by Rachel Reid
Hollander’s hands wandered as he sucked him. His touch was light and curious, his fingertips almost tickling Ilya as he explored his thighs and hips and around to his ass. Ilya wondered how far Hollander was willing to go with him. He wondered if he’d done anything with another man since their last time. The desperate, unskilled motion of his mouth and the slight tremble in his hands suggested that he hadn’t.
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 swore in Russian and pulled away. He grabbed Hollander by the front of his shirt and hauled him up, kissing him roughly before throwing him on the bed. He wanted to know how much he would give him tonight.
Hollander stared up at him, eyes wild, lips dark and wet and parted. His hair was everywhere. Ilya just stood there and watched him toe off his sneakers, never breaking eye contact. Hollander was breathing heavily, as if he wasn’t one of the most physically fit people on the planet.
Ilya bit his lip and watched him pull his shirt off. In seconds Ilya was covering him on the bed with his body, and kissing him hungrily.
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. 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.
Plus, Ilya hated this guy. He hated his pretty boy face and his perfect goddamned English and his perfect goddamned French and his loving parents and his polite little manners and his million-dollar smile. He hated how serious he was. How earnest. He was everything the league wanted from their stars.
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.
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?
They kissed each other frantically, rolling and taking turns straddling each other and pulling off what was left of Hollander’s clothes in the process. Ilya kissed his way down his body and took him into his mouth. Hollander’s hips jerked off the bed, nearly forcing Ilya off him, but Ilya held on. He sucked him and enjoyed the desperate noises he pulled out of him.
He let his fingers trail down below Hollander’s balls. He tapped one finger against his puckered opening and waited for a reaction. Hollander’s body stilled on the bed, so Ilya drew light circles around his hole, just a casual suggestion.
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.
“Have you ever touched yourself,” Ilya asked, circling his finger again, “here?”
Hollander’s face flushed bright red, and Ilya grinned.
“Jesus Christ,” Hollander muttered.
“You are embarrassed.”
“Well!”
“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.”
Hollander sat up. “I’ve played with it, all right? I’ve—I’ve got a...thing.”
“A thing?”
“A dildo! Okay?”
Rozanov grinned so hard it hurt. “What color?”
“Fuck you!”
“Is it big?”
“I’m leaving.”
Hollander moved to get off the bed. Ilya quickly covered him and pinned him back down. He held him down by the wrists, and Hollander made a halfhearted attempt to fight him off, but stopped when Ilya kissed him.
“I want to fuck you, Hollander,” Ilya said against his ear.
Hollander shuddered, and Ilya was sure he was going to say yes, but instead, “I...no. I can’t. Not here.”
Ilya considered his answer, and nodded. Not here. Not in a hotel surrounded by their fellow NHL players. By the media. By fans. Not now, when they would both have to be as close to silent as possible when Ilya entered him for the first time...
“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!”
Hollander’s brow furrowed. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
“So...after the game you just want me to wait at home for you?” Hollander’s voice was tight, like he was angry about something.
Ilya rolled his eyes. He had no idea why they were wasting time talking right now anyway. “Yes! Wait for me. I will come to your house and fuck you.”
Hollander looked embarrassed again. “It’s an apartment,” he mumbled.
“Jesus! Fine! I will fuck you in your apartment. Can we get back to things now?”
“Yes.” Hollander frowned. “But...”
“But?”
“In the shower. The water will drown out...anything.”
Rozanov huffed, but it was actually a good idea.
“Yes,” he said, springing off the bed and onto his feet, “but hurry the fuck up.”
Hollander shoved him as he walked by, leading the way to the bathroom. He turned the water on, and as they waited for it to get hot, Ilya kissed him against the closed door until Hollander shoved him away so he could pull Ilya into the shower. He slammed Ilya against the tile and wrapped a hand around his cock as he kissed him. Ilya grinned against his mouth. This was the Shane Hollander he wanted: competitive, aggressive.
“Your hands are so soft,” Ilya said. “Like a girl’s.”
“Fuck you.”
Ilya laughed. Hollander jerked him harder, as if trying to prove how strong and masculine his hands were.
Ilya bit his own lip and gave up teasing his rival. For now. He reached for Hollander and they brought each other off frantically and roughly in the shower, letting the rush of water muffle their English and Russian profanity.
Hollander got dressed quickly when they were done. Ilya stood with a towel wrapped around his waist, waiting to hear what Hollander would say.
“Um...”
Ilya didn’t say anything back. He waited.
“I know we said...about Montreal...but...”
Ilya crossed his arms and leaned against a wall.
“We probably shouldn’t,” Hollander finished.
“No?”
“No. I mean...obviously, right?”
Ilya watched Hollander run a nervous hand through his damp hair.
“It’
Ilya walked slowly toward him. When he reached him, he put a hand on the side of his face and tilted his head until he could look directly in his eyes. “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.”
Hollander shook his head, but Ilya could tell he was fighting a smile.
“Good luck tomorrow,” Hollander said.
“Sure.”
Hollander turned to open the door, but stopped. “Hey, um...you wanna take a look out there and see if the coast is clear?”
Ilya couldn’t quite translate his words. “Sorry?”
“Just...take a look and see if the hall is empty. I don’t want anyone to see me coming out of your room!”
Ilya opened the door enough to stick his head out. “Empty.”
Hollander blew out a breath. “Okay. Well...bye.”
“Goodnight.”
Hollander nodded. And left.
Chapter Seven
February 2011—Montreal
Fifty minutes on the treadmill and Shane still couldn’t get his brain to quiet down.
He had a very nice gym in his apartment, which was close to the Voyageurs’ practice rink in Brossard. Some younger players shared apartments or houses with other young teammates, but Shane preferred to live alone. He had been under intense focus since he was sixteen, and it had made him cling to whatever private moments he could steal. Also, he walked a dangerous line with his teammates as it was; his...status...in the hockey world had a tendency to make his teammates understandably jealous. He was sure any tension would only be made worse if he lived with any of them.
Shane was supposed to be focusing on the game that night against Toronto as he pushed his body on the treadmill. Instead, he kept thinking back to a certain Russian’s promise to come to Shane’s home and...
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.
But that didn’t change the fact that it was a really, really bad idea.
Shane had accepted the fact that he was more than okay with having sexual encounters with a man. Fine. He had suspected that about himself for a while now, and maybe Rozanov was just the first man to see that in him, to offer him the chance to experiment a little. So maybe what Shane actually needed to do was find another man to fool around with.
But who the fuck was that going to be?
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. Whoever came out first was going to have to be brave as hell. It sure as shit wasn’t going to be Shane.
One thing he was certain of about Rozanov: he wasn’t going to tell anyone. He had as much to lose as Shane did.
As far as Shane could figure, he had three choices: Forget about fucking men entirely and just stick to women; Risk finding men, or even just a man, who could be discreet and...patient; Let whatever the fuck was happening with Rozanov keep happening and try not to think too much about it.
Obviously the first option was the most sensible. Certainly the safest.
Also the most unappealing.
Fuck.
Shane slowed the treadmill to a cool-down speed and grabbed his water bottle.
Yeah. No. Okay. He definitely had to end this nonsense with Rozanov. He’d made it to the NHL and was at the very beginning of what he hoped would be a very impressive career. A giant fucking scandal probably wasn’t the best way to kick things off. And Shane couldn’t see a way that they could possibly keep this thing quiet if it continued.
Why was he even thinking about that? A long-term secret relationship with Ilya Rozanov? Was that what some part of his dumb brain was hoping for?
No. Definitely putting a stop to this. This was just Shane being...nineteen. He was nineteen and horny and oddly lonely, for a star athlete. Just because Rozanov was making himself available didn’t mean Shane had to accept.
Pleased with his decision, he stepped off the treadmill and headed to the chin-up bar. There would be nothing to it. Rozanov would text him to ask for his address, and Shane would write back no.
The next week—Montreal
Lily: I need your address.
Shane: No.
Shane smirked at his phone, very pleased with his prompt and clear reply to Rozanov’s text.
Lily: Fuck off. What is it?
Shane: None of your business.
Lily: Fine. Your loss.
Shane stopped smirking. He sat down hard on his couch and turned on his brand-new lamp. The Bears would roll into town the day after tomorrow. They would play later that evening, and then...
Shane chewed his lip, thinking. It’s not that he didn’t want to...see Rozanov. If he was being honest, he’d been obsessively thinking about it since the All-Star weekend. He just didn’t want his archrival coming to his home. That seemed like too big of a line to cross.
He wrote back. Could we meet somewhere else?
He felt a flush of embarrassment as he hit send. God, why couldn’t he just have left it where it was? He’d successfully rejected Rozanov. Why give the power right back to him?
Lily: Like where?
Shane: I don’t know!
Lily: Figure it out. Let me know.
Shane hated how relaxed Rozanov was about all of this. It wasn’t fucking fair. He almost wrote back Forget it, but instead just stood and slipped his phone into his pocket.
He would figure it out.
* * *
Shane: 1822.
Lily: ?
Shane: Room number.
Lily: OK...where is the room?
Shane: Same hotel you’re in.
Lily: See you soon.
Shane sat on the end of his king-size hotel bed. Then he stood up. Then he sat back down again.
This was so fucking dumb. Why was he doing this? Booking a room in the same hotel as the entire Boston team (several floors above theirs, but still) so he could hook up with a man he didn’t even like? If they were caught it could be devastating to both of their careers.
At the very least, it would be very embarrassing.
Shane stood and went to the mirror. He checked his teeth and nudged a stray lock of hair back into place.
There was a sharp rap on his door. He spun around, startled by how loud it sounded, and quickly crossed the room to open it. “Jesus. You trying to get everyone’s attention?”
Rozanov slid into the room. His ball cap was pulled low over his eyes. Shane closed and latched the door quickly behind him.
“You are nervous,” Rozanov said. It wasn’t a question.
“No,” Shane lied.
“Is just sex, Hollander,” Rozanov said.
“I know.”
Rozanov pulled the ball cap off and brown curls tumbled out, falling messily around his grinning face. He was wearing a charcoal-gray T-shirt with a small Nike logo on the chest and black track pants. Shane was wearing dark blue pants and a striped cashmere sweater and felt ridiculous.
“You look nice,” Rozanov said. His tone was flat like he was just stating a fact rather than offering a compliment. You look nice. It’s cold outside. This hotel is big.
“Thanks,” Shane said, because he had to say something. “I feel overdressed.”
“Yes. We both are,” Rozanov said, and he pulled his T-shirt off over his head before bending to remove his high-top sneakers.
Shane’s eyes fixed on the way Rozanov’s gold cross dangled in the space between his knees and his chest; the thin chain glinted against the back of his neck.
When Rozanov stood again, Shane couldn’t remember why exactly this was a bad idea.
“Come here,” Rozanov said.
“No. You come here.”
Rozanov grinned and shook his head, and stepped toward Shane.
Shane must have taken a step forward himself because they kind of crashed into each other. A second later, he was against the wall, and Rozanov was attacking his mouth. Shane shoved back against him, and was reminded that Montreal had won the game that night. Rozanov had to be at least a little pissed off about that, and Shane felt he might be taking it out on him. Shane had no problem with that. He sank his fingers into Rozanov’s biceps and hauled him closer. 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.
Which Shane should have been angry about, but instead he gasped and kissed Rozanov even more wildly.
“Could fuck you just like this,” Rozanov growled. “Against the fucking wall. You would like that, yes?”
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