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One.
"Cum," Ilya orders, his mouth so close to Shane's ear that Shane can feel the wet of his breath, and Shane shudders and obeys, even though it sounds like every hockey player in the entire fucking league is in the hallway outside his hotel room. Shane's back arches and his hips buck and he groans into the palm of Ilya's hand as he splashes all over his own stomach and chest.
It's extremely fucking hot. So is Ilya's lazy smirk as he strokes Shane's cheek and takes his hand off Shane's mouth. He goes to the bathroom and wets a washcloth, then comes back and cleans Shane up.
"I knew you couldn't stay quiet."
"You didn't tell me to stay quiet," Shane argues in a whisper, the words broken up by the way his chest is heaving.
"Mm," Ilya says. "Okay. Next time. Now suck my dick."
That's an easy order to follow.
Two.
"Give me that." Ilya points at a bottle of sunscreen. Shane tosses it over without a second thought.
"Didn't know you were a sunscreen guy, Rozy," Carter Vaughn says from his lounge chair.
"When you are wrinkled like balls, I will be soft and fresh like a baby," Ilya says, slicking sunscreen over his face and arms and chest.
Vaughn laughs. "Black don't crack, baby. It's your white ass that's going to look like a ballsack."
"Maybe so," Ilya says. "But not now." He plops down on the edge of Shane's lounge chair. "Hollander. Do my back."
Shane frowns a little under his sunglasses, but he can't resist the smooth broad planes of Ilya's back, warm from the sun. Ilya's got so many moles, he's probably at risk of skin cancer or something. It's just helpful, that's all. He squirts sunscreen over Ilya's shoulders and slicks it down over Ilya's skin.
"Whoa," Vaughn says. "Never thought I'd see the day. What happened, Cap, you lose a bet?"
"Something like that," Shane says. It gives him a thrill to be touching Ilya in front of everyone and it's absolutely fucking terrifying too. He's trying desperately not to get hard about it.
"When you are assistant captain, he will put sunscreen on you," Ilya says. "So never."
"Damn, you don't have to be like that," Vaughn says, but he's grinning. People like when Ilya is an asshole to them. Shane gets it. Probably in a different way from Vaughnny, but he gets it. Being the focus of Ilya's attention is intense. It's an experience like no other.
Shane finishes rubbing the sunscreen in and hands the bottle back to Ilya.
"You want?" Ilya asks.
"Sure," Shane says, because he's already in this. It doesn't matter that he put on sunscreen before he came to the pool. He takes off his shirt and drapes it over his lap. Ilya holds the sunscreen at crotch level and squirts it at Shane, splattering Shane's stomach, which is gross but also hot somehow. Shane's kind of furious about how hot it is. Ilya slides his hand over Shane's belly, his fingers spread wide. Shane is very, very glad he has his shirt covering his lap.
"Wow," Matheson says. "You just..." he gestures. "All over him."
"Don't be jealous," Ilya says. "Hollander, you finish. I will put it on your back."
Shane rolls his eyes as he turns. Ilya's thumbs press into his back muscles in a way that's delicious. They linger at the waist of Shane's swim trunks, just barely dipping under. Shane rubs sunscreen over his own chest and tries not to shiver.
Ilya is going to hear all about how inappropriate this was later, but goddamn if they aren't both enjoying the moment. Shane tries not to think too hard about what it would be like if everyone knew. If they didn't just think Ilya was harassing him. If he could just put sunscreen on his boyfriend without anybody caring.
Maybe someday. At least Ilya is wearing sunscreen. That will make Shane's mom happy.
Three.
The skills competition is fun. Shane wins the speed skate, though it's close with one of the younger players. Ilya wins the shot competition. Splitting up is part of their strategy to downplay their rivalry. The less Hollander versus Rozanov drama people can create, the better.
In the locker room afterward, they stagger their showers. It's safer that way. Shane goes first. He's mostly dressed by the time Ilya comes out, tucking his towel in securely.
"What do you want?" Shane asks, trying for a belligerent tone. In reality, the sight of Ilya reminds him of their first hookup. The way Ilya's muscles seem to point right at his dick still makes Shane's mouth dry with lust.
"I forgot my deodorant," Ilya says, holding out his hand. "Give me yours. You don't want me to be smelly."
"You're always smelly," Shane says, but he puts his deodorant into Ilya's hand. Ilya sprays himself under each armpit and passes it back. His eyes rest on Shane for just a second. Shane is sure that if he dug around in Ilya's bag, he'd find deodorant. But Ilya likes to make Shane do things in front of other people, and Shane, because he's so far gone he's in some other solar system, kind of likes doing them. And it's sort of nice that he and Ilya smell the same now. Just another way they're hiding in plain sight.
"Tabarnac, Hollander," JJ says. "You give him sunscreen. You give him deodorant. Are you a fucking convenience store?"
"No," Ilya says. "He's not open all night like you."
"Oh, it's like that, eh?" JJ says, but he's smiling.
"Just trying to keep the rest of you from passing out from how bad he stinks," Shane says. "You don't want to smell him after a summer run. It's chemical warfare."
"Ah, right, because you hang out and do your little skills camps," Matheson says. "I forgot about those."
"You should sign up," Ilya says. "As player, not coach. You could learn something."
"Ha ha," Matheson says sarcastically.
Ilya winks at Shane and walks to his stall to get dressed. Shane focuses very, very firmly on lacing up his shoes.
Four.
Their whole team is at dinner. JJ insisted they go to a Caribbean restaurant, something that a friend of a friend recommended. The food is good, really good. Shane's not sure if it's the best choice for the night before the game, but he kind of doesn't care. He's happy. He stabs another fried plantain.
"Rozanov, you gotta try this," JJ says. "This is the real deal."
Ilya spoons some of the jerk chicken out of the serving dish onto his plate. He takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully, and then his eyes widen. He grabs for his Coke and drains the glass. His face is red and there's sweat on his forehead.
"Hollander," he gasps. "Water."
Shane passes Ilya his glass of water. Ilya gulps it down. JJ is laughing.
"A little spicy for you, eh?"
Ilya tells JJ exactly what he can do. It's anatomically improbable. JJ looks almost impressed by how imaginative it is. Ilya, still red, takes the flatbread off Shane's plate and crams it into his mouth.
"Didn't know we were eating family style," Vaughn jokes. "Should I protect my plate?" He pretends to guard his food with his arms as Ilya picks up and drinks Shane's iced tea.
"I think it's a cultural thing," Shane says, talking completely out of his ass. But he bets these guys don't know anything about Russian meal customs either.
"This is disgusting," Ilya says to the glass of iced tea. "This is an insult to tea. Also humanity probably." He finishes it anyway.
"This is why they keep voting you captain," JJ says. "Cool as a cucumber." He claps Shane on the shoulder.
"Must be," Shane says. He reaches with his fork for the last bite of chicken on Ilya's plate and puts it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. It's spicy, sure, but at least he had warning. He keeps his face carefully blank as he swallows.
"It's good," he says. "A lot of flavor."
JJ offers him a fist bump. Ilya glowers. Under the table, he squeezes Shane's knee, his fingers skimming up the inside of Shane's thigh. Shane just smiles.
Sometimes All-Stars weekend is a lot of fun.
Five.
Ilya's stick shatters in the middle of a play. Quick as a flash, he's scrambling toward the bench, the piece of his stick abandoned on the ice.
"Hollander!" he calls. "Give!"
Shane holds out his stick without hesitation. Ilya's spare is in the rack at the end of the bench but he's already here and gone, skating away with Shane's stick clutched in his gloves. Shane grabs his own spare. Ilya darts toward the goal, taps his stick for the puck, and deflects Vaughn's pass straight into the goal.
The whole bench goes fucking wild.
+1
It's late in third period. The game is tied. Shane's whole body thrums with nervous energy. He wants this one badly. The West Coast team has been chirping and some of it's been nasty. Scott Hunter may have shined a light on the league's homophobia, but that didn't end it. Shane knows that, but he's still fucking pissed to hear it on his ice. He really, really wants to drop gloves on Dallas Kent, but he's trying to fight that urge. The refs have been missing penalties, but they wouldn't miss Shane Hollander taking a swing for maybe the second time ever.
"Listen to me, listen to me," Ilya tells their bench. "We are going to fucking win. Okay? I know this."
"Hell yeah!" Matheson says.
"Fucking right," JJ says.
"In this bottle I have a magic potion," Ilya says, lifting his squeeze bottle. "Russian secret. It will get us a goal. Two goals if you're quick."
"Give it to me, buddy," Vaughn says. Ilya raises the bottle and squirts some into his own mouth and then into Vaughn's. Vaughn jerks back like he's surprised and then licks his lips and grins, nodding. "Yeah. That tastes like fucking victory."
Each of their teammates gets a squirt of what Shane has realized is almost definitely very nice vodka. He rolls his eyes, looking away. Ilya keeps making his way down the line. Shane crosses his arms. He's not drinking fucking vodka in the middle of a game. He doesn't care what's on the line. That's ridiculous.
"I'm not thirsty," Shane says as Ilya approaches.
Ilya is in front of him. "Open," he says, the same commanding tone he uses in bed.
Shane opens his mouth without thinking.
"Good," Ilya breathes as he jets vodka into Shane's mouth. Shane just hopes that was too quiet for anyone to hear over the noise of the crowd. "Good, Hollander."
Shane swallows. The vodka burns down his throat. "Fuck you."
Nobody else sees the quirk of Ilya's lips. He's too close to Shane. But Shane can read the promise in it.
"Damn," JJ says. "That was...huh."
"I mean are you going to argue with him?" Matheson says.
"Guess not," Vaughn says. "He's like a hot knife and Hollander's the butter."
Shane's ears burn. "Tell them what the fuck is up." He lifts his chin. He hopes to hell Ilya understands what he's trying to say.
Ilya smirks and turns away.
"Let's fucking go!" he roars. "DAVAI!"
They go over the boards like the fucking cavalry riding into battle, Shane at the center and Ilya on his wing. The vodka in their bellies burns hotter than tired legs. Shane can see the fire in his boys. He feels Ilya at his side, some invisible string tethering them together. They score a goal like the other team isn't even there. They score another goal. It's so goddamn easy almost Shane forgets how hard they fought in the rest of the game. Everything's easy when Ilya's next to him. The crowd goes absolutely fucking wild. The buzzer sounds. Dallas Kent hits a divot in the ice and falls hard right on his ass.
Ilya tackles Shane, hugging him hard, and then the rest of their team piles on. They're all laughing, all smiling. Everyone is shouting and there's music blaring and Shane is so happy he could explode into confetti.
"I fucking hate you, Rozanov," he tells Ilya, meaning exactly the opposite.
Ilya shakes his head, panting, his grin wild and his eyes shining. "No, you don't, Hollander."
In the middle of the scrum, Shane's hand finds Ilya's, their fingers lacing together. In the space between their palms, there's a joy so pure it feels like peace.