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Shane Hollander has it made. He’s arguably the best player in the NHL, and his team, the Montreal Metros, is the favorite to win the Cup this year. Yeah, he’s ensconced so deeply in the closet he’s forgotten which one of the properties in his expanding real estate empire the closet is even in. But whenever he’s in a city where hockey isn’t as big, he does his hair in a more trendy style, dons an outfit that the Shane Hollander known to the NHL wouldn’t be caught dead in, and has some fun at a gay club or bathhouse. He likes the straightforwardness of it. No confusing social cues to navigate. Everyone is there for the same reason. It’s a way for him to satisfy a basic need and relieve stress. Kind of like yoga.
While he’s not ready to confront the reality of being an openly gay NHL player, these outings help him explore his sexuality and learn what he likes. Who he is. A lot of people would be very surprised by Shane Hollander.
Sometimes, when Hollander is enjoying a quiet moment at home, he wonders what Ilya Rozanov, his arch rival, would think if he knew these things about Shane Hollander. The Boston Raiders picked Rozanov first in the draft the same year that the Metros drafted Hollander second overall. Rozanov is well-known for being an asshole and a ladies’ man. He gives Hollander an especially hard time, always goading him via the media or trash-talking him on the ice. But there is something about Rozanov: the way his eyes light up as he teases Hollander, the wink he throws his way right before a face off. It makes Hollander feel things he would rather not feel while he is at work, suited up in his hockey kit.
All that Hollander knows about Rozanov’s personal life he’s learned through rumors about his promiscuity. Rozanov came to North America from Russia when they were both teenagers. They’ve attended a number of big name events together—the World Junior Championship, the draft, All-Star Games, the Olympics— but Hollander can’t remember ever seeing a family member or anyone else by his side. He suspects that, despite Rozanov’s penchant for running his mouth, no one gets too close to him either.
Tonight the Metros are playing the Raiders on the road. For reasons Hollander doesn’t want to examine too closely, he always ends up extremely horny when he’s in Boston. On previous trips to the city, he’s spent a significant amount of time having fun on either side of a glory hole or in the dark room at a particular club he’s become quite fond of.
The opening puck drop brings him nose-to-nose with Ilya Rozanov. “Did your mother come with you to Boston?” Rozanov asks as they wait for the referee. “I have not seen her in long time. Tell her I said hello.”
“Fuck off, Rozanov.” God, he really is obnoxious. Hollander idly wonders how Rozanov can attract so many women when he’s such an asshole. Maybe his mouth is good for more than just trash talk.
“Your mother, she is almost as pretty as you are,” Rozanov says as the ref drops the puck and he wins the face-off, his reaction a fraction of a second faster than Hollander’s.
“Fuck you!” Hollander yells as he chases his rival across the ice.
Late in the third period, the Raiders are up four to three, but the Metros find themselves with a chance to even it up on a power play. The crowd is tense as Hollander leaps over the boards and rushes in on fresh legs. Pike passes the puck to Hollander, who takes it wide, looking for someone in the slot. He lets off a quick pass and braces as a black jersey slams him into the boards.
BLAM!
The boards shake with the violence of Rozanov’s body check, and Hollander’s skates leave the ice. He is stuck, pinned by the larger man’s body, as they both watch Pike whip a slap shot at the net, which deflects up into the netting, causing the ref to blow the whistle.
Hollander tries to push Rozanov away, but the other man turns to him, his heavy breath fogging Hollander’s visor. “You smell good, Hollander. New cologne?” Rozanov’s breath tickles his neck when he says it, enraging Hollander.
He shoves Rozanov back with his stick and forces him away. “Get. The. Fuck. Off of me!” His last push sends Rozanov to his ass.
The linesman barks at them, “Hollander, Rozanov, knock it off!” Hollander throws a dirty look in Rozanov’s direction as he skates away to try to recover the puck.
The Metros end up losing. As they shake hands after the game, Rozanov smiles sweetly at Hollander and says, “I am very sorry, Shane Hollander.”
The unexpected apology throws Hollander for a loop. When he reaches the end of the line, he makes eye contact with Rozanov. “What exactly are you sorry for?”
“I am sorry you didn’t play better game.” The smile he gives looks so sincere it may have fooled someone else. But not Hollander; he’s very accustomed to Rozanov’s bullshit.
Of course he’s being an asshole again. Hollander rolls his eyes. “Go to hell, Rozanov.”
Back at the hotel, Hollander paces the small hotel room, restlessness coursing through his body. Before the game, he told himself he would relax in bed with a book tonight. All the travel is catching up with him, and he has been exhausted all week. But now, he feels a familiar ache. An itch that isn't going to go away until he scratches it.
Fuck it. He had a horrible game. He needs a fantastic orgasm to get his mind off of things, and jerking off in the shower while Hadyen has a video call with Jackie in the hotel room isn’t going to cut it.
He picks up his phone and searches online, pretending that he is texting someone. “I, um, think I’m going to head out for a bit.” Without looking at Hayden, he picks up his bag and takes it into the bathroom to change into something more suitable for his destination. Once he’s ready, he tosses his bag next to his bed. “I’m out. See ya later.”
Hayden looks a little too interested. “Hey, wait up. Gimme two seconds to get dressed, and I’ll come along.”
This isn’t going to work. There is no way Hayden Pike can know where he’s going. “No, I, um,” he stumbles over his words, “I’m meeting someone. Sorry, Hayd.”
“Don’t be sorry. Go get laid. You earned it after taking it so hard from Rozanov tonight.”
Hollander must be incredibly horny because his brain unhelpfully provides the image of him taking it hard from Rozanov in different circumstances, and he suddenly finds it harder to breathe.
He leaves the room and grabs a taxi in front of the hotel, giving the driver the address of a coffee shop next door to the club as a cover for his real destination. When his ride drops him off, he ducks into the coffee shop and goes straight to the restroom. He messes up his hair a little on the top and puts on a pair of dark-rimmed glasses. When he looks in the mirror, he feels like Clark Kent, except he turns into Superman by putting his glasses on rather than taking them off.
Not wanting to draw attention for using the facilities without ordering anything, he goes to the counter and asks for a green tea. He takes a few minutes to sip it, during which his nervous energy softens to a hum.
He drinks about three-quarters of his tea when he decides he’s ready, dropping his cup in the trash can as he heads next door. The club is clothing optional, so he checks out a locker where he leaves everything except his tight black boxer shorts and a harness that hugs his naturally smooth chest in all the right places. Oh, and his glasses. In the changing room mirror, he loves what he sees. He looks masculine but beautiful. He looks strong but ready to obey. Right now, he’s not Shane Hollander, NHL star. He’s just Shane, a guy who is really good at sucking dick, and he likes this guy too.
Tonight, he’s craving more of a connection than the glory holes permit. He knows a real connection, a relationship, is not possible for him. The closest he allows himself is anonymous sex with another warm body. In the dark room, the techno music, loud enough to establish a vibe but not so loud that it’s overstimulating, settles over him as he walks to the middle of the room and takes a familiar position on his knees. As he scans the space, he can see the silhouettes of the other men in the room, but the lights are too low to see any of their features.
Almost immediately, someone approaches him with confidence. Shane doesn’t look up when the man stops right in front of him and cups his face in his hand. He smells faintly of cigarette smoke as his long, thick cock bobs at eye-level. The man doesn’t say anything, but Shane can feel the strength in the hand gripping his chin, can sense it in the shape of the powerful thighs facing him.
“Please,” Shane pants, and the man answers by parting his lips with his thumb.
Shane grabs the man behind his knees and drags his hands upward until they are filled with a nicely-rounded, muscular ass. He pulls the man toward him, hoping to get that cock in his mouth. Instead, the other man slips his thumb past his lips, and Shane pulls it into his mouth, curling his tongue around it. When he does this, he sees the other man’s cock twitch where it’s hanging heavy between his legs.
The stranger pulls his thumb out of Shane’s mouth and uses it to delicately trace his lips. The tenderness of the gesture makes his own cock ache more insistently. Replacing his thumb with his cock, the man bumps its tip against Shane’s parted lips. Instead of opening his mouth, Shane sticks out his tongue, lapping up the precome beading at the head. When he drags his tongue from root to tip, the other man moans and holds him steady with the hand on his chin as he slowly feeds his cock past Shane’s lips.
The man cradles the back of Shane’s head in a large palm, gently guiding him forward on his cock. Shane closes his eyes and relishes the hard length between his lips. He loves this. In some ways it’s like being on the ice. He understands what he is supposed to do, and he can focus all of his energy on doing the best job possible.
The man pauses. “Okay?” he asks and it sounds a bit garbled, like he is the one with his mouth full.
Shane nods the best he can with a hand holding the back of his head and a cock in his mouth. For good measure, he massages the underside of the man’s cock with his tongue, as if that will communicate just how willing he is to do this.
It must because the man rolls his hips forward, hitting the back of Shane’s throat. Shane handles it like the champion that he is, tilting his head to adjust the angle slightly before digging his fingers even deeper into the meat of the other man’s ass. The salty tang of precome leaks onto his tongue as the man pulls back and plunges in again, deeper this time.
God, this is so good. There is something about the dichotomy of it: having his throat fucked while his partner strokes gentle fingers over his jaw and cheekbones. Shane is rock hard, and his damp boxers are sticking to the head of his cock. Desperate for his own release, he reaches down into his underwear, pulls out his aching cock, and begins stroking himself to the same rhythm as the thrusts pummeling his throat.
With his free hand, he reaches up and grabs the stranger’s tit, massaging the taut muscle. This man is fit. Shane wishes for a moment that he could appreciate his body in the light, even though he knows that’s not possible. At least this way, Shane can pretend this is someone else.
He closes his eyes and lets the feeling carry him: his hand on his cock, this hard body against his, the delicious cock sliding between his lips, which will be bruised and swollen the next time he looks in the mirror. It’s so good. He lets it drive him higher and higher.
Seeing stars behind his closed eyelids, he comes over his fist with a moan that is choked off by the cock fucking his throat. But the man above him chuckles in a way that tells Shane he knows exactly what just happened.
Once the waves of pleasure calm within him, he wipes his soiled hand on his boxers and stretches his other arm further up the man’s chest. He finds a pendant hanging from a chain and rolls it between two fingers as the other man gasps and groans. His cock pulses between Shane’s lips, and he buries it in Shane’s throat, so deep that the come doesn’t even hit his tongue at first. But Shane continues to work him through his orgasm, sucking and swallowing until the man softens in his mouth.
Afterward, there is something tender about the way the man holds Shane’s head against his tight abs, easily caressing Shane’s scalp as he runs his fingers through Shane’s mussed hair. Like they aren’t complete strangers who wouldn't recognize each other on the street. He is still playing with the pendant, a crucifix, he realizes, as his brain comes back online.
“Thank you,” the man says in breathy, accented English.
Shane looks up for the first time. While he can’t see the man’s face, he can see the outline of curls around his head as he looks down at Shane. The room starts to spin as images flash through Shane’s head: Ilya Rozanov smoking a cigarette outside the rink at the World Hockey Junior Championship in Regina, Rozanov’s curls glinting in the sunlight as he was interviewed on television during the Sochi Olympics, and from earlier tonight, a gold chain glistening against Rozanov’s sweaty neck as his hard body pinned Shane against the boards.
“Oh, fuck!” Shane exclaims probably a little too loud as he shoots to his feet. He’s making a scene in the dark room, but he needs to leave. Now.
“Hollander?” Rozanov calls out, clearly discombobulated, but Shane is already halfway out the door. Rozanov might be stronger, but Hollander is faster. Back in the changing room, he pulls on his pants and shoves his feet into his shoes without socks. Wrestling his shirt over his head, he pushes through the door and gets the hell out of there.
Once he’s outside, the cold air brings him back to his senses. He fumbles for his phone to call a ride, the screen blurry through the tears that have sprung to his eyes. After the call, he slumps against the wall between the club and the coffee shop to gather his wits.
His head falls back against the wall with a thunk, and he repeats the only word his stunned brain can summon, “Fuck,” this time under his breath.