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Beating Montreal on their own ice was always a delight. Doing it with Shane at his side made it even better, so there wasn’t much debate when he, Shane, and the rest of the team went out to celebrate at a bar in the city.
The place was packed. Too packed. Loud music, low lights, the smell of alcohol mixed with sweat and victory. The team took over several tables pushed together—loud laughter, clinking glasses, clumsy hugs. Shane moved among them with an irritating ease, smiling, leaning on other people’s shoulders, bending down to listen when someone spoke into his ear.
And there was the problem.
Because Shane, as always, was completely oblivious to the effect he had on people. To how attractive he was without even trying. Ilya was convinced that, at that very moment, the entire bar was looking at him—women, men, anyone with functioning eyes. That was Shane Hollander, on and off the hockey rink.
The only thing keeping Ilya relatively calm was knowing that everyone in that room also knew it: Shane was his. No one else’s. His husband, for God’s sake.
If anyone wasn’t aware, it was because they lived under a rock—there hadn’t been a single Canadian outlet that hadn’t posted photos of their wedding—or because they were deliberately ignoring the all-too-clear image of Shane leaning against his chest, with Ilya’s arms wrapped around his waist, possessive without even trying.
So yes. No one would dare hit on Shane.
Or so he thought.
“I’m going to the bathroom, I’ll be right back,” Ilya whispered in Shane’s ear, leaning in just enough for his voice to get lost between the music and the heat of their bodies.
A soft, drawn-out “okay” slipped from Shane’s lips in response, accompanied by a distracted smile. “Don’t take long.”
It was already past eleven and, honestly, Ilya had had more than one beer. But no one could blame him: it was Friday, they were celebrating a well-earned victory against Montreal, and on top of that, he had played with his husband. Something he never wanted to get used to, because every time it happened, it felt like the first time.
On the ice, he and Shane understood each other without speaking. As if the rest disappeared. They were one. Both had scored three goals; Shane the first and the last. Ilya could still feel that electricity running through his body. It had been… magical.
So yes, Ilya was happy.
He leaves the bathroom with that feeling still heavy in his chest and, almost by reflex, looks for Shane in the crowd. He finds him immediately. Beautiful. Laughing, his head tipped slightly back, that laugh that always loosened something inside him.
What he didn’t expect was who he was laughing with.
A guy.
One who wasn’t on the team or from Montreal.
Who the hell was that guy… and why was Shane laughing with him?
Ilya approaches from behind without rushing. He presses a surprise kiss to Shane’s cheek.
“Hey, babe,” Shane says, barely turning his head.
Ilya’s gaze goes straight to the guy standing in front of him. Direct. Cold. Crushing.
Hayden always said that if looks could kill, Ilya would be a serial killer by now.
And the worst part was that the guy… was attractive.
Green eyes. Curly brown hair, falling in an irritatingly neat way over his shoulders. He didn’t look anything like Ilya, it was actually more the opposite of Ilya. Brown hair, about the same height, but Henry didn’t have exaggerated muscles. Ilya could recognize when another man was good-looking; he had no issue with that. This one was. And he wanted him a thousand meters away from Shane.
“So… who’s this?” Ilya asks, lifting his eyebrows just slightly.
“Oh, this is Henry,” Shane replies, gesturing toward the guy with the biggest smile in the bar.
Ilya had to make a conscious effort not to wipe it off his face.
“Henry, this is my husband, Ilya. Who you probably already know.”
Henry’s smile falters. It doesn’t disappear completely, but it closes off. Becomes measured.
Good, Ilya thinks. Husband. Keep that in mind.
“Nice to meet you,” Henry says, inclining his head slightly. Great. British.
There was something in his expression… something that betrayed a small disappointment at hearing the word husband. He wasn’t trying very hard to hide it. All of that made Ilya hate him even more.
Ilya merely lifts one corner of his mouth in response. If he kept looking at him, he was going to lose his patience. So he shifts his focus. He presses his nose into Shane’s hair, inhales his scent, and tightens his grip on Shane’s hips, pulling him closer. Marking his territory without saying a single word.
Shane, completely oblivious to the silent war of looks being fought right in front of him, adds:
“Henry came to congratulate us on today’s win. We met through Rose; they’re friends. He’s a photographer—we were talking about some shoots he has this week.”
Honestly, Ilya couldn’t care less. But at least now he knew what they’d been talking about. More or less.
“And all the laughing, then?” he asks, barely masking the sarcasm.
“Oh, nothing,” Shane replies. “We were just remembering a campaign we worked on together. Henry was the photographer.”
“Oh, and what campaign was that?” Ilya asks.
“Underwear,” Henry replies.
Then Henry leans slightly toward Shane, just enough to invade his personal space without actually touching him.
“By the way,” he adds, with a crooked smile, “that shoot was one of the best I’ve ever done…” He pauses deliberately. “It’s always going to stay in my mind.”
Shane goes rigid for half a second and drops his head, blushing.
Okay, what the fuck is that? Ilya thinks. He doesn’t understand anything, and he’s about two seconds away from doing something he’ll probably regret later—when he sees the headline: “Hockey player beats defenseless photographer for no reason.”
Oh, Ilya has plenty of reasons.
“Oh, well… um,” Shane stammers. “I’m going to grab another drink.”
He slips out from under Ilya’s arm; Ilya resists for a second before letting him go.
“Ilya, do you want one?” Shane asks, already taking a step back.
Ilya is too busy murdering Henry in his head to even look at him. Henry, on the other hand, watches Ilya closely for the first time. His green eyes glint with something Ilya can’t quite place—amusement, maybe?
“No, moya lyubov, thanks,” Ilya replies, never taking his eyes off Henry.
“Okay… and you?” Shane asks Henry quickly, avoiding his gaze.
“You know what I like,” Henry answers, not looking at him either.
Shane nods, stunned, and gets out of there as fast as he can, before a fight breaks out—one he definitely doesn’t want to witness.
Honestly, he doesn’t understand how he ended up in this mess. Henry coming over to say hi had been weird enough after so much time, and the fact that the last time they’d seen each other had been in a context where Shane was giving him a blowjob didn’t help at all. But that had been a long time ago, and it hadn’t meant anything. At least, not to him.
It had always been Ilya. In his mind, in his heart.
Besides, Henry was the complete opposite of Ilya in every way—looks, personality. Shane had never been able to see him as anything more than another failed attempt to get Ilya out of his head.
This time, Henry had approached him in a friendly way. It wasn’t a lie that they’d been laughing about a photoshoot where Shane had been completely nervous, one they both remembered fondly. Of course, Shane avoided mentioning it to Ilya. Ilya knew that Shane had been with two men back when things between them were still uncertain, before they’d declared their love for each other—but Shane had never shared the details. It had seemed unnecessary.
And he certainly wasn’t going to explain that during that shoot, things had become less than professional: Henry touching him a little too much “to adjust him,” the kiss at the end. Details that, for obvious reasons, he wasn’t going to tell his husband. Especially not now.
Shane had a past. But it wasn’t important anymore.
That’s why he couldn’t understand how Henry had gone from being friendly to daring to flirt with him like that, dragging up things from the past that were supposed to stay buried. And on top of that—right in front of Ilya.
Ilya takes a slow, deep breath, like he’s counting to ten to keep himself from doing something stupid.
“So… what are you playing at, huh?”
Henry tilts his head slightly, relaxed—far too relaxed for Ilya’s liking.
“Nothing. Just saying hi to an old friend.”
He drags out the word friend, eyebrows lifting in a way that’s almost mocking.
This guy has some nerve, Ilya thinks, something dark and heated coiling in his chest.
“I know all of Shane’s friends,” he says, voice low and steady. “And I’ve never heard of you.”
Henry smiles faintly, like he’d been waiting for that.
“Maybe he didn’t tell you,” he says lightly. “But believe me, I know how he’s sound when he says MY name”
Something in Ilya snaps.
Ilya steps into Henry’s space, forcing him back half a step. His voice drops, dark and sharp.
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
From the other end of the bar, Shane sees it.
He sees the rigidity in Ilya’s body.
The way his shoulders square, like he’s about to lunge forward without caring about the place, the people, the consequences.
Shit.
He grabs the drink as soon as the bartender sets it down and moves fast. Things have already gone too far. And Shane knows it.
“So, here’s your drink, Henry.” Shane’s voice cuts through the tension cleanly, precisely, just before the situation turns irreversible. He sets the glass down on the bar with more care than the moment deserves and places himself between them, physically separating them.
When he turns toward Ilya, his jaw is clenched so tightly it must hurt, his muscles tense as if he’s holding back more than just jealousy. The hand gripping the beer squeezes hard enough that Shane half-expects to hear glass shatter. Without thinking, he lifts one hand to Ilya’s cheek, stroking it gently, grounding him in the present. With the other, he presses firmly against his chest.
“I’m sorry, Henry,” Shane says, with a calm he absolutely does not feel, “but our friends are calling us from the other table.”
Then he glances back over his shoulder.
“It was good to see you. Thanks for the chat.”
Henry finally looks away from Ilya and focuses on Shane instead. He exhales slowly, like he’s just accepted an uncomfortable truth. There was nothing to win here. No real competition. Shane was always going to belong to Ilya. Always.
“Yeah… it was great to see you, Shane.”
Without letting go, Shane threads his fingers through Ilya’s and guides him through the crowd. The music, the voices, the lights blur into background noise. They move fast, not saying a word, until they reach the bathroom.
Ilya goes in first. Shane closes the door behind him with a soft click that sounds far too loud in the bathroom’s silence.
“Ilya…” he manages to say.
He doesn’t get to finish.
Ilya spins around suddenly and slams him back against the door, solid and decisive. The kiss crashes down on Shane with brutal, possessive intensity. Ilya takes control from the very first second: a firm hand on Shane’s cheek, holding him exactly where he wants him, forcing his mouth open, setting the pace. Their tongues meet without patience, without care, like the air between them is in the way. Shane lets out a helpless moan, desperate, and he can feel wetness slipping down his chin.
“That fucker was implying he slept with you,” Ilya growls between kisses.
Shane struggles to process the words, still dizzy from the closeness, from the force of it all. He frowns.
“What?!”
“Yeah,” Ilya snaps, not easing up. “That fucking liar.”
The kiss breaks only so Ilya can trail down his jaw, along his neck, leaving open, wet kisses, marking the path like he needs to claim him with his mouth.
“I’m so glad you didn’t believe him,” he murmurs against Shane’s skin.
Shane clings to him, fingers in his hair, trying to steady himself as soft, traitorous moans slip free.
“At first I doubted,” Ilya admits, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You looked very friendly. But when you started talking about how you met… it clicked. I knew it had to be one of those guys from before.”
He doesn’t give Shane time to answer. He kisses him again, slower this time, heavy with intent, possessive.
“But the moment he started talking about you like that” He cups Shane’s face, grip firm, gaze unwavering.
“I knew I couldn’t give that mu-dák another second of my time.”
His voice vibrates low, his Russian accent growing stronger. “He’s a loser, jealous that I’m the only one who fucks you.”
The shiver that runs through Shane is immediate, shooting straight down his spine and into his legs—already hard in his pants.
The moment shatters abruptly when they hear footsteps approaching.
Laughter. Voices. The unmistakable sound of people heading for the bathroom.
They both freeze for barely a second before reacting. Shane grabs Ilya by the arm and shoves him into the first empty stall. They rush inside, the door closing just as the main bathroom door swings fully open.
Ilya crowds him against the stall wall, one hand braced beside his head, his body far too close. They can hear every sound outside.
They look at each other and silently laugh, eyes bright, adrenaline racing through them.
Ilya doesn’t waste time. His hands roam over Shane, over his clothes, slow but purposeful, like he wants to memorize every inch. The sheer shirt barely exists; it’s like touching bare skin. Shane swallows, his breathing starting to go uneven.
Ilya lifts two fingers, making it very clear: silence. He smiles.
His hands slide under the fabric, warm and sure. Shane tilts his head back against the wall, lips parted, holding back any sound that tries to escape.
Ilya brings his mouth to Shane’s ear, so close Shane can feel his breath.
“I leave for thirty seconds,” he whispers, “and you already have someone blatantly flirting with you. And on top of that, the bastard dares to do it right in front of me.”
Ilya reaches down and cups Hollander’s cock through his pants, drawing a moan from him. He gives it a light stroke, then leans in to whisper in his ear. “How do you not realize the effect you have on people, Shane Hollander?”
He drops to his knees and quickly pulls down Shane’s pants and underwear. Shane lifts his shirt slightly, obedient, desperate. Ilya leaves slow, deliberate, wet kisses along his skin, marking him as a reminder of who he belongs to… Shane was already hard, so Ilya decides not to waste time and takes him fully into his mouth, deep.
Ilya doesn’t bother going slowly. He allows his throat to open for him, and takes as much of shane as he can. Hands come up to his hair, tugging hard on it, but he doesn’t stop. shane’s precome tastes salty and bitter and fucking good, and for a second, Ilya forgets everything in life that isn’t the man shaking underneath him.
Shane tries to make as little noise as possible as he starts thrusting into his mouth. He bites his lip, covers his mouth with his hand, eyes closed as if that might help him stay quiet. Ilya looks up, and the image burns itself into his mind: Shane against the wall, trembling, undone, completely his.
He slides his arm over Shane’s torso with calculated slowness, savoring every reaction, every shiver. Shane arches just slightly, seeking more, and ends up clutching Ilya’s hair to keep his balance. His breathing is uneven; he doesn’t need to say a word to make it clear how much he’s feeling it.
Ilya takes his time. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows Shane is right on the edge, knows he could come just like this, without anything more—but he’s not going to allow it yet.
He pulls away slowly, cruel in his control, and before moving away completely, he kisses the head of his cock in farewell.
Shane already looks completely undone. His eyes barely open, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling unevenly as he tries to catch his breath after the near orgasm. Ilya watches him with almost devout attention. He knows exactly what that means. He knows how much Shane likes that precise point: when he’s right on the edge and Ilya decides not to let him fall.
That image—Shane trembling, vulnerable, waiting—is his favorite.
Ilya leans in and kisses him. It’s short, soft, almost sweet. A cruel contrast to everything else.
“Where’s your phone?” he asks quietly.
Shane is too far gone to question anything and takes a second to react, still dazed.
“Mmh… here,” he replies, handing it over without even thinking.
Ilya takes it and slips it into the back pocket of his pants for later. Then he goes back to Shane’s lips, this time unhurried. Slow. Deliberate. Savoring every second. First the upper lip, then the lower, setting his own pace, sucking on each one and biting it.
When Shane tries to pull back just enough to breathe, Ilya takes advantage. He turns him around firmly and presses his back against him, his prominent erection resting against Shane’s ass. The closeness is immediate, suffocating. Ilya starts rubbing against him over their clothes, and Shane lets out a muffled moan, his body reacting before his mind does.
Ilya tilts his mouth toward his ear.
“Do you want this? my cock in your ass?” he murmurs, voice low, deep, drawn out…
“Yes… please,” Shane begs.
His voice comes out broken. Shane begging—one of those sounds Ilya stores away in his memory.
Ilya rummages in his pocket for the lubricant. Ilya is careful. So yeah, he carries lube everywhere. He knows how they are. He puts enough on his fingers and then slips them into Shane’s hole. Ilya’s hand moves quickly, finding the point of pressure and using one large finger to press down at his entrance, demanding total attention.
The contact makes him shudder immediately. Shane bites down hard on his lips, trying to smother any sound that wants to escape. So hard that Ilya wonders, for a second, if he’s going to hurt himself.
The cold ceramic against his body stops mattering. Everything stops mattering.
Ilya moves his fingers with ruthless precision—firm, slow—forcing him to focus only on that. On him. On every second as he stretches, adapts, gives in.
The moans turn into small, broken sounds that die before they’re born. Wordless pleas. His breathing comes in short, uneven gasps, and his eyes close as if he can’t handle the sensation any other way.
His breath breaks into shallow, fractured sobs, his eyes squeezed shut. Ilya begins to move his fingers in a slow rotation, taking his time, deep, setting a rhythm that doesn’t seek relief but control. Shane is anchored to that feeling, lost, held up only by the wall and by the absolute certainty that Ilya knows exactly what he’s doing.
As he goes deeper into shane, hitting his sweet spot, Ilya murmurs calmly into his ear, “No one knows you like I do. No one knows how you like to be touched. No one does it like me.”
His fingers go deeper and faster, the sound of fingers and lubricant echoing through the bathroom. He truly hopes no one else is there—but who is he kidding, he doesn’t care. He needs the whole world to know that Shane Hollander is his, that he’s the only one who can wreck him and leave him shaking and moaning like this.
“This feels so good… keep going, please,” Shane begs, his voice breaking. The pleasure is so overwhelming it feels like he might cry. Shane pushes his ass back desperately, trying to get him to go deeper, and the sounds start slipping out of him, one after another, impossible to contain.
Ilya doesn’t rush. He never does.
He moves with slow, calculated determination, finding exactly the spot that makes Shane fall apart. He adjusts the angle, the depth, and stays right there, holding him. Forcing him to feel everything.
Shane is left breathless.
When Ilya knows—because he always knows—that he’s ready, he straightens him up firmly against the wall. Shane’s chest presses against the cold ceramic, but he doesn’t even register it. Ilya takes his face, forces him to look at him, and kisses him. It’s a dirty kiss, awkward because of the angle, but loaded with intention. Tongues searching, recognizing each other, claiming.
Ilya pulls back just enough to speak against his lips, voice low, rough, dangerous.
“I’m going to make you scream my name. I’m going to fuck you so hard,” he murmurs. “And then everyone will know who Shane Hollander belongs to.”
Shane moans, surrendered, wanting him right now.
The pressure between them is unbearable. His cock is in his ass, Shane moves back against him with a moan that sounds more like pain than pleasure, nodding weakly.
“Give it to me, please,” he begs, his voice broken.
Ilya licks his ear slowly, deliberately, then trails down the back of his neck to leave a kiss that burns.
He pulls away only to, in a matter of seconds, undo the zipper of his pants and free his cock, completely hard, already starting to ache. He strokes himself for a few moments, searching for relief and slicking it with precum. He takes a deep breath. He gives himself a moment Shane doesn’t have. The tension runs through him, built up, almost painful—but he doesn’t give in yet. Just something first.
He reaches into his back pocket.
Shane’s phone.
He unlocks it easily. His fingers move with purpose until he finds the name he’s looking for.
Henry.
He opens the contact and types just four words.
come to the bathroom
He hits send.
The phone goes back where it was.
Ilya steps in close again, pressing himself against Shane’s back like nothing happened.
Like he didn’t just light a match.
Now there would be no doubt.
He looks down and there is Shane: arched, breathing unevenly, completely given over. Made only for him.
Mine.
That sight—Shane spread open, ready to be fucked—is Ilya’s alone. No one else sees him like this. No one else gets this moment. He’ll never get tired of admiring it.
Without thinking about it too much, Rozanov starts to sink into Shane. They both moan, but Shane tries to smother his, bringing a hand to his mouth, aware—too aware—of where they are. On the other side of the doors, the bar is still alive. Laughter. Footsteps.
Ilya pushes forward slowly, taking his time. He’s not looking for speed. He’s looking for control. He’s looking for total attention. He feels Shane’s walls tightening around him, both of them breathing raggedly, Shane letting out pleas that never quite form.
Always like this.
Shane always breaks for him.
Eventually, Rozanov is fully inside, and he starts the steady roll of his hips, hitting against Shane’s ass. He leans in, resting his forehead against the back of Shane’s neck, speaking just barely loud enough to be heard.
“Fuck, Hollander…” he murmurs. “Always so tight for me.”
Shane lets out a broken moan. There’s nothing left of him that isn’t responding to Ilya.
And Ilya smiles.
The rhythm is slow at first. Heavy. Guiding. Long, deep thrusts that unfailingly find the spots that make Shane completely come undone. Every movement draws an immediate reaction from his body—moans he can’t contain, breaths that break before they can turn into words.
Ilya feels himself filling him completely, that delicious heat coiling at the base of Shane’s spine every time Ilya’s cock brushes his prostate again and again. Small gasps slip out of him with each thrust, as if the air is being torn from his chest.
Then Ilya speeds up.
The rhythm changes, becoming more intense, more brutal, loaded with an almost feral force.
“You’re so mine, Shane,” he growls as he fucks into him, driving hard—maybe too hard—but Shane answers every movement with that precious sound that gets caught in his throat every time Ilya hits exactly where he likes it.
There are no words anymore.
Only sound.
Only open breaths, the flaring of his nostrils as Ilya pounds into him without giving him a break.
The sensation takes over everything: Shane’s smell, his sweat, his dick against Shane, his skin against his. Too close and wet—fuck—too intense. Overwhelming. So good it almost hurts.
Ilya is sure that if it weren’t for the deafening music of the bar, everyone would be able to hear Shane moaning. The thought sparks something dark in his chest.
And then the door opens.
—“Shane?” the Brit’s voice comes from outside, hesitant, searching.
That’s the moment.
Ilya digs his hands into Shane’s hips hard, fingers marking him, holding him like he’s never going to let go, and he doesn’t stop—he fucks him even harder, with brutal intensity, careless, relentless. The rhythm turns merciless, punishing.
“This is so deep, Ilya, mmhh, keep going ” Shane pants, his voice breaking.
The sounds coming out of him are no longer moans. They’re muffled, desperate cries, ripped from the deepest part of his chest as he tries—unsuccessfully—to cover his mouth.
“Yes,” Ilya demands, his voice hard, rough. “Yes, say my name. You love my cock so much, don’t you. Say it.”
Their breaths crash together in the closed air, heavy, messy.
“Ilya…” Shane sobs. “I love your dick. I love you. I’m yours. Yes… yes… you fill me so well, Rozanov.”
Ilya’s ego swells without shame. There’s no doubt left about who it is that makes Shane lose control. Whose name he screams when he can’t take it anymore.
The space fills with obscene sounds, bodies colliding, a rhythm that doesn’t stop.
Ilya presses against him, filling him completely, and leans in just enough to lick a drop of sweat beneath his ear.
Shane trembles all over.
And Ilya knows there’s no turning back now.
Something dark and satisfying grows in Ilya’s chest as he holds Shane like this, as he knows—feels—that they’re not entirely alone. He doesn’t need to see it to know. The presence of someone on the other side of the door is almost tangible. The possibility that he’s listening lights him up more than anything else.
It’s not just jealousy.
It’s certainty.
The certainty that no one else will ever have this. That even if someone else hears it, they’ll never possess what Ilya holds in his hands. That those reactions, those sounds, that absolute surrender exist only for him.
Let him learn.
Let him listen closely.
Who the only one is who can make Shane say his name like that.
When he senses the movement outside—the door, the shift in the air, footsteps moving away—something in Ilya settles. There’s no rush. No fury. Just a deep, almost serene satisfaction.
He’s gone.
He’d heard enough. He’d heard Ilya claim shane as his.
The night had improved significantly. This was the cherry on top.
Now, the only thing left… was to make Shane come.
And it won’t take long.
Shane is already completely lost, moving on his own, desperately seeking his own release. His hands tremble as he touches his dick, his body reacting without control, his breathing broken.
“You like that?” Ilya murmurs, low, dark. “My cock in your hole, breaking you, how well I fill you.”
A few more thrusts—firm, precise—and Shane breaks. One last long sound tears from his chest, completely undone, as he comes without being able to hold it back, his body shaking against the wall and the floor.
Shane is left weak. Sensitive. Open.
Ilya isn’t finished yet.
He keeps chasing his own release while watching Shane tremble, biting his lip at the waves of pleasure still shooting through that exact spot Ilya knows by heart. When he feels the urgency light a fire inside him, he pulls his dick out of Shane’s hole.
“On your knees.”
Shane obeys immediately. He settles in front of him, lifting his face, opening his mouth and sticking out his tongue in a silent response, waiting for Ilya’s seed, surrendered.
That image is enough.
Ilya loses himself in it, a deep sound slipping from him as he jerks himself off, giving everything—no control, no shame. Shane takes it without hesitation, like the good boy he is.
Ilya breathes hard when he’s finished.
“My cockslut,” he murmurs.
Shane laughs softly, exhausted.
Ilya crouches down and grips his face firmly, forcing him to look up, and kisses him. Deep. Intentional. Savoring him, claiming him, sucking on his tongue and taking advantage of it to spit into it, marking him even there. When he pulls back, he doesn’t loosen his grip. He stays there, holding him, looking him in the eyes.
Ilya’s gaze is dark. Burning. Absolute.
“Mine.”
Ilya leans in again and gives him another kiss on the lips. This time it’s different. Soft. Almost tender. Then, without saying anything, he calmly runs his tongue along Shane’s cheek, cleaning away the remains of his cum with a natural ease that make Shane pull a disgusted face—pure automatic reflex—but then he lets it happen and smile.
He helps him to his feet, holding him a second longer than necessary.
“I can’t believe I knelt on the floor of this filthy bathroom,” Shane mutters, making a face.
Ilya lets out an open laugh. God, how he loved this man.
“And you loved it,” he replies, pride unmistakable in his voice.
Shane rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say. Don’t let it go to your head. Let’s get out of here… I feel disgusting.”
They leave the bathroom after cleaning up as best they can, fixing their clothes, trying—without much success—to look normal.
“Do you think the guys noticed we were gone?” shane asks as they head back toward the Ottawa team’s table.
“Nah, I don’t think so,” ilya answers, shrugging.
But as soon as they arrive, several heads lift at the same time. Crooked smiles. Raised eyebrows. Looks that know far too much.
“So…” troy says, amused. “Were you having a good time?”
Ilya and Shane look at each other for a second. Just one.
And they laugh.