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2018 - February, Boston
Snow sprayed the side of Shane’s skate as Ilya skidded to a stop next to him. The pregame warmups were in full swing, and before Shane could warn him that he had a microphone attached to the inside of his jersey, Ilya was leaning in close.
Welcome to the big night! You’re here with ESPN’s finest Ray Sportage and Jim Crease, and we’re all looking forward to this upcoming match between the Bears and Voyageurs. These two are always an exciting matchup and today we have none other than Shane Hollander on the mic, so get ready to hear how he inspires his team, deals with contention, and faces off against one of the best teams in the Eastern Division.
There he is, Ray, doing some last minute stretches by Montreal’s bench. The players are all coming off the All Stars break, but Shane Hollander didn’t take any time off, instead he helped the All Stars East to another victory. Of course, this came alongside none other than Boston’s Ilya Rozanov, who wore a C on his chest this year to Shane’s A.
Absolutely, Jim. It was a sight to see, really. But we know that as soon as All Stars is over, these two are back to being neck-in-neck for most goals scored, neck-in-neck for most assists, neck-in-neck for that number one playoff seed in their division. The rivalry between these two is unmatched. And look, Rozanov is approaching Hollander now.
Will we hear some infamous chirping?
We shall see.
“Svetlana left her scarf at your house last week,” Ilya greeted.
Well not what we were expecting, huh, Jim? Social media is already a buzz about who this woman could be. Clearly these two hang out off the ice more than anyone realized.
“Jackie grabbed it,” Shane replied. “She’s heading to Boston for a girls trip next week.”
Ray, we have to wonder, are they referring to Jackie Pike, wife of Hollander’s teammate?
According to the socials, that’s what everyone is wondering.
Did we know these two rivals had multiple mutual friends?
Looks like we’ll be learning a lot tonight.
“Great. That one is her favorite. Bought it with Rose last winter.”
Jim, I don’t often revel in dramatics, but even my jaw has dropped at this revelation. Rose Landry is friends with the group as well? Is Hollander still friendly with his ex-girlfriend? Or are they on again off again? We’re here to focus on the game, but I’m sure many online are focusing on something else.
On the ice, Shane tapped his stick a few times, getting a good feel of it in his hand before the game. Next to him, Ilya adjusted his helmet. Shane was about to mention the mic, needing to warn him before one of them said something that would give them away, but then a buzzer went off and Ilya skated towards his bench. It was time to start the game.
Luckily, so far, everything said between them had been boring and related to other people.
The face off was too quick for anything more than a mere, “Let’s see how quick you are, Hollander,” to fall from Ilya’s lips before Shane won the puck and they were off.
Laser focused on the game, it wasn't until Ilya checked him a few minutes into the first period, score still tied at zero, that Shane thought to mention the mic again. But this time Ilya had him pressed up against the boards and instead he gritted out, “Get off my ass, Rozanov.”
Ilya winked and replied, “Never,” before skating away with the puck. It was around that time Shane started to panic.
Now there’s the rivalry we’re expecting to see between those two, Ray. Always vying for the puck, always on each other’s well… Hollander said it best.
Shane pushed past the panic, he had to, because Ilya had just hit one in, right past Drapeau’s glove.
“Head in the game, Shane,” he said to himself, then winced because he knew that had just broadcasted live. How embarrassing. But his body knew hockey, even if his mind had wandered, and the next time he was back on the ice his muscle memory took over, skating forward to swipe the puck from Marlow and dash back into the offensive zone. The ice was clear in front of him and he had just enough time to take a breath before he landed a shot that tied the game.
Ilya skated by him as they both made their ways to their respective benches. Ilya’s chin nudged towards the scoreboard. “Always chasing after me, huh, Hollander?”
Shane’s face flushed hot but before he could reply, he was left alone again. Sitting on the bench, Shane thought of all the ways those words could be misconstrued. He really had to tell Ilya that he was mic’d. But an opportunity never arose throughout the entire first period.
There hasn’t been much chatter in the last few minutes, as Hollander is clearly in the zone and trying to inch his team ahead.
Even that sharp check from Boston just seems to have fueled him. If only there were a few more seconds in the period, maybe he could have turned that fire into another goal. It’s like nothing rattles the man.
Anxiety washed through Shane as he walked back through the tunnel, it itched under his skin and made him rush back to the locker room much quicker than he usually did. He needed to get his hands on his phone and check how the viewers perceived Ilya blatantly flirting with him on the ice.
Usually, during breaks, he’d have a quick snack, hydrate, strategize with his team and, if anyone needed a good pep talk, he’d give it as their captain. Tonight, with his back to his team, Shane took a deep breath and pulled down his phone. He didn’t have any of the fancy apps downloaded but he did have ESPN bookmarked and the first opinion piece in the Hockey section made his breath catch then choke in his throat. Laughter bubbled out, sounding crazed to even his own ears.
#SCARFGATE! Is the Hollander-Rozanov Rivalry a Rouse All Along? Are these two wrapped up tight in a mutual friend group? And how does Rose Landry fit in? The internet is dying to know.
They were…focusing on the scarf. They were…surprised Shane and Ilya had mutual friends. He scrolled through the comments. Not a single one about Ilya never wanting to get off Shane’s ass or Shane always chasing after Ilya. No one misconstrued the innuendos that, apparently, only Shane could hear.
His phone buzzed in his hand.
Shane shoved his phone into the shelf of his locker room stall, closed his eyes for just the briefest of moments, before turning back to his team to discuss the next two periods.
And we’re back Jim! Second period, tied 1-1, and ready to see what these guys have to offer. Which team will pull ahead?
Let’s not forget, Hollander is still mic’d up, and the internet is dying to learn more about this apparently Pike-Hollander-Rozanov gathering amongst rivals.
As soon as Shane caught Ilya’s gaze on the ice, across the blue circle of the face off, Shane knew this man was going to be trouble.
“Don’t start, Rozanov,” Shane gritted through his teeth.
“Start what?” Ilya asked dripping in faked innocence. “I am good boy. Everyone says it. Just like you are Highest IQ, pretty boy.” The words were drenched in chirp and tempered with hostility, but Shane knew them for the flirtation they were.
“Fuck off, Rozanov.”
There is the iconic back and forth we’ve been waiting for all game. Whatever sort of mutual friendships these two have off the ice, on the ice it’s clear the rivalry between them is alive and well.
Ilya was doing it on purpose, Shane knew. He loved pushing Shane’s buttons and toeing the edge of proprietary and innuendo. Only a few minutes after their face-off, Ilya checked him against the boards, and, because he was an asshole, slipped his leg in between Shane’s, pushing his body flush against Shane’s back. Then he whispered so the mic couldn’t hear, “You’re so fucking hot tonight.”
Right on the ice, with Ilya’s body pressing a hard line against Shane, Ilya flirted with him. All while Shane felt every part of Ilya’s chest, hips, and thighs, despite the protective pads between them. Ilya against him was a learned familiarity, one his body only knew to melt into.
But this was a game. And Shane was going to win.
Shane twisted against his hold and pushed him so hard Ilya fell onto the ice. On his ass, Ilya winked at him. The mic definitely heard Shane’s subsequent cuss and growl. The cameras absolutely saw Shane leave Ilya in a puff of snow before racing off towards the Bear’s goal. Shane wondered if he imagined Ilya’s laugh in his wake.
And another goal for Montreal! They are officially in the lead. It doesn’t take a genius to see how that confrontation with Hollander affected Rozanov. He can’t keep his eyes off Hollander ever since he picked himself up off the ice.
Once in the lead, Shane did his best to push away anything other than winning from his mind. Falling behind kept Ilya busy too, and maybe, once, Shane couldn’t resist chirping Ilya about “who's chasing who now?”
Of course Ilya being Ilya, he had no reservations blowing Shane a kiss.
The buzzer rang out, the end of the second period.
Shane paced the locker room. He’d spoken to his team, and did not look at his phone in his locker. He gave a couple rookies a special pep talk, and did not look at his phone in his locker. But then Hayden went off to the snack table, and JJ had followed. Shane did not look at his phone in his locker.
Shane’s fists clenched at his sides, and he walked over to his stall and grabbed his phone. Surely, the internet was going to be focusing on Ilya calling Shane pretty. He could imagine the hashtags even now. Or maybe there will be gifs all over the internet of Ilya’s leg slipping between his thighs against the board. There had to be an edit of all the winks Ilya sent him.
Everyone had seen. Dread mixed with a singular type of humiliation that danced way too close to arousal. The whole world had just seen and heard him and Ilya on the ice together and fuck if it didn’t turn Shane on. Shane’s breath held in his chest until the first website loaded.
But the sites, when they loaded, were focused entirely on the intensity of the rivalry. Shane snowing Ilya was frozen in the images he scrolled past. He winced at the sight of Ilya on the ice. And then there with gifs of that dark look in Ilya’s eyes following Shane as he skated off. Shane could almost see how, to an outsider, those hooded eyes could appear speculative, maybe hostile. All Shane could see was a yearning need to meet the other’s challenge.
No one picked up the words Ilya had whispered in his ear, or commentated on the way they pressed together against the boards with a touch too much intimacy. No one saw it that way.
With his phone clenched in his hands, Shane tried hard to squeeze out that small ball of anger that started to form in his gut that people should see, should hear, should see who they really were to each other. Even if that was the worst idea in the world.
There was a crack as he threw his head back into the hard wood of his stall. “Fuck.”
Back on the bench, beginning of the third, Theriault decided Shane should rest for a few minutes. Shane wasn’t grateful for it. He buzzed to feel the ice under his skates. Circle Ilya and get the puck out from under him.
It was from the bench that Shane watched Ilya tie the game again. The crowd went wild and Shane’s jaw clenched at the same moment Theriault’s hand hit his shoulder. Shane was over the boards in the next second.
With the game tied up again, the play got rougher, sharper, more elbows slipping into the checks and sticks hitting skates. Ilya sat in the penalty box after a hard hit against JJ, and that was when Hayden broke the tie again, with a quick-release snap shot past the glove.
Six minutes left in the game, plenty of time for the Bears to tie it up again or even pull ahead. Apparently, it was too much of a risk for Comeau.
Shane knew Comeau had always been one to let anger slip into his desperation. Ilya had the puck in possession in the Voyageurs zone, and right as Ilya lifted his stick, poised to shoot, Comeau was in his face. Comeau wasn’t fast enough and Ilya got the puck off seconds before Comeau’s stick hit Ilya’s stomach hard in a dirty slash that took him to the ice.
All Shane could see was Ilya sprawled out on his stomach, helmet knocking from his head. Their eyes met for a moment. Ilya’s wince of pain crossed his face.
It wasn’t something they could control, the way Shane lifted his eyebrows in a silent, “Are you fucking okay? How hurt are you?”
Ilya let his mouth lift in a small, nearly perceived reassuring smile.
By that point Marlow was on Comeau. Gloves on the ice and fists in each other’s faces.
We have a tussle, Jim! Our first fight of the game and it is a doozy. Rozanov is still splayed out on the ice but working his way onto his knees. Marlow seems to be taking care of Comeau but Hollander is right there. Will he provide his teammate backup? We haven’t heard anything over the mic, but you can see all over his face that he is pissed.
You’re right, Ray. It almost looks like he’s trying to melt the ice under Rozanov with that heated glare. And Montreal is still in the lead, Rozanov’s shot attempt bouncing off the post.
Shane knew he should skate back to his bench. The refs were herding him off. Ilya was standing now too, which sent a wave of relief through Shane, but Ilya still held his stomach and still looked like every heaving breath made him wince.
Shane needed to get off the ice, but he wasn’t moving until Ilya nodded him off. It didn’t matter if the cameras were on him, or if the mic picked up a suspicious emotion. He wasn’t leaving the ice until--There it was, Ilya standing tall again, gloved hands on his hips, helmet still on the ice, but eyes fixed on Shane.
“No need to cry, Hollander. You won’t have to finish this game without me.” There was a harsh curve to the accent that Shane heard right through, saw through the performance meant for everyone but him.
Shane was sure the mic picked up the way his words carried a hint of tremble when he replied his equally rehearsed, “Fuck off, Rozanov.”
For all Shane knew the crowd was eating it up, or maybe they were focusing on the fight, or some other unimportant detail Shane hadn’t even considered. He didn’t care, this game needed to end. As he skated back to the bench, he glanced at the time and never did three minutes seem so long.
Montreal was only ahead by one, so Shane wasn’t on the bench for very long. Every second was too long, and he was grateful Coach LeClaire hadn’t put Ilya back in the game. Another minute left and all that would remain between him and Ilya’s penthouse apartment was mandatory press and a shower. The final buzzer rang out, a hollow soundtrack to an unsatisfying win.
Shane hadn’t expected to be the first one at Ilya’s building but it made sense. Injured, Ilya would move slower, maybe even have to see the team doctor. Shane slid in his key on autopilot, kicking off his shoes, putting his suit jacket in the coat closet and pulling off his tie. He hadn’t checked his phone again, at least the parts of it outside his chat with Lily.
Ilya was on his way, and he went to the kitchen, pulled out two glasses of water and a few protein bars. He fiddled with the glass, wiped some stray droplets from the rim.
The door opened, Ilya was home and Shane moved, water and sustenance left on the kitchen island as Shane beelined to Ilya. He found him taking off his suit jacket, wincing with each movement.
Shane crossed the room and took the jacket off his shoulder in a careful, intentional tug. Ilya straightened to face him, leaning in that way he did when he was seeking Shane’s kiss. Shane would kiss him, soon, but first he needed to get his eyes on Ilya's stomach, see the injury for himself.
Right there in the foyer, Shane started unbuckling Ilya’s belt, pulling out the dress shirt and unbuttoning his shirt in a series of fluid movements.
“Can’t wait to get me naked?” Ilya smirked, but didn’t hide the exhaustion from his face. “You won. Ready to claim your reward?”
Shane snorted. “Like seeing your bruised ribs is any sort of prize.”
Ilya sombered, took Shane’s hands in his own so he stood there with half his shirt undone and a heartbreakingly concerned look in his eyes. “I am okay, Shane.”
Shane tried to break their gaze, but Ilya wouldn’t let him, hand coming up to cup his chin. He stared at Shane, waited for him to say anything he had to say. Now, here, in their home, Shane was free to say anything he wanted, loud enough for anyone around him to hear. Now, the only one around him was Ilya, and he found he didn’t want to use words to speak at all.
He unbuttoned the rest of Ilya’s shirt, pushed back the sides so he could take in the dark purple and black bruise, the shape of a hockey stick, across his stomach. Shane fell to his knees, mouth finding the tender skin and peppering it with kisses like his touch alone could heal the worst of it.
Ilya’s hands found his hair and brushed through the strands, another way to center themselves. “I promise, love,” he whispered in Russian. “It is not as bad as it looks.”
“Let me take care of you,” Shane said because sometimes it was worth asking for what you wanted, what you needed.
“Then take me to the bedroom.”
Shane was gentle when he moved, lifting to his feet, grabbing Ilya’s hand and leading him to their bed. There was no question that Shane would lay Ilya down on the mattress, work gently to take off his socks and pants, leave him in just his boxers before he stepped back and removed his own. He started folding them and the unguarded, genuine grin Ilya made in response spread warmth and affection through him. He followed the impulse to crawl next to Ilya completely naked and kiss him deep. His hand wandered from Ilya’s thigh up with the lightest touch to his stomach, leaving a trace of featherlight love before moving it up to his chin, tilting Ilya’s mouth and twisting their tongues together.
“I’m going to make you feel so good you forget the pain.”
Ilya chuckled, shoulders shaking under Shane’s touch. “Oh, so your blowjobs are pain medicine now?”
Shane lifted his gaze from where it had fallen back to Ilya’s abs, covered in dark bruising, and met Ilya’s gaze. “Is that a challenge?”
A smirk was all he got in reply.
“You’re too injured for anything more.”
“I did not say my cock in your ass was pain medicine, did I? I will moan and groan in the bad way, if I so much as roll on my side.” He threw his head back dramatically and shouted, “Have your way with me, Hollander.”
Shane laughed, because his boyfriend was funny as much as he was ridiculous. And after an evening mic’d up, there was a freedom in cherishing Ilya’s antics. Shane lowered down Ilya’s body, letting a kiss linger on his neck, along his pecs, soft and barely there over his bruise, before kissing right above Ilya’s boxers.
“So good,” Ilya murmured. “My own pretty nurse.”
Shane bit at the elastic and let it snap down. Ilya gasped, a mix of surprise and pleasure.
“You cause me pain?” Ilya narrowed his eyes. “Maybe you are my naughty little nurse, instead.” Ilya rocked his hips up towards Shane, making it impossible for Shane not to see the effect their banter had on Ilya.
Ilya’s cock in front of him always made Shane’s mouth water and today was no different. As soon as the hard length of him had his attention, and he was in the position to do so, he pulled off the boxers and put it in his mouth. Which was exactly what he did now. Ilya cursed out a string of surprise in Russian.
Apparently Ilya wasn’t prepared but it didn’t mean he wasn’t already twitching and dripping on Shane’s tongue. With the heavy weight of Ilya’s cock on Shane’s tongue, he took him in a way that had become second nature, or more like his natural place, drawing out loud moans and tempting hisses.
“Fuck Shane, you’re taking such good care of me.” He thrusted lightly into Shane’s mouth, knowing the motion would make Shane’s cock swell in his pants. “You should turn back on that mic, let everyone in the whole world know this.”
That shouldn’t turn Shane on. Shane should be frustrated about the mic, annoyed by what everyone thought was going on between them, focused on helping Ilya rest and recover. But instead he rocked his hips against Ilya’s thigh, rutting up onto him until he was rock hard in his boxers, unable to resist the friction of Ilya’s muscle.
“You want this bad, yes? To make me come, to taste me and know I’m here with you and not out there about to knock the shit out of Comeau.”
Shane twisted his tongue down, playing with Ilya’s foreskin, in a tried and true means of pulling him back to the moment.
“Yes, moy lyubimy, my sweet, you take me so well. It is because my cock is yours.”
Shane gasped, choking where Ilya’s cock was halfway down his throat. He pressed even harder against Ilya’s thigh, rocking with a determined rhythm now instead of an idle temptation. ‘Yours’ reverberated in his head and he was going to show Ilya how much he owned Shane too by taking him apart with every lick and suck.
As Ilya grew closer and closer to the edge, Shane was determined not to come in his boxers first. He would chase away his pain first, then collapse into his own lust-filled pleasure.
“Yes, Shane, my love--I will not last much longer. I cannot when you are so good for me. I--”
Shane swallowed him down his throat, fluttered his tongue along his length and Ilya was coming, shuddering on the bed, even as Shane brought his hands up to soothe his tensing, bruised abs.
Ilya was still coming, each drop swallowed by Shane. He still rocked and chased his orgasm, but when Ilya pulled Shane’s head off his softening cock, tugged him up by the hair and crashed their mouths together, all while pressing his thigh the hardest it’d been all night against Shane’s cock, Shane came hard, breaking the kiss with a loud moan.
At the peak of his orgasm, the thought of how anyone could hear. And, if anyone did, they’d know, would have heard the truth of it all, loud and clear: Ilya was his, and he was Ilya’s.