Chapter Text
On Ilya’s seventeenth birthday Svetlana meets him at the rink after practice and takes him out for pelmeni. She says it’s to prepare his stomach for the inevitable onslaught of grain alcohol that’s coming later when they meet up with their other friends, but he knows better. It’s been their tradition since the beginning of their friendship to share their birthday well-wishes and birthday kisses privately, away from their friends’ prying eyes.
Over dinner Sveta asks him to fuck her and he chokes on his drink. She laughs at him for a full, uninterrupted five minutes, hard enough that she almost falls out of her chair. People are definitely staring at them.
When Ilya can breathe again he asks her why him? And why now? She tells him it’s because she’s planning to go to university in the United States next year. She’s never gone all the way with a guy, and she wants her first time to be with someone she knows, someone she trusts. She says it’s because no idiot American man child deserves to be her first. She presents her arguments as though there is a chance that Ilya might say no, as though he hasn’t just choked on his tongue at the mere thought of it.
Ilya has been half in love with Sveta since they met four years ago. They were thirteen. He had just changed schools, after… after.
Better to start fresh, his father had said. For once, Ilya had agreed with him. He was glad for the change. It was better to be in a place where no one knew, where no one asked.
Svetlana had introduced herself on the first day of school. Later he learned that her dad had asked her to do it, had told her that there was a new boy starting who was definitely going to be a star in the KHL one day, but that he didn’t know anyone at the school yet and he might need a friend.
Ilya had been overwhelmed that day, fumbling to remember his teachers’ names, his grief still fresh and sharp. He can barely recall that first conversation now. What he does remember is disjointed flashes: the morning light from the window that made her teeth seem bright white, drawing his eye to the playful teasing in her smile; her hair, even more riotously curly than his, with several ringlets already escaping the confines of her half ponytail before the first bell had even rung; the warm, steady timbre of her voice. But the very first thing he noticed, the thing he will never forget until the day he dies, was the scent that washed over him when she tossed her hair over her shoulder. The tears sprang to his eyes instantly and without warning. She must have used the same curl cream as his mother.
She’d gone wide eyed with shock when he started crying, grabbing him by the wrist and hauling him into an empty classroom, waving apologetically to the startled teacher who was eating lunch inside and sitting down with him until he was able to collect himself. Her quick thinking had no doubt saved his fucking life that day. Crying in public on the first day of school? At their age? It was social suicide, at best. But all he could think, as she laughed at him and used her thumbs to wipe the tears from his cheeks, was that no one had touched him so gently since his mother left him.
Their friendship had grown from that moment, instantaneous and easy. Ilya adored her then, and he still does. She is easily the most beautiful girl he has ever seen, not to mention his first kiss, the first pair of breasts he’d ever touches, the first girl he ever sees naked in person. She has always been unimpressed by his good looks, and has always been able see straight through his shit talking and clowning. She keeps him honest, and she makes him a better hockey player. The feedback she shares when she watches him play hockey is more perceptive and useful than half of the shit he hears from his coaches.
Their affection is comfortable, physical, intimate, but it has never felt truly romantic. Despite (or perhaps because of) that, she has always been his steadiest and most reliable friend. She's genuinely supportive. Unlike many other girls he meets, she never questions how much time he spends on the ice and never complains when skating gets in the way of their social plans. She doesn’t mind sharing him with hockey if it means that hockey can eventually be his ticket away from his father. She is the gold standard against which he measures every girl he meets.
Of course Ilya agrees to be her first. He doesn’t have a lot of experience yet, but he knows he loves women, their soft curves and sharp nails and the wet heat of their cunts. He loves what he knows of sex so far, and he wants to learn it all. He wants to be good at it, the same way he’s good at hockey. For Sveta in particular he wants to be the fucking best at sex, to win the Stanley Cup of fucking. She’s the best girl he’s ever known, and she should be worshiped accordingly.
Shameless, he asks her to teach him everything she knows. They make it a game, at Ilya’s suggestion, wherein he has to earn the right to put his dick inside her perfect body by learning to make her come with his own hands and mouth first.
The game grows frustrating for both of them. They are young and impatient, and there is an unavoidable learning curve with sex. Pussies are fickle and not as straightforward as dicks. Sveta is initially too flustered and self conscious to relax and enjoy herself. Ilya is clumsy and fumbling, his body trained more for aggression and speed than for coaxing gentleness. But he has always loved a challenge, and he takes direction well. He loves how she smells, how she tastes, how tight she is around his fingers. Eventually he discovers how wet she gets when he tells her so, and he starts talking more just to watch her squirm.
It gets better. Ilya murmurs sweet filth against Sveta’s skin in between licks and kisses. He makes her touch herself while he watches, studying every brush of her fingers and doing his best never to mention the self conscious flush on her face. He licks at her while she does it, sometimes. Other times he plunges a finger into her, mouthing at her thighs while he watches her fingers move against her own skin, groaning at how good it feels when she clenches tight around him. One time she shoves him on his back and he nearly dies on the spot, thinking she’s done with waiting, that she’s just going to impale herself on him and to hell with their stupid game, but she just settles on top of him, trapping his dick against his belly with her pelvis and rocking against him through her soaking wet panties until the friction gets her off. He follows seconds later, his orgasm tearing through him so hard it splatters his own chin.
The first time he makes her come, three weeks later with two fingers in the slick heat of her pussy while he rolls his tongue against her clit, he nearly shoots off untouched on the sheets below him. The way she shivers around his fingers as she moans is the best thing he’s ever felt, the best thing that’s ever happened to him in his entire life, right up until five minutes later when she throws a condom at him, shoves him onto his back, and sinks down onto his cock for the very first time.
She’s so loose and relaxed from coming, stretched and ready from his big fingers, that the discomfort doesn’t seem to phase her much. Her hips are clumsy with inexperience and her thighs shaky from orgasm, but it doesn’t matter at all. Ilya is seventeen, after all, and it’s all he can do to keep himself from emptying his balls at the first second when their hips meet. He lasts about four minutes, and it feels like a herculean accomplishment.
“Not bad for a first try. We will do better, next time,” she tells him seriously before a smile cracks her face open like the cat who got the cream.
“Practice makes perfect,” he grins back at her, enunciating carefully in thickly accented English. He needs to work on his English if he wants to join the MLH.
Sveta kisses him and he is sure she is the best person on the face of the entire planet.
*********
It is common knowledge among Ilya’s Russian teammates from Juniors that Shane Hollander is an insufferable prick who thinks he’s god’s gift to hockey. He’s been the big fish in his little pond for years, Ilya’s coaches always say while they dissect Canada’s plays on grainy VHS tapes before practice. Just wait, their mocking voices echo each other, it will be fun to see the professional league humble him.
And yeah, sure, Ilya gets why everyone thinks Hollander is so punchable. He’s a killjoy on the ice, far too intense to be likeable, and he plays hockey like he’s going into battle. But the thing is, he has the skills to back up his attitude. All the recordings in the world couldn’t prepare Ilya for watching him play in person. The recordings never made him hard. Hollander is really, really fucking good at hockey. He’s better than most of Ilya’s coaches, that’s for damn sure. Ilya sits alone in the stands and watches Canada run drills and he feels like his entire body is electrified with some unnameable current, humming with anticipation, and he thinks that those bitter old men are going to be waiting a long time to see Hollander humbled.
But there is an incongruity in Hollander, too. The confident ease with which he dominates the ice feels directly at odds with the awkward way he’d spoken outside the rink that day, with his tousled hair and his hesitant smile. He’d seemed almost shy when he introduced himself, ducking his head sheepishly, blushing behind his freckles. It was… cute. It makes Ilya wonder how many other versions of Hollander there are behind those wide onyx eyes of his.
Watching Hollander play doesn’t hold a candle to the experience of playing against him. Ilya had all but forgotten how good it feels to face off against an opponent who is actually on his level. He hasn’t worked this hard during a hockey game in years, and by the time they’re done he’s dizzy with it, absolutely drenched in sweat and panting for breath. It’s worth every second of effort to witness the offended glare on Shane Hollander’s face before he schools it into a bad facsimile of good sportsmanship. Hollander is not used to losing, and his attempts to accept it with grace are clumsy and unconvincing.
When they line up on the ice Ilya shakes his hand with an obnoxious grin because he, too, is an insufferable prick. Hollander is as pissy as a wet cat. It’s too fucking cute, absolutely intolerable. Ilya is struck by a sudden, intense desire to lean over and bite him on the soft, exposed skin of his neck, just to see whether he can pull a hiss or a squeak out of him. Adrenaline makes a man think crazy things.
Ilya doesn’t do that, of course. He just releases Hollander’s hand and lets himself shuffle forward to shake hands with the next Canadian player. A hockey rink isn’t the right time or place for those kinds of inappropriate impulses.
*********
It turns out that a hockey rink can be exactly the right time and place for those kinds of inappropriate impulses if you’re stupid and reckless enough, and Aleksander Mikhailovich Novikov is possibly the most stupid and reckless person Ilya has ever met. Ilya is a little bit obsessed with him.
Sasha swans into Ilya’s life in the summer of 2009 during the break between school terms. He is Coach Novikov’s only son, and he and Ilya would likely have been classmates if Sasha had stayed in Moscow for high school.
He had not. Sasha had already broken his father’s heart badly enough to get shipped off to boarding school in Saint Petersburg at age fourteen, when it became clear he had no inclination towards hockey, football, academics, or any other ‘worthwhile’ pursuits. Most of Sasha’s ambitions are carnal in nature.
These days, angry at being sent away and resentful of the entire hockey industry, Sasha lives and breathes to make his father’s life a living hell, preferably while emptying his bank account. Upon returning home it takes him exactly five days to set his sights on Ilya, clearly having decided that seducing his father’s golden goose, the surrogate son, the rising hockey star Sasha had failed to grow into, would hit his father hardest where it hurt the most.
Ilya admires his efficiency. The assessment is clinically accurate, nothing would piss the old man off more than watching Sasha corrupt Ilya, pulling him down into the pit of dissolution and debauchery. In Russia, thrill seeking libertines who get caught up in scandals with other boys do not get to be hockey stars.
Unfortunately for Sasha, his ruthless plan is doomed to fail. For one thing, Ilya hasn’t yet discovered a quantity of coke or molly that can fuck him up enough to noticeably affect his game. He knows the limit is there, but it would clearly take more than he and Sasha can currently afford with their parents controlling their finances.
The other thing Sasha hadn’t known to account for was the depths of Ilya’s commiseration. After all, if there is one thing Ilya understands intimately, it’s the pain of a father’s disappointment. In fact, Ilya has a father of his own to disappoint, so he not only tolerates Sasha’s flirting, he encourages it. It’s Sveta’s fault, really, for abandoning him, leaving him bored and unchaperoned while she flies off to stay with her mother in the US and suffer through a truly insane number of university campus tours. Besides, Ilya hasn’t ever kissed a boy. He can’t deny that he’s curious.
In the end Sasha’s seduction is successful, but the scandal never comes to pass. Instead Ilya and Sasha become great friends… friends with benefits, a fact that would definitely end Ilya’s career before it even began if Coach Novikov were ever to find out. Russian hockey stars are absolutely not cocksuckers.
Ilya is determined to be the first. He fucking loves cocksucking. It feels incredible, having Sasha grow hard in his mouth, feeling the shaft throb, hearing the shaky gasps and hiccuping pleas he can pull out of Sasha with every swipe of his tongue. Ilya likes it almost as much as he likes the inverse, watching Sacha on his knees, greedily swallowing Ilya down. Sasha has done this before, with boys at school, and he’s good at it. The first time Ilya comes down his throat he nearly passes out, vision going black at the edges as he staggers back against the wall.
He’s been wondering for a while, if he might be bisexual. Now he has his answer.
Everything he does with Sasha feels good. Even the danger feels good, the crackling hum of anxiety, the fear of being caught. They explore and try new things, they fumble and fail, then they laugh while they recover. Sasha is a mess, that’s obvious, but Ilya is too. He’s in no place to judge. Equally obvious is the fact that they’re using each other. But Ilya thinks it’s okay, as long as neither one of them thinks that this is more than it is. And fortunately, neither one of them is delusional.
*********
At the end of June Ilya makes his first journey to the United States, to Los Angeles for the MLH draft. He’s dying to explore the city, but he’s not old enough to drink in this stupid country and he can’t do anything fun anyway with his dad around, so it’s kind of a waste of a trip, which sucks.
The hours leading up to the draft itself are tense and unpleasant. Ilya’s dad is still angry that he’s leaving Russia and not letting Ilya forget it. Iyla breathes a sigh of relief when he gets drafted first overall. Boston is a respectable team, an historical team, and (most importantly) a team that needs a talent like him, where he’ll get real ice time in his first season instead of just warming a bench.
Even Grigory Rozanov can’t come up with anything nasty to say about this outcome, so instead he turns his attention to Ilya’s personal shortcomings. It’s annoying and frustrating to be needled and berated in front of the Raiders’ owners and head coaches, but at least these people don’t speak Russian. Ilya sets his jaw and takes it. He can endure it for a few more months. He can endure anything for a few months.
Attention wandering, Ilya finds Hollander in the crowd down on the ground floor flanked by his proud parents on either side. His mom is hot, and apparently outgoing, gesturing animatedly as she speaks. Hollander’s dad seems content to hang back and let his wife do the talking, which is a fatherly behavior Ilya has never witnessed before in his life. Hollander seems younger here than when he’s on the ice, trying to look like he belongs in his suit, playing at adulthood in a room full of small talk and chamber music. It’s a far cry from the confident, cocky center Ilya faced off with last winter. Despite the luxury of having everyone around him conversing in his primary language, he looks almost as uncomfortable to be here as Ilya feels.
Ilya adds ‘doesn’t like small talk’ to the mental list of facts he’s gathering about Shane Hollander, then asks himself why he even cares. Hollander had been kind of a dick to Ilya earlier, though he was obviously trying not to be. Ilya doesn’t mind. He was expecting Hollander to be a bad sport about being chosen second in the draft. It was his own reaction that had surprised him. Normally Ilya loves to rub his successes in the faces of arrogant pricks like that, he always has. But with Hollander it’s different, somehow.
Maybe it’s because they both know the first pick could just have easily been Hollander, if a different team had been doing the choosing. Maybe it’s that, for the first time in years, Ilya feels like he has a real, professional peer. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but there’s something there behind the bristling irritation in Hollander’s eyes that makes Ilya respect him. Whatever the reason, Ilya gets it. Ilya gets him. And so Ilya holds his tongue and hardly gloats at all.
It’s probably because of everything that’s happened with Sasha this year that Ilya finally figures out the nature of his fascination with Shane Hollander. It’s not that he’s a good player — the best Ilya’s ever faced, maybe. Or, at least, it’s not only that.
That night in the gym, panting and gasping after their childish, impromptu competition on the exercise bikes, Ilya feels Hollander’s gaze like a tangible weight. It makes him reckless, like he feels with Sasha, reckless enough to find himself on the edge of openly flirting, which would be a catastrophically stupid thing to do. But the thing is… The thing is, Hollander lets it fucking happen. Hollander is holding his gaze. Hollander is looking back, with an intensity that shocks Ilya.
Does Hollander feel it too, this inexorable pull between them? Could Shane Hollander want him? Ilya honestly doesn’t even know what to think about that.
In the weeks that follow Ilya’s thoughts wander back to that hotel gym more times than he can count. He thinks he’s probably starting to get a little too obsessed with Shane Hollander. He’s probably imagining things anyway. It’s not like anything actually happened. The intensity between them was probably one-sided, a fantasy in Ilya’s own head. Ilya needs to stop thinking about the way Hollander’s shirt had clung to his sweaty chest. He absolutely needs to stop jerking off to the memory of sweat rolling down Hollander’s strong neck, the way his lips had parted when their fingers brushed together against Ilya’s water bottle. A smart man would forget it ever happened.
He doesn’t. He can't. It’s becoming a bit of a problem.