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“Oh, wow,” Shane said. “That is strong. I might need some cranberry juice or something.” “If you mix that with cranberry juice I will drown you in the lake.”
“I still don’t like you, Rozanov,” Hayden said. “Oh no!” Ilya mocked him. “How can I impress Montreal’s fifteenth best player?”
“I love you,” Ilya said. “I love you too.” Ilya nodded. “Remember that when I am being a dick to you out there.” Shane grinned and kissed him again. “Don’t worry, I’m used to it.”
“I think it’s good,” Shane said, though he didn’t sound sure. “Do you think it’s too salty?” Ilya kissed him, tasting only the barest remnants of the coq au vin on his tongue. “Tastes perfect,” he said when he pulled away. “Don’t be stupid,” Shane said unsteadily. He cleared his throat and said, “Taste it properly.”
“Well, we need to talk about something,” Shane complained after a minute had passed. “We could talk about how Hayden is eating around the mushrooms like a five-year-old,” Ilya offered. Hayden put his spoon down with a loud clank. “We could talk about what the fuck Shane sees in you.”
“I suck at cooking.” “You suck at hockey,” Ilya pointed out. “But you still play it.” Hayden looked pleadingly at Shane. “Seriously? This guy? I’ve got no problem with you being gay—” “What a hero,” Ilya said flatly. Hayden turned to Ilya. “Shane can date all the men he wants! But you are a relentless douchebag and I’ve never liked you.” “Jesus, Hayden,” Jackie mumbled. Ilya raised an eyebrow. “You should save some of that for our wedding.”
“I mean,” Jackie said with a dismissive wave of her hand, “not how you met. We all know that, obviously. But when was the first time you...felt sparks?” “I’ll bet Shane was drunk as hell,” Hayden grumbled.
Hayden stood up, and loomed over Ilya in what was probably supposed to be a threatening manner. “Is this a joke to you? Or do you just get off on fucking with him?” “I do get off on fucking him. Yes.”
Hayden narrowed his eyes. “Bisexual, huh?” Ilya switched to an overly animated, educational tone. “Some people like apples. Some people like oranges. Some people like apples and oran—” “Oh fuck you. I know what it means.”
“Do you know how scared I’ve been this whole time? Do you know how fucking terrifying it is to feel attracted to your archrival when you are eighteen and your rival also happens to be a man?” Okay, maybe Ilya shouldn’t have refilled Shane’s wineglass as many times as he had.
“Why are you like this?” Shane moaned into Ilya’s shirt. “Can’t you let me be annoyed with you? Do you have to ruin it by saying romantic shit like that?” “Romantic? I thought it was more pathetic.”
Ilya grinned against his neck. He loved it when Shane asked for what he wanted. “I can fuck you right here, moy vozlyublenniy.” “No. Fuck, maybe,” Shane panted. “What does that one mean?” “My horny animal,” Ilya lied.
“Whatever happens, I’m...” Ilya huffed in frustration, English escaping him again. “What?” Shane’s eyes were wide. Ilya loosened his grip on his arms, sliding his hands down to grasp Shane’s hands instead. “I will tell the whole world right now, if it is what you want.”
“I am serious. If we hide forever, or tell the world right now, I am with you. I will quit hockey, or fight to stay. Whatever you want.” “It shouldn’t be only my decision.” Ilya sighed. “I mean... I am yours, yes? To protect that, I will do anything.”
Ilya Rozanov and his boyfriend, Shane Hollander. Ilya liked the sound of it. The idea of hockey commentators saying those words. Ilya Rozanov and his husband, Shane Hollander. Oooh. Better. Hollander passes the puck to his sexy husband, Ilya Rozanov... Okay. Maybe Ilya had gone a little heavy on the wine himself tonight.
