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Shane fucking hated him. But Rozanov was really good at sucking cock, and he was, for whatever reason, willing.
When he was ready, Shane wordlessly handed Rozanov a condom before rolling over and getting on his hands and knees. He couldn’t look at Rozanov. Not tonight. Not after that humiliating loss.
“You are very beautiful,” Rozanov said suddenly. It was said very matter-of-factly. Shane wasn’t sure how to react. They didn’t really say things to each other. Not like that. “Hottest Man in the NHL, according to Cosmopolitan,” Shane joked. It was the only way he knew how to talk to Rozanov, besides yelling obscenities at him. “They are idiots,” Rozanov said, the spell broken. “They put me at number five. Five!”
It was always like this. Shoving and cursing each other and battling for control until one or both of them gave in and allowed themselves the release they both craved.
Rozanov’s smile spread. “Couldn’t play at all, thinking about my dick, right?” “Good night, Rozanov.”
It was good to be reminded of the fact that they didn’t actually like each other.
He bought himself a bottle of Coke and wondered if he could slip outside for a quick smoke before getting back on the bus.
“I wanted to meet you,” he said, extending his hand. “Shane Hollander.” Ilya stared at him, and then felt his lips twitch a bit. “Yes,” he said. He pinched the cigarette between his lips and shook Hollander’s hand.
In the car, Shane told his parents that he had been talking to Ilya Rozanov. “What’s he like?” his mother asked. “Kind of a dick,” Shane said.
Rozanov increased the speed on his machine. He didn’t glance at Shane at all. Because Shane was petty and competitive, he increased the speed on his own machine...just a little faster than Rozanov’s. Within a minute, Rozanov did the same thing, raising the bar and silently waiting for Shane to match him.
Shane scrambled to his feet. “I’m going to bed. I guess I’ll...see you around, right?” Rozanov looked up at him from the floor. “You will be seeing plenty of me.”
He had never... Jesus Christ, he had a girlfriend. He wasn’t... A girlfriend you are hoping will break up with you. She didn’t even come on this trip to see you get drafted.
“Are you getting tired of second place?” Rozanov smirked. “I’m winning this game,” Shane growled. “There is not an ‘I’ in team, right?” “There’s an ‘I’ in ‘suck my dick.’” Rozanov raised an eyebrow as they bent for the face-off. “There is also an ‘I’ in ‘silver,’” he said.
Ilya’s fingers, just a little. That look, and that squeeze, had said so many things to Ilya. I know. We were supposed to stand alone at the top, but we will always be there together. We will keep climbing until no one else can reach us, but it will always be together.
And as Rozanov scrubbed water over his face, the muscles in his ass flexed and Shane was transfixed. And aroused. Visibly aroused. In a shower. With Rozanov. He only had time to look down at his thickening cock with horror before he noticed that Rozanov had turned back around.
He tidied up the room, even though it was already perfectly tidy. He changed his shirt to a nicer one for no reason at all. He brushed his teeth, flossed, and rinsed with mouthwash. Because if he was going to be talking to Rozanov, it would be rude to have bad breath. He fixed his hair a bit. He switched his phone to silent mode.
Shane could see the tip of Rozanov’s cock poking out of the waistband, and he had the sudden, wild urge to kiss it. To press his tongue to the slit and taste him. Fuck. This was really gay.
He sighed around Rozanov’s cock and bobbed his head slightly, losing himself in the slide of rigid flesh against his tongue. He was sure he was doing a terrible job, and his fears were confirmed when Rozanov suddenly yelped, “Stop! Stop. Stop.” Shane pulled off quickly and stared up at Rozanov, who was grimacing with his eyes squeezed shut. “Sorry,” Shane said. “I’m not... I’ve never...” Rozanov laughed. “Is okay. Was...” He waved a hand around, as if trying to physically grab the English word he was looking for. “It was...too much.” “Oh.” Really? Shane felt that he had barely done anything.
...more
“In Russia. My coach’s son.” Shane sputtered. “Holy fuck. You do like trouble! Was he on the team?”
“Did you like sucking my dick?” “Oh, those English words you know?” Rozanov licked under Shane’s ear, and Shane gasped. “Did you like it?” Rozanov asked again. Shane swallowed his saliva and his pride. “Yes.” “Would you like me to lie on the bed and let you do it some more?” “Let me?” Rozanov chuckled against Shane’s neck. “I’m a nice guy.”
“You want me to...” “Da. Yes. Let me see you.”
“Okay. Well. Good night,” Rozanov said, and moved to get up. Shane’s mouth dropped open, and he was about to be furious when he noticed the playful, crooked grin.
He kissed his way down Shane’s body, which felt so good that Shane forgot to be insulted.
Shane had the stupid urge to ask him to stay. He imagined falling asleep in his arms and what the fuck? This thing they’d just done was, above all things, a huge mistake.
“Do you feel pressure to outperform Shane Hollander this first season?” the interviewer asked. “Who?” Fuck. You. Rozanov. Rozanov looked directly at the camera, and Shane froze. He can’t see you, dummy. He watched Rozanov wink at the camera and Shane’s eyes narrowed. He was going to shut this fucker up when their teams finally met.
“And you’re a leader. A nice young man. Rozanov is a jerk.” Shane laughed. “Yeah. I know.” He’s better at blow jobs than me.
It was his goddamned brother, Andrei.
“Twenty thousand! Dollars?” His brother laughed. “Not rubles. Of course dollars.”
On the ice it was easy enough to focus on the game. Ilya actually loved playing against Hollander. He would never actually tell him, but Hollander was really fucking good. He challenged Ilya in ways that Ilya wasn’t used to. He loved taking the puck from Hollander. He loved slamming him into the boards. He loved skating around him. He loved shit-talking him because his eyes would get all squashed up in anger and his pink lips would curl into an adorable little attempt at a snarl. Like an angry kitten.
Rozanov was wearing a ball cap and had his head down so the reporters couldn’t see his reaction, but Shane could feel him rolling his eyes beside him.
The whistle blew and Shane just locked on to those targets. He watched each one burst apart with four perfect shots. Six. Point. Seven. Seconds. The crowd went wild. Shane threw his arms over his head and celebrated more than was probably necessary or sportsmanlike, but fuck, it felt good.
Rozanov leaned down. His breath ghosted over Shane’s ear when he said, in a low voice, “Twelve twenty-one.”
They broke apart and Hollander looked at him, eyes wild and dark hair a mess, silently begging for instruction. “On your knees,” Ilya said softly, just to see what he would do.
Ilya had always been this way. He loved sex, and he loved it more when it was dangerous—when it was with someone he knew he shouldn’t be with. Whether that was his coach’s son, or his brother’s girlfriend, or his teammate’s sister, Ilya couldn’t resist a bad idea. And Shane Hollander was a bad fucking idea. The worst idea. Wrong in every way imaginable.
He pulled back so he could look at his horrible face with its ridiculous freckles.
“You don’t play with your ass? It makes you gay?” “Oh my fucking god...” “You know what makes you gayer?” “Rozanov...shut the fuck—” “Sucking my dick. You were doing that a minute ago.”
Ilya took it and entered his number into Hollander’s contacts, under the name Lily. Hollander snorted when he saw it. “Who should I be?” he asked as he picked up Ilya’s phone from the dresser. “Shannon?”
He definitely didn’t want any rumors of his sexuality—whatever it was—getting out there. The NHL liked to pretend it was inclusive now, but Shane knew what it was like on the ice, and in the dressing room. There had never been an openly queer NHL player, and homophobic slurs were thrown around enough that Shane couldn’t imagine that happening.
Whoever came out first was going to have to be brave as hell. It sure as shit wasn’t going to be Shane.
“Is just sex, Hollander,” Rozanov said. “I know.”
He wrapped his foot around Rozanov’s ankle, and Rozanov growled and, without warning, grabbed Shane’s thighs and hoisted him up the wall so that Shane had no choice but to wrap his legs around the taller man’s waist.
He felt impossibly full, and couldn’t imagine how Rozanov was supposed to move once he was all the way in. Shane was struck with the sudden, horrific thought that Rozanov would become stuck inside him. Oh Jesus, they would have to call 911 or something!
Shane closed his eyes and enjoyed the weight of Rozanov on top of him.
The smile faded as he wondered how in hell he was ever going to experience this again. Because he couldn’t keep letting Rozanov fuck him. Obviously.
Shane wanted to crosscheck him in the mouth, and then kiss it better.
He wanted to win this fucking Rookie of the Year award. He wanted to rub it in Rozanov’s face. He wanted to rub himself on Rozanov’s face.
“I guess... I guess I’ll see you next season.” Shane stuck out his hand. Rozanov looked at it. Then he turned his head left and right, looking all around them. A split second later, Shane found himself pushed back from the railing, against a wall. Rozanov’s mouth was pressed hard against his, and his hands gripped his arms roughly, fingers digging into his biceps.
He only had the one set of headphones, but he always had subtitles on. It helped to improve his English.
Ilya liked it when Hollander was angry. He liked it when Hollander took out his frustrations on Ilya’s body. He liked him cursing him as he fucked Ilya’s mouth.
Because thinking about this fucked-up thing with Hollander made him feel pretty disgusted with himself. It also made him uncomfortably aroused, which only made him feel more disgusted with himself. Yeah. Super fucking healthy.
