Chapter Text
Ilya gets all the credit as the perceptive one, but Shane notices things.
He notices, for example, in his first practice for the Centaurs, when Coach Wiebe talks through how he’s thinking of arranging the forwards, with Barrett dropping back to be right wing to Shane while Luca Haas goes up to the first line alongside Ilya and Boodram, the Haas kid’s eyes go wide. Twenty-one but looking about sixteen, round-faced and boyish with a mop of angelic blond hair, the way he glances over at Ilya in that moment is not dissimilar to the way the children on their charity summer camps do when they first step onto the ice. Which is a little ridiculous, given Ilya and Haas have been teammates for a year already. But Shane lets it go.
Then he notices how, in training, Ilya throws little bits of praise Hass’ way — good job, kid or nice one, Haasy. And every time, Haas’ cheeks pink and he ducks his head like he can’t quite believe that Ilya Rozanov just complimented him. Every time Shane sees it happen, he has to clamp down on the tiniest flicker of annoyance. The kid seems to spend half his time on the ice red-faced and stammering, which, if Ilya’s sly grin is anything to go by, is exactly the reaction he’s hoping for. But except one momentary slip — leaving practice with Ilya, his husband called out to Haas walking ahead of them, “Great work today, kid!”, and Shane grumbled under his breath, “Did I do great work today, too?”, which made Ilya laugh — he keeps his feelings to himself.
It’s nothing.
Then, a couple of games into the season, Haas scores a late winner against Toronto in what had been up until that point a brutal, goalless game, and Ilya picks him up and spins him — easily, since Haas is about Shane’s height and build and, well, Ilya’s had plenty of practice lifting someone of that size — yelling, “Fucking right, kid!”, and Haas looks like he’s about to melt into a puddle on the ice. And when Ilya finally deposits him back on his skates, Shane, even from the bench, notices that Luca’s gaze slips from Ilya’s eyes down to his mouth. Blink-and-you’ll-miss-it quick, but Shane notices all right.
It’s not like Shane is unused to people falling under the spell of his husband’s looks and charm, his heady mix of arrogance and humour. And Ilya is always quick to point out that Shane isn’t exactly without admirers either, though he himself is usually oblivious to the attention even as bartenders offer him free drinks or shy fans stutter their way through a meet-and-greet. But this feels different. Maybe it’s the hockey, brushing up too close to what Shane and Ilya have together. Maybe it’s that there’s an echo, sometimes, in the glee Ilya takes in getting a rise out of Haas, of the way he likes to rile Shane up, too.
So when the whole team is at Monks after a big home win, everyone pleasantly tipsy and thrilled about the start the Centaurs have made this year, and Shane spots Ilya and Haas sat at the bar together, alone, practically leaning against each other, Shane downs the remainder of his beer (his third of the night) and walks off while Wyatt Hayes is pretty much mid-sentence. Hayes won’t mind. Nothing fazes that guy.
Shane gets close enough to see that it’s a piece of paper Ilya and Haas have got, Haas bent over it with intense focus while Ilya watches.
“Hey,” Shane says. He doesn’t say more, because he doesn’t trust himself to keep the annoyance out of his voice.
They both look up. Haas goes red, his arm moving to shield the paper from view.
“Shane!” Ilya says. “Haas is doing me a tattoo.”
“He’s — what?”
Haas, if possible, has gone even redder.
“Come, look. He is very good.”
Ilya gestures for Shane to come closer, but doesn’t quite touch. Shane’s been strict so far about public displays of affection at team events. But now, as Shane draws in, he very deliberately brushes his hip against Ilya’s side.
Haas reluctantly moves his hand, revealing... a portrait of Anya. The style is more cartoonish than realistic, but it’s unmistakeably her, and Haas is good, good enough that he’s made the picture look like it’s in motion, all shaded elegance and fluid lines. The lack of hestiancy in how its drawn, the boldness, is surprising, and even Shane can see it will make for a great tattoo, the ink unforgiving of anything more tenatative.
“I could not decide between a picture of you and a picture of Anya,” Ilya says. “I hope you are not upset I am getting Anya first.”
Ordinarily, this is the kind of comment Shane would have a ready retort for — at the very least, an eye roll. But he’s too captivated — begrudgingly — by Haas’ drawing. Ilya notices, grins.
“Amazing, right?”
Haas, embarrassed by the attention, is staring down at the peeling varnish of the bar top. The little quiver of his mouth at Ilya’s praise snaps Shane out of it. Suddenly he remembers why he came over.
“Yeah,” he says, flatly. “It’s great. But hey.”
He puts an arm around Ilya, and of course he sees how Hass’ eyes track the movement of Shane’s hand over Ilya’s shoulder and down his tricep. “It’s getting kind of late.”
He leans down so he’s practically breathing into Ilya’s neck and murmurs —
“Want to get out of here?”
Does he make it loud enough for Haas to hear? Even over the crowded bar.
Ok, so maybe he does.
Ilya pulls back a little and gives Shane a look — a look that should give some pause, because it’s his I-know-you-more-intimately-than-anyone-in-the-world-so-don’t-think-I-haven’t-got-you-all-figured-out-look, but three beers deep, Shane doesn’t even care.
“Ok,” says Ilya. “Let’s go.”
They head for the door, but halfway there, Ilya shouts back across the bar —
“Haasy! Bring that tomorrow, you’re coming with me to get it done!”
Which is probably why, just as they reach the exit, Shane stops, wraps his arms around Ilya and kisses him, rules be damned. Someone — probably Bood — wolf whistles. When they break apart, Shane meets Haas’ eye over Ilya’s shoulder, and, if he’s honest with himself, the smile on his — Shane’s — face is much closer to a smirk than is seemly. The kid is barely old enough to buy his own drinks, for God’s sake.
Shane grips Ilya’s hand and tugs him out into the night.
*
Ilya obviously knows Shane has a thing about Luca Haas. He’s not blind. Shane is never rude or unprofessional, Haas himself probably hasn’t even clocked it, but Ilya has and he thinks it’s hilarious. He’s waiting for the best time to bring it up, the moment that will wind Shane up the most — and, maybe a little, waiting also just to give himself time to assess whether, rather than joking about it they need to have an actual talk, if there's any risk Shane is genuinely upset.
But then, Wiebe tweaks the first and second lines ahead of their game against the Admirals. Barrett comes back up alongside Ilya, meaning for the first time, Haas will be playing alongside Shane.
Haas looks, if possible, even more awestruck by this news than when he heard he’d be playing with Ilya at the start of the season. Shane looks completely unbothered, a look he seems to be pointedly radiating in Ilya’s direction. And, not just for hockey-related reasons, Ilya can’t wait to see how this goes.
How it goes — really fucking well.
Here’s the thing about Luca and Shane. They play similarly — no-nonsense, patient, quick and ruthless. Ilya is all about the show — he has an aesthetic appreciation for the game played to its highest, boldest level, and will take a chance on a tricky but brilliant move rather than the more understated sure bet. Barrett, for all his steady quiet off the ice, is, with skates on, a bit of a show-off too, it’s why he and Ilya play so well together. And Shane, whenever he and Ilya have been line mates, can adapt, has a certain appetite for risk that Ilya draws out of him, while Shane’s clinical brilliance creates the very openings Ilya needs to shine. But Haas... he’s never been a bad line mate, far from it, but Ilya could tell he was pushed, sometimes, outside his comfort zone, forced to adapt to a style of play not his own.
With Shane, though. With Shane, he blooms.
Ilya watches as Shane is won over by Haas, slowly at first but soon without reservation. By the way he is so open and earnest in everything he does, by how he treats what they do as a privilege, not a right, maintaining a wide-eyed, slightly reverent air like he can’t believe he really gets to do this, play hockey with his heroes. On anyone else, this naivety might shade into a shyness or hesitation in their game, but Haas — not unlike Shane — clicks into gear when he’s on the ice, like a piece of machinery a little cumbersome out of context but beautiful when put to its true use.
In Haas, Shane has a disciple whose eagerness to learn matches Shane’s own boundless appetite for repeating drills and analysing replays. Ilya is privately thrilled, even a little smug, watching the two of them during breaks in practice or in the locker room after games, Shane growing ever-more animated as he talks, unselfconscious in a way Ilya finds impossibly endearing, while Haas listens with rapt attention. This is far preferable to Shane’s suppressed annoyance at Haas’ little crush, and Ilya is ready to maybe start teasing Shane about stealing Ilya’s fanboy for his own.
But then it turns out that Haas has always been interested in the conditioning benefits of yoga, and Shane (having long given up on Ilya seeing it as anything but a chance to ogle his husband in tight clothing) is only too happy to show him the basics. One day, Ilya is passing the team gym and spots Haas and Shane in there alone — pauses a moment for a chance to watch them, unobserved. Shane is in the middle of demonstrating a short flow, and Haas sits cross-legged on his own mat, almost cherubically pretty with his blond curls that look always like someone has just run a hand through them, chewing on his lip a little as he watches. And when it’s his turn to repeat the movements, Ilya realises two things. First, Haas is flexible — surprisingly so, moving with innocent grace from pose to pose. Second, Shane’s gaze, running over Haas’ body, watching muscles stretch and shift under skin, watching Haas’ hair fall across his forehead as he bends, has a certain... lingering quality.
This, Ilya thinks, is interesting.
And then there is a game in Buffalo where Haas gets his first hat trick of the season, all off assists from Shane, and when the final goal goes in, just minutes before the end of the third period and Shane skates over to Haas to congratulate him, Haas beams at Shane so dazzlingly that Ilya sees his own husband’s smile widen in response, until it skirts close to the kind of unguarded smile Ilya thinks of as his alone.
And this is very interesting.
*
“Haasy played well today.”
They’re on the bed in Ilya’s hotel room — all season, Shane’s been insisting they don’t share, fewer distractions before games, but winning unfailingly has him knocking on Ilya’s door before the night is out. Ilya can’t complain. It’s almost like old times.
Shane is on his back, sprawled against the pillows, lips bitten red and hair well-mussed from Ilya getting his hands into it, tugging and guiding. He raises his head.
“Sorry,” he says. “What?”
He looks down, as if to check Ilya’s still inside him; Ilya crooks his fingers, two of them, just to be sure there’s no doubt. Shane’s huff of breath is somewhere between aroused and annoyed.
“Haas,” Ilya says. His tone light, conversational. “He had a good game.”
“Are you seriously talking about Haas right now?”
The sting is taken out of Shane’s words by how breathlessly he says them, but he still has that cute scrunched-up frown that Ilya loves so much.
“He’s a good kid,” Ilya says. “Very pretty.”
“Fuck off,” Shane snaps. But Ilya just presses deeper into him, the answering gasp as familiar as if it came from his own lungs.
“You don’t think so? I saw you doing yoga together. Seemed like you were...” Ilya searches for the words. When he finds them, grins. “Admiring his form.”
Shane is up on his elbows now, pink-cheeked and glaring.
“I don’t believe this,” he says. “As if you’re not the one who gets off on Luca trailing after you like a —”
Ilya cuts him off with the addition of a third finger.
“Yes, yes,” he says. “We all know Haas has a crush on me. Big poster of me on his wall. But you —” Emphasising his point with a press on Shane’s prostate, making his husband shudder. “You have a crush on him.”
“Fuck you,” Shane says. Well, pants, really. “And you’re so lying about the poster.”
“Nope. Told me himself. Big poster in his room growing up. I’m his hero.”
Shane’s eyes narrow.
“It’s not true,” he insists. “The poster was —”
He breaks off abruptly, but Ilya’s obviously not letting that one go. He brings his free hand to Shane’s cock, stokes it with maddeningly light pressure. Shane collapses back onto the pillows with a moan.
“Ilya.”
“The poster was?” Ilya prompts. “You are the expert in Luca Haas’ childhood bedroom now?”
“It was of me, you idiot.”
Ilya laughs, loud and delighted.
“Did Haas tell you that? Maybe the kid only has one pick up line.”
Shane throws a pillow at him. Misses.
“Will you please shut up about Luca Haas?”
Ilya’s still laughing as he lowers himself down and catches Shane’s dick in his mouth, working his fingers in time with the swirling of his tongue around the head. He tastes his husband’s growing desperation in a bead of pre-come, hears it in the way Shane whines, one hand coming to Ilya’s head to grip his curls.
Ilya has never played an instrument, but he wonders if it would be like this — movements of fingers, tongue and breath, so certain of the beauty of the music it will produce. Hockey — hockey is chaotic, unpredictable, it’s what he loves most about it. So many moving bodies, so many minds at work, a mess of actions and reactions. This, here with Shane, is a world beautifully bounded, where all there is, it seems, is Ilya and how Shane’s body responds. Ilya is good at hockey. One of the best. He’s great at Shane, the expert, the maestro. It almost seems a shame, sometimes, to have this particular skill, unlike hockey, kept hidden from the world.
Well-attuned to the tremors in his husband’s thighs and the pitch of his moans, Ilya pulls off just as he knows Shane is close to coming. Sometimes, he likes to have Shane come before he fucks him, likes how it makes his husband even more pliant than usual, but tonight he’s more in the mood for denial. He flips Shane easily onto his front, one hand on each hip to pull him up from his stomach to his knees. When he pushes inside, he is slow, savouring the noise Shane makes, rapturous relief, like this is all he has ever wanted. Ilya answers with his own groan, falling for a moment to press his chest against Shane’s back, drops a light kiss on one shoulder.
“Perfect,” Ilya murmurs.
Then he’s back upright, holding Shane firm, starting slow and deep with his thrusts.
“You know,” he says, trying for casual like before, but he can’t help a little strain creeping into his voice. He’s only human, after all, and Shane’s making those needly little noises Ilya can never get enough of. “Maybe you wish Haas was here.”
“Shut — up — Rozanov,” Shane gasps. Ilya can tell he’s only got about a minute, maybe two, of coherent speech left in him. Ilya’s been gradually building his pace, now fucking Shane in earnest, one hand roving from Shane’s hip, across his ass, his lower back, coming to rest between his shoulder blades and pressing down.
“I think maybe,” Ilya says, “you wish he could see you like this. Perfect Shane Hollander making all these pretty, slutty sounds because he’s so desperate for me to fuck him harder.”
Shane whimpers at that, pressing his face into a pillow, but Ilya grabs him by the hair, pulls.
“No, sweetheart,” he says. “Let me hear you.”
Just as predicted, Shane can’t manage much more than —
“Ilya.”
“Or maybe,” Ilya says. “You want Haas to fuck you? Hm? Maybe I could teach him how. He learns quick, that kid.”
“No,” Shane whines. “Want — need — only you. Please, Ilya.”
One of Ilya’s favourite parts of sex — and this, maybe, is closer to hockey than music — is the air of improvisation to it. He never plans ahead; he has fantasies, sure, but whenever he is here, in the room, fucking Shane and feeling, in his own body, the slow build of pleasure, its crests and waves, he goes by instinct, pleased whenever intuition guides him to something that drives Shane wildest.
Now, on impulse, he reaches down and hooks an arm under Shane’s chest to haul him up. The abruptness startles Shane into a moment of twisting in Ilya’s grip, but Ilya holds firm and Shane quickly slackens. Ilya knows how much Shane needs, after a day of exercising perfect mastery over his body, the release of letting Ilya take over where he moves and how.
Ilya puts one hand on Shane’s throat — not squeezing, just claiming. The other hand moves down to stroke Shane’s cock.
“I think you’d do it,” Ilya says. “Let Haas fuck you. If I told you to.”
Shane bucks into Ilya’s hand, chasing the friction.
“N-no,” he says. “I’m yours, Ilya. Yours.”
Ilya kisses Shane’s neck, gentle at first, but the kiss turns sharp, has teeth, and Shane cries out in response.
“Mine, yes,” he says. “But it’s like if I let Haas ride in one of my cars.” The words doing almost as much for him as Shane, the pace of his thrusts and his hand on Shane’s dick growing frantic. “Just to let him see what he was missing.”
“Oh my God.”
“You see, sweetheart,” Ilya says, close to Shane’s ear. “What’s the point of owning something if you can’t show it off?”
And this is what tips them both over the edge, Shane coming over Ilya’s hand, his own chest, as Ilya comes inside him. They both collapse, sweating and swearing, onto the sheets. Ilya’s mind, pleasantly slow and fucked-out, is nevertheless still is able to register the thought —
Very interesting indeed.