That night in the hotel gym in Los Angeles, six months ago now, Ilya had very nearly embarrassed himself. He probably could have covered it up with his usual cocky charm, but he had been damn close to flirting with Hollander. Or possibly just pressing him against a wall and taking his mouth. The thing was, he wasn’t so sure that Hollander would have hated it. Unless Ilya was very bad at reading people—and he definitely wasn’t—Hollander probably would have kissed him right back. And, Jesus, that thought had consumed Ilya since draft day. Ilya had probably fucked, in his rough estimate, dozens
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