Chapter Text
Luca, his rookie, his responsibility, goes visibly pink whenever Ilya so much as looks at him. Not a subtle flush, either. Full ears-to-cheeks, caught-doing-something-illegal red. The kid stumbles over his words, forgets where he’s supposed to be standing, and once actually backed straight into a water cooler trying to avoid eye contact.
Ilya finds it… distracting.
He tries, at first, to be normal about it.
“Good pass today,” Ilya says one afternoon, stopping Luca in the hallway outside the locker room.
Luca freezes like he’s been hit with a stun gun.
“Oh—uh—thanks, Cap—Captain,” he blurts, voice cracking slightly on the second syllable. He does not look up. Not even a little. His gaze stays locked somewhere around Ilya’s chest.
Ilya waits. Smiles. Tilts his head.
“You can look at me, you know.”
Luca’s ears go scarlet.
“I—yeah—I mean—sorry—I just—” He gestures vaguely, then bails. Fully turns and speed-walks away down the hall.
Ilya watches him go, brows knitting together.
That night, he FaceTimes Shane.
“This is a problem,” Ilya says, stretched out on the bed, phone propped against a pillow. “My rookie runs away from me.”
Shane, in a hotel room several time zones away, snorts. “Maybe stop terrifying him.”
“I am not terrifying.”
“You’re a six-foot-whatever NHL captain with resting murder face,” Shane says. “You’re terrifying.”
“He cannot make eye contact,” Ilya insists. “I speak to him like a human being and he panics.”
Shane studies him for a second, then smiles knowingly. “Ilya. He has a crush on you.”
Ilya scoffs. “No.” Then, after a pause: “I mean, yes. I am hot, yes. But Shane, this is more than a crush. He is more anxious than you were during our rookie season.”
“He’s just nervous,” Shane says.
“He grew up watching you,” Shane continues. “Now you’re his captain. That would scramble anyone’s brain.”
Ilya considers this. “Still a problem.”
“It’ll pass,” Shane says. “Stop looming.”
“I do not loom,” Ilya mutters.
But Ilya doesn’t let it go.
A couple months after the fanmail video of Shane and Ilya leaks, and their relationship becomes very, very public, Shane goes with Ilya to the Boots’ team party.
It’s exactly what you’d expect. Loud music. Too much alchohol.
And of course, the Centaurs immediately swarm Shane.
Three-time Stanley Cup winner. League darling. MVP. Hockey’s golden boy, even though he’s not on their roster, he’s still that guy. Guys drift over under the pretense of grabbing food and somehow end up hanging on his every word. Someone asks about his off-season training. Someone else wants a picture “for my dad.”
Ilya hangs back, arms folded, watching with open fondness.
He never forgets how impressive his fiancé is. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy seeing other people fawn over him.
Eventually the crowd thins. Shane escapes and ends up leaning beside Ilya, bumping his shoulder lightly.
“Survived?” Ilya asks?.
“Barely,” Shane mummurs.
They’re mid-conversation when Luca approaches.
Ilya notices immediately. The careful way he comes to a stop. The way he keeps his weight angled away from Ilya, eyes fixed stubbornly on the ground like it might open up and swallow him.
“Uh—hi,” Luca says. “Sorry—I just—hi.”
Shane turns toward him, a polite smile already in place. “Hey.”
Luca swallows.
“I—um. I just wanted to say—uh—this is really cool. I mean—not the barbecue—well, yes, the barbecue—but just—” He winces, mortified, then pushes through. “I grew up watching you play. You’re—uh—you’re my hero.”
Shane blinks, then laughs softly. “That’s really nice of you. Thanks, man.”
Luca nods quickly, eyes flicking up just long enough to meet Shane’s before darting back to the ground. He does not look at Ilya. Not once.
Ilya absolutely notices.
“I thought I was your childhood hero rookie,” Ilya says lightly.
Luca goes beet red.
“Ilya,” Shane says, elbowing him gently. “Leave the kid alone.”
Then Shane turns back to Luca, expression kind. “And hey, you didn’t have too bad of a rookie season yourself.”
Luca freezes.
“Oh—uh—thanks,” he says, flushing even deeper. He nods, shakes Shane’s outstretched hand, and then promptly scurries.
Ilya watches him disappear.
“Reminds me of you,” Ilya says casually.
Shane squints at him. “What are you even talking about?”
“Prospect Cup,” Ilya says. “You stalked me out to the parking lot to shake my hand.”
“I did not stalk you.”
“And then you shook my hand twice,” Ilya adds.
“I was being friendly.”
“Mmh,” Ilya hums. “Friendly.”
Shane swats his chest, refusing to dignify that with a response.
“But you see what I mean,” Ilya continues, turning serious again. “He is so flustered around me, he doesn’t even look at me.”
Shane sighs. “Ilya, that’s because you—”
He stops, searching for the right phrasing.
“—because you’re intense,” Shane finishes. “And he’s twenty-one and trying not to screw up in front of his captain.”
Ilya narrows his eyes. “So you agree. It is a problem.”
Shane groans. “That is not what I said.”
Ilya smiles anyway.
Luca hears about it in the Centaurs group chat first.
Bood:
did you guys see this yet?
Barrett:
if this is another crypto link i’m blocking you
Bood:
It’s the only way to get rich Barrett, but no hollander’s signing with us
Barrett:
shut the fuck up
Hazy:
lol no he’s not
Bood:
i’m serious. my agent just texted.
Barrett:
no way man
the team’s gonna be staaaacked
Hazy:
we literally do not have “three time stanley cup winner” money
Bood:
that’s what i said
Hazy:
how the fuck are we affording him
Rozanov:
i heard he has a very rich husband
Troy:
💀
Hazy:
EXCUSE me
Hazy:
so we’re being sponsored gay mairrage 🏳️🌈
Troy:
🌈👬💖
Barrett:
is the husband single asking for a Haasy
Rozanov:
No.
Haas:
Stfu Barrett
Luca drops his phone onto the mattress and faceplants into his bed.
He is going to die. Literally. This is it.
He’s been a complete fucking weirdo around Rozanov. The man probably thinks Luca is some socially inept idiot who can’t string a sentence together. Which—okay, fine—but there are reasons.
Because Luca spent almost every night from 2013 until the moment he got drafted to the Centaurs jerking off to a poster of Ilya Rozanov, those intense eyes staring back at him from the wall.
So excuse him for having a bit of a problem talking to that same man in the flesh. Especially when that man is now his captain. And Luca always had a thing for authority figures, particularly when they oscillate between being terrifyingly intense and teasing him like it’s their favorite game.
And now—now—that man’s HUSBAND is joining the team.
Shane. Fucking. Hollander.
The same Shane Hollander Luca kept a literal box of magazine covers of, he can probably draw the CK cover from memory. The same Shane Hollander whose face he’d stared at on nights he wasn’t jerking off to Ilya’s poster—because sometimes you needed variety. Sometimes it was Shane. Sometimes it was Ilya.
Most of the time, if Luca was being honest, it was both.
And now what. Now he was just supposed to exist around them like a normal human being?
Go through practices and skills workshops and team meetings and parties with the two of them standing there, together, like it was fine. Like he’s not going to spontaneously combust.
He groans into his pillow and punches the mattress once, weakly.
He is so fucked.
So fucking fucked.
The first day of training camp, Luca’s confident.
He’s only been back from Switzerland a couple of days, but he didn’t slack while he was home. Not when Hollander and Rozanov are going to be on the team. Not when his entire nervous system is on the line.
So yeah—he’s confident when he skates onto the ice.
He’s early. Only Troy and Hayes are out there.
He skates over to Hayes first, says a quick hi, but Hayes is deep in his weird goalie stretches—upside down, half-contorted, muttering to himself—so Luca leaves him alone. He circles back and joins Troy instead. They talk about their summers. Switzerland. Fishing. Family. It’s easy. Normal.
He relaxes.
And then the hair on the back of his neck stands up.
Luca turns.
Hollander skates onto the ice, smooth and unhurried, followed closely by Rozanov.
Luca swears he hears Phantom of the Opera music in his ears. Like they’re haunting him with their hotness.
Hollander peels off, skating a lazy circle around the rink to warm up.
Rozanov heads straight for him.
“Have a good break, rookie?”
Luca wants to say something about how he’s not technically a rookie anymore. Or ask about Rozanov’s summer. Or say literally anything coherent.
Instead his brain shuts off.
“Good,” he manages.
Rozanov studies him for half a second—then, mercifully, moves on to talk to Bood down the ice.
Luca exhales.
Eventually Hollander drifts over.
He’s still flustered, but it’s different. Hollander isn’t as intimidating as Rozanov. He doesn’t tease. He doesn’t pin Luca in place with his eyes.
“How was your summer, Haas?” Hollander asks easily.
Luca actually manages a sentence. “Good. I went home, saw my family. Kept busy. How about you?”
“Oh,” Hollander says casually, adjusting his gloves, “Ilya and I got married. Then we went to Ibiza.”
“Oh,” Luca says.
Oh.
“Hope you had fun,” he adds, immediately hating himself for how awkward that sounded.
Because Luca is not safe here.
Now his brain has unhelpfully supplied images he did not ask for: Hollander and Rozanov on a honeymoon. Ibiza. Sun. Beaches. Rozanov’s ass in tiny shorts. The memory of the stolen glance Luca caught in the locker room last season—Rozanov’s ass, again. Hollander’s bare chest stretched out on a lounger.
He forces himself to blink. To refocus. To keep skating.
He is absolutely, catastrophically fucked.
Shane notices.
He notices the way Luca’s stride stutters for half a second after their conversation. The way he overcorrects his skating, shoulders too stiff, eyes fixed very deliberately anywhere except where Ilya is moving down the ice. He notices how Luca almost misses a clean pass from Troy because his attention is still somewhere warm and sandy and imaginary.
Shane keeps his face neutral.
That’s the trick, really. Years of press scrums and locker rooms and knowing exactly when not to react.
But inside, he’s deeply entertained.
Because he’s seen this before.
He watches Luca sneak a glance toward Ilya, quick, panicked, like touching a hot stove, then immediately look away and skate harder, like effort might scrub the thought out of his brain. He watches him nearly trip over his own stick when Ilya calls something from across the ice.
Oh.
Oh, buddy.
Shane hums softly to himself and pushes off into another warm-up lap.
He’d told Ilya to leave the kid alone.
Now he realizes that might not be enough.
Because Luca Haas doesn’t just have a little crush, he’s completely, catastrophically gone.
After training, everything is easy.
Ilya’s in the kitchen making dinner, moving around with quiet efficiency. Shane’s at the table with his laptop open, replying to emails for the Irina Foundation, occasionally muttering under his breath.
They talk hockey the way they always do.
“Forecheck was sloppy today,” Ilya says, flipping something in the pan.
“Timing was off,” Shane agrees without looking up. “They’re getting ahead of the play instead of reading it.”
“I want to tighten the neutral zone,” Ilya says. “More pressure, less drifting.”
“Conditioning too,” Shane adds. “Third reps were rough.”
“Mmh,” Ilya hums. “We’ll fix it.”
It’s comfortable. Familiar. Almost boring.
Then Shane says, casually, eyes still on his screen,
“So. Haas.”
Ilya snorts. “See? I told you the kid needs help. I’m not even being bad. It’s like my presence alone makes him lose his mind.”
“Ilya,” Shane says, finally looking up, “this isn’t just a little crush. He’s spiraling.”
Ilya clicks his tongue. “I’ve been telling you this for months Shane, but yes this is unfortunate.”
“And,” Ilya adds, “I think it’s worse because he’s also obsessed with you.”
Shane scoffs. “No.”
Ilya turns, incredulous. “No?”
“No,” Shane repeats.
“Shane,” Ilya says patiently, “the man’s eyes were glued to you.”
“That’s just because I’m the best in the league,” Shane says easily.
Ilya laughs. “Don’t lie. We all know I’m the best in the league.”
“Sure,” Shane says. “Objectively false, but sure.”
“But anyway,” Ilya continues, waving the spoon, “yes. He also has a crush on you. I saw the way he was looking at you when you were talking”
Shane leans back in his chair, thinking. “He was just being polite.”
“He nearly skated into the boards,” Ilya says.
Shane grins despite himself. “Whatever you say Ilya”
Ilya sighs and goes back to cooking, muttering something in Russian.
Luca’s in heaven or hell. He can’t decide.
He’s still as awkward as ever with them.
The two are always competing, pushing each other harder and harder, and it’s rubbing off on the whole team. Between Rozanov’s relentless intensity and Hollander’s discipline, Luca’s being pushed further than ever before. And it’s working. The team looks stronger than ever.
There’s just one problem.
Anytime Luca ends up face to face with one of them on the ice, he turns into Bambi learning how to walk for the first time.
He’s tripped, missed steps, slid out more times than he can count. His pale skin is already littered with bruises, blooming dark beneath his gear.
Rozanov, ever the asshole, claps him on the back, right on one of the deepest ones.
Luca lets out a sharp grunt. Hollander’s attention snaps to them immediately, eyes flicking from Luca’s face to Rosanov’s hand as he pieces together exactly what just happened. Then he looks straight at Rosanov.
The two exchange a look Luca can’t decipher, something loaded and private.
Then it’s gone.
Luca lets it go too, even as his back throbs and his stomach twists for reasons that have nothing to do with the pain.
About a week after that incident Luca walks into the gym at the rink, planning to get a run in. He usually runs outside, but the rain hasn’t let up in a week.
It’s early, so he assumes he’ll be the only one there. He nearly stops in his tracks and considers backing right back out when he sees Hollander.
He and Rosanov are never in the rink gym. At least not actually working out. Sometimes Rosanov will pop in just to be a menace, but Luca knows they prefer working out at home. And calling it a home gym feels like a lie. It’s more of a state of the art training facility.
Hollander hasn’t seen him yet. He has his headphones in and he’s holding some kind of yoga pose with his back to the door.
Luca just stands there and stares as Hollander moves again, fluid and controlled, shifting seamlessly from one position to the next.
Then Hollander turns around suddenly.
Luca realizes, a second too late, that he’s been completely mesmerized and forgot to look away. Now Hollander has caught him staring.
Thankfully, Hollander is kind about it. He smiles easily and says, “Hi, Haas.”
“Hey,” Luca squeaks out. “Sorry to bother you. I just wanted to get a run in.”
“You’re not bothering me,” Hollander says. “It’s an open gym, I was just finishing up anyway.”
Luca nods and makes his way over to the treadmills. Today’s supposed to be a zone two recovery run. He does a few quick, perfunctory stretches, then sets the treadmill to nine kilometers per hour and gets going.
He tries not to stare.
Unfortunately, the mirror in front of him gives him a perfect view of Hollander’s ass in downward dog.
There’s a clear handprint blooming dark across the back of Hollander’s upper thigh.
Luca almost eats shit when his legs stop working for half a second.
His stride stutters on the treadmill, a misstep that nearly sends him pitching forward. He grabs the rails instinctively. Heat floods his face so fast it makes his ears ring.
Jesus.
Thankfully he recovers, forcing his feet back into rhythm, but his brain has completely short-circuited.
Luca drops his eyes to the treadmill screen and focuses hard on the numbers. Speed. Distance. Heart rate. Anything but the mirror.
Anything but Hollander.
He stares at the blinking red digits like they’re the most fascinating thing in the world, jaw clenched, breathing suddenly a lot less steady than it should be for this pace.
He absolutely refuses to look up again.
He doesn’t notice Hollander’s done with his yoga until he hops onto the treadmill next to him.
“Hey,” Hollander says.
Luca fumbles with his earbuds and pulls them out. “Oh. Hey.”
“Running inside today too?” Hollander asks.
“Yeah,” Luca says. “I’m losing my mind with this rain.”
Hollander laughs softly. “Same. Feels like it’s been weeks.”
They run in silence for a moment, treadmills humming side by side. Luca is pretty proud of himself for having a whole conversation with Hollander without falling on his face, it gives him the confidence to keep it going.
“So,” Luca says, trying to sound casual, “do you, uh, always do yoga?”
“Whenever I can,” Hollander says. “Helps a lot with balance”
“That makes sense,” Luca says, glancing down at his feet as if they might betray him again at any second.
“I could show you sometime,” Hollander adds easily. “If you want.”
Luca nods a little too fast. “Yeah. That’d be cool.”
Even though Hollander is smiling and perfectly nice about it, Luca still hears the unspoken part loud and clear. Because you really need it.
After that, they fall into an easy silence. The treadmills hum, steady and rhythmic, filling the space between them.
Once Luca starts cooling down, Shane pipes up again. “Our house Saturday morning.”
“Huh?” Luca asks, confused.
“Yoga,” Hollander clarifies. “Saturday morning at nine.”
“Oh.” Luca blinks, then nods quickly. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll be there,” Luca assures him.
Shane smiles, small and unreadable, then turns his attention back to his run.
Luca ends his cool down early and escapes to the locker rooms as quickly as he can.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
What the fuck did Luca just do.
He presses his palms into the cool locker room bench and stares at the concrete floor like it might open up and swallow him whole. His heart is still pounding from the run but now it has nothing to do with cardio.
Why did he say yes?
He never says yes to things like that. He avoids it. He deflects. He pretends he has plans or a headache or a scheduling conflict that absolutely does not exist. He does not voluntarily agree to go to his captain’s and assistant captain's house. He does not agree to be alone with Shane Hollander in any capacity. He definitely does not agree to do yoga in front of him.
At his house.
With Rosanov probably somewhere nearby.
Jesus Christ.
He can already picture it. Hollander moving like he did in the gym, effortless and calm and infuriatingly controlled. Luca wobbling and tipping and falling out of poses like an idiot baby deer while Hollander politely pretends not to notice.
Except he will notice. Of course he will.
Luca groans quietly and drops his head into his hands.
Why did he agree to spend time alone with Hollander. Why did he agree to spend time alone with Hollander while Hollander does yoga. Why did he agree to do an activity that involves balance and coordination when he can barely skate without eating shit in front of them.
He can hear it already. Not even words. Just the gentle correction. The calm voice. The patient hands hovering just close enough to help.
I can show you sometime.
God.
He squeezes his eyes shut. His face feels hot. His stomach flips over itself.
Saturday morning. Nine a.m. At their house. There is no pretending he forgot. There is no graceful way out of this. He already said he would be there.
Luca exhales hard and drags his hands down his face.
He is so fucked.
And somehow, buried underneath the panic and the dread and the certainty that he is about to deeply embarrass himself, there is something worse.
A tiny, traitorous flicker of anticipation.
Which makes everything so much more fucked.
Luca shows up at 8:50.
He sits parked in the driveway for a full ten minutes, hands locked around the steering wheel, rehearsing how to knock like a normal person. Eventually he forces himself out of the car, grabs the small paper bag from the passenger seat, and walks up to the door.
Hollander answers almost immediately. He’s wearing tiny blue shorts and a white tank so stretched out, it’s downright slutty.
Luca holds the bag out a little too fast. “Uh. It’s wine. I thought I should bring something.”
Hollander looks down at it, momentarily confused, then almost laughs. It hits him all at once how much Haas reminds him of himself at that age. The awkward earnestness. The overthinking. He schools his face quickly and takes the bag.
“Thanks,” Shane says. “Come on in.”
His smile is warm enough that Luca’s shoulders drop a fraction.
“It’s finally sunny,” Shane says as he leads him through the house. “Figured we’d go out on the deck.”
“Uh. Sure,” Luca says, his voice cracking just enough to annoy himself.
The deck opens up toward the lake, sunlight glittering off the water. It is quiet. Peaceful. Not at all the intimidating training compound Luca had built up in his head.
Shane gestures toward the corner. “You can just use Ilya’s mat. He never does yoga anyway.”
Luca lets out a small, nervous huff of a laugh and nods.
They roll their mats out side by side, facing the lake. Shane settles cross legged first, relaxed and easy, like this is the most normal thing in the world.
“Let’s start slow,” Shane says. “Just breathing.”
He talks Luca through it. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Steady. Controlled.
Luca is shaking at first. He hates that he is shaking. But after a few breaths, something eases. His chest loosens. His thoughts stop tripping over themselves.
“Good,” Shane says quietly. “You’re doing fine.”
They move into a simple flow. Nothing complicated. Shane demonstrates, then waits while Luca copies him.
“Yeah,” Shane says. “Just like that.”
The next transition is downward dog into cobra.
Shane’s shorts ride up when he shifts back, fabric pulling tight as he moves. Luca catches another glimpse of Hollander’s ass.
There are more handprints.
Some are fresh, bright red against pale skin. Others have already started to fade into darker bruises, mottled blue and yellow along the curve of his hip.
Luca’s brain very unhelpfully decides to catalog all of this before he can stop it.
He immediately drags his gaze away.
Focus.
Luca forces himself to ignore it and focuses instead on the movement, then on the mat in front of him, doing his best to mirror Shane. He shifts his weight forward, arms trembling slightly as he rolls through the transition.
Downward dog.
Then slowly lowering.
Cobra.
He is doing better than he expected.
Still clumsy, his hips a little off, shoulders not quite where they should be, but not hopeless.
At least he hasn’t fallen over yet.
Shane glances back at him mid-movement, clearly noticing the effort. There’s a soft huff of amusement in his voice as he straightens.
Then Shane steps closer.
“Hold on.”
He crouches and gently adjusts Luca’s stance, hands light but sure as he corrects his posture. Luca’s entire body goes rigid.
Luca exhales shakily and forces himself to loosen up. He focuses on his breathing again. In. Out.
For a moment, he almost forgets where he is. Who he is with.
That is how they end up here.
Luca is in downward dog, muscles burning, concentration slipping. Shane bends over him, one hand pressing lightly between Luca’s shoulder blades, guiding his upper back lower, steady and precise.
“Yep, like that,” Shane says.
Luca swallows hard and adjusts, following the pressure, the praise going straight to his dick.
A sharp whistle breaks his focus and almost sends him tumbling to the ground. He barely catches his balance as Shane lets out an annoyed, “Ilyaaa.”
“What,” Rosanov says easily. “Just admiring the view. Looking good, Haasy. My husband’s a good teacher, da?”
“And yet you never do yoga with me,” Shane says.
“Shane,” Ilya replies, amused, “we both know what happens when I join you. Would you like to give our guest a performance?”
“Ilya, leave us alone,” Shane whines, grabbing a water bottle and throwing it at Ilya’s chest.
Ilya catches it easily before it can hit him. Instead of backing off, he walks over and wraps his arms around Shane from behind, pinning his wrists to his sides and murmuring a quiet, smug, “Nooo.”
Shane lets out an exasperated noise and slumps back against him.
“Sorry Haas,” Shane says. “I don’t think we’re going to get any more yoga in now that Ilya’s up.”
Luca panics for half a second, words tripping over each other. “Oh...yeah for of course that’s ok”
“No, no,” Ilya says brightly. “You should stay. Two hot asses in the air is better than one.” He grins. “Even though everyone knows Shane has the hottest ass in the world.”
He punctuates it with a light smack to his husband’s ass.
Luca goes impossibly red. It starts at his ears and spreads fast. Between Ilya casually calling his ass hot and the way the two of them are tangled together without a shred of shame, it feels like too much. It is their house, Luca tells himself. Married people do this. Probably.
Still. It feels downright vulgar.
And so very hot.
It takes everything in Luca not to let his mind wander somewhere it absolutely should not go, like their bedroom, or the handprint shaped bruise, or what exactly Ilya means when he says things like that.
“Ilya, you can’t say that,” Shane admonishes, even as he fails to actually pull free.
He looks over at Luca, concerned, flickering across his face. “Sorry. If he’s making you uncomfortable, I can send him inside,” Shane offers, like he’s talking about a barking dog instead of his husband.
Luca opens his mouth, then closes it again, still red and very aware that he is standing on a yoga mat in their backyard, witnessing something he will absolutely never recover from.
“Uh. No, it’s okay. I should go,” Luca stammers. “Thank you for the lesson!”
He backs away a little too fast, trips over the edge of his mat, recovers badly, and then gives up entirely, making a beeline for the house.
“Bye, Captain,” he adds over his shoulder, already halfway through the door.
He does not look back.
“So?” Ilya asks, leaning against the counter. “What was all that about?”
“Yoga?” Shane says easily. “I ran into Luca at the gym. He asked about it, so I offered to show him.”
He pauses, then adds, almost fondly, “Maybe it’ll help with his balance. I think he falls more than the kids at the foundation.”
Ilya snorts. “He falls because he’s too busy staring at your ass. And you thought inviting him to a private yoga session and waving it in his face would help him?”
Shane turns, offended. “First of all, he stares at your ass too. And second, I thought it might “Loosen him up. He’s wound so tight I can feel it from across the rink.”
“Mhm,” Ilya hums.
He steps in close, hooks a finger into the hem of Shane’s tank, and tugs him forward for a quick, lazy kiss. “Very altruistic of you,” he adds, proudly emphasizing the word.
Shane melts into it for a second, hands automatically finding Ilya’s waist. “Who taught you that one?”
“The New Yorker,” Ilya jokes.
Shane snorts softly.
They kiss again, slower this time, familiar and easy. Domestic. Comfortable in a way that makes everything else fade out for a moment.
Then Shane pulls back, brows knitting slightly. “He saw it.”
“Saw what?”
“The bruises. The handprints.” Shane gestures vaguely over his shoulder. “I caught him looking.”
Ilya grins. “Well, if you’re going to wear those slutty shorts, what did you expect? Three inch inseam, Shane.”
“They’re better for yoga,” Shane says defensively.
“Of course they are, sweetheart” Ilya says, clearly enjoying himself.
Shane rolls his eyes, then hesitates. “He didn’t say anything. He just looked… curious.”
Ilya’s smile sharpens, something thoughtful flickering behind it. “Huh.”
“What.”
“Nothing,” Ilya says lightly. “Just interesting.”
Shane narrows his eyes. “Interesting how.”
Ilya shrugs, entirely too pleased. “Maybe our rookie isn’t as innocent as he looks.”
Shane exhales, shaking his head, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth that he does not bother to hide.
Luca does not make it ten minutes down the road before his brain turns on him.
He grips the steering wheel too hard, knuckles white, and stares straight ahead like that might help. It does not.
The handprints keep flashing in his mind. Dark against Shane’s skin. Fingers splayed. Too deliberate to be an accident. Too shaped to be anything else.
Bruises happen. Hockey players bruise like breathing is involuntary. Like ice is cold. But those had not been from a hit or a fall or a puck to the wrong place.
Those were hands.
Ilya’s hands.
Luca swallows hard and feels heat crawl up his neck.
He can picture it too easily. Ilya behind Shane. Big hands. Confident hands. Gripping hard enough to leave marks and not apologizing for it. Shane letting it happen. Shane liking it.
Shane wearing those stupid tiny shorts like he is not aware of what he is doing to people. Like he does not know exactly how he looks when he bends forward, relaxed and open and strong.
Like he does not know what kind of thoughts that invites.
Luca groans quietly and presses his forehead to the steering wheel at a red light.
Jesus Christ.
He should not be thinking about his captain like this. He should not be thinking about his captain’s husband like this either, but somehow that feels even worse. Or better. Or something that makes his stomach twist unpleasantly.
Ilya had smacked him. Casual. Possessive. Proud.
Everyone knows Shane has the hottest ass in the world. Like it was doctrine.
Luca had wanted to die on the spot. Or maybe combust. Or maybe just sink straight into the deck and disappear.
Instead, he had stood there, flushed and shaking, very aware of the way his body had reacted to something it absolutely should not have reacted to.
He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable, mortified all over again.
It is not just that Shane has handprints on his ass. It is knowing who put them there. It is knowing Shane let him. It is knowing they are married and confident and unashamed and apparently completely fine doing that in front of him.
It is realizing, with a sinking feeling, that the image does not make him recoil.
It makes him want to think about it more.
Luca exhales hard and turns the music up too loud, like he can drown out his own thoughts.
He tells himself this is normal. That curiosity is normal. That he is just young and stupid and overwhelmed and surrounded by very attractive people with very poor boundaries.
He does not tell himself the truth.
That if he closes his eyes, he can still see the shape of Ilya’s hand.
And that part is going to be a problem.
After the yoga session, Luca isn’t sure if things are better or worse.
On the one hand, he can actually hold a conversation with Shane now. They talk about yoga sometimes, or training, or random things before or after practice. Hollander has always been the less intimidating one anyway. Calm, steady, easy to talk to when he wants to be.
Ilya is more of a challenge.
Luca is significantly less successful talking to him. Every attempt feels like stepping into a trap he cannot quite see. Ilya always looks amused, like he knows exactly how uncomfortable Luca is and is enjoying every second of it.
But the two of them are getting bolder.
Or maybe Luca is just noticing more.
One day in the locker room, Shane bends over to pull something out of his bag and Luca catches a glimpse of thin pink lines crossing over each other on his upper thighs just peeking out of his boxers. Faint but unmistakable.
Crisscrossing.
A cane?
Another day he notices blotchy marks scattered across Shane’s chest during practice, faint enough you would miss them if you were not looking for them.
Luca is.
A riding crop, maybe.
Sometimes it is bruises. Darker ones. The shape of fingers digging in hard, blooming along Shane’s ribs or high on his hip when his jersey rides up.
Ilya’s hands are not subtle.
And they know Luca sees.
Every time his eyes linger just a second too long, one of them catches it. Sometimes Shane. Sometimes Ilya. Sometimes both.
They exchange those strange little looks. Quick, silent, married telepathy that Luca has no hope of decoding.
Then one of them glances back at him.
Not angry. Not embarrassed.
Just aware.
And Luca feels like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
They never bring it up.
But all three of them know exactly what Luca is seeing.
I feel bad,” Shane says one evening. “We’re torturing the kid.”
Ilya looks up from the couch. “Shane. What are we supposed to do? He just keeps staring at you and noticing things.”
“Ilya, we can’t just subject innocent bystanders to the consequences of our… lifestyle.”
“Hm.” Ilya pretends to consider it, tapping his fingers against his chin. “Okay, sweetheart.”
Shane blinks. “Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.” Ilya shrugs. “If you don’t want him to see marks, I won’t leave any.”
And Shane isn’t sure what he expected the resolution to be.
But it definitely was not that.
Unfortunately he is too stubborn to take the words back now.
For the next week, Ilya treats him like he is made of glass.
Careful hands. Gentle touches. No bruises. No marks. Not even the faintest pink impression left on his skin.
At first Shane thinks it’s temporary. Just Ilya being cautious after the other night.
But the days keep passing.
Every time Shane presses close, Ilya’s hands stay light. When Shane nudges for more, Ilya just kisses his temple, smooths a hand down his back, and redirects him somewhere softer. A movie. A walk. Takeout on the couch.
By the weekend Shane feels like he might crawl out of his own body.
He is restless. Irritable. Itching for the roughness he is used to, the sharp intensity that quiets his mind and makes everything in his head go still.
Instead there is only patience.
Too much patience.
So he tries to provoke him.
He bats his eyelashes at reporters during interviews, leaning a little too close to the microphones, smiling sweetly when they laugh.
Ilya watches from across the media room with an unreadable expression.
Nothing.
At home Shane stretches out on the living room floor doing yoga while Ilya is trying to play a game on the PlayStation, deliberately choosing poses that require an excessive amount of flexibility.
He lingers in downward dog longer than necessary.
Ilya steps over him to grab his water bottle.
Nothing.
Later Shane sprawls across the couch and nudges Ilya with his foot while he’s reading.
Once.
Twice.
A third time, more insistent.
Bratty.
Ilya just catches his ankle, presses a quiet kiss to the arch of his foot, and lets it go again.
Nothing.
By Saturday night Shane is losing his mind.
The apartment feels too quiet. Too calm. Ilya is sitting at the kitchen island reading something on his tablet like the most normal man in the world.
Like Shane hasn’t been unraveling all week.
Finally Shane breaks.
It’s while they’re having sex. Rozanov is on top and it feels so fucking good. He took twenty minutes to open Shane up, moving slowly, patiently, making sure he didn’t feel even the slightest stretch, quite a feat considering the size of his dick. Ilya had been careful the whole time, watching Shane’s face, checking in with quiet murmurs, waiting for every tiny shift of Shane’s body before going further.
Now he’s moving inside Shane slow and gentle, hands cradling his face.
The bedroom is dim except for the warm light from the bedside lamp. Sheets tangled around their legs, the quiet sounds of breath and movement filling the space between them. Ilya’s expression is soft, his thumb brushing along Shane’s cheekbone.
But Shane is craving a hand on his throat.
He wants Ilya to control his breathing. He’s craving that specific kind of pain that makes his mind go quiet, the sharp focus that cuts through the constant background noise in his head.
Right now everything feels too soft. Too careful.
His mind keeps spinning instead of settling.
He tries everything.
First he grabs Ilya’s hand and guides it to his throat, hoping he’ll get the message. It’s something they’ve done a hundred times before, something that normally needs no explanation between them.
But Ilya just adjusts, resting his hand there with featherlight pressure instead of the bruising grip that makes his head go woozy.
Shane almost groans in frustration.
Then he tries marking up Ilya instead, scratching down his back, dragging his nails just enough to sting, hoping to get some marks in return.
Nothing.
Ilya just catches his wrist gently and presses a kiss to the inside of it before setting his hand back against the mattress.
Then he strokes down Shane’s biceps, slow and soothing.
Finally Shane breaks.
“Please, Ilya,” he says, almost with tears in his eyes.
His voice is rough, breath catching on the words.
Ilya pauses immediately.
“What, kotenok?”
The endearment is soft, instinctive.
Shane shakes his head a little, frustration and need tangling together in his chest.
“Please hurt me,” he begs.
For a moment Ilya just looks at him.
Then his mouth curves slightly.
“Oh, why would I do that? I’m not a mean husband. I’m…” Ilya says mockingly. “What would Haasy say if he sees marks on you? Someone told me we can’t just subject innocent parties to the consequences of our lifestyle”
He parrots Shane’s exact line from a week ago, voice full of exaggerated innocence.
Shane groans helplessly.
“Please, please, please, Ilya. I don’t care if he sees.”
Now Shane’s actually crying, frustration finally spilling over.
His hands clutch at Ilya’s shoulders, his whole body tight with the need that’s been building all week.
Ilya watches him for another long second.
Then he sighs, like Shane has just asked him for the most exhausting favor in the world.
“Da. Fine.”
The word barely leaves his mouth before the shift happens.
The hand on Shane’s throat tightens.
Shane’s reaction is immediate.
His moan breaks out of him before he can stop it, almost embarrassingly loud. “Fuck, thank you. Thank you, sir.”
The tension drains out of him all at once.
Ilya’s expression changes too, the teasing softness fading into something darker and more focused as he watches the way Shane melts under the pressure.
He picks up the pace of his movements, thrusting into Shane hard.
Shane’s head tips back against the pillows, breath caught under Ilya’s hand, his whole body loosening in that familiar way.
When he cums, the noise in his head finally goes quiet.
All the little anxieties, the restless buzzing under his skin, the irritation that’s been building all week, gone.
Just sensation.
Just Ilya.
God, he needed this.
Afterward, Ilya rolls them onto their sides and pulls the blankets up around Shane’s shoulders. Shane is flushed and loose in that boneless way he only gets afterward, eyes half closed, breathing still uneven.
“Easy, kotenok,” Ilya murmurs.
He brushes Shane’s damp hair back from his forehead and presses a kiss there, slow and grounding. Shane leans into it automatically.
Ilya reaches for the glass of water on the nightstand and presses it into Shane’s hands.
“Drink.”
Shane obeys, taking a few long sips before handing it back. His hands are still shaking a little.
“Better?” Ilya asks.
Shane nods. “Yeah.”
Ilya watches him for another quiet moment, making sure the fog has cleared from his eyes, watching the slow return of awareness in Shane’s gaze. Only when he’s satisfied does he shift out of bed.
The mattress dips as his weight leaves it. Shane hears the soft rustle of fabric, the quiet sound of the bathroom door opening.
A minute later Ilya returns with a damp towel, wiping Shane down with careful, familiar efficiency. The movements are practiced, gentle but thorough, the kind of routine that comes from years of knowing each other’s bodies and needs.
Shane sighs quietly and sinks deeper into the pillows, limbs loose and heavy now, the tension that had been coiled inside him all week finally gone.
The room is quiet except for their breathing.
Ilya tosses the towel aside and settles back onto the mattress beside him, one arm draping loosely across Shane’s waist.
“You begged so pretty for me tonight,” Ilya whispers, his voice low and satisfied.
Shane huffs softly, eyes half closed.
“I can’t believe you would do that to me for a whole week.”
“What?” Ilya scoffs immediately. “Not hurt you? I was just respecting your wishes.”
“Asshole,” Shane grumbles, but he nudges closer anyway, pressing his forehead briefly into Ilya’s shoulder before settling against him.
Once Shane’s breathing evens out, Ilya helps him sit up and pulls a clean shirt over his head. Eventually they wander out to the living room.
Ilya settles onto the couch with a container of leftovers from the fridge, eating straight out of it with a fork.
Shane curls into the corner of the couch beside him, still soft and sleepy.
For a while the only sounds are the clink of the fork against the container and the low hum of the television neither of them is really watching.
Then Ilya glances over at him.
“So,” he says. “What are we going to do about our rookie problem?”
Shane groans quietly and buries his face in a pillow. “I don’t know.”
“He keeps staring at you,” Ilya continues. “Very obvious staring.”
“Yes, I've noticed,” Shane deadpans.
“So what is the plan?”
“Maybe we talk to him,” Shane suggests.
Ilya pauses mid bite and raises an eyebrow.
“And say what exactly?” he asks. “Hello, Luca. I like to hurt Shane during sex. It turns him on very much because he’s a slutty little masochist. Sorry you had to see that.”
Shane turns bright red instantly.
“No,” he says quickly. “Not like that.”
“Good,” Ilya says dryly. “Because that would be a strange conversation.”
Shane hesitates, then says carefully, “I just mean… maybe we explain. Or… show him what’s going on.”
Ilya stops chewing.
Very slowly, he lowers the fork.
Then he turns to look at Shane.
“What.”
Shane shrinks a little under the stare but soldiers on.
“I just mean,” he says, gesturing vaguely, “if he’s curious anyway, maybe we… include him. You know. Let him see.”
Ilya nearly chokes on his food.
He coughs hard, grabs his water, and stares at Shane like he has grown a second head.
After a moment he manages, “Is Shane Hollander suggesting a threesome?”
Shane groans and covers his face with both hands.
“That is not what I said.”
“That is exactly what you said.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Oh?” Ilya says, deeply amused now. “Because that is very much how it sounded.”
Shane peeks through his fingers, mortified.
“I just meant… maybe we show him what we do. Together.”
Ilya leans back against the couch, studying him with a slow, delighted smile.
Shane groans and drops his head back against the couch cushion.
“Come on, Kotenok,” Ilya says, nudging his knee. “Explain.”
“I just… I think I want him to see.”
Ilya tilts his head.
“See what?”
Shane hesitates, then gestures vaguely toward him. “Us.”
“Very specific.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
Shane drags a pillow over his face.
“Ilya.”
“Shane.”
After a long moment Shane lowers the pillow and sighs.
“I want to show him what we do,” he says quietly.
Ilya’s eyes sharpen with interest.
“Why?”
Shane shifts a little, suddenly embarrassed.
“I don’t know. I just… do.”
“Try again.”
Shane huffs. “Fine. I want to show him how good I am for you.”
Shane keeps going before he can lose his nerve.
“I want him to see how you take such good care of me, how I trust you. How… you hurt me so good.”
Ilya’s mouth curves slowly.
“Ah,” he says softly. “So this is an exhibitionist thing.”
Shane throws a pillow at his face.
“Shut up.”
Ilya catches it easily, still smiling.
“I am not judging,” he says. “I think it is very hot.”
Shane crosses his arms but his ears are bright red.
“I want him to see too,” Ilya says with a grin “See how I own you”
Shane flushes deeper but does not argue.
“How obedient you are,” Ilya continues, voice softer now. “How beautifully you take pain.”
“Fuck,” Ilya leans back, considering. “That is hot as fuck.”
Shane huffs out a small laugh.
“Right?”
“But,” Ilya adds, “that raises another question.”
Shane eyes him warily. “What.”
“Do we want him to watch,” Ilya says, “or participate?”
Shane freezes.
They both sit with that for a moment.
“I haven’t even thought about sleeping with anyone else since we got together,” Ilya says slowly.
“Same,” Shane replies.
“But,” Ilya continues casually, “I will say there is an appeal.”
Shane groans immediately.
“Ilya.”
“He is very eager to please,” Ilya says. “And very innocent.”
Shane grabs another pillow and throws it at him.
“Shut up.”
Ilya laughs.
“You were like that when we met,” he adds.
Shane cannot even argue with that.
He flops back against the couch.
“God.”
“So,” Ilya says, “maybe we let him participate.”
Shane sits upright again.
“If,” he says quickly. “Big if.”
“If he wants to.”
“Exactly.”
Shane runs a hand through his hair.
“What if we read this whole thing wrong?” he says suddenly.
Ilya raises an eyebrow.
“What if he wasn’t curious,” Shane continues, anxiety creeping into his voice. “What if he was just… horrified. And we’ve been interpreting it completely wrong.”
Ilya reaches over and pulls Shane closer by the back of his neck.
“Kotenok.”
Shane looks at him.
“I promise you,” Ilya says calmly, “that boy is not looking at you with disgust.”
Shane searches his face.
“And if we are wrong,” Ilya says, “then we will apologize and never speak of it again.”
Shane nods.
“Okay.”
“So,” Ilya says, satisfied. “When do we ask him?”
Shane thinks for a moment.
“Lunch,” he says finally. “After morning practice on Wednesday.”
Ilya smiles.
“Perfect.”
The couch is quiet for a while after that.