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April 2017 – Montreal
Ilya has always loved playing Shane in Montreal. No, Ilya has always loved beating Shane in Montreal. Of all his many thrills, there are not many that compare to the rush of hearing a roaring crowd curse his name as he crushes their hopes, of slamming Hollander into the boards and racing away with the puck, of watching the curl of frustration grow across his perfect, freckled face.
Even better, he could then indulge himself in the heat of Shane’s body, could listen to his petulant, bitter attitude from the loss fade into need and pleasure. That, Ilya loves even more.
Today, however, Ilya hates it. He hates that he's here right now, watching Hollander's eyes flit to him over and over again, knowing what he's thinking about – because Ilya is thinking about it too.
Shane is flushed from exertion, a sheen of sweat across his face and neck, his pink tongue playing with the mouth guard swinging from his plush lips. Fuck, Ilya wants to ruin him. He always wants this, craves Shane's touch so often it nearly consumes him. And that terrifies him.
No one has ever made him feel this bone-deep desperation before. It's a need that he can't sate, like a thirst that no amount of water can quench. Ilya has to stop this before it destroys them both.
And he will, tonight.
Ilya has never wanted to be further from Montreal, from this rink, from Shane Hollander. If he wasn't here, then he wouldn't be about to put an end to what, if he for once is perfectly honest with himself, is likely the best thing in his life.
Better than hockey? His mind supplies, and he shakes away the thought and tries to forget the roaring yes that rattles through his head at the question.
Nothing is more important than his career, his life here, and he knows Hollander feels the same. Hockey is Shane's true love, his entire world. He wouldn't put that at risk for Ilya–would he?
Up off the bench now, Ilya finds himself in the corner with Hollander, fighting for the puck until Shane takes it and dashes away, Ilya hot on his heels. It's fun, it's thrilling, it's exactly what he loves about playing against him. They go back and forth, Ilya poking the puck back into his possession for just a few seconds before he's slammed into the boards and said puck is stolen right back.
He's grinning, heart (and dick) pulsing at the rather flirty look Shane sends back at him as he skates off at speed, Ilya following quickly behind in an attempt to regain possession. Then, Marlow is pushing Shane into the boards with some force and capturing the puck himself. Which is… great, but Shane looks a little dazed. The angle had been just slightly awkward, and Ilya clenches his teeth at the thought of how bad that could have been.
Nevermind that, he thinks, giving Hollander a once over with his eyes to ensure there's no real damage, he has a game to win.
***
Boston wins, just. Shane had scored two rather beautiful goals, but the last minute shot Ilya had sent barrelling past Montreal's goalie had secured their victory.
“Let's go, Rozanov!” Marlow yells right in his ear, smacking his helmet and shaking his shoulders. He smiles, but it feels sour in his mouth, and fuck you Shane Hollander, ruining wins for him. Unable to help himself, he sends a glance over to where the Montreal team is huddled, and sees Shane looking back, a resigned barely-there smile on his lips, though his brow is furrowed a little in disappointment or frustration. Ilya gives his least apologetic smirk, and relishes in the eye roll he receives in return.
Later, when he's showered and dressed, he climbs onto the team bus and filters out his teammates' celebrations on the journey back to the hotel. He's barely back in his room before he's hopping into a cab across town, both desperate to see Shane and desperate to have this night over with.
God, what if he can't do it? What if he takes one look at Hollander and surrenders like he always does, lets him put his perfect tongue to use or spread himself out and beg Ilya to fuck him until he does? No matter how much he tells himself this is the right choice, he has no restraint when it comes to Shane.
He's knocking on the door before he can strategise, and it swings open to reveal a smiling Shane Hollander, hair damp and freckled cheeks flushed from the shower, wearing a t-shirt and snug pair of jeans. Ilya opens his mouth to speak, but he's being pulled inside the condo and thoroughly kissed. It's heady, Shane's tongue sliding over his as they stumble across the room, and Ilya needs to stop, to pull away, but all his brain can supply is Shane, Shane, Shane.
“I missed you,” Hollander murmurs against his lips, and it's so genuine that Ilya feels it in his stomach like a punch. “Are you okay?”
That is finally enough to pull Ilya out of his stupor, pulling back to look into wide brown eyes, something so close to love in them that he wants to scream. “We talk, yes?” His voice comes out so hoarse that he nearly cringes.
Shane frowns, but nods, letting Ilya lead him to the couch.
Fuck, Ilya just wants to abandon this whole fucking thing and beg Shane to kiss him again, to tell him how much he was missed. He wants to forget his trip back to Russia, he wants to forget everything that isn't the feel of Shane's body beneath him. Instead, he inhales deeply and forces himself to look up.
“Hollan– Shane,” he breathes, watching the man shuffle closer comfortingly, eyes just a little bit scared. He hates himself. “This was not supposed to be anything.”
Shane blinks. Something like hurt flickers across his face before he steels, a resolved expression staring back at him. “I know. But I think it is now, right?”
“I- No. It cannot be.”
“But it is. You know it is. I wanted to talk too. I want– I want more time. You want that too, you said–”
“It does not matter what I said!” Ilya cries, eyes stinging. “Is not possible.”
Shuffling forward, Shane grabs desperately at Ilya’s jacket, fingers clinging to the leather. “It can be. Come to my cottage this summer. We can have a week or two. Just us.” He smiles, pleading and oh so beautiful. His freckles crinkle, and Ilya loves him.
Oh fuck. Ilya loves him.
“I can't.” He says instead. “I can't–”
“Why not?” Shane curls his fists tighter into his jacket, bringing his face closer.
“Shane. You do not want this either. It was- This was just sex. We were not supposed to feel-”
“Well I do feel,” Shane snaps, letting go of him abruptly. “And I know you do too, Rozanov. More than you want to admit. It hasn't been just sex for a long time.”
Ilya springs to his feet, beginning to pace in frustration. “What do you want me to say, Hollander? That I care too much? That you are all I think of? Is true! But this changes nothing. The league thinks we hate each other. We could be kicked out. I do not want to go back there, to Russia. I am not…” He fights his brain for the right word, “Eligible. For American citizenship. Or Canadian. Not yet. Without hockey…”
He gasps a breath, grabbing his curls and tugging as he turns away from Shane. He might be crying, and he can't bear the idea of him seeing this.
“This must stop, Shane.”
“No. Ilya. We can figure it out. A plan to be together.” Shane's voice shakes, and it twists somewhere deep in Ilya's gut. All his fault.
Desperately wiping his eyes, Ilya forces his face neutral and lets himself cast his eyes on Shane again. It's a mistake. Shane's eyes are glassy and red, his beautiful lips wet and bitten, yet not in that perfect, blissed out way he's come to know. He's twisting his hands together anxiously, twitching as though he wants to reach out.
In one last viciously selfish move, Ilya pulls Shane's face towards him by his cheeks, pressing a soft kiss to his trembling lips. He pushes every ounce of every stupid fucking feeling he can't get rid of, hoping Shane can feel all he cannot say just this once.
“No,” he breathes. “I am sorry. Is for the best, for both of us.”
Shane stares back, limp with shock. He stumbles then, after a moment, away from Ilya, and Ilya mourns the closeness so intensely he could cry.
“Get out.”
Ilya cannot say he is surprised to be kicked out, but the venom with which he speaks punches a gasp of air out of his mouth. He begins to step back, fighting the urge to pull Shane back into him and grovel for his forgiveness.
“Fuck off, Rozanov!” Hollander yells then, throwing his hand out in the direction of the door.
He nods dumbly, turns, and practically flees the room, fumbling with the handle that he can hardly see behind the new blur of tears across his eyes. When he finally wrestles the door open, he is in the corridor, slamming it behind him, and then he is alone.
Alone.
***
Montreal destroys Detroit in the first round of the playoffs. Despite their goaltender apparently having the flu, Hollander plays like Ilya has never seen him play before, aggressive and bold with a fire in his eyes. It should be ridiculously attractive, and it is, but he doesn't think he sees Shane crack a proper smile even once, not even when he slides Montreal's seventh goal into the net.
It's unsettling to him, and distracting, to see that Hollander might be in as much agony as he is. Ilya never, ever, wants him to feel like that, but there's this twisting part of him, a part that he hates, that finds comfort in the fact that he might not be alone in this. That where there's that void his chest, there's one in the middle of Shane's too. One that longs for him.
He feels like a monster. Maybe he's always been one.
The wound of his last trip to Shane's city is so fresh and painful, and Ilya will be damned if he lets Shane Hollander ruin a playoff run for him.
In the end, though, it's not the Montreal player that does that, it's Scott Hunter and his Admirals. Nine years and no cup, well, he can't say he blames Hunter for his determination. If anyone else but him were to win, he'd want it to be… well, he'd want it to be Hollander. Of course he fucking would.
Not Scott Hunter. Fuck Scott Hunter.
Speaking of Hollander, his team barrels their way through the second round and goes on to face the Admirals, but it truly seems as though nothing in the world was going to stop Hunter, not even the quite frankly beautiful plays Shane carries out. In the end, both their playoff runs end early, and Ilya has to face the summer ahead of him.
Alone.
He dreams of Shane in his cottage, the gorgeous lakefront property he saw in that documentary, with the floor-to-ceiling windows and the large leather sofa. He dreams of being there with him, pushing Shane down into the pillows, pressing his lips to every part of skin he can reach: his mouth, his cheeks, the place where his neck meets his shoulder. They press together, every nerve alight, rutting as they breathe each other’s air.
When he wakes, he's alone in his Boston apartment, so close that it's near painful. It only takes a few pumps of his fist before he's groaning, head turned into a pillow, spilling over himself.
Then he cries.
***
Scott Hunter lifts the cup. Then he kisses a man on television.
The reaction it brings in Ilya is so visceral that he clutches his chest, eyes so wide and not quite believing. Hunter holds this man's face, looking at him with something that can only be love, and pulls him in for another kiss. It's real, it's so fucking real, and Scott Hunter is in love with a man and kissing him in front of the world and the NHL and...
And Ilya Rozanov is a coward. He feels like a coward.
All he wants right now, in the entire world, is to speak to Shane. Shane, who is watching this right now, shocked and disbelieving, perhaps with tears in his bottomless brown eyes. Perhaps, even, thinking of Ilya as Ilya is thinking of him, thinking of what might have been, what could still be.
Could it?
Because Scott Hunter and his probable boyfriend are not Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander. They are not rivals, pitted against each other since before they were even drafted. Ilya knows how the NHL would react to them being together, the mockery and derision they would face – not really for simply being gay, or bi, but for being fierce rivals who spent their entire careers fucking.
Ilya knows what Shane would think of that. Shane has always wanted to be known as the best, just as he has. And if this came out, being the best wouldn’t be the first thing people thought anymore. He doesn't know if Shane could live with that.
The worst part is, he doesn't even know why he is considering this. He gave up any chance of that reality playing out. He gave up Shane.
Ilya thinks, pathetically, that if he had held on, if he hadn't ended things with Shane that night in Montreal, that this would have been enough to convince him to try. Maybe he would have gotten to see what Shane's bedroom in his ridiculous cottage looks like. Maybe he would have gotten to see what Shane's bedroom in his apartment looks like. For real, in person. Ilya could have had Shane in his own bed.
He didn't hold on, though. So he sits, alone, and watches Scott Hunter smile like someone who has everything he wants. Everything Ilya wants.
***
Summer passes, slowly, and the bruised ribs he played with against the Admirals heal into nothing. His last tangible reminder of the previous season, gone.
It's embarrassing how little he does over the months. He works out, goes to the practice rink, sits on his couch and watches mindless TV. Most of all, Ilya desperately tries not to think of Shane Hollander. That doesn't go well.
He also doesn't fuck a single person. Except himself, really. Which is hard enough when all he can see behind his eyes when he touches himself is the way Shane's mouth always fell open wordlessly when Ilya first pushed into him, or his spit covered face after dropping to his knees and sucking Ilya's soul out of his dick.
Fuck, he wants to. He should. Maybe it would get Hollander out of his fucking system, but the though of even touching someone else makes his stomach turn. And the thought of Shane touching someone else…
Ilya pushes that away quickly. Shane is free to do whatever he wants, he was free to do so before Ilya ended things between them and so he certainly is free to do so now. But the idea of someone, someone else putting their hands on Shane, fucking him–
Loving him.
Ilya retches into a trash can.
***
October arrives, and Ilya finally has a distraction. A fucking good one. Hockey.
Just his luck, however, Boston's opening game is against Montreal. At home, at least, but against Montreal nevertheless. He'd successfully avoided Hollander at the NHL awards in June, mostly, and that was the last time he'd had the chance to see him.
Now, he has to get up close and personal.
The first face off of the game has him and Hollander skating to center ice, bending with sticks in hand to face one another.
And there he is, Shane Hollander, freckled and flushed and fucking angry. Ilya can see it clear as day, the curl of his lip, the harshness around his eyes. He searches for eye contact, and regrets it when he finds it, because Hollander glares at him with such visceral hatred that Ilya loses the face off spectacularly.
And then the game.
Ilya realises, that night, alone in his apartment, that falling for Shane may cost him everything. Worse, it could have given him everything.
Shane has looked at him in many ways: frustration and anger, lust and longing. Even when they were hooking up, he knew Hollander still didn't necessarily like him, and on the ice their rivalry was as real as anything. But never, in the near decade of knowing each other, has Shane looked at him like that. Like he truly, all-consumingly hates him.
He picks up his phone and calls Jane.
The call declines quickly, but a text buzzes through seconds later.
Jane: What the fuck do you want?
Ilya stares for a moment, at a loss for what to say. If Shane had answered the call, what would he have said? Truthfully, he has no idea, but he had just had the desperate urge to hear Shane's voice. He could lie, say it was a, what was the phrase – butt dial? – or a misdial, or anything else. Anything but the truth.
Ilya: I wanted to talk
Well, not exactly the plan, but he could have said something worse. Like, I love you, please come back to me. Or, I miss you so much I feel sick.
Jane: We don't have anything to talk about.
Did Shane mean that? Had he moved on, had Hunter's theatrics at the Stanley Cup finals not made his heart hurt with what could have been between them, did he not think of Ilya at all?
Ilya: Sometimes I am stupid
Ilya: Not very often, but sometimes
Ilya: I have been stupid about you
He watches as Shane types, then stops, then types over and over again for a good few minutes. He's unsure whether this is a good sign or not, but waits patiently. He owes Shane that at least.
After five long minutes of pacing his floor, fingers itching for a cigarette, he hears his phone ring.
Jane is calling…
Ilya lunges over the arm of the sofa to grab his phone, fumbling with it until he can press accept. “Hello?” He croaks.
“Hi,” is all Shane gives him, but Ilya swears it's the most beautiful sound he has ever heard.
“Sweetheart,” Ilya breathes, too relieved that Shane is actually speaking to him outside the rink to feel embarrassed at the pet name that slips out of his mouth.
Shane makes a wounded noise in response, breathing down the line for a moment before replying. “Don't call me that, Rozanov,” he sighs, but there's no heat to it.
“Where are you?”
“I'm–” Shane shuffles over the line, “I'm in the stairwell of our hotel. I'm rooming with Hayden, so,”
“Come over.” Ilya speaks before he can stop himself, and regrets it immediately when he can hear the tone of Hollander's voice close off.
“No.” He snips. “You don't get to do that, Rozanov.”
Panic flares in Ilya's stomach. That wasn't what he meant. “No, no, Hollander. Not for– I want to talk.” The line stays quiet. “Please, Shane.”
It's quiet again for a few more moments, and Ilya can practically feel Shane fighting himself.
“Okay.”
***
Forty five minutes later, one Shane Hollander stands at his door, eyes a little red and lips slightly bitten, as though he'd been tearing himself apart over his decision to be there. Knowing Shane, he absolutely had been.
“Come sit, yes?” Ilya encourages, reaching out slightly as if to lead him over to the couch. Instead, Shane shakes his head, chin raised defiantly.
“No. You want to talk, then talk.”
Well, Ilya deserves that. He deserves to grovel.
“Shane,” is all he says at first, all too aware of how desperate he sounds. “What I said to you last season… I was wrong. Is not for the best. Not for me.”
He waits, but Hollander doesn't speak.
“I get… Stuck in my head? Yes. Stuck in my head, sometimes. I see only bad, not good. And you are good, Shane Hollander. Too good.” Ilya walks closer, wanting so much to make contact between them but not wanting to cross Shane's boundaries.
“It felt like agony to feel so much for you. To love you, knowing I could not have you properly. But I think it has been more agony to not have you at all. It hurts,” He presses a hand firmly to his chest, over his heart, “here, to be away from you. To not be able to tell you I love you.”
“You love me?” Shane speaks then, tears threatening to spill over his pretty eyes, and Ilya has to physically hold himself back from reaching out to wipe them away.
Ilya shrugs desperately, throat unbearably tight. “Since Junior Hockey Championship, I think.”
“In Saskatchewan? But that was…”
“The day we met, yes Hollander.”
“You hated me!” Shane gasps hysterically, eyes flitting like a crazed man. “That's not possible.”
“Yes. Very boring, very annoying. But I saw these,” Ilya raises one hand and traces a line in the air in front of Shane's cheeks, “these fucking freckles and I swear I fell in love. But brain did not catch up with heart for a long, long time.”
Hollander stares back at him, tears that had filled his eyes now spilling down his cheeks. He shakes his head in disbelief and huffs, almost turning away. Then, he meets Ilya's eyes. “You said what you said to me last season wasn't what was best for you. What is, then?”
With a gentle smile, Ilya steps closer again, only stopping when he is a breath away from Shane's trembling face. “You, Shane Hollander. You are what is best for me.”
It takes Ilya a moment to register that Shane has tackled him into a kiss, grabbing his curls and pulling them together. As soon as his brain gets on board, he grapples back, running his hands down Shane's back and around his waist, kissing and kissing and biting at his perfect lips as they stumble back onto the couch, falling with Ilya on top.
“Ilya,” Shane groans between kisses, “Ilya, Ilya.” He pulls Ilya back with a hand on each side of his face and surveys him with a serious look. “I love you too,” he breathes, and Ilya feels himself light up with a grin before he's pulled back in.
They touch and grab at each other, wresting both of their shirts off in quick succession as Ilya attaches his lips to the expanse of Hollander's neck, sucking and kissing lightly. Shane tastes like soap from the shower, and he's careful not to leave a mark – it is hockey season and he knows Shane worries about what his teammates will say – but he's successful in reducing him to gasps and whines and the bucking of hips up into him.
It isn't long until Hollander is begging for more, and Ilya can relate; he's desperate to feel Shane again after so long. Standing quickly, Ilya hauls Shane into his arms and carries him across the apartment with hands securely on the swell of his ass. They kiss their way to the bedroom, until Ilya is throwing Shane down on the bed and crawling over him.
Shedding the rest of their clothes, kicking jeans and boxers across the room, they press their bodies together with gasping moans falling from their mouths. Ilya licks across Shane's abs, sucks at the divots of his hipbones, before wrapping his mouth around his already leaking cock. Shane cries out, gripping his curls with both hands. For a moment, he lets his tongue swirl up the shaft and around the head, before giving in to what he really wants to do and flipping Shane onto his stomach.
Running his fingertips up the curve of Shane's spine and the strong muscles of his back, he places kisses wherever he can reach. Then, he lowers himself, reaches his hands to the meat of Shane's ass and sweeps his tongue against his rim, feeling him tense and then moan loudly against the pillows.
“Oh god, Ilya,” he gasps, rutting against the mattress, and Ilya pulls back only for a moment.
“Is okay?”
“Yes, fuck, more than okay,” is what he gets in reply, and Illya chuckles before resuming his ministrations. It's heady and sexy and Hollander seems feral against the sheets, and Ilya cannot believe he almost lost this.
After a few minutes, Shane is panting and shaking and turning his head to look at Ilya through glassy, hooded eyes, breathing out an “I need you, please.” It's enough to spring Ilya into action, returning him onto his back and reaching into the bedside table to retrieve lube and a condom.
When he finally pushes into Shane, he feels reverent, like a man in worship, and he watches as Shane throws his head back in pleasure. Leaning forward, he seals their lips and sets a steady pace, feeling strong thighs flexing around his back and hands tugging through his hair.
“God, Hollander– Shane,” Ilya moans, nipping at his jawline and his neck and his collarbones, entwining their fingers and pushing their arms above Shane's head. He goes harder when he's asked, eyes rolling back at Hollander's request that he feel it for days, and when Shane places his gorgeous, flexible legs on Ilya shoulders it's over not long after. Shane spills across their stomachs untouched, tears falling down on the pillows below him, and Ilya isn't far behind at the sight, panting I love yous into his ear.
Afterwards, when Ilya has cleaned them up as best he can – because Shane fucking Hollander, neat freak of the year, is too tired and blissed out to move, which is certainly a win in his book – they hold each other. Shane curls into Ilya's chest, pressing kisses to the skin there while Ilya pets his hair gently, and there's a feeling of peace which he has never felt before.
It should be terrifying, but how can anything be when he has Shane Hollander in his arms?
“What happens now?” Shane whispers, breaking the silence. “How the fuck do we make this work?”
“My contract with Boston ends this season.” Ilya shrugs, “I could move somewhere, maybe out west. Where rivalry is not so bad.”
Shane appears to ponder this for a second. “What about Ottawa?”
“Ottawa? That is almost as bad as Boston, we would be rivals just the same.”
“Yeah, but, listen. Ottawa desperately needs a star center. You'd be in Canada, eventually you could apply for citizenship. And… you'd only be a few hours away from Montreal. All year. And, maybe we could, like, change the narrative?”
“The what? What are these words, too soon after orgasm, Hollander.” Shane shoves him at that.
“Listen. We still have our rivalry on the ice, obviously, but off the ice? Maybe we start a charity together, something that benefits both our cities, say we have mutual respect for each other. Then it would be less of a shock when–”
“When people know we are fucking?” Shane shoves him again. “You want that? To be together for real?”
Shane smiles shyly, and shrugs. “I do. So much that it terrifies me.”
And what can Ilya do but kiss him at that, rolling them on the sheets and making out between grins. For a few minutes, they don't speak, until Shane is pulling back with a look. “You said it was agony for you. It was for me too. Do you still feel like that?”
Ilya shakes his head slowly.
“Not anymore.”