Chapter Text
The world had taken on the rot-honey stickiness of late August. Even at 2 AM, the humidity was unrelenting and during the day the blacktop shimmered with rising heat. Most people with any kind of sense and cash had fled the city for their second homes upstate or to the Hamptons. Some of them were on fantastic vacations, baking in gentler heat in more refined places.
Scott should be among them, in theory. He didn't have a second home, but he could certainly afford to be anywhere he wanted to be.
Where he wanted to be was in his own city, sweat dripping down his back, the thick odor of subway steam rising from hundreds of grates mixed with the spice and sauces of a dozen street carts. The perfume of a late drunk night on the fringes of bad decisions. Far too many tequila shots in and Scott was weaving through the Saturday night crowds with his skin buzzing. No one from his team was in town and tonight, after some significant pre-gaming to get himself in the right headspace, Scott was going to get himself laid.
To that end, he had pulled on a white tank top and tight jeans and hoped the rest of his body would do the talking for him. Usually, he wouldn't risk hooking up in his own city. Usually it hadn't been seven months and change. All he wanted was the quick and dirty pleasure of a man's hands around him that wasn't going to end in the wrong kind of body slam.
There was a club with a mythically filthy backroom that he'd read about alone in the dark like someone might creep up and look over his shoulder. There was a very short line to get in tonight as if some dark force had offered its blessing to him. If he'd had to wait under the streetlights, he might've walked on and gone home to another empty jerk off session.
Instead, Scott showed his ID to a bouncer who's eyes slid off it and over Scott's chest instead. That was both flattering and an incredible relief. Inside, the place was heaving, the music a relentless thump that beat through his bones. Everything was dark, the bar itself lit in florescent blue LED strips and the dance floor a cacophony of quick strobes. What felt like hundreds of men writhed together, each one of them seemed far more free and happy than Scott.
Scott ordered another shot and threw it back before he could think about it too hard. The dance floor felt too risky even with the slosh of booze drowning out his anxious buzz. Lingering at the bar, Scott weighing his options. Backrooms were easier to slide into if you already had a partner in hand, he'd found.
It wasn't hard to find a particularly dark spot to linger, scanning over the crowd.
Maybe he would've stayed there for too long, only watching, and slipped away unfilled. He'd done that too many times before. Maybe he would've found someone in the crowd and had exactly what he'd come for. He'd done that a fair number of times too.
Instead, Scott made a massive mistake, the magnitude of which he could never have predicted. Because right beside him the darkness was the shape of an absolutely gorgeous man. Broad shoulders, cut jaw, tumble of curls that were already damp with exertion. Whatever shirt he'd come in was already tucked into his back pocket, the quick flashes of light describing a body that must've been carved from hours in the gym. The kind of body that Scott tried hard to never look at in his professional life.
He was allowed to look here. He could want here.
"Hey," Scott said, falling face first into years of aggravation without the slightest idea.
The man turned only enough to check him out. The darkness robbed Scott of the man's expression, but he didn't need to see it. A hand reached out to flick an errant strand of hair out of Scott's eyes. The casual propriety made Scott's mouth go dry.
"You come here a lot?" Scott said, then winced at his stiltedness.
The other man snorted, hooked a finger into Scott's beltloop and tugged him a little closer. "Yes?"
"Yes," Scott said immediately and kissed him.
Stupid. Reckless.
In Scott's defense the man was stupidly hot and tasted like expensive liquor. He kissed like an act of war that Scott couldn't wait to wage. They stumbled together into the backroom. All of Scott's senses were flooded by lips, hands and satin skin. There were some horizontal surfaces in the murky shadows, but Scott let the man push him against the closest open span of wall instead. The music pulsed on, reverberating through his back to match the heartbeat that had jumped into his throat.
"Fuck, you're gorgeous," Scott said insensibly into the clash of the kiss. In the daze of the moment, he found the rough part of him that craved these moments like he craved victory. "You'd be better looking on your knees."
The huff of indignation worried Scott for a moment, but then there was capitulation. Like liquid sex, the man dropped to his knees, his hands dragging over Scott's tank top the whole way down, shoving one underneath to caress over Scott's stomach as the other roughly undid his zipper.
"Fuck yeah," Scott muttered, reaching down, hovering his hand for a second. "Can I touch your hair? I won't pull."
The man froze, his fingers still on Scott's zipper. "Yes."
Was that an accent? Hard to tell. Scott sank his hand into damp curls, marveling at the new texture against his fingertips. It was startlingly soft, the spirals clinging to his fingers. Scott's jeans were yanked down a few critical inches unceremoniously, along with his underwear. Exposed to the air, there was little temperature difference, but for the slight stir of breath from those promising lips.
Looking down, all Scott could make out was a strong nose and brow. Then there was delicious heat and suction just where he wanted it most.
Fuck, no condom. Scott should've offered him a condom. Then again, there was a bowl of them by the doorway and the guy could've grabbed one.
All thought of safety dissolved. There was only the perfection of a blow job delivered with sloppy joyful interest. It was impossible to stop the praise bubbling up out of him, but hard to know if it reached his current blessed angel's ears over the pounding of the music.
"So fucking good, you're amazing…fuck… so good…"
It wasn't creative, but Scott wasn't an artist or a poet. The delicate curls in his hand brushed over his palm, a tiny extra point of stimulation that made him flushed all over. When the telltale building of pleasure started to tighten in him, he reached down further to cup the man's cheek.
"I'm close."
And fuck if the guy didn't find a way to suck Scott's cock further down his throat. The hands that had been absent up to this point surged up to grasp Scott's hips as if he might try to run off. Scott covered one of them with his own in acceptance. There were callouses there too and that shouldn't be so hot that it pushed Scott over the edge. He tried hard not to thrust forward even as he came hard enough to rob him of breath for a second.
He watched in mesmerized lassitude as the man leaned back on his haunches, forcing Scott to release his hair. Making what might've been eye contact if they could properly see each other, the man wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand. It was such a casual, easy gesture that Scott was almost jealous. To be so easy in this was all he wanted and couldn't have.
With both hands, Scott grabbed him and hauled him to his feet, crashing their mouths back together. It mashed his limp cock against denim which he could've done without, but it was worth it for the needy whine he caught between his lips. A tiny point of hardness pressed against Scott's chest, the sharp points of a cross hung around the man's neck. That shouldn't turn Scott on, but fuck if did anyway.
Without ceremony, Scott shoved his hand down between them, fumbling until he had the hot brand of a cock in his hand.
"Holy shit," he said as he palmed it. "You're huge."
"Yes," and yeah, that was some kind of accent. Heavy too.
"Mm, some guys get all the luck, huh? Great body, great cock, fucking fantastic mouth," Scott chased after that fantastic mouth again, pulling him back into a kiss as he started to jerk him off.
If the guy had planned to demand a blowjob in return, he didn't have any time, coming within a few strokes with a grunt. That was gratifying, if a little messy. Scott let him temporarily rest his forehead on Scott's shoulder.
"Too fast," came a mumble that Scott only barely made out.
Scott rubbed his back with his clean hand in what he hoped communicated pleased acceptance.
"It was hot. Like mindblowingly hot that you got off that much on it," Scott assured him.
A neutral grunt and then a push away, both of them fumbling with their pants. From his pocket, Scott pulled a few paper napkins shoved there after his rushed take out dinner.
"Here," he offered.
The napkin was plucked away and Scott cleaned off his hand before zipping back up. Less than 30 seconds later, they were both put to rights and staring at each other, only vague outlines in the dark.
"I have to-" Scott started.
"Go."
"Yeah."
"Okay."
Scott felt weirdly dismissed. Which should be fine. What did he care?
But something about it, that complete disaffection of that 'okay' compared to few other words the man had given him and Scott had a signal blaring in his brain. The one that had him check in on a guy's injury that he was trying to hide or the one that made sure he found the player that took losses extra hard before he turned a bad night into a worse one.
"Hey, come here first," Scott coaxed and when he reached for him, there was no attempt at escape though the body was stiff in his arms.
Gently, Scott kissed him again. Mouth, cheek, neck. Nothing that was a prelude to round two. Just the quiet acknowledgement that maybe this was rushed and anonymous, but not bad. Not dirty or wrong. He had no idea if that came across. He wasn't even sure he believed himself, but he wanted to, very badly.
Maybe it did translate because the stiffness drained away and he had an armful of pliant warmth pressed against him, sticking them together in some places.
"Thank you," Scott said sincerely against plush lips. "You were amazing."
"Americans," the word was not a compliment in his ear, but it was followed by a last soft kiss and then a second pulling away.
Scott let him go. "We are the worst, I'm sure. Good night."
Was that a smile? Scott hoped it was a smile. Hard to tell as the face retreated away into the gloom.
With the removal of company, Scott was once more deeply aware that he was in dangerous territory, now without the shield of another person. There was a promising sliver of light on the other end of the room and sure enough, when he pursued it, he found a propped exit into a narrow alley. He walked down it with his head down, ignoring the couplings that had spilled out in every direction, the voices of men pursuing their pleasure trailing after him long after he broke away from the club.
In the safety of his silent apartment, Scott striped out of his clothes and throwing them into the hamper. He fell naked into bed, then stared up at the ceiling, sobering up with disappointing rapidity.
Going over the events, he could see a dozen potential slip ups. Places he'd taken too much risk. He couldn't bring himself to care. Palming his cock, he thought about the brush of curls and the rough catch of callouses. It was easy to get a second orgasm out of the experience which was promising. Scott lived off these encounters for months, revisiting the details until they grew watery and indistinct around the edges. They had to hold up to a little scrutiny.
By October, the new season was in full swing and the club memory had taken on the mystical energy of his best hook ups, set in a shrine and only taken down when he was alone.
"Hey, did you see they put their rookie on first line for the second period?" Carter asked him with a frown. "Seems a little early for it."
"Which rookie?" Scott asked absently, trying to crack a knuckle on his left thumb. He'd broken it at sixteen and sometimes it got annoyingly stiff.
"Rozanov," Carter said.
"He's not any rookie, he was the first draft pick in his year," Scott reminded him. "I think we tried to get him."
"Yeah? Too bad," Carter muttered.
Both of them very purposely did not look at their rookie. The kid has supposedly been a phenom. This was Scott's seventh season and Carter's sixth. They'd both developed a sense of who was going to make it and who was going to disappear next season into the open arms of another team or worse, faded obscurity.
"I heard Rozanov is crazy good," Huff said from Scott's other side. "He scored his first league goal already. First game they put him in."
"Hunter did that too his rookie year," Carter said loyally.
"Yeah, so it can't be that impressive," Huff teased.
Scott snorted, "How long did it take you again?"
"Hey, I'm not supposed to knock 'em in," Huff protested.
"Oh?" Eric asked, looking around Carter to pin Huff with a look. "So that means you're not going to wander away from me tonight?"
"I'd miss you too much, man! I'll be right by your side! We can have two goalies, right?"
The first period went like a practice exercise, all of New York moving in a unit and Boston falling over themselves. The kind of game that could make players a little too comfortable.
"Look alive, boys," Scott ordered as they readied themselves for second period.
There was only an 'A' on Scott's jersey, but their current captain was a veteran counting down to the end of the season. Everyone knew he was ready to retire and the coaches had intimated that Scott's time was coming. The team readily listened to him and responded to him like it was already a done deal. Scott tried not to assume anything or overstep, but he couldn't deny he was eager for it.
That Admirals deserved a captain that was paying attention and actually watched out for them.
Every time Scott went over the boards gave him a small thrill. Especially at home with a packed crowd. He glided out and readied himself to face off.
"Do not cry when I score goal," a Russian voice cracked through the air. "Embarrassing for you, yes?"
A rookie would want to start off with a ballsy chirp. Scott rolled his eyes and got into position. Looked up.
He knew that face. Rozanov's eyes went wide like he recognized him too. Where did Scott know him from? Had they met at one of those events where you shook too many hands?
"You wish, brat," Scott snapped back.
Confusion passed over Rozanov's face. He couldn't be surprised that Scott had retorted, could he?
The puck dropped and Scott was positive he had his stick on it, but before he could smack it, it was gone and so was Rozanov. Fuck. Scott took off after him. The rookie was as fast as promised, making a perfect pass, before anyone could close with him. Too bad for him that Boston was awful and no one picked it up.
The fury that passed over Rozanov's face was quickly shut down and he was off again. Apparently determined that if no one was going to help then he'd get the job done himself. Damn if the he didn't do it too. The goal was so pretty that Scott had to stop himself from going over and congratulating him. Even Eric looked mildly impressed and Eric usually didn't do facial expressions during a game.
"Damn," Carter said, coming to a stop next to Scott. "Uh, is Boston going to be good now? I'm not sure I'm prepared for that."
"They have one good player," Scott scoffed. "I wouldn't start worrying yet."
The Admirals won handily, proving Scott right, but it was a much harder battle than usual. Rozanov might be only one man, but he was an army into and of himself. He stampeded through lines, shot with deadly accuracy and had the razor focus of the best kind of players.
As they all went down the handshake line, Scott kept things polite as usual. None of the Boston players gave him any grief and Hartigan even winked at him, "Meet for a drink after? Already texted Vaughny."
"Maybe," Scott said.
They'd tucked Rozanov near the end, the rookie's grim face clearly amusing some of Scott's teammates as they brightly congratulated him on a good game.
"You were impressive out there," Scott said sincerely, taking Rozanov's hand.
Under Rozanov's helmet, a single curl licked across his forehead and finally recognition fully hit. Scott's ears started ringing and his blood went cold. Oh. Shit.
"Yes," Rozanov said with a sudden smirk. He'd seen that the penny had dropped. "I was."
The post-game machine had Scott lined up to process. An hour later, he was spat clean, interviewed and exhausted into the parking garage.
"It'll be fun!" Carter said. "Come on, Hunter, I know you've missed Harty since the trade."
"Did I?" Scott asked wryly, but he let Carter load him into a car.
The bar was one of those upscale places pretending to be a dive bar that Scott loathed. The pool tables were crowded and the music was terrible. Hartigan had brought a few Boston guys along and Carter had hauled Eric and Huff with them too. It should've been a disaster, but they were all experienced enough to shove aside animosity in favor of getting tipsy and trading information.
"Hey, look who made it!" Hartigan cried after the second round. "I thought you were too cool for us, rookie."
"Interviews," Rozanov said, appearing in Scott's peripheral vision like a black-clad harbinger of a heart attack. "What is good here?"
"This isn't Russia, kid, you can't drink here," Hartigan reminded him. "Have a soda."
The slapped look of offense on Rozanov's face would've been funny if it didn't send Scott spiraling into hell. The domination on the ice had almost made Scott forget that Rozanov was a rookie. How young was he? How had he even gotten into that club? Fake ID?
Rozanov was suddenly in Scott's space, leaning past him to get the bartender's attention.
"Nineteen," Rozanov said. "Drink since I was fourteen. Your country is very stupid."
"Fuck," Scott whispered. "You're a kid."
The look that Rozanov gave him was a thousand years old. Tired and knowing and kind of fucking tragic actually.
"No," Rozanov said firmly. "Fully adult."
He ordered a tonic and lime, still practically in Scott's lap. Drink procured, he leaned beside Scott against the bar, half-responding to the conversation, but attention wandering around the room. .
To Scott's chagrin, Rozanov was even more beautiful in the tacky terrible lighting of the bar. The dramatic bone structure of his face didn't need shadows to be enthralling. His curls, artfully styled and dry this time, glinted gold and when his smile flashed, Scott wanted to taste it again.
He was nineteen, Scott reminded himself. Nineteen and a rookie for another team. Scott had never even entertained a passing thought about fucking another player. A single hour in a locker room was enough to cure anyone of such a dangerous consideration.
But Rozanov was something else. Potent. Beautiful. And already a known quantity to some extent. No. Nope. Absolutely not.
"Smile, Scotty," Carter said, smacking him on the shoulder. "We won, remember?"
Scott laughed, "I remember. You want another?"
"If you're offering."
Beside him, Rozanov smiled too, a lazy edged thing. He knew where Scott's mind had wandered. Fuck.
At least they would both keep quiet. Scott didn't even need to ask to know that. Mutually assured destruction was convenient.
The loose party of guys wound up gathering around a pool table after an hour and Scott took that as he cue to leave. He'd never cared for pool or the way the bets started to raise to dizzying heights when everyone had been drinking. Eric had already left. Being a non-drinker at a bar with a wife waiting at home meant Eric was always the first to leave. Scott was always second, quick to part when the booze started to flow.
"Aw, Scotty," Carter protested. "Who will blow luck on my stick?"
"Shut up, Vaughny," Scott laughed gave him a manly side hug. "You'll live.'
He walked out alone, but when he hit the sidewalk, Rozanov was somehow beside him.
"We talk," Rozanov said heavily.
"There's nothing to say," Scott said, hoping that sounded reassuring instead of cruel. "I get it."
Rozanov nodded once tightly, but he didn't move away either.
"Is the hotel far?" Scott asked. "I can walk you."
"No help needed," Rozanov said. "Am fine to walk."
"Okay, but if you did want to talk, trust me no one is listening out here this time of night."
"Not outside," Rozanov said firmly.
Scott sighed and considered his options. New York was full of hotels and cash still talked.
"Come on."
Dipping into the first place they came across, Scott left Rozanov on the sidewalk. He paid in cash and offered over a credit card with an alias on it. His first agent had gotten it for him as a 'just in case' measure. A way to disappear into a building or restaurant when the paps were hungry for anything. Scott had probably accepted it a little too readily.
He signaled to Rozanov through the glass then went deeper in, ducking around the corner of a hallway. It was almost silent at this hour in a hotel, the elevator appearing the instant it was summoned. The room was at the end of the hall and every silent hurried step toward it made Scott's breathing louder in his ears.
The door swung open and Scott stepped inside, Rozanov on his heels.
"Okay, what did you-"
The kiss crashed against Scott's lips before he fully processed how deep into his personal space Rozanov was. Out of sheer desire not to fall over, Scott put his arms around him, steadying them both. Rozanov still kissed like a battle, but Scott was in no mood to be conquered.
Bringing up a hand, he grabbed Rozanov's jaw and held him back a few inches. Enough to look him the eyes.
"I brought you up here because it seemed like you had something to say."
Rozanov rolled his eyes. "Liar."
"I did," Scott said. "I'm not fucking you."
"I do not want fucking," Rozanov said, his hands fisting into Scott's shirt. "Want your mouth on my dick."
"Splitting hairs there."
Rozanov frowned, then shook his head. Shit. In the bar, Rozanov had hid it better, but his English might not be strong enough for idioms. Before Scott could come up with a way to explain it, he was being roughly kissed again and then lips were trailing down his neck.
Fuck it. Scott had paid for the room and maybe this was what he'd meant to do all along. They really could've talked anywhere. Rozanov was young, but he knew his own mind. Apologizing to his morals, Scott shoved back on Rozanov, pushing him toward the bed.
"Lay down," Scott said, reaching for the hem of his t-shirt.
Rozanov stayed standing. It was something in the cock of his hip or the curl of his lips that seemed to radiate challenge. It shouldn't make Scott want to to meet it. Sex for Scott was usually fun, if illicit. He liked his partner to have a good time, to keep it light if he had enough chance to set a mood.
The club had been unusual. Fast, but still not…this.
Tossing aside his shirt, Scott eyed Rozanov slowly. Rozanov gave him an unimpressed look. In a second, Scott got his foot behind Rozanov and gave a sharp shove against that impressive chest, tripping him back onto the bed and following him down.
A sharp Russian word pierced the air, Rozanov's eyes wide and his grin gone a little manic.
"You really are a brat," Scott said, caging him in between his arms. "Gorgeous fucking one too."
"What is brat?" Rozanov asked.
The confusion at the face off made sense now.
"A kid that likes to be a pain in the ass."
"Not a kid," Rozanov said, but his eyes were bright with humor now, not upset. "You say 'brat' like it is good thing."
Scott blinked, then found himself smiling back. "I hang out with hockey players. I like annoying assholes."
Rozanov must've approved of that thought because he leaned up and started kissing open mouthed over Scott's shoulder. There was no way he was new to all this, his certainty and confidence the mark of experience, not just cockiness. When had he gotten started? Earlier than Scott, certainly, who managed his first awkward fumble at twenty.
There was only one drink in Scott tonight, but he felt even further gone this time around. They grappled with each other a little, rolling over and over in the bed. They were fairly well-matched in strength and it was heady to get hauled around a little. Naked at last, Scott put a hand on the center of Rozanov's chest, his thumb and forefinger making a picture frame for the intricate cross that hung around Rozanov's neck.
Scott probably should suggest condoms again, but he didn't have one and Rozanov probably kept one in his wallet where it was quickly rendered useless.
Obviously they could've just not done anything, but Scott had blown past that possibility a half hour ago.
"STIs?" Scott asked. Rozanov looked at him blankly. "Have you been tested for like..herpes and stuff recently?"
The cloud passed and Rozanov nodded once. "Yes, pre-season physical. All negative. No one since then."
"Good. Me too."
Hopefully Rozanov wasn't a liar. They needed to have a little trust between them if they were doing this so Scott would extend it there. Besides, Rozanov's cock was a thing of beauty and Scott wanted it in his mouth almost as much as he wanted Rozanov to suck him off again. Moving down the bed he dragged his hands down Rozanov's impressive torso and mouthed over one sharp hipbone.
"You really are gorgeous," Scott said.
"Okay," Rozanov said as if utterly bored by the idea.
"And a brat," Scott laughed and indulged himself by biting one strong thigh. Not hard, but enough to be a warning. "Be good."
"I am very good," Rozanov said quickly. "You are only too slow."
"You gotta learn to savor it," Scott scolded, but he was done waiting around too.
He got his hand around the base of Rozanov's cock and took the plump head into his mouth. Scott groaned around it. The satin softness pulled over steel would never stop being wondrous to Scott. It was a constant source of agony how much he liked cock and how little time he could allow himself with it.
They had hours now though. Maybe Rozanov had a curfew actually, but if he wasn't worried about it then Scott certainly wasn't going to worry for him. Scott was going to focus on how much of this fucking monster he could reasonably get in his mouth, his hand wrapping around the rest of it, quickly getting spit slick as Rozanov's breathing went ragged and his hands gripped Scott's shoulders like he was trying to make permanent dents.
That was the kind of reaction that gave a man some encouragement. Scott picked up speed, letting the head of Rozanov's stupidly hot prick hit the back of his throat. A hand went into his hair, attempting to pull him off and Scott smacked it away. If Rozanov had swallowed, then Scott would too. Though he pulled up a little concentrating on the head so when Rozanov did come, Scott didn't choke on it.
He watched Rozanov's face, those tempting lips parting in ecstasy, and pretty blue eyes locked onto Scott's face like he was trying memorize him. Scott held him between lips, until there was the slightest shiver. He pulled off, a last glancing kiss to the softening head as climbed back up the bed, keeping Rozanov between his arms.
"Not bad," Rozanov said coolly. As if he wasn't panting like he'd run a marathon.
"Shut up," Scott laughed and nipped at Rozanov's jaw. "You think you're really cute, don't you?"
"Not cute," Rozanov snapped.
"Adorable," Scott grinned and bent his attention to the long pale neck, kissing it just lightly enough to earn another shiver. "Sweet, even."
"No," Rozanov growled.
Scott paused. "No to the biting or to me teasing you?"
"Teasing," Rozanov said petulantly. "Biting is good. No spots though, yes?"
"Hickeys," Scott supplied.
"Hickeys," Rozanov repeated like the word tasted bad.
"Thought you were enjoying the teasing," Scott said as he went on exploring. Rozanov's pecs were fascinating territory. "You like to dish it out, but you can't take it, huh?"
"Lies," Rozanov said, pushing at Scott and after a moment of trying to wrestle, Scott allowed himself to be rolled onto his back. "I can take. Can I fuck you?"
"Not this time," Scott said, then winced. Fuck. He was already admitting to a next time. "Anyway, what if I wanted to fuck you?"
The flicker in Rozanov's expression was fast, but the lights were bright and Scott was at close range.
"I-"
"Hey," Scott said, lowering his voice, keeping things soft. He rubbed a hand over Rozanov's arm. "It's fine. I like both. We only do what we both want to do. Okay?"
"Okay," Rozanov said, staring at him like he was trying to crack a code. "What do you want?"
"Right now or in life?" Scott asked, unable to help grinning up at him. He was even cuter when he was confused.
This was a very stupid situation and a terrible idea, but Scott was already in it and he was going to enjoy it before the weight of potential consequences crushed him in the morning.
"From me," Rozanov supplied.
"Oh," Scott considered that. "Coming would be good. It doesn't have to be fancy. I like your hands."
"My hands. Not my mouth?"
"I like your mouth a lot," Scott assured him. "But I have a thing about callouses."
"What is?" Rozanov demanded.
So Scott reached up and deliberately rubbed the rough one on his thumb over Rozanov's bottom lip. His breath caught. Pretty.
"Those. Rough places on your hands from doing the hard work."
"I have these. Many, " Rozanov said. "You like?"
"A lot," Scott confirmed.
They both watched as Rozanov got his hand around Scott's straining cock. Rozanov had good hands in general, big and long-fingered. Watching one wrap around his cock was almost as good as the feeling. A few dry tugs though and Scott was already considering the merits of getting up to scour the bathroom for one of those stupid small bottles of lotion.
Which was when Rozanov let go, brought his hand to his mouth and spit on it. Fuck. Right. Fucking dirtbag teenager. Scott was in hell. But hell felt like a warm, beautifully wet hand around him and his head fell back against the mattress.
"Kiss me," Scott demanded.
"No," Rozanov said with that shit eating grin.
Scott reached up, got a hand around the back of Rozanov's neck and squeezed. "Now, or I walk."
Hard to say if it was the empty threat or the hand on his neck, but Rozanov was there in a heartbeat, kissing Scott like he could learn English by sucking on his tongue. His hand moved with a sure rhythm over Scott's dick, thumb cheekily rubbing over the sensitive spot right under the head until Scott was halfway to delirious.
"C'mon," he moaned into Rozanov's mouth and reached up to caress him, tweaking a little at one nipple experimentally.
"Fuck, Hunter," Rozanov gasped into his mouth. Winner, winner.
Scott worried Rozanov's bottom lip between his teeth in response. Talented fingers danced, teased and pulled and Scott's hips rocked into every stroke with furious desire and he came with a deep broken groan, striping over Rozanov's fist and his own stomach.
For a moment Rozanov hovered like he might leave, so Scott got an arm around his waist and pulled him down. He buried his face in those lovely curls, letting them tickle his nose.
"Thank you," Scott said.
"You say this last time," Rozanov groaned. "Why?"
"Because I liked it. You were good to me. I'm grateful. Thank you. It's normal."
"Wrong," Rozanov muttered into Scott's chest, but he didn't try to fight off his hold.
"Right," Scott argued and played his fingers over strong broad shoulders. "Listen, we don't have to meet up again, but it's…I don't know. Stupid, but also a lot smarter than me randomly meeting guys and hoping they don't recognize me."
"Very stupid," Rozanov said. "But yes. I want this."
"I'll give you my number."
"What if people see?" Rozanov asked.
"Different names in the phone. Most of the guys have girls in a few cities. They get having a sometimes person you don't put in your phone with a name. We'll do it after we shower. Come on."
Rozanov rolled off of him, watching as Scott got to his feet and walked toward the bathroom.
"Are you coming or what?" Scott demanded when he noticed he'd reached the door alone.
"Is it big enough?"
Scott dropped his eyes to Rozanov's limp dick which still looked fairly impressive. "Yeah, I think it'll fit both of us and that thing if you have to bring it with you."
Rozanov blinked then laughed, a real laugh. It transformed his face and he was somehow even better looking like that. It didn't take much more to coax him under the pathetic water pressure of the shower. At least it was hot and in the steam, Scott kissed Rosanov lazily, reaching for the tiny soap bar and getting up a lather to rub over Rosanov's chest.
"Not dirty," Rozanov said.
"Shut up, I want to touch you."
All the fight went out of Rozanov at once and he stood there docile as Scott sank down to do a very thorough job, lingering on those powerful legs. It would be something to get fucked by him. Would he be good at it? So far he was unfairly good at everything else. When Scott stood up, Rozanov wordlessly took the soap from him and went to work returning the favor.
"God, you're smooth," Scott laughed quietly as Rozanov trailed his fingers from Scott's knee to his hip in a silent question. "Yeah, see when you shower together, you can get in another round."
The slow smile that spread over Rozanov's lips was far too appealing.
They rutted together under the shower's gentle pattern, Rozanov's hand big enough to hold them both together while Scott touched him everywhere else.
All told, it was one of the hottest hours of Scott's life. Even if it did end with them both redressing hurriedly, Rozanov checking the time on his phone with a wince.
"You don't actually have to give me your number." Scott said. "But I'd like it."
"What will you call me?" Rozanov asked, looking at him from under blond lashes like a lion waiting for it's prey to falter.
"Boston Hottie," Scott said without pause.
"Hottie," Rozanov repeated, then laughed again. Scott wanted to make him do that more. It looked like Rozanov needed it. "Yes. I like this."
"Shocking," Scott grinned. "You like compliments. You are hot. Gorgeous. A little mean though."
"You like mean," Rozanov determined.
"Yeah, within reason. Don't push it, brat."
"I will still be mean on ice," Rozanov warned. "This is how I play."
"Oh, believe me, I could tell. Just remember if we're meeting up after, you still have to look me in the eye."
Rozanov did just that, and they stared at each other for a weighted moment.
It was too much like a plan to keep this going, probably. It was too much, almost certainly. It was a fucking terrible idea, definitely.
"You will be 'Thank You New York', " Rozanov declared.
"See mine was nice, you dick," Scott snorted.
"You are nice. Me? Not. See?"
"I see," Scott said. "Fine, whatever, it's your phone."
Rozanov left first and Scott lingered on the mussed bed for a few minutes, staring up at the ceiling. He was fucked out and he waited for the usual emptiness to pool in. The reminder that these tiny sips were all he could have from the overflowing cup of want that was always just out of reach.
Except it didn't come. It was entirely possible that Rozanov would change his mind and lose Scott's number. Maybe he was smarter than Scott and could see the dangers in the waters without giving in to the siren song of temptation anyway.
But even the small hope that they would meet again and do this was enough to keep the usual emotional dullness from rolling in.
"You are an idiot," he told himself. It didn't help.
Two Months Later, Day Before Next Boston Vs New York Game
NYTY: Yes or no?
BH: Yes
NYTY: I can get a room somewhere.
BH: My apartment.
NYTY: That safe?
BH: Private
NYTY: It better be. Good luck tonight
BH: We do not need luck to beat you.
NYTY: Sure, get cocky, but bad brats get spanked.