by Rachel Reid
The game ended. Ilya’s season was over. It was only a matter of time before everything would be over. And Shane didn’t know what he could do to prevent it.
But he knew he wanted to.
June 2017—Boston
Jane: I can’t believe New York is finally going to win the cup.
Ilya couldn’t believe it either. Scott fucking Hunter was going to be a Stanley Cup champion in about forty seconds.
Ilya: I hate Hunter.
Jane: No you don’t.
Ilya: I do.
Jane: Stop. I’ll get jealous if you keep talking like that.
Ilya laughed. Alone, in his penthouse in Boston, he laughed.
The final seconds of the final game of the final series of the playoffs ticked down, and then the game was over. The ice filled with excited men in blue jerseys, and Ilya turned his full attention to his phone so he wouldn’t feel the sting of envy too sharply.
He was bored. The playoffs had ended for him weeks ago. At a loss for what to do or where to go, he’d holed up in Boston. It was his only home now, though he had no real friends in the city. There were teammates who stayed for the summers, but none he was close to.
But his car collection was here, and that wasn’t nothing.
Though the last time he had visited his garage, three days ago, it had kind of felt like nothing.
He wasn’t inviting Svetlana over anymore because...just because.
So he was watching hockey, alone, and texting the man he desperately wished he could be sharing his summer with.
Ilya: Do you think Hunter is going to drink tea out of the cup?
Jane: Caffeine? No way. Hunter isn’t that hard-core.
Ilya laughed again.
Ilya: Milk then.
Jane: Warm milk. And then straight to bed!
Ilya glanced up at the television and saw the Stanley Cup being handed to a beaming Scott Hunter.
Jane: I’m happy for him.
Ilya: Of course you are.
He’d had every intention of ending things with Shane. He hadn’t been able to do that. Not yet. For now they could text each other and tease each other and pretend they were just friends or whatever.
Shane’s invitation for Ilya to come to his cottage still existed. Shane wasn’t pushing it, and Ilya wasn’t acknowledging it, but it was there. If it weren’t the worst idea in the world, Ilya would be on his way to Wherever-the-Fuck, Ontario, already.
Players on the television were kissing their wives and holding their children. It would be nice, Ilya thought, to have someone to kiss after winning the Cup.
Maybe that should be his goal for next year: forget about Shane, and find himself a woman he could like enough to keep around until the end of the playoffs.
Ilya reached for the remote, and was about to turn off the television when...
Holy shit.
Holy. Shit.
Scott fucking Hunter was kissing a man. Not, like, one of his teammates on the cheek in an “I love you, bro” kind of way. Scott Hunter was kissing a man wearing street clothes full on the fucking mouth. It looked like tongues were involved.
Ilya’s phone buzzed.
Jane: Holy shit.
Jane: Are you seeing this?
Jane: What the fuck?!!!? Is that his boyfriend???!!!!!
Ilya just stared at the television, at Scott Hunter and his probable boyfriend. Or Scott Hunter and the random cute man he had pulled out of the crowd. Ilya couldn’t process what he was seeing. How could it possibly be real?
But there Hunter was, smiling at this mystery man like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. And holding his face as he leaned in to kiss him again. Ilya felt like he was watching all the worst things about his life getting sucked up by a tornado.
Then the cameras cut away, and Ilya looked at his phone.
Jane: What is happening??!!! Did he really just do that???!!!
Ilya stabbed the call button.
There was only one ring before, “Holy shit, Ilya! Can you belie—”
“I’m coming to the cottage.”
Part Four
Chapter Twenty-Three
July 2017—Ottawa
Shane drummed his fingers anxiously on the steering wheel.
He wished he could have gone into the airport to greet Ilya properly, but one of them alone in the airport would turn enough heads; the two of them together would be pandemonium.
He pulled his ball cap down lower and watched the rearview mirror.
He was still in shock that Ilya had accepted his invitation, though he supposed he had Scott Hunter to thank for that. Hunter had come out, very publicly, the night he had won the Stanley Cup. He had also spoken about it openly in interviews that night, and even more openly in his speech at the NHL Awards last week. Shane had watched that speech...a few times. He wished he could have been at the awards to see it in person, but it seemed like an unnecessary burden on his freshly healed body to fly to Las Vegas.
But still, he would have liked to have shaken Hunter’s hand.
Instead, he had sent him an email. He had written several drafts of the email before sending one that simply acknowledged Hunter’s bravery. He had chosen his words carefully, because he didn’t have Hunter’s courage. Not yet, anyway.
But maybe Hunter would figure out what Shane was actually trying to say anyway.
Having an NHL player come out as gay for the first time was exciting, but a player on every team in the league could come out and it still wouldn’t help Shane’s situation. Being gay—or whatever—was not really the thing that would create a scandal. Fucking your biggest rival over the course of your entire NHL career was something that no one would understand. Not one person. Shane felt that even Scott Hunter, the NHL’s new poster boy for acceptance and tolerance, would be alarmed if he knew what he’d been up to with Ilya.
They would be a joke. If the world found out about them, that was all they would be: the depraved hockey players who secretly fucked each other. And Shane didn’t want to be that. At all. 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.
But he couldn’t. All he could have were these two weeks alone with Ilya, hiding where no one would find them.
He heard the wheels of the rolling duffel bag before he saw Ilya in the mirror, crossing the parking garage.
Shane considered getting out of the car, but decided to stay where he was. Once they were at the cottage they would be safe, but there was no point in blowing it now. He just needed to make it out of Ottawa without anyone noticing that Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov were hanging out together in July.
As Ilya got closer, Shane saw that he too had his ball cap pulled low, and was wearing large aviator sunglasses. Shane wondered if anyone had recognized him inside the airport.
He popped the back of the SUV so Ilya could load his bag in. They didn’t say a word to each other until Ilya slid into the passenger seat. “What the fuck are you driving, Hollander?”
“A Jeep Cherokee.”
Ilya snorted.
“What? It’s practical!”
“You’re a millionaire.”
“What’s wrong with a Cherokee?” Shane asked, starting the engine. “It’s good in the snow. It holds lots of stuff. It’s a good car.”
“Is good if you are a dad in the suburbs.”
“Better than a stupid sports car where my knees are over my damn head.”
“Hm.”
They didn’t talk again until Shane had exited the parking garage. “Good flight?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“It takes about two hours to get to the cottage.”
“Okay.”
“Are you hungry or anything? We
could stop and one of us could...”
Ilya shrugged.
“I think you’ll like the cottage,” Shane said. “It’s really relaxing.”
“Is that what we are going to do?” Ilya asked. “Relax?”
Shane swallowed. He turned onto the on-ramp for the highway.
“I hope so,” he said finally. “I would like to relax with you. For once.”
He glanced over for a second. Ilya was looking out the passenger-side window.
“I stocked up on groceries yesterday,” Shane said. “We shouldn’t need to...leave. Very often.”
They drove in silence for a few minutes. Shane wondered if Ilya was as panicked as he suddenly was. Two weeks. Alone together. Possibly constantly alone together.
What the hell had he been thinking when he’d suggested this?
“Thank you,” Ilya said suddenly. “For inviting me.”
Shane felt his panic subside. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“I am also glad. But...terrified, right?”
Shane laughed, relieved. “Yeah. Me too.”
They both knew this was a point of no return. More so even than the first time they had kissed, or fucked. This was a new frontier, a new level of intimacy.
“Did anyone recognize you in the airport?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Shane nodded. “The cottage is way down a private road. We’ll be totally alone there.”
“No family coming to visit?”
“No, I, uh, I told them I need a couple of weeks of solitude. I told them it was a, I don’t know, psychological thing. Like a mental training meditation thing.”
“So sneaky.”
“We won’t be bothered.”
He noticed Ilya chewing on his thumbnail.
“I’ve, uh, I’ve been looking forward to this,” Shane said.
“Yes. Me too.”
Shane smiled and took one hand off the steering wheel. He reached over and Ilya quickly tangled their fingers together and squeezed.
Two weeks. For two weeks they could pretend that their situation wasn’t impossible.
* * *
Ilya was hit with a sudden wave of “holy shit, this is really happening” when Shane parked the car in front of the large lake house that Ilya had seen profiled on television.
Ilya was pretty sure a cottage was usually a lot smaller than this giant, stone-front house, but it was certainly, as Shane had promised, remote. He didn’t think he had ever been anywhere quite like this before; somewhere that he could truly let his guard down and not worry about being recognized.
No wonder Hollander loved it.
Hollander, he realized, had removed Ilya’s bag from the trunk and was carrying it toward the house, as if Ilya was his visiting aunt or something.
“I can carry my own bag.”
Shane just kept walking. “How are your ribs?” he asked.
“My ribs are fine. I can carry the bag.”
“I can’t believe you played with those bruised ribs.”
“You can’t?”
Shane shot him a grin over his shoulder. “I guess I can.”
He opened the door and they stepped inside. It truly was a spectacular house. It was all wide open and spacious, with high ceilings and exposed beams. The opposite wall was floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake. Ilya could see an enormous deck with a pool and a hot tub. Beyond that there was a dock and a boathouse.
“Make yourself at home,” Shane said.
Ilya sauntered into the living room. He removed his sunglasses and hooked them on the front of his T-shirt. And here was everything he had seen on that television show: the leather sectional sofa, the spectacular view, and the ridiculously Canadian-looking plaid throw pillows and blankets.
Jesus Christ. He was in Shane Hollander’s home.
“So, I could give you a tour, if you like,” Shane said. “Or, if you’re hungry...like I said, I stocked up on groceries. There’s a beer fridge in the games room next to the pool table...”
Shane was standing a good six feet behind Ilya. Ilya turned away from the view of the lake to face him.
“The tap water here is actually excellent,” Shane continued. He was so obviously nervous. “There’s a natural spring nearby and...”
Ilya closed the distance between them in slow, deliberate steps. Shane tilted his head up to face him, and Ilya could see him swallow.
They stood for a moment, silently staring at each other, waiting for whatever was going to happen next. Finally, Ilya reached a hand up and brushed the backs of his fingers against Shane’s cheek. Shane unconsciously licked his lip and Ilya moved in to kiss him.
The moment Shane’s mouth opened under his, everything made sense. All of Ilya’s nerves left him, and he grabbed at Shane’s T-shirt and pulled him closer. Shane made a little moaning sound and plunged his fingers under Ilya’s ball cap, knocking it to the floor. He tangled his fingers in Ilya’s hair and began walking him backward to the leather sofa.
They hadn’t been together for months. The ridiculous thing was, Ilya hadn’t been with anyone in all that time. For the first time in his life, he hadn’t wanted to be with anyone else.
But now he felt like he was going to burst if Shane didn’t touch him the way he’d not been able to stop thinking about.
He went willingly down to the sofa when Shane shoved him. He kept a firm grip on Shane’s T-shirt so the other man immediately tumbled on top of him. Ilya winced as his sunglasses were pressed into his chest, then he pulled them off and threw them, clattering, to the floor.
Ilya kissed Shane wildly, jerking his hips up to get more friction on his cock, and was delighted to feel that Shane was as hard as he was.
He pulled Shane’s shirt off over his head and slid his hands down to open Shane’s fly.
“Fuck,” Shane panted. “I’m...it’s been kind of a while... I might not last long.”
“Yes. Same. But we have two weeks, right?”
Shane laughed. “Right.” Then, “Wait...same?”
“Hm?”
“You said ‘same.’ You haven’t...been with anyone? Lately?”
Ilya grimaced. He probably shouldn’t have admitted that. But...
“No.”
“Like, not since—?”
“No. Not since. Can we please get back to—?”
“Really?” Shane pulled back so he could look Ilya directly in the eyes. He looked stunned and way, way too happy.
“Is not a big deal, Hollander. Relax.”
“It’s been, like—”
“Months. Yes. Which is why I would really like to—”
“I haven’t either,” Shane said quickly. “Not since the last time we were together. In Boston.”
“Well then...” Ilya said, moving his hand to continue to work his way into Shane’s pants. But Shane didn’t go back to grinding his hips or attacking Ilya’s mouth with filthy desperate kisses. Instead, he reached up and gently brushed a lock of hair out of Ilya’s face. Ilya could only stare, mesmerized, at Shane’s face as he looked down at him with so much...tenderness.
“I have an idea,” Shane said. He was brushing his thumb over Ilya’s bottom lip as he said it.
“What?” Ilya asked, with more bravery than he felt.
“Let’s be honest with each other. For these two weeks, let’s just...say what we’re actually thinking. Maybe...say how we really feel.”
I can’t, Ilya wanted to say. I can’t because if I do you’ll think I’m pathetic, or, worse, you’ll say it back and then what the fuck are we supposed to do?
“I will try,” he said instead.
“Will you?” Shane asked skeptically.
“Yes! I will do anything if it will make you touch my dick right now!”
Shane laughed a
nd rolled his eyes. But then he slid down Ilya’s body and hauled down Ilya’s shorts, and thank Christ.
Shane took him into his mouth and everything was simple again. Ilya felt a wave of pleasure mingle with a wave of relief, and he was able to relax and enjoy the determined way Shane always approached sucking him off.
Ilya cheated and murmured, “I would stay here forever if I could” in Russian. He felt Shane sigh around him, but it sounded more dreamy than exasperated. Maybe he understood what he meant. Maybe some feelings couldn’t be hidden behind foreign words.
As expected, Ilya didn’t last long. Neither did Shane, when Ilya immediately returned the favor. But the surprising thing was that the blow jobs were not the best part of the afternoon. Afterward, now that they had taken the edge off, they just relaxed against each other on the sofa. The clothing that had stayed on their bodies was rumpled and unfastened; their hair was messy. They talked quietly to each other as they—there was no other word for it—cuddled for over an hour. Shane was twisting strands of Ilya’s hair around his fingers and gently releasing them; Ilya was tracing his fingertips over Shane’s freckles. Every now and again, Ilya would kiss Shane’s jaw, or his throat, or, one time, the tip of his nose.
Ilya couldn’t believe what he had been reduced to. He was...infatuated. It was disgusting.
But it was hard to care when Shane was lying on top of him, his smooth chest and stomach touching every inch of Ilya’s own. His bangs hanging down to brush Ilya’s nose. His dark eyes, and his freckles, and his smile. Shane looked so happy. Somehow, Ilya made him happy.
Ilya wanted to always make him happy.
* * *
Ilya wasn’t at all surprised to learn that Shane had a complete indoor hockey training facility at his cottage.
Shane had excitedly led him to the one-story building beside the main cottage and opened the door to reveal a large synthetic plastic rink, a net with shooting targets, passing targets, and a whole bunch of exercise equipment. The wall facing the lake was all windows.
So now they were on the “ice” in sneakers, passing a puck back and forth.