbooks and read the New Yorker on nights when his teammates spent astronomical amounts on booze in places whose cover charge could pay most people's rent. So maybe he wasn't as wild, Shane thought it was a good thing, but he also understood that the team needed to see their captain as a part of the team. He'd read it in a coaching memoir and taken it too heart. It was why he kept track on his calendar to make sure he went out at least once a month to various get-togethers. Mostly he picked the informal watch parties at players houses; they were less rowdy and he could talk to the wives and they had hockey. If anyone drank too much, it was usually long after he'd left so it didn't matter. When it was at bars, he usually got away with an over-priced ginger ale in a mug and no one expected him to stay late.
The perfect plan he'd been using for nearly a decade hadn't accounted for the fact that he'd be asked to host what felt like a million segments for the NHL leading up to the next draft pick.
He went almost two weeks filming segments, practicing his speeches, and shaking hands with lots of rich snobs wanting to get their names plastered onto teams. By the time he came up for air after most of the picks had happened, it had been two months since he went out and the whole team seemed to be clambering to get into one of the new clubs before they flew out.
“I can't believe you swung us passes!” JJ laughed and clapped him on the shoulders and Shane flinched. “This is the hottest place!”
“Thank Rose, she pulled the strings.” Shane reminded them. He'd had to call in a favor, earned when Shane got her a butch NWHL goalie's number. “Don't start anything!”
“Will do, Captain!” They hooted and hollered like children. When they got in, with a less than impressed look from the bouncer, his team dispersed. Some went to order drinks, Mikkel went to grab a table and the others caught the eyes of some girls on the dance floor and were already being eaten by the mass of moving bodies. Shane could think of a million things he'd rather do that be bumped into by a hundred sweaty people.
He instead joined Mikkel and they talked about their upcoming season, though the man seemed more interested in a leggy blonde making eyes at their table. Shane smiled. “Go talk to her.”
“You're the best, Captain!” Mikkel cheered and Shane held their spot, avoiding the looks women gave when they sauntered past his table. He'd learned quickly how to avoid giving them the impression he'd be taking them home and ignoring them seemed to work. Instead he was looking up at the second story where a large gilded mezzanine overhung the dance floor.
People watching was dangerous in a club, and he was reminded of this fact when he caught the eye of a man standing in the middle of a large group, half hidden in the shadows but very clearly watching Shane right back.
Shane looked away quickly, picking at his nails to avoid looking back.
“Gotcha your usual!” JJ slammed a mug down and Shane pushed down his annoyance that it had way too much foam to be his usual.
“Thanks, JJ.” He took a sip and found it wasn't bad, a bit grassier than he liked his drinks but not bad.
Keeping an eye on his watch, he took measured sips. He realized somewhere around nine o'clock and sip number thirteen that he'd forgotten to eat anything and he was a roaring lightweight. The lights were a bit brighter and his team funnier.
“We even got Cap to lighten up, here, give him this!” Someone offered and Shane just smiled and accepted it. He had about twenty more minutes and then he'd be catching a cab anyways. He slammed it. “Damn, Cap!”
“I'm calling it a night!” He followed it up with and the whole table groaned, even the unfamiliar girls who had found their way into various members' laps. “Got a final sound bite tomorrow with the draft picks I don't want to miss.”
A few people gave a half hearted protest but the members who'd flown out with him for promotional reasons were not super close to him and it was as easy to skirt around them trying to ply him with more drinks as it was to skate around them on the ice.
The late hour had caused the place to swell, people bulging into every corner until Shane realized he'd have a better time trying to move through the dancers than the stagnant groups sticking to the walls.
With a deep breath, he pushed his way into the throngs of people and was immediately assaulted by the feeling of hands grabbing at him. For a moment Shane wanted to smack at them, twist away and jump in the opposite direction but he buttoned down the panicked response and pushed forward.
It only got worse as the middle of the floor was packed. In every direction there were elbows and hips, arms smacking him in the face and a single hand which grabbed his ass. When he spun around, the strobes made it impossible to see who was even looking in his direction. Suddenly all he wanted was to be out of here, and he shoved people out of his way, some yelping and more than one man seeming to get macho until they realized Shane had enough muscle to move them in the first place.
It was a Sisyphean task, and the longer he tried to find a direction which wasn't just more people pressing in on all sides, the more tight his chest got and the pounding in his head which he'd thought was the music was actually the frantic pounding of his heart. He was sweating, panting, and a hand grabbed him by the hair and yanked and the sound he made was so embarrassing he was nearly in tears.
Then there was a hand on his neck, strong and commanding and comforting in that it pushed him into one body, broad and wearing a thick enough jacket that Shane could bury his nose into it and calm himself down.
Over his head he could hear an accented voice yelling, “Why the fuck you touch him, huh?”
Shane couldn't think much, the alcohol and what he was quickly coming to realize was probably a panic attack had drained him. Instead he took a deep breath. The man, his savior in a weird stupid way he didn't let himself think about, smelt good. An expensive cologne, something with wood and musk, and the acrid bite of cigarette smoke.
“You alright?” The man asked and it would have been hard to hear him over the pounding of the music if he hadn't leaned down to whisper it in his fucking ear. “Do people grab you often?”
A shiver raced down his spine and he managed to bite down on his moan but not the jerk he gave when someone bumped into them and sent the man's crotch to press against his. Then his gasp was pulled from him with a choice.
“Okay.” The man said and Shane had all the media statements ready on his lips, blaming the alcohol or the manhandling. But it didn't matter because the moment he opened his mouth the man had leaned down, slow enough that Shane could have moved away.
It was so dark, the strobes so sporadic that it would be impossible to see anything. There were lasers and so many disco balls that any camera would be a mess of flashes. All those thoughts were in his head when he leaned his head back and kissed the man. He was tall and strong, but lanky too. Large hands found their way to his face, pressing his cheeks until Shane opened his mouth and deepened the kiss. It was messy and wet, delicious and something he’d never done in public before and that made something shiver in his stomach.
When they broke away for air, Shane tried to get a good look at the man, but it was like trying to read by the flashes of a streetlight. There was the pale arch of his nose, the heart-shaped bow to his mouth, the curls Shane could feel between his fingers.
“Come on!” He gestured and with the few inches he had over Shane, he navigated their way out. Shane barely noticed, he was too focused on their intertwined hands. His palm was sweaty but he also couldn’t bring himself to let go.
There was a large metal door and when Shane was dragged through it, it spat them out onto the dirty sidewalk. There were people on both sides, a few lounging against the bricks huddled up against the chill, a handful smoking, and from the sounds of sucking, the shadowed area behind the dumpsters was occupied too. Shane could feel himself blushing and without the anonymity of the crowd, he pulled his hand back, trying to laugh it off. “Listen, thanks for getting me out of there, if we could just forget–”
“Come back to mine.” The man said and the way the syllables came out made it sound more like an order than an ask. The no was on the tip of his tongue. He’d been asked before during the few times he’d gone out with the team but it had always ended the same: with an empty bed because Shane couldn’t risk his career for someone who wanted a quick fuck.
But the way this guy was looking at him, the breath of his shoulders, the weight to his gaze, Shane hadn’t realized he’d spoken until he’d already said “Okay.”
They walked down the street and the alcohol was wearing off. The nerves were coming back and Shane thought through a million ways he could call this whole thing off. It would be hugely stupid to go home with this man. Yet every time he opened his mouth to give some bland excuse to run away, the man bumped his shoulder or let his hand brush Shane’s. Once, he reached out and yanked Shane sideways to avoid a pothole and Shane nearly went to his knees right there.
Then it was too late and a nice high-rise was in front of them. Shane wondered if the guy was in crypto or something, it was a very nice building for someone their age. Except he was unable to think anymore on that when the man took him around a back entrance. He got his first good look at the man in side-profile in the light of the hallway before the man yelled “Race you!” and shot up the stairs. Shane had never been one to lose and tore up after him, his old knees protesting but all those suicide runs hadn’t been for nothing and he made up any missing time, even if the man got to the door first. By the time Shane got to his back, the key had opened the door and they were spilling inside. Shane couldn't even get a good look at the place before a hand was in his hair, down his back, gripping tight to his ass so that they were pressed from chest to thigh.
After that, Shane couldn’t be fucked to care about the decorating. He wanted a thick cock in his mouth, his knees aching in the way that only got his dick harder. The hand in his hair was almost kind, it didn’t yank or shove, just held. The man made a shocked, gasping sound when Shane fell to his knees, a little punched out noise when Shane nearly tore his pants getting his fly open and his dick in his mouth. Shane couldn’t understand his surprise, he had a nice dick. He showed that by taking him into his mouth with a single smooth swallow.
“Up, up.” The man slapped at his arm and then lifted him when Shane apparently was moving too slow. Something roared in his stomach when his legs wrapped around a strong waist. He was getting older, struggled to keep down his weight and felt every pound, but the man didn’t seem to have any trouble moving him around. Shane wondered if he was a gym rat or something.
Whatever he did, Shane thought later when he was folded up with his ass in the air and his face buried into lavender-scented sheets, he got his cardio in. Every thrust was smooth and hard, rapid drilling movements which sent stars flashing behind his eyes. It helped that he had the stamina to back it up. Most men their age tapped out at one, but he seemed as relentless as a machine, continuing long after Shane thought they might have to stop.
“Fuck, fuck! Shane…” He said and Shane jerked, wondering when he’d said his name. “Say my name, come on, come on, for me.”
Shane wanted to, oh fuck how he wanted to, except he had no fucking idea when they’d exchanged names. Shane felt horrible even while getting railed because his mouth opened and shaped sounds which all came out in little gasps and whines. The man was kind in this too, muttering low in that damned accent of his, “Come one, Ilya, say it for me, Il-ya.”
That he could do.
“Ilya!” Shane called and Shane swore he could feel Ilya’s dick jump inside him. “Fuck me.”
“You say good, Eel-ya, not Ill-e-a. Scream it for me,” He demanded and Shane moaned and did it just so that he could cum again.
Somewhere around midnight, Ilya had ripped a third orgasm out of him and Shane felt more wrung out than a towel. Everything ached but in the way a well-worked muscle seemed to burn. He thought he should probably get up and crawl his way back to his hotel but an arm was thrown over his midsection.
“Stay. Took much time to get you here.” Ilya hissed into Shane’s neck.
Shane flushed. The casual hookups he’d had in the past, already few and far-between, had been secretive and usually made him feel worse. He thought faintly of the MVP award which he’d lost to Hunter and the way the man had bent him over the sink in a forgotten hotel bathroom, Shane to forget the humiliating loss, Hunter to ignore that the man he’d been seeing had broken up with him. Shane hadn’t known that at the time, had actually asked about going back to his hotel room with his stupid twenty-two year old optimism, but Hunter had cleared up the miscommunication as nicely as possible. Still, the burn of embarrassment was still there, even knowing Scott and his husband were happily married now. He didn’t feel that way now.
He was facing the windows, open to the skyline, letting the man at his back press sleepy kisses along his spine until Shane couldn’t keep his eyes open.
The grind of a coffee machine woke him. The bed behind him was empty but Shane could hear the other man out in the kitchen, the rolling lilt of his one-sided Russian conversation almost pretty sounding. Shane stretched out, cataloging all the aches that he’d accumulated, especially the pleasant ache in his lower back. When the conversation faded, Shane felt comfortable enough to ask “Can I borrow your shower?”
“Da, towels on shelf.” Ilya called back. “You like waffles?”
Shane shouldn’t eat waffles, not unless they were the protein powder ones which chewed more like a biscuit, but Shane didn’t want to be difficult and also morning afters were unfamiliar territory. “Sure, thanks.”
He took a shower, marveled a bit at the fancy showerhead and was so busy sniffing all the fancy body washes that he missed the smooth slide of the glass door until hands wrapped around his middle and pulled him back into warm arms. Slowly, building the heat in an already steamy shower, Ilya’s hand crept down to the vee of Shane’s hips, rubbing the curls at the base of his cock until Shane moaned and let his head fall back against Ilya’s shoulder.
Quickly, he was turned so his back was to the pounding rainfall showerhead just in time to watch Ilya sink to his knees and take Shane’s cock into his mouth. It would have been one of the hottest things Shane had ever seen if the steam hadn’t cleared just enough that Shane got his first good look at the man who’d taken him home.
The boy who’d taken him home.
“Oh, oh no–” Shane made a choked sound and shoved Ilya away, his foot catching on a bottle and nearly sending himself careening into the glass door. Ilya wasn’t much better, falling on his ass and cursing in a long string of Russian, calling out to Shane who’d shot out of the shower and into the bedroom to try and find his clothes.
“Shane?” Ilya called, the shower shutting off and Shane could hear the wet splats of the guy’s footfalls as Shane dropped to his already bruised knees to try and find where he tossed his boxers. “What’s wrong? You startle like little bunny.”
Shane looked up at him, standing bare in the light of the morning and Shane wanted to curl up and die. Ilya was handsome, young, without a single wrinkle around his eyes or silver strand in his hair. It had been hard to see in the club, but here, it was all too obvious and Shane let out a frightened, “How old are you?”
Ilya blinked, opened his mouth to say something and then frowned. “Nineteen.”
Shane’s head dropped. Better than he feared, worse than he’d hoped. God, Shane knew he looked alright for his age, but he felt every one of his thirty two years. Next to the striking picture of Ilya, Shane wondered how the other man felt about his conquest in the light of the day.
“God you’re a kid. Fuck, oh god.” Shane spotted his underwear tossed over a lamp and stood to grab them, startled when Ilya stepped in front of him. The air was charged, both of them naked, dripping water onto his expensive wooden floor.
“I’m adult.” Ilya said sharply. “Not that different."
“I’m thirty-two, I think over a dozen is that different.” Shane argued. “I’d just started my career when you were starting school.”
That had the opposite impact than he’d planned, instead of cooling Ilya’s temper, it seemed to light something in him because he leaned over Shane and let out a breath which sounded almost like a moan. “I know. I had poster of you.”
That dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. Shane let out a pained, choked little gasp. “What? You know…?”
Ilya looked confused, nodding and then Shane was shoving him away, pulling his boxers from the lamp and scrambling for his pants. His belt was a lost cause but he needed his shoes; he ignored the way Ilya followed him around the apartment as he looked for the matching pair.
“Is not big deal. Who would I tell?” Ilya demanded. “Hollander, stop. You are making me dizzy.”
Shane glared at him, jerking up from where he’d been peering under the couch. "Don't call me that!”
“Shane then,” Ilya countered and Shane felt something in him jerk like those Pavlov dogs with their bell. “I can not tell anyone either.”
“What, why?” Shane demanded and then he saw it on the counter near the door. Under the leather coat Ilya had shrugged off and above his missing shoe was a familiar glass plaque, familiar because he had the same trophy at home in his trophy room, First Draft Pick for the NHL. Shane felt stomach acid churning in his gut and something close to panic seemed to claw up his insides.
“Tell me you’re not Ilya Rozanov.” Shane demanded. “Tell me I didn’t fuck a rookie.”
Not just any rookie, but the singular rookie Shane had avoided looking at, thinking about, or researching for the sole reason that they called him "Hollander Come Again.” Shane hadn’t even left the ice yet and they were already trying to replace him with a younger model, apparently an unparalleled talent from Russia whose scores in the Juniors had kissed Shane’s records in a way that a rookie hadn’t in the almost decade since Shane set them. He was going to be sick.
“You did not fuck rookie, rookie fucked you.” Ilya Rozanov said and Shane moaned, this time in a growing despair because not only was his replacement maybe better than him, he was also a fucking asshole about it too. “Was not memorable? We can try again.”
“No, this never happened. Can never happen again, do you understand?” Shane demanded, but his voice was weak. “I took advantage of you, you–”
“Brought you home.” Ilya argued and moved closer. Shane held his singular shoe between them like a shield. “Apparently I took advantage, you did not know me, I knew you.”
Oh and that sent Shane spiraling over the edge. The whole night, the long string of calling Ilya’s name now tainted along with the breathless way Ilya had said his, like he was star struck, or a boy meeting his hero in the worst way possible.
“No, listen, I should have checked, I’m so sorry, I never should have–” Ilya listened to him ramble, a little tilt to his head only made Shane ramble more, slowly inching towards his other shoe. He didn’t get far before a hand landed on his shoulder, uncomfortably close to his neck.
“Breathe, Hollander.” Rozanov demanded and Shane felt slimy and also somehow close to tears. “Was just sex, can mean nothing.”
There was a tightening in his throat and Shane swallowed to hold it back. He’d known, said it even, that this shouldn’t have happened and couldn’t happen again, but in the deepest parts of himself, the parts even now he was trying to bury, he’d thought of the way Ilya’s lips had felt on his shoulder, and warm path his hands made on Shane’s hips where he could already feel bruises forming. He stupidly thought maybe it had meant something.
“No, you’re right.” Shane said sharply, taking a deep breath and shoving down the fleshy parts of himself and trying to get into his Captain Mindset, the cool mentality he only ever got on the ice. “It was a mistake. It didn’t mean anything. You won’t tell anyone.”
He said it like a mantra, watching Ilya as he repeated them to make sure they were on the same page. The other man looked unsure but Shane felt himself settle when he thought of it in terms of steps to complete.
“Listen, I have to go give this speech thing.” Shane finally said. Thankfully, his voice was strong and unwavering even though he felt anything but. “So we can put this whole thing behind us. I’m sorry this is how we had to meet.”
“Sorry? I gave you three orgasms.” Ilya muttered but nodded softly, walking towards his closet and throwing over his shoulder, “I can drive you.”
“What? No!” Shane laughed it off and finally got his other shoe on just as Ilya reappeared.
“Why not? We are going to same place. You're interviewing me.” Ilya hummed, still naked but walking out with an expensive designer suit over one arm and Shane realized with a sinking dread that he was doing something with the first draft pick today. Ilya just smiled and leaned over him so when Shane finally was able to lift his eyes up to meet, their faces were an inch apart. Sharing the same air, Ilya whispered, “We’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”
“This can't happen again.” Shane said again, but his voice shook just slightly when Ilya’s breath ghosted his lips.
“Okay.” Ilya said with a smile.