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He hated that voice so much on the ice, and in the interviews he saw on television where Rozanov mocked him in an obnoxious, teasing tone. But here, in this bed, Rozanov’s tone was patient and gentle, his voice soft and his accent wrapping elegantly around boxy English words.
Maybe it was just that, after a life of playing at a level above everyone else, Shane had finally met his match. He was sure that was all it was.
Or the guy who was on Friday Night Lights.
Riggins? or coach? bc same
“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.
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.
playing footises
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
oh
And Shane Hollander was a bad fucking idea. The worst idea. Wrong in every way imaginable. Two men. Two NHL players, poised to be the two biggest stars in the league soon enough. Two bitter rivals on opposing teams that had hated each other for almost a hundred years.
Ilya kissed his dumb mouth and swallowed his stupid little sighs and felt his annoying fingers in his hair. He pulled back so he could look at his horrible face with its ridiculous freckles.
“Your hands are so soft,” Ilya said. “Like a girl’s.” “Fuck you.”
“Come here,” Rozanov said. “No. You come here.”
Shane suddenly felt very small on the bed, which was ridiculous—he was five feet, ten inches and built of solid muscle himself. But Rozanov was gazing down at Shane, who was still fully clothed, like he was trying to decide where to take his first bite, and Shane felt...vulnerable.
“This is soft,” Rozanov murmured. “It’s cashmere,” Shane said stupidly. “Yes. Take it off.”
“Good boy.” “Fuck you.” “Yes.”
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!
hahaha
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.
Ilya liked it when Hollander was angry. He liked it when Hollander took out his frustrations on Ilya’s body.
Every cell in his body sparked with the need to get on the ice and face Rozanov. And when the games were over, he pulsed with a different kind of need.
Ilya: You are very bad at sexting. Jane: Who taught you that word? Ilya: Your mom.
Hollander had bought them a fucking building.
“You can. Take it.” “I hate you.” “Yes. I know. Show me.”
Shane and Ilya were opposites in almost every way imaginable, but it was getting harder for Ilya to deny that there was something in his core that was drawn to Hollander. Instead of getting him out of his system with their hookups, each one just made him want more. It was dangerous fucking stuff.
He never felt submissive, doing this. He loved reducing Rozanov to whimpers and Russian profanity.
The facts were these: they were two of the biggest hockey stars in the world, and for whatever reason, they both enjoyed fucking each other. The other thing they were in total agreement on is that no one could ever know that they enjoyed fucking each other.
No one makes me feel like Ilya Rozanov does.
Was it just that Ilya liked his sex with a generous helping of danger, and Shane provided both?
done with you yet. The truth—the truth that he tried so very hard to ignore—was that no one set him on fire like Shane Hollander.
He looked... Christ, he looks so fucking good.
He was happy to do it; he’d been waiting a long time for an opportunity to play with Shane. And playing with him was everything he had imagined it would be.
“Nice goal,” he said. “Nice assist,” Shane said, shooting him a weird look. Ilya grinned and shrugged.
“It’s...” Shane grimaced. “It’s not just me, right?” “Not just you?” “I mean...you feel it too, don’t you?” “Feel what?” “God, fuck you.
“It’s you. You and me. Being gay is one thing. Hooking up with your arch fucking rival is another.”
They both laughed. Shane shook his head and looked at the ceiling. And Ilya just...stared at him. At this oddly insecure superstar who was so beautiful and sweet and here.
allowed himself a moment to wonder at Ilya’s desperate need for this before a game. Why was he so hungry for Shane that he had broken their sacred rule?
That maybe Ilya liked spending time with Shane. That they weren’t just doing this because it was, in its own complicated way, convenient. Or dirty, or wrong, or irresistibly hot. That maybe Ilya’s stomach fluttered with excitement too, every time their teams were scheduled to meet.
“Tell me everything you want to say,” he said. “In Russian. I won’t understand but...maybe it will help?”
That admission would have been embarrassing enough, but Ilya had also slipped in an “and on top of everything, I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you and I don’t know what to do about it.”
“I don’t want to come back here.” Shane was confused by the sudden topic change. “To Russia, you mean?” “Da. I want to become American. Or Canadian. But I am in America, so...” In that moment, Shane wished like hell that Ilya played for a Canadian team. “You should,” Shane said. “Have you looked into—?” “We should get married,” Ilya said.
Oh god. That was what Shane wanted, wasn’t it? He didn’t just want to be Ilya’s dirty secret.
“Bullshit. You love the awards. The good press. The fans. You love beating me.” “I love beating everyone, but yes. You the most.”
“I think you just have a fetish for good boys.” Ilya laughed. “Is that what you are?” “That’s what you say,” Shane said. “What everyone says.” “Mm. But I know the truth about you. I was the one in that hotel room in Vegas with you, yes? No one else.”
“I’m fucked,” he murmured in Russian. “I am so fucking in love and it’s horrible.”
Shane kissed the tips of two fingers and reached out and touched them to the screen. And Ilya’s heart fucking stopped.
Ilya loved playing against Hollander almost as much as he loved fucking him.
Ilya had the puck for all of three seconds before Shane forced him into the boards and stole it back. Then he took off again, with a challenging (and somewhat flirty) glance back at Ilya.
ahhhh i love them
He was in love with him and he could never, ever tell him that.
His mother looked at him sympathetically. “When the right one comes along, you’ll know,” she said. And Shane chickened out. Because he couldn’t tell them that the right one had come along, and it was the pissed-off Russian man who was currently heading to the penalty box on their television.
He wanted to be the best hockey player in the world, and he wanted to be in a relationship with the man he could finally admit he was in love with, without shame or fear.
Ilya couldn’t believe what he had been reduced to. He was...infatuated. It was disgusting.
“I’m not going to be in the mood to kiss you if I’ve just lost the Stanley Cup, Rozanov.” “But you would be so proud of me!” Shane rolled his eyes. “You are the most obnoxious person on earth. I have no idea why I—” He stopped himself just in time. “—why I put up with you.”
