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Shane Hollander stands at the reception desk of the luxury hotel the league has placed them in for All-Star week in Tampa and tries desperately not to fidget, to not look around the lobby in search of a tall, familiar figure he both yearns and dreads to see in equal measure. He doesn’t quite accomplish it; instead, he taps his fingers restlessly across the marble counter as he waits for the front desk agent to finish checking him in.
“Here you go, Mr. Hollander, you’re in room 1410,” the young woman says to him with a bright smile. “Sorry for the wait.”
Shane blinks at her once and then blinks again, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from letting out a slightly unhinged, disbelieving laugh.
Room 1410, of fucking course.
What other number could it fucking be but that one?
Fate – it seemed – was determined to remind him of his fuckups with a man he can’t get out of his head if he tried.
And lord knows, he’s tried.
It’s been months, months since he has spoken to Ilya Rozanov, months since he walked out of the man’s Boston home like his ass was on fire – leaving him behind with a crushed look on his face as Shane ran away. Only for Shane to keep running, face-first into a very public relationship with a woman who deserved better than Shane and his confusing feelings.
Thinking of Rose, he can’t help but smile just a little; the constant ache he feels when he thinks of Ilya eases a bit at the thought of his friend. Dating Rose had been a mistake, he knows that now, but it’s not one he can completely regret. He loves Rose; their brief, ill-advised relationship had ended, but somehow, he’d come out of it with a good friend. A friend who knew his deepest, darkest secret and, instead of rejecting him or judging him, embraced him even more completely.
Rose was the reason why, even though this weekend had his nerves on edge, he still felt more settled than he had in a long time. Even if the thought of seeing – of playing with Ilya made his stomach both flutter with excitement and ache with the fear of rejection.
He was gay, Rose knew, and his world hadn’t ended.
Now he just has to hope Ilya will be willing to speak to him. Shane wasn’t exactly holding his breath. Ilya hasn’t reached out once since that day at his home, and when they played against each other, Ilya acted like he wasn’t even there, looking right through him.
He takes the key card from the young woman, giving her a thank you and a smile that probably comes out more as a grimace as he thinks about the man he can’t get off his mind for even a moment, and their less-than-stellar interactions in the last few months.
Taking his carry-on in hand, he heads for the elevators, nodding in acknowledgment at a few players he recognizes on his way there. He waves and chuckles at Carter Vaughn as the man shouts out, ‘Let’s go East boys!’ to the cheers and boos of the men he’s with as they head in the opposite direction to the bar.
Smiling to himself, he shakes his head, his tension easing slightly at the display. All-Star week was always a fun mess, and Shane needed to remember that.
Waiting for the elevator to come down to the lobby for him, he feels someone step up behind him, his body locking up instantly.
He doesn’t need to turn around to know who’s behind him. After seven years of being…whatever the hell they are, Shane has developed a sixth sense when it comes to him.
“You finally arrived, Captain.”
Shane turns his head to find Ilya standing just off to his side, his brown eyes meeting blue eyes, lightning-quick, before they both look forward.
“About time,” Ilya continues as the doors to the elevator open, his tone dry and sarcastic.
Shane moves into the space before turning around to face the man as he follows him in, taking in Ilya’s appearance. Black swim shorts, a bright red, floral short-sleeved shirt, and sandals. He would look at ease if it wasn’t for the tightness around his mouth.
He looks beautiful, Shane thinks, he wants to tell him. He wants to tell him that, and so many other things, starting with ‘I’m sorry’.
“You’ve been missing me, Rozanov?” he says instead, unable to stop himself from matching Ilya’s sarcasm. He winces when Ilya’s eyes flash to his, the same anger and hurt of the last few months swirling in them. The words hit a little too close to everything unspoken between them.
“Sorry,” he mutters as the doors of the elevator close, leaving them alone for the first time since Boston.
Ilya looks at him for a moment before letting out a tired sigh, waving away the apology. “What floor are you on?” he asks as he gestures towards the wall panel.
“14,” Shane answers softly.
“Me too,” Ilya says with a small quirk of his lips as he presses the number.
Shane hesitates for a moment as the elevator starts to climb. He should shut up, go to his room, freshen up, and then, when he’s clearer-headed and not in a public elevator, properly seek Ilya out to talk to him.
“I’m in room 1410,” he blurts out instead, wondering if Ilya even remembers the implications of that particular room number – lord knows they’ve been in plenty of hotel rooms together in the last seven years. Maybe the very first one doesn’t hold any significance to Ilya.
Proving that he does indeed remember, Ilya takes in a sharp breath as the numbers register, his eyes finding his again. There is so much in his expression, and Shane just wants to beg him to tell him what he’s thinking.
He opens his mouth to do just that, beg for Ilya’s thoughts, his forgiveness, a second fucking chance, anything – when the elevator shudders, stopping with a jerk before it cloaks them in darkness.
“We’re so sorry, Mr. Hollander, Mr. Rozanov, we’ve called for the technician, and he’s working on getting the two of you out of there now,” the frazzled voice of the hotel manager comes through the speaker, all staticky. The backup lights had come on, along with the intercom, almost instantly after the lights went out, but it had taken a few minutes of pressing the emergency button before they reached someone. “And we’re calling the fire department now,” the man continues in a rush.
“No,” Shane argues loudly, cringing at the thought of the fire department having to come to get him and Ilya out. He could already picture the headlines once the sports reporters found out about their predicament. As it was, he knew it was only a matter of time before word spread throughout the hotel and reached all their fellow players. He could hear the chirps now, ‘Did you hear? Hollander and Rozanov are trapped in an elevator, who wants to bet they kill each other?’
Fucking fuck fuck.
“No,” he says again, taking a deep breath as he steadies his voice. “I mean, we’re not going to plummet to our deaths, right?”
“No, sir! Of course not, you’re perfectly safe in there, I assure you!”
Ilya snorts behind him. He’s sitting on the floor, crisscross applesauce. “That is debatable.”
Shane shoots him a glare, which Ilya answers with an amused smirk, and Shane’s stomach somersaults. It’s the first time in months Ilya has looked at him with anything close to fondness.
“Right, so if we’re safe, Rozanov and I can wait for the technician to fix the problem. I’m sure it’s no big deal,” Shane continues, trying to assure the man on the speaker and himself. “Let the man do his job before we call the fire department and waste their valuable time.”
“If you’re sure, Mr. Hollander,” the manager says after a moment, not sounding so sure himself.
Shane looks at Ilya questioningly, getting an unbothered shrug in return. “We’re sure. We would really appreciate keeping this as quiet as you can.”
“Of course, sir,” the manager rushes to say with reverence in his voice. “We understand discretion here at the Grand Hyatt.”
“Right,” Shane says tiredly. “Okay, good, we’ll just wait here. Please keep us updated.”
“Yes, Mr. Hollander, we’ll get you out as soon as possible,” the manager says again, and then the intercom goes quiet.
“Mr. Hollander, sir,” Ilya teases, a toothy grin on his handsome face. “I think he’s a fan of yours, Hollander.”
Shane rolls his eyes as he goes to sit down across from Ilya. “I think he’s more concerned we don’t complain so much it gets him fired.”
“Ah, but you are a nice, polite, make-no-fuss Canadian boy,” Ilya says with mock-seriousness. “You would never.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Shane agrees easily. “But you of all people know I’m not always nice or polite.”
Ilya stares at him, his expression weighing Shane’s words and the truth behind them. The truth was that, even with their limited interactions over the years, Shane was hard-pressed to think of anyone who knew him better than Ilya. A little sad, maybe even a little pathetic, given the scraps of time and attention Ilya gave him, but the fact was, Shane was, oddly enough, his most authentic self when he was with Ilya. He wasn’t the polished media-trained Asian representation of a model hockey player – he wasn’t the awkward golden boy the sports world made him out to be. Instead, he was allowed to be himself, sometimes pissy, sometimes rude, always fucking horny for the man before him. He was allowed to want and be matched when it came to his desires.
Shane opens his mouth to say something, anything, maybe just that – that he wants Ilya.
That he’s missed him like some vital organ or a limb. That he hasn’t been himself since Ilya spoke his name, cracking him open with that simple word, forcing him to face all the feelings Shane has been pushing down, ignoring them since that cold day in December outside a rink in Saskatchewan, back when they were just kids, and Shane had no idea simply introducing himself to a pretty boy smoking a cigarette would change everything about him.
“Did you come alone?” Ilya asks him, stopping Shane’s inner thoughts in their tracks. He looks at Shane, his expression neutral.
“Yeah,” Shane nods, letting out a breath. This was good. Even small talk was better than the silence that’s been following them for months now. “My parents thought about coming, but they’re going to Mexico next week, and it didn’t make sense. They’ve been to these things before anyway.”
“Ah,” Ilya answers, with a twist of his mouth.
They’re quiet again, but just for a moment before Ilya continues.
“And your girlfriend? You didn’t bring Rose Landry?” he lifts a brow as he asks. The question comes out as merely curious, like Ilya doesn’t have a care in the world, and Shane would almost believe that he doesn’t care about the answer one way or another if it wasn’t for the tightness he sees in the corners of his mouth. Shane desperately wants to crawl over to him and climb into his lap, to kiss the tiny frown lines until Ilya’s expression goes soft in the way Shane only sees when they’re alone.
“Rose –,” Shane starts, his breath catching at the small flinch Ilya does at Rose’s name, his gaze shifting away from him. It shouldn’t fill Shane’s silly heart with so much hope, but it does. “She’s not my girlfriend anymore, we broke up,” he gets out in a rush, letting out the breath he was holding as Ilya’s eyes snap back to him.
“Why?” Ilya questions, his accent thickening as the word comes out like a demand.
“We aren’t compatible,” he answers, licking his lips as Ilya stares at him so hard Shane is sure he sees everything Shane still has trouble saying.
“She’s a great person, and we’ve stayed friends. But she’s not who I want. I wasn’t consumed by her,” he confesses. The ‘not like I’m consumed by you’ stuck at the back of his throat, desperate to get out, battling with a lifetime of fear.
Ilya continues to watch him for a moment before looking away again. “I’m sorry,” he says, clearing his throat awkwardly. “You seemed happy with her.”
Shane lets out a dry laugh, even as his heart leaps again. Ilya’s regret over the end of Shane’s relationship is bullshit, but without meaning to, Ilya has revealed more than Shane is sure he wants him to see. ‘You seemed happy with her.’ It meant Ilya had been following the relationship. It wasn’t that hard; the public had taken a special, focused interest in him and Rose, but Ilya followed it, and that gave Shane the push he needed to continue.
Keeping his eyes on Ilya’s face, he says what he’s been wanting to say since he closed the door of Ilya’s home behind him. “I’m sorry about Boston. I shouldn’t have left that day,” he says quietly. He gives Ilya a helpless shrug. “I freaked out.”
Ilya takes a moment, his eyes shifting everywhere but to Shane’s. “Freaked out over nothing,” he finally says with a shrug of his own.
And Shane knows he shouldn’t, that he has no right, but after weeks of being miserable and so fucking unsure, he is instantly angry.
“Oh, fuck you, Ilya,” he hisses out, his skin feeling tight with irritation but also satisfaction as Ilya startles, whether at his anger or the use of his first name, Shane isn’t sure. “Don’t fucking do that. Be angry at me, call me an asshole for leaving as I did, tell me you’re pissed I dated Rose, whatever you want. But don’t fucking pretend that day was nothing. Not when you keep looking at me the same way you did then.”
“And how do I look at you, Hollander?” Ilya questions in challenge, and anger starts to color his tone.
“Like I hurt you, Ilya,” Shane shoots back, his voice rising. He refuses to speak in half-sentences any longer. “Because I know I fucking did, and I’m so fucking sorry that I hurt you. More than anything, it kills me that I hurt you – you said my name and I – “
Ilya snaps.
“And you fucking bolted for the door, leaving me with our cum cooling on my lap after telling me you couldn’t do this,” Ilya waves his hand between them angrily. “Anymore, and to prove you were serious, you went out and found yourself a very public girlfriend,” he finishes, all but shouting himself. “Rose fucking Landry.”
“All that, just because I called you Shane,” Ilya sneers, breathing heavy, his face flushed pink.
“Don’t act like that’s nothing!” Shane argues, going to his feet like a shot, unable to just sit still for this conversation any longer. “First, you invite me to spend the night, something we have never done by the way, and you hold me in my sleep, you make me a damn tuna melt and have my favorite drink for me.”
He’s pacing back and forth in the small space of the elevator now, and Shane can feel himself unraveling as weeks of unspoken words pour out of him like a flood. “But then you tell me all about Svetlana and all the other hot women you like to fuck, but oh, me too,” he continues sarcastically, pointing a finger at himself as Ilya stares up at him with wide eyes. Shane can only imagine how he must look like a wild animal in a cage. “But no, not me too, my mouth, right, Ilya? Excuse the fuck out of me for being confused at the mixed signals.”
“Hollander –,” Ilya tries as he too stands, but Shane is on a roll and can’t stop now.
“And then, then, you’re calling me by my name,” Shane says in a rush, hating that Ilya isn’t using it now. His voice cracks as he remembers how it felt when Ilya used it. It sounded like a prayer from Ilya’s lips. His anger fizzles out as he remembers. “Which felt amazing by the way, and you looked at me like – “
“Like what?” Ilya asks quietly.
“Like I actually mattered to you for once,” Shane whispers, longing and sadness melding in the words.
Ilya moves then, lightning quick, and Shane can’t help the gasp that escapes his lips at the sudden action as Ilya pushes him into the elevator wall, his body pressed against his, holding him there, unmovable.
“Fuck you, Shane,” Ilya says, his breath touching Shane’s face, and the curse would come off as harsh if it wasn’t for the look of anguish in Ilya’s blue eyes. “You have always mattered to me. From the second we met, you have mattered. We wouldn’t be here screaming at each other if you fucking didn’t.”
“How would I know that, Ilya?” Shane asks genuinely. He reaches out, his fingers digging into Ilya’s bright, floral shirt, unable to stop himself from pulling Ilya even closer. “I wait for you, all these years – I wait for you. I have only been with two other men and Rose for the seven years since we started this. Because I wait for you. Because no one else will do for me but you. No one else compares.”
“Shane,” Ilya whispers gently.
This time, his name isn’t said in anger. It sounds a lot like it did back in Boston, and it makes Shane’s eyes sting.
Shane swallows around the lump of emotion in his throat before continuing. “And I’m not throwing this in your face, we’re not exclusive. You can be with whomever you want. But – “
“But?” Ilya questions quietly, not pulling away. Instead, he lifts his hand to cup Shane’s jaw, tilting his face to catch his eyes. “But what?” he repeats.
“But I don’t even know if we’re still doing this because I matter to you or if it’s the thrill, if it’s still because you like trouble,” Shane gets out. His face feels hot and tight, and he has to close his eyes as he forces himself to finish his thought. “I mean, do you even like me?”
Ilya lets out a noise that sounds like pain, and Shane is moving. He lets Ilya pull him into him, his arms going around him as Ilya presses his face into Shane’s neck. He feels Ilya shudder.
“I can’t like you,” Ilya says against his skin, his arms tightening around him when Shane flinches and tries to pull away. “Liking you means I can’t go home again.”
Shane frowns at the words, pulling away enough to look at Ilya without breaking the embrace. “Because of your family?” he questions, which earns him a slight eye roll.
“Yes, them too, but because of Russia,” Ilya says tiredly, the weight of his words heavy. “I wouldn’t be able to go back to Russia.”
Shane swallows hard at that.
He will admit he doesn’t know enough about Ilya’s native country, but he’s heard about the propaganda laws. “What would happen to you?” he asks.
Ilya shakes his head, his fear and uncertainty clear in his expression. “I don’t want to find out.”
Shane nods slowly in understanding, his heart aches for the man in his arms, and all he wants is to keep holding Ilya close until he’s sure nothing will ever hurt him. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t like you,” he tells him.
“You can’t like me, Hollander,” Ilya whispers, his tone pleading with him.
“But I do,” Shane says helplessly. He’s gentle with his confession, gentle in the same way Ilya makes him feel towards him. “I think you might be my favorite person in this world, actually.”
Ilya makes that wounded noise again, and then he’s pressing Shane into the elevator wall once more, his mouth covering Shane’s. Wet and hot and everything he has been missing, Shane lets out a desperate sound of his own as he returns Ilya’s kiss with the same intensity. He sinks his hands into Ilya’s hair, his fingers twisting into his soft curls as Ilya breaks him apart with his mouth. He holds on, clinging to him, opening up under him as Ilya licks into his mouth and Shane moans at the familiar and addictive taste of Ilya that he has missed so damn much. He’s about to tell him just that when the elevator shudders once before it starts moving again, this time going down.
“Again, Mr. Hollander, Mr. Rozanov, I want to sincerely apologize for the inconvenience,” the middle-aged hotel manager with salt-and-pepper hair tells them again as they stand by the elevators in the lobby. He’s been apologizing to them for the last ten minutes, rambling on and on, offering them hotel points and services as an apology. Shane is grateful the man is so preoccupied with his apology that he doesn’t seem to notice how flushed Shane still is from the kiss he and Ilya just shared, or that Ilya hasn’t taken his eyes off him.
Shane wants to tell Ilya to stop, but he also wants to tell him never to look away from him again.
“It’s okay,” Shane tells the manager for a third time. “Really, I think we just want to go up to our rooms now. Right, Rozanov?”
“Da,” Ilya agrees as he presses the button to call for the elevator once more. “We won’t get stuck again, right?” he questions the man as the doors open. “Or should we take the stairs?”
The manager turns an embarrassing shade of red as he shakes his head profusely.
Shane sighs in fake annoyance to hide his grin of amusement. “Don’t be a dick and come on. I’m not climbing to the 14th floor.”
“It is a valid question, Hollander,” Ilya answers as the doors close, leaving them alone again.
This time, the elevator doesn’t stop, doesn’t stall.
It takes them to the 14th floor.
In silent agreement, they turn to the right together, Shane a step ahead of Ilya as they make their way to his room.
Opening the door, Shane steps through, holding his breath as Ilya shuts the door quietly behind him. Arms come around him, and Shane can’t help the sigh that passes his lips as Ilya presses his face into the crook of his neck. He tilts his head to the side, granting Ilya better access as he lays soft kisses across Shane’s skin.
“We finish what we started, yes?” Ilya questions even as his hands slip under Shane’s shirt, his fingers playing with the edge of his pants.
“Yes, please,” Shane whispers, his breath going choppy as Ilya pops the button of his pants and slips his hand inside.
“Already so hard for me,” Ilya purrs approvingly. “I barely touch you, but you are ready.”
Shane turns his head to kiss Ilya’s jaw as Ilya gives his cock a lazy stroke that has Shane thrusting his hips forward in hope of more contact. “Don’t play around, I’ve missed you too much for that.”
Ilya pauses his touch, causing Shane to whine. He’s pouting when Ilya turns him around to face him. It makes Ilya smile at him, a little amused, a lot fond.
“I have missed you, too,” he says softly. He cups Shane’s face in his hands, holding it in place as he presses his forehead against his. “I tried not to. But I was going crazy while you were with her. I don’t know how we do this, I don’t know if we even can,” he pauses to give Shane a kiss when he opens his mouth to speak. “But I want us to try anyway. “
Ilya smiles at him, and it’s so achingly gentle it makes Shane’s eyes sting.
“You matter to me, Shane, more than anyone,” he continues. He uses a finger to run under Shane’s lash line. “You’re my favorite person, too.”
Shane nods, letting out a wet laugh that Ilya matches with a shaky grin. The joy they shared in that moment was like a tangible link between them. “Show me.”
Ilya tugs at Shane’s shirt, and Shane feels his heart fill with an embarrassing amount of adoration when, instead of dropping it on the floor, Ilya folds it neatly for him. He lets out a laugh as Ilya pushes him on the bed and does the same with his pants after he takes them off him.
“Ty dlya menya — vso,” (You are everything to me) Ilya whispers in Russian, and Shane wants to ask what he’s saying, but then Ilya covers his body with his, and kisses him like he’s precious, and Shane figures he doesn’t need the translation right now.
He thinks maybe he already knows.
“I still can’t believe you two were trapped in an elevator together and lived to tell the tale,” Carter Vaughn proclaims to the table at large, earning a laugh from the group of men gathered around them and an eyeroll from both Shane and Ilya.
It’s their last night of All-Star, and while Shane would like nothing more than to take Ilya back to his room and spend their last precious hours together before having to board flights that will take them in opposite directions, they had to put in an appearance after the East vs West game.
So instead of riding Ilya’s cock like he wants, he sits next to him, sharing a beer with players from both teams.
“I thought for sure the weekend was going to end in a crime scene when we found out,” Erhart from Seattle comments, getting another laugh. “You two hate each other.”
“Hollander and I don’t hate each other,” Ilya says in a bored tone, rolling his eyes again. It makes Shane let out a huff of laughter. “We are rivals because we are the best in the league. It is competition, not hate.”
“Fuck off, Rozanov, best in the league,” Bouchard from Vancouver grumbles, throwing a wadded-up napkin in Ilya’s direction. “Cocky motherfucker.”
“Rozanov has a point,” Shane starts, a smirk playing on his lips. He looks over at Ilya to find a matching expression on his face, the twinkle in his eyes tells him he knows Shane is about to be a little shit. “Four points as a matter of fact, two goals and two assists, same as me, seeing as we’re the only ones that scored tonight.”
There is silence around the table, before Ilya bursts out laughing, slapping the table with his enthusiasm.
“Jesus, Hollzy,” Carter shakes his head, the side of his mouth quirking up. “You’re just as bad as Roz.”
“Asshole number one,” Bouchard points at Ilya, and then at Shane. “Asshole number two.”
A couple of heads nod in agreement.
“I guess it’s a good thing you guys are rivals and not on the same team,” Carter continues easily. “You two had some crazy mind-melding bullshit going on tonight. It would be a nightmare if you joined forces and played together rather than against each other. I’d retire on the spot.”
More than one player at their table nods and shudders at the thought.
Ilya, though, smiles widely. “Not a bad idea,” he muses. He looks at Shane, holding his gaze, and Shane’s breath hitches softly at the glint of possibility in his eyes. “We are free agents soon,” he continues with a lift of his shoulder. “Anything can happen.”
The table protests lightheartedly, believing that Ilya is also joking, but as Ilya continues to look at him, Shane hears the promise in Ilya’s unspoken words.
Anything can happen.
Now that they were together, they would figure it out.