by Rachel Reid
“It’s fucking creepy.”
“Is hot, though, yes?”
Shane huffed. “Later, okay?”
“I might not want to later.”
“Ilya...”
“I won’t touch you. If you don’t get hard, I won’t do anything. Deal?”
Shane’s mouth fell open. “I won’t get hard.”
“Okay. Then no problem.”
Shane scowled at him, then went back to the call. “Sorry about that, Hayden. My mom can be really annoying sometimes.”
Ilya grinned up at him. He made a show of putting his hands behind his back. Shane’s eyes shot daggers at him, then they turned up to the ceiling. “My head’s a lot better. Totally recovered, I think. Still get headaches sometimes but...yeah, exactly... I’ve been working out, yeah.”
Ilya watched Shane’s cock intently. He knew Shane. Frankly, this was one of the only times he’d seen his poor undersexed dick soft. Usually it was as straight as a fucking rod whenever Ilya was in its vicinity.
Shane’s dick was exactly like the rest of Shane: tidy and smooth. And eager. His balls were almost hairless, and Ilya was sure that, like Shane’s chest, was natural. His seemingly disinterested cock slumped over them, nestled in a neat patch of dark hair.
He wanted to take it all in his mouth. He wanted to feel Shane grow hard against his tongue.
But he’d made a promise, and he could wait.
He turned his eyes up to Shane’s face, and caught him looking down at him. Ilya licked his lips.
“Uh...oh, really? That’s cool. When did that happen?” Shane pressed his lips together, and his cheeks flushed.
Ilya smiled, because, sure enough, Shane’s cock had twitched and was starting to plump up.
Ilya watched it for a minute, enjoying the rare intimate spectacle. Shane’s hand curled into a fist at his side. His eyes were squeezed shut, like he was trying to stop his erection from happening through concentration.
It wasn’t working. At all.
Shane was fully hard in under a minute, the head of his cock bobbing excitedly in front of Ilya’s lips.
“Wow,” Shane said, his voice straining. “So do you think she’s going to...oh. Right. Yeah.”
Ilya ignored the head of Shane’s cock and dipped his head lower. He cupped Shane’s balls gently in his hand, and pressed his lips to them. Shane’s body jerked, but he didn’t move away.
“Sorry,” Shane said to Hayden, his voice remarkably even, “is Mark your sister’s husband? Oh. Okay. Got it.”
Ilya sucked one of Shane’s balls into his mouth, enjoying the heavy weight of it. Shane made the tiniest little moan.
This was great. Ilya loved playing like this. He wasn’t even sure what the goal was of this game, but the fact that Shane hadn’t ended the call led Ilya to believe that he was enjoying the challenge of staying quiet. To his credit, Shane’s whimper was barely audible when Ilya started stroking a finger behind his balls.
Ilya was proud of him. But he still wasn’t going to make this easy for him.
Starting at the base, Ilya licked a wide stripe up the shaft of Shane’s cock, finishing by lapping the glistening precome at the tip.
“Hurnnhh,” Shane said, then grimaced.
Ilya put his considerable blow job skills to work, taking Shane deep and bobbing his head as he sank his fingers into the muscles of Shane’s thighs.
“Oh...oh yeah? That—that’s cool,” Shane stammered into his phone.
Ilya glanced up at him. Shane stared right back, cheeks flushed and eyes challenging. Ilya couldn’t believe Shane hadn’t hung up yet. Did he really want Ilya to make him come while he was still on the phone?
Ilya kept going, and Shane’s voice got more and more strained, and how on earth was Hayden not noticing this?
Shane’s thighs trembled under Ilya’s hands, the muscles in his stomach flexing, and Ilya was fascinated to see how Shane was going to handle this, because he was definitely about to come.
Shane pulled the phone away from his ear and frantically hit the mute button. “Aaagh. Fuck!” His free hand grabbed Ilya’s shoulder, fingers tightening almost painfully as he spasmed and emptied himself into Ilya’s mouth.
Shane took a deep breath, in and out, once his orgasm had finished, and hit the mute button again. “You there? Sorry. Bad connection out here sometimes.”
Ilya scrambled to the couch so he could smother his laughter with a pillow.
Shane must have ended the call, because suddenly he was on top of Ilya, on the couch, hitting him with another pillow. “Fuck you, you asshole! That was the worst!”
Ilya pulled the pillow he was holding to his face away. “It was not.”
“God, fuck you. Why was that so hot?”
“Because you like to be bad, Shane Hollander.”
And, whoa. Saying those exact words twisted something inside of Ilya. He was just teasing Shane, but he wondered how true those words were. Was that, perhaps, all this was to Shane: rebellion? Was that all he was to Shane?
His worry must have shown on his face, because Shane stopped hitting him with the pillow. He pulled Ilya’s hand to his mouth, and kissed his palm.
“That’s not why I do this. With you. Maybe it was when we started, I don’t know, but it isn’t now and it hasn’t been for a long time.”
Ilya moved the hand Shane was holding to brush the hair out of Shane’s eyes. “Okay.”
Why do you do it now? He wanted to ask, but he was scared of the answer. So instead he pulled Shane down for a kiss.
“So,” Ilya said casually, when they broke apart, “how’s Hayden?”
Shane collapsed against his chest, and Ilya held him as they both shook with laughter.
* * *
Ilya had been formulating a plan.
It was early stages, and probably bad, but he couldn’t stop his brain from working on it.
He couldn’t see a realistic scenario where he and Shane were anything more than what they were now. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted them to be. When his imagination was reckless enough to conjure images of the two of them together, as a couple—living together? Married?—fuck, it was ridiculous.
“You all right?”
Ilya jerked to attention to find Shane—wearing only a bathing suit—standing in front of the Adirondack chair Ilya was sitting in. He had a book in his hand and glasses on his face, and he was frowning down at Ilya like a concerned lifeguard/librarian.
“Yes,” Ilya said, waving a hand. “Is nice view. The lake.”
“You looked like you were thinking about something heavy.”
Ilya shrugged. Shane sat himself in the chair next to him and waited.
“I wish I had been drafted by a Canadian team,” Ilya said.
“What? Why?”
“It would make things easier.”
“Things? What, like—do you mean...what do you mean?”
Ilya sighed heavily. What exactly did he want to say here? “I mean...America is not so good for Russians now. And Russia is not so good for...Russians like me.”
Shane was silent a moment. “Are you in any danger?”
“No. I don’t think so. But I am very careful. I would like to...not have to be.”
Shane nodded. “I think things will get better in America, right? And maybe in Russia too?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you still want to become an American citizen?”
“I don’t know. I am thinking...maybe somewhere else.”
“Oh.”
“I have been thinking...” Ilya said. He’d never said any of this out loud before. He maybe hadn’t even formed it altogether in his head before. “I am a free agent, after next season.”
He definitely had Shane’s full attention now. “You’d leave Boston?”
“Holy shit, really?”
“Yes.”
“Like where?” Ilya could see the thoughts play out on Shane’s face like a movie: What if we played together in Montreal? No. Montreal couldn’t afford both of us.
“Not Montreal,” Ilya said gently.
“No. I know.”
But good god, now Ilya was imagining that. Playing together, living together, being together.
It was never going to happen.
But it was a nice thought.
* * *
“I could marry Svetlana,” Ilya said, out of nowhere. It was the following night, and they were playing pool.
Shane frowned at the three ball that just missed the side pocket. He would have made that shot if Ilya hadn’t just casually dropped his worst nightmare on him.
“Oh?” Shane asked calmly.
“She is American, so it would mean American citizenship, but she would do it.”
“Would she?”
“I think so. Yes. She is Sergei Vetrov’s daughter. Did you know?”
“What? Really?”
“Yes. She would help me.”
Shane watched Ilya sink the twelve ball. And then the fourteen ball. He felt like snapping his own cue over his knee.
“Do you—I mean—is she someone that you would...want to marry?”
Ilya straightened his posture and looked at him. “I like Svetlana, yes. But it would be for citizenship.”
“But,” Shane said. He had to say this next part. It had been eating away at him for too long. “You want to get married, right? To a woman, I mean. You’re not...like me. You like women. And I’m sure...Svetlana is gorgeous and fun and...all that stuff. Right?”
“Yes,” Ilya said. “I do. She is. But.”
“But?”
Ilya shrugged, and he looked like he was possibly blushing. “I have this problem,” he mumbled.
Shane waited.
“I like women. I always was thinking that to get married would be nice. Kids. All of that. Someday. But...this problem will not go away.”
Shane bit his lip. “Tell me about this problem.”
“Is so annoying.” Ilya sighed, and Shane could see him fighting a grin. “Always I am with beautiful women. Wonderful women. Everywhere.”
“Sounds rough.”
“Yes. Listen. These women, they are so sexy and fun, but is no matter. I cannot stop thinking about this short fucking hockey player with these stupid freckles and a weak backhand.”
“A weak backhand?” Shane couldn’t stop smiling.
“Yes. And he is just so boring and he drives a terrible car and...that is my problem. All of these beautiful women and I am always wishing they were him.”
Ilya bent to take his third shot. “Is terrible problem.”
Fuck. Shane was going start crying right here in his games room. He swallowed and steadied himself. “Do you want the problem to go away?”
“No,” Ilya said seriously, looking Shane dead in the eye. “I do not want the problem to ever go away.”
“Don’t marry Svetlana,” Shane blurted out.
Ilya raised an eyebrow.
“Just...don’t. I know it wouldn’t be...for love or whatever. But don’t. I couldn’t—we can figure something else out, okay?”
Ilya looked surprised, but he nodded.
“Okay.”
* * *
“I was thinking,” Ilya said. It was late morning the next day, and they were sitting on the deck with coffee. “If I played for a team that was not Boston. Maybe in the west. The rivalry would not be such a big deal.”
Shane seemed to consider this. “That’s true. We’d only play against each other twice a year.”
He frowned and Ilya knew he didn’t like that idea any more than he did. We’d only see each other twice a year.
“Is...like, sacrifice. For future gain, yes?”
Shane brightened. “Future gain?”
“Yes. Our rivalry has been huge. But maybe we can help it to...fade away? A little?”
“Yeah...” Shane said. He was getting excited. “Yeah! I don’t like the idea of you being so far, but we could make people forget all about us as rivals and maybe no one would care about us at all one day.”
“One day. Yes.”
Shane smiled shyly at him, and Ilya grinned back, and they both sat there, smiling stupidly at each other while they thought about the possibility of one day.
* * *
“I have another idea,” Shane said. He’d been thinking about what Ilya had proposed all day and he had come up with a plan of his own. He propped himself up on an elbow and poked the sleepy Russian in the shoulder.
Ilya rolled over. “What idea? About what?”
“What if you played for Ottawa?”
“Ottawa? Is almost as bad as playing for Boston. We would be rivals just the same.”
“Yes, but listen. First of all, Ottawa desperately needs a star center, so there’s an opening there. But what if you played there and we...changed the narrative a bit?”
“The what? What the fuck with these words, Hollander? I’m tired.”
“Sorry. I just mean...we would still be rivals on the ice, but we wouldn’t have to pretend to be enemies. I mean, lots of guys have friends all over the league. But we’re, like, the only guys who have this whole story built around them where we can’t stand each other and love nothing more than destroying each other every time our teams meet.”
“That story was kind of true, for a long time, Hollander.”
Shane smiled a little. “Yeah, well. It’s not true now. I think it’s safe to say that, right?”
“Sure.”
“There are going to be new players—younger players—and new rivalries will form. Do we really need to keep this dance up until we both retire?”
Ilya’s brow furrowed. “Is very late, Hollander. This is a lot of English. What is your idea?”
“You play for Ottawa, I play for Montreal. Those cities are an hour apart. We start a charity together, you and me. Something that benefits both cities. So now people see us working together on something. We make up some story about how I approached you with this idea, and—”
“Or I approached you.”
“Whatever. The point is, we tell the press, the fans, everyone, that by working together on the cause that means so much to both of us, we have developed a mutual respect for each other...”
“Yes. And also we are fucking each other. Any questions?”
“Fuck off! This is a great idea, Rozanov!”
Ilya laughed. Shane hit him with a pillow.
“Is not bad,” Ilya finally conceded. “So we start this charity...”
“And it wouldn’t be bullshit either. I’ve been wanting to start one anyway. We’ll do something that means a lot to both of us.”
“Yes. Okay.”
“We still play hard against each other on the ice, obviously. I mean, I am never going to stop enjoying beating your ass.”
Ilya snorted. “Sure.”
“And...like I said. We’re an hour away from each other. All year.”
He wanted Ilya to see this vision as clearly as he could. It seemed tantalizingly possible. Easy, even.
“And you’d be in Canada. And you could apply for citizenship eventually.”
“Yes. I understand that part.”
“And maybe...someday. When we both retire. We can...be together. For real.”
Ilya looked stunned by that part. “You really think that far ahead, Hollander?”
“I do about this.”
“You want that? To be together?”
“I do. So much it terrifies me.”
Ilya turned his face away from Shane, and was silent. Cold dread flooded Shane’s stomach; he had admitted too much.
But Ilya turned back and quickly rolled on top of Shane and was kissing him and kissing him and kept murmuring the same thing in Russian over and over again until he pulled back and translated:
“I love you.”
Shane froze. And then Ilya froze.
“Holy shit,” Shane whispered. It wasn’t how he had meant to respond.
“I...” Ilya’s eyes were so wide and so scared.
“I love you too,” Shane said.
Ilya gave a shaky smile and exhaled. “Thank Christ.”
“Does it...does it feel like agony for you too?”
Ilya started to nod, then stopped. He shook his head slowly instead.
“Not anymore.”
* * *
Ilya felt like his smile was going to split his face. He was overwhelmingly happy.
Shane was beaming up at him, eyes bright and freckles crinkled, and Ilya loved him. And Shane loved him.
Holy fucking shit.
Shane Hollander is in love with me.
He wanted to kiss him, but he couldn’t stop looking at him.
“How could we let this happen?” Ilya asked, and his voice was shakier than he would have liked.
“I don’t know. We are very stupid and irresponsible.”
“Very dumb, yes. Oh god, Hollander.” And then he did kiss him. How could he not?
Ilya got the urge to pin him down, as if he would disappear if Ilya didn’t keep a tight grip on him. He wrapped his fingers around Shane’s wrists and held them to the pillow on either side of Shane’s head.
“This is real, yes?” Ilya asked. He just had to make sure.
“It’s real,” Shane said. His voice was low and adorably scratchy.
“I feel like...I am dreaming?”
“You’re not. I love you.”
Ilya wasn’t sure his heart could take any more of this. It felt like it was pushing up against his lungs, making it hard to breathe. Hard to think. Hard to do anything except hold Shane down and kiss him over and over again.
Shane’s back bowed against the mattress, and he pressed his rigid cock against Ilya’s thigh. “I want to be as close as possible to you,” he said breathlessly.
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