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“Let me show you,” Rozanov murmured, “how to do this.”
Shane forgot to be insulted. When he reached Shane’s cock, Rozanov greeted it with a long, slow lick with the entire surface of his tongue, like it was a fucking ice-cream cone or something. “Jesus.” Shane shuddered.
“Ah, god. Rozanov! I’m gonna...” He expected Rozanov to get the hell out of the way, but instead he sucked him harder and Shane emptied himself into his mouth. A stream of nonsense fell out of Shane’s mouth. “Holy shit. I’m sorry. Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Fuck. Wow. God.” Rozanov pulled off, not at all hurried, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He laughed at Shane’s babbling. “Sorry? Why sorry?”
Shane choked out a hysterical laugh. “I don’t know! I just... I wasn’t expecting you to...” Rozanov shrugged as if Shane was thanking him for bringing in the mail. “I don’t mind it.”
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. As far as hookups went, Shane really could not have chosen a less appropriate person. And even forgetting that, there was no reason to pretend this was anything more than a quick, no-strings fuck. And why would Shane even want to pretend that?
Shane wanted to kiss him one more time, because he was sure he would never get the chance again. But Rozanov was already opening the door. “Goodbye, Hollander.” “Bye,” Shane said to the closed door.
On the television, the SportsCenter anchors were talking about Ilya Rozanov. Shane hadn’t seen, or spoken to, Rozanov since their...encounter...in the Toronto hotel room over two months ago. He would like to be able to say that he hadn’t thought of him either, but that would be far from the truth. Suddenly, Rozanov’s face filled the screen. Shane felt his own face flush a bit, which was ridiculous because he was alone and not actually in the presence of those sparkling hazel eyes or that playful, lopsided smile.
He was watching the television, entranced, but not listening to a word of the interview. He didn’t snap out of it until he heard Rozanov say, without a trace of irony, “The Bears will be happy with me this season. I will score fifty goals.” “Fifty goals?” the stunned interviewer asked. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Shane asked at home. “Yes. By end of February,” Rozanov said.
“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.
“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. The thought crashed to the front of Shane’s brain, and he quickly grabbed for his water glass, nearly knocking it over.
“Will you disappoint them, Hollander?” “Nope.” They bent for the face-off.
Ilya wished he didn’t have the mouth guard in because he would have loved to do something distracting and sexy with his tongue. He probably should have been focusing more on the puck and less on bothering Hollander, because he lost their first face-off. And that was something he’d never get back.
He turned on the television, and there was Shane fucking Hollander’s face, filling the screen. All sweaty and flushed and happy.
Answering questions in perfect goddamned French. Ilya couldn’t even say a basic English sentence without sounding like a cartoon villain. He hated his stupid accent. He hated his asshole family. Shane Hollander was speaking French and he was breathless and smiling and drenched in sweat with his hair sticking up in all directions. His cheeks were pink and his lips were dark and wet. He looked so fucking proud of himself. Ilya told himself the twisted feeling in his stomach was just jealousy, but he was terrified that
it was something much, m...
This highlight has been truncated due to consecutive passage length restrictions.
Ilya was close to making good on his promise to score fifty goals by the end of February. He had already scored thirty-eight. Hollander had scored forty-one. Fucking Hollander.
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.
“Um,” he said. “I can’t speak for Rozanov, or what it’s like in Boston, but I know the fans in Montreal love their team and definitely are expecting us to turn
things around and get back in the playoffs and win some cups. And, you know, I feel the exact same way. So... I guess my answer is that I don’t really feel any pressure that I’m not already putting on myself.” He hoped that satisfied him. Unfortunately, the reporter didn’t pick up on the fact that Rozanov was clearly struggling with understanding the question, and said, “Ilya?” “Ah,” Rozanov said. “What Hollander said. Yes.”
Shane looked at him, and Rozanov caught his eye and winked. Shane pursed his lips to stifle a grin. Under the table, he felt Rozanov’s foot tap against his own. It was the chastest contact in the world, but it still made Shane’s heart stop.
Eight seconds. Shane shook his head and watched Rozanov play to the crowd. Rozanov skated around the ice holding his stick like a rifle, celebrating his skills by pretending to shoot at the rafters. Shane skated up to replace Rozanov on the blue line, and Rozanov came to a stop right in front of him. “Sorry about that, Hollander.” “You think I can’t beat that?” Rozanov just winked and nudged Shane a little as he passed
him. Shane heard the crowd’s delighted reaction. Fuck it. Fuck him. Shane could do this. He could do this with his fucking eyes closed. 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.
They stood in silence, watching the action on the ice. Loud music blared and the crowd cheered as another record was broken.
Rozanov leaned down. His breath ghosted over Shane’s ear when he said, in a low voice, “Twelve twenty-one.” A shiver ran through Shane’s body, and before it had even left him, Rozanov was gone.
“On your knees,” Ilya said softly, just to see what he would do. Expecting Hollander to tell him to fuck off, Ilya’s breath caught in his throat as he watched him sink fluidly to the floor.
The idea that Ilya was probably the only one who ever saw him like this—that he was the only person in the entire fucking world who knew what it felt like to have those pretty pink lips wrapped around his cock...
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.
Fuck. Ilya kissed him again so he wouldn’t have to think about him. He wanted to fuck him. God, would Hollander let him fuck him?
He could feel Hollander tense up. He was completely silent now. Ilya pulled his mouth off him and looked up at his face. “Have you ever?” Ilya asked. Hollander shook his head.
“Would you like to?” “I don’t know.” “You are scared.” “No! No, I’m not scared.” “Is okay to be.” Hollander exhaled loudly. “I’m not scared,” he said again.
“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.”
“Okay,” Ilya said, nipping at his throat. “Next time, then.” Hollander snorted, but he was smiling hopefully. “Next time?” Ilya shrugged one shoulder. “We play in Montreal in two weeks.” “That doesn’t mean we can... I mean, how would we? Where would we?” “Are you homeless?” “No.”
“Well then...” “So, what? You’re just gonna sneak out of your hotel? What will you tell your teammates?” “The fucking truth! I’m going to get laid! Like every city we play in!”
“Give me your phone.” “My phone?” Hollander asked weakly. “Yes.” Hollander fumbled the phone out of his pocket and handed it to Ilya. 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?” “Jane,” Ilya said. “Jesus Christ,” Hollander muttered as he typed. “No. Just Jane.” Hollander glared at him as he handed his phone back. “This isn’t a yes, just so you know,” he said. “It will be.”
There were too many things to process. Ilya Rozanov had gotten him off in a hotel room. Again. Ilya Rozanov wanted to sneak out of his team’s hotel the next time they were in Montreal (next week!) and meet Shane at his apartment so he could fuck him. Ilya Rozanov wanted to fuck him. Shane was both terrified and undeniably aroused by the idea. Undeniably extremely aroused by the idea.
This was Montreal. He was Shane Hollander. If his career went the way he was planning, that situation was only going to get more impossible. 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.
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. Which Shane should have been angry about, but instead he gasped and kissed Rozanov even more wildly.
Rozanov continued, moving his mouth close to Shane’s ear. “Tonight I will go easy on you.”
Shane wanted to tell him to fuck off, but Rozanov was kissing his throat, scraping his teeth over the sensitive skin, so instead he threw his head back against the wall like the eager slut he apparently was.
When he returned his eyes to Rozanov, he was struck by how big his cock was. He’d seen it before, of course, and he knew it was a decent size, but looking at it now, with the idea that it was supposed to somehow fit inside of him... He must have been wearing his anxiety all over his face. Rozanov laughed. “It will fit.” Shane blushed furiously, which made Rozanov laugh more.
“Just relax, Mr. Lots-of-Sex,” Rozanov said. “I will make sure you are ready for me.” Shane wanted to scowl at him, but in truth he was sort of charmed by the level of care Rozanov was showing. Still, Shane was at least thirty-five percent terrified.
This, he realized, was why people were so wild about sex. He had never, ever felt like this with anyone before. And of course Ilya Rozanov, all of nineteen years old, fucked with the confidence and skill of, like, a sex god.
“Fuck,” Shane gritted out. And he came so hard that most of it shot up and hit him in the chest. He was so dazed by his own orgasm that he almost didn’t register when Rozanov tensed and stilled behind him. Rozanov grunted and came inside of Shane’s body. Into a condom, but still.
With Rozanov safely out of the room, Shane grinned stupidly at the ceiling. He was maybe happier than he should be that his most successful sexual experience to date was with Ilya Rozanov.
He wondered if Rozanov had just gone back to his room. The thought made Shane angry. What a fucking baby. If Rozanov had won, Shane would be here, in this room, ready to congratulate him. If Rozanov wanted to spend his first NHL Awards sulking in his hotel room, that wasn’t Shane’s problem.
“It’s not worth jumping over,” Shane said, moving to stand just behind him. Rozanov turned. He didn’t even seem surprised to see Shane. He
took another long drag of his cigarette then said in a tight voice, “Is the party over, then?” “No. I just needed some air.” Rozanov exhaled. The smoke swirled around his face and then floated up into the desert sky. “Such an exciting night for you.” “I guess.” Rozanov rolled his eyes. “I guess.”
Ilya: Are you hard right now? No answer. Ah well. Ilya knew he was crossing a line with these texts, but it was just so damn fun to tease Hollander. He could just picture him now, in the Montreal dressing room, blushing as he shoved his phone into a bag or something so no one would see it.
