by Rachel Reid
“What?” Shane sputtered.
“No. I will not do anything to you in here. We will go back out there, and sit in our seats, and then go to the party. And then, when you have been waiting all night for it, you will come to my hotel room. And I will maybe do more than suck your dick.”
Shane felt dizzy. And angry. And kind of impressed by Rozanov’s English. It had really come a long way.
“You’re really going to leave me like this?”
“Yes. For now.”
“Fine,” Shane grumbled.
“Aw,” Rozanov cooed with mock sympathy. “I will make a deal: if you win MVP tonight, I will blow you, fuck you...whatever you want.”
Shane swallowed. “And if you win?”
A wicked smile unfurled across Rozanov’s face.
“I will let you know.”
He put his hand on the door handle and was about to leave when he quickly turned and grabbed the front of Shane’s jacket. He kissed him roughly, then let him go.
“Good luck tonight,” he said.
And then he was gone.
* * *
Shane left the party as early as he could. He wished he had the willpower to stay later, to make Rozanov wait. He wished he had the strength to stand Rozanov up.
He’d been on edge for hours, half hard and buzzing with need. He’d had a few beers, which was a few more than he usually had, and his brain was only able to focus on his desire to get off as soon as possible.
He had a text with Rozanov’s room number, and he’d seen him slip out of the party a few minutes ago. They hadn’t spoken since the bathroom backstage.
Rozanov had won. Of course he had won. And now Shane had to find out what exactly he wanted from him.
They had done...everything? Shane was pretty sure they’d done everything at this point. Blow jobs: check. Hand jobs: of course. Fucking: yes, but only with Shane bottoming. Shane couldn’t see Rozanov wanting to change that up. He hoped not, anyway.
Shane sent Rozanov a text as he approached the door, and he heard it click open just before he arrived. He entered quickly.
Rozanov had an enormous suite booked at the Las Vegas casino where the award ceremony was held. He stood in the middle of it now, most of his tuxedo already removed. He was down to just the sleek, black pants, with his dress shirt half unbuttoned. His feet were bare. Shane had removed his bowtie and stuffed it in his pocket when he had unfastened a couple of his own shirt buttons earlier, but he had some catching up to do.
“Here to congratulate me?” Rozanov said.
“I guess.”
Rozanov spread his arms out, as if to say Well?
“Congratulations,” Shane said flatly.
“Thank you. Now take off your clothes.”
Shane had been kind of hoping Rozanov would help him with that, but he obeyed, draping each discarded piece of his suit carefully over the back of the sofa. Rozanov didn’t remove any of his own clothing. He just leaned against a glass table and crossed his arms, watching Shane.
“Shouldn’t we—I mean. There are windows.” There were a lot of windows.
“We are on the sixteenth floor.”
“Yeah, but...”
Rozanov pushed himself off the table and flicked his hand in the air, gesturing for Shane to follow him to the bedroom.
Shane was down to his briefs. When he reached the bedroom, Rozanov was already drawing the curtains across the windows.
“On the bed,” he instructed, without looking at Shane.
Shane did his best to appear comfortable and relaxed on the giant bed, as if he wasn’t nervous as hell about whatever Rozanov had planned. He expected Rozanov to join him on the bed, but instead, Rozanov left the room.
He was gone for an obnoxiously long time. When he returned, he was holding a glass of clear liquid. He sat himself in a chair against the wall at the end of the bed, and took a sip.
“Mm. I am impressed with this hotel. This vodka is not so easy to find.”
“Okay,” Shane said impatiently.
“Touch yourself.”
“What?”
“Show off for me. Let me watch you.”
“You—what?”
“Is my special night, Hollander. I want to watch you.”
Every inch of Shane flushed red. “I—I’ve never...”
Rozanov grinned. “I thought maybe not. So—” he gestured with the hand that wasn’t holding the drink “—show me. How do you touch yourself, Shane Hollander?”
Fuck.
Shane wanted to protest, but since his briefs were not at all concealing how excited his dick had gotten in the past minute or so, he felt his argument would be weak.
“Give me some of that vodka, then,” he said. “I’m too sober for this.”
Rozanov shook his head. “No. The vodka you can have after. As reward.”
“Fuck. You.”
Rozanov laughed. “Is good vodka! Come on. Look at your poor dick, Hollander. Give him some attention, yes?”
Shane glared at him, but Rozanov only crossed his long legs and leaned back in his chair, comfortable as anything.
“Close your eyes,” he suggested. “Pretend you are alone. How do you start?”
Shane exhaled and closed his eyes. He tried to ignore the smirking Russian in the corner as he placed a nervous hand on his own stomach. He rubbed slow patterns over his skin, letting his nerves wake up.
He heard Rozanov shifting in his chair. Shane’s lips curled up a bit; maybe he still had some power here.
His palm flat, he rubbed his hand over the bulge in his shorts, slow and deliberate. He let out a low, shameless moan, and slid his hand lower to cup his balls.
If Rozanov wanted a show, he was going to get a fucking show.
He rubbed himself through the fabric of his briefs for a few minutes, making sure to emphasize the outline of his erection. He already found himself enjoying this; his fear was forgotten.
He opened his eyes and looked directly at Rozanov, whose gaze was locked on Shane’s crotch, his lips parted.
“Come on, Hollander,” he said in a low rumble. “Show me.”
Shane lifted his hips, hooked his thumbs into his waistband, and tugged the underwear down to his thighs. His cock sprang free, hard and glistening.
“Stroke it,” Rozanov instructed. “Make yourself come for me.”
Shane wrapped his fingers around himself, but instead of stroking, just slid his thumb over his slit a couple of times.
“There is lube in the drawer,” Rozanov said. “Beside the bed.”
“Mm. Get it for me.” There. Fuck you, Rozanov.
Rozanov stood without protest and retrieved the bottle of lube. He held it out to Shane, but when Shane reached for it, Rozanov pulled it away. He laughed at Shane’s glare, and tossed the bottle onto the bed.
“Would you like to know,” Rozanov asked as he settled himself back into his chair, “how it feels?”
“How what feels?”
He leaned forward, grinning like a shark. “The Cup. Do you want to know what it feels like to hold the Stanley Cup?”
“Oh fuck you.”
Rozanov laughed. “I cannot describe it anyway. Impossible.”
“I’ll find out for myself soon enough,” Shane grumbled.
“Of course. Now, show me how you like it, Hollander.”
That request, Shane thought, was almost sweet. Considerate. He removed his briefs completely and picked up the bottle. He made a show of drizzling the lube directly on his cock.
If Rozanov thought Shane was going to be chatty during this thing, he didn’t know Shane very well. Shane would be surprised if he uttered two words.
He stroked himself with slow, lazy movements. He closed his eyes again and let pleasure light up every part of him. With his other hand he reache
d down and played with his balls. He arched off the bed a bit, gasping and moaning.
He wondered if Rozanov was going to start touching himself too. He cracked an eye open and it seemed that Rozanov was happy to just watch. But he was leaning forward now, and he looked a little flushed.
Shane opened both eyes. He wanted to get off the bed and crawl on his fucking knees to where Rozanov was sitting. He wanted to nuzzle his cock through his pants. He wanted to press his open mouth to that bulge he could see from here.
The thoughts made Shane’s hand speed up. He let out a broken “ah” sound and planted his feet flat on the bed, legs splayed, knees bent.
“Open yourself up,” Rozanov said. “Use your fingers.”
Oh fuck. Shane felt simultaneously mortified and excited. He reached for the lube.
“Yes. Let me see you open yourself for me.”
“You gonna fuck me?” Shane managed to get out.
“We’ll see.”
Shane got to work.
It was undeniably humiliating to be splayed out on the bed like this, Shane’s fingers two knuckles deep in his own ass while Ilya Rozanov calmly sipped his vodka and watched everything like he was going to be tested on it later.
The only thing that could make the situation more embarrassing would be...
“Please,” Shane gasped. Begged.
“Please what?”
“I—I need...”
He could tell that Rozanov was starting to lose his composure. He could see how his Adam’s apple bobbed sharply as he swallowed, the way he ran his teeth over his bottom lip.
“What do you need, Hollander?”
“You. Fuck me. Please.”
Rozanov sucked in a breath, and then he stood and placed his glass on the side table. He slowly undid the last of his buttons and let the shirt fall to the floor behind him. He walked to the end of the bed, and Shane crawled to him, just like he’d imagined doing. He crawled along the mattress until his face met the bulge in Rozanov’s tuxedo pants. He nuzzled and mouthed at it, and Rozanov buried his fingers in Shane’s hair and murmured something in Russian.
Shane didn’t know if Rozanov was saying something encouraging, or reverent. Or maybe he was calling Shane a slut. Shane felt a little slutty, in that moment. He felt wild. He wanted Rozanov’s cock in every part of him at once. He wanted to come right away or not for hours. He wanted to kiss Rozanov and maybe also punch him for being such an arrogant fucking prick.
And he hated himself for wanting any of this. But not enough to stop. Never enough to stop.
He opened Rozanov’s pants and pushed them down to his ankles, along with his underwear. He wrapped his mouth around Rozanov’s cock and moaned with relief.
“Fuck, Hollander. You love it.”
Shane responded by turning, he was sure, beet red. But he couldn’t deny it.
Rozanov let him suck for a few blissful minutes before he shoved Shane down onto the bed. He twirled his hand in the air.
“Turn over,” he said.
Shane did as he was told, and raised his ass in the air far too eagerly. He heard a rustle of a condom being opened, and then saw the empty wrapper hit the floor when Rozanov tossed it aside. Rozanov was breathing heavily as he slicked himself with lube, and, damn, Shane loved it when Rozanov lost his ability to stay cool and collected.
Rozanov fucked him hard with one strong hand pressing between Shane’s shoulder blades—pressing him down to the mattress. They were both loud, and if it hadn’t been a ridiculously large Las Vegas hotel suite, Shane would have been worried about it. But he felt safe here, so he let himself go. He cried out with every thrust, begging for more even though that was probably an impossible thing to ask for. Even though it was embarrassing to be this desperate for Ilya Rozanov.
Shane really hoped no one could hear them.
He came so hard that he actually yelled. There was no other word for it. And, once again, he had made a mess of some hotel bedsheets.
His ears were still ringing with his own orgasm when he felt Rozanov freeze behind him and cry out. And then Rozanov’s forehead was pressed against Shane’s back as both men struggled to catch their breath.
“Jesus, Hollander,” Rozanov panted as he flopped to his back beside him. His hair had fallen out of its little ponytail and was clinging to his forehead in a damp swoop.
Shane carefully flipped to his back, leaving the wet spot on the bedsheets between them. “How about that vodka?”
Rozanov laughed. “Yes. Give me a minute.”
Shane grinned. He knew he’d be at least a little mortified and ashamed later when he thought about this night, but at that moment, he was giddy.
Rozanov did eventually leave the bed and, after cleaning himself in the bathroom, brought Shane a damp washcloth and an ice-cold glass of vodka. He brought himself a cigarette and a lighter.
He sat with his back against the headboard, one leg bent and the other outstretched. Still naked, but for his gold chain and crucifix. He lit his cigarette and Shane didn’t even have the energy to lecture him about it. Especially since he looked so goddamned sexy.
Instead, Shane sipped his vodka, which was gross. He really didn’t drink anything beyond beer very often. At least it was cold against his tongue.
“Are you heading back soon?” Shane asked, just to make conversation.
“Back?”
“To Russia. For the summer.”
Rozanov exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Yes.”
“Oh.”
They were silent a moment, then Shane couldn’t help but ask, “Why?”
Rozanov shrugged. “It is home.”
“But...do you like going there?”
Rozanov didn’t answer. He took another drag of his cigarette and closed his eyes.
“I should sleep,” he said finally.
“Oh. Yeah. I should... I need to get going, anyway.”
“Yes.”
Ah. There was that shame Shane had been expecting. He got cleaned up in the bathroom, then went to the main room to retrieve his clothes. He put on the pants and the shirt and carried the rest of the tuxedo. Rozanov didn’t leave the bedroom.
“See you,” Shane called out.
“Goodbye, Hollander,” Rozanov replied from the other room.
And Shane left. He realized, when he was back in his room, that they hadn’t even kissed. He also realized, with horror, that he regretted that.
Part Three
Chapter Twelve
October 2016—Philadelphia
Ilya had a man pinned under the weight of his body.
The man was big, almost as tall as Ilya, and pressing back against him aggressively. Ilya wedged a knee between the man’s thighs, holding him firmly in place.
“Fuck off, asshole,” the man growled.
Ilya leaned on him harder.
“All right, let him go, Rozanov,” the referee said. “I’ll call holding if you don’t back off right now.”
Ilya released the other man’s jersey, raising his hands innocently.
“Fucker,” the other man growled. He shoved Ilya before he skated away from the boards where Ilya had trapped him.
“That wasn’t nice,” Ilya called after him.
Ilya could hear the boos and taunts from the crowd as he skated to the bench.
Fuck you, Rozanov!
You’re a fucking pussy, Rozanov!
Go back to Russia, you piece of shit!
Et cetera.
Ilya smiled to himself. He actually loved this. He loved being on the road, and disappointing home crowds across North America. He loved the insults, the booing, and, most of all, the sound of a crowd so gutted by his team’s performance that they couldn’t even bother to boo. A winded, humiliated crowd. That was Ilya’s favorite sound.
The crowd wa
s still loud in Philadelphia. This was not an easy city to silence. He would have to work extra hard tonight to get that glorious, devastated quiet he craved.
He sat on the bench next to Brad Hammersmith. Brad was a veteran forward. He was also about a hundred years old.
“Making friends?” Hammersmith asked.
“I’m playing hockey.”
Hammersmith snorted.
A Philadelphia defenseman skated by the bench when the play had stopped. “Keep it up and see what happens, Rozanov,” he threatened.
“I know what will happen. My team will win.”
“Suck my dick, Rozanov.”
Be the best blow job of your life, sweetheart. Ilya winked at him.
“Faggot,” the other player grumbled.
Ilya shrugged. It was half true.
Maybe, like, thirty percent true.
At that moment, the scoreboard screens showed a highlight from the Montreal vs. Ottawa game that was also happening that night. Hollander had just scored a goal. Of course.
Ilya watched the footage of Hollander taking a quick pass and scoring with the impossible accuracy that he was known for. Ilya watched him hug his teammates, and the way his face lit up with a wide, jubilant smile. Ilya found himself smiling a bit too, on his bench in Philadelphia.
Well, now he was going to have to score two goals tonight.
October 2016—Montreal
“Jackie is pregnant.”
Shane stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the Gulf of Saint Lawrence ecosystem at the Montreal Biodome. “Again?” he said.
Hayden laughed. “Jesus, thanks.”
“Sorry! I mean, congratulations.”
Hayden shot him an amused look. “Yeah, you sound super happy for me.”
Shane gestured to the stroller Hayden was pushing his one-year-old son in, and then toward the twin three-year-old girls who were peering into a touch tank. “Well, I mean...”
“Yeah,” Hayden sighed. “I know. But Jackie’s happy. I mean...she’s fucking bored, right?”
The nearby parent of a wobbly toddler glared at them.
“Sorry,” Hayden said quickly to the offended party. Then, to Shane, he said, “I gotta watch my language. Jackie always says so.”