Chapter Text
Ilya doesn’t look at him during the faceoff. Not on the long skate to center ice, and not as they get set for play. The position is familiar—the low crouch stretching Shane’s quads, Ilya close enough to touch. Unbearably so, in a way that used to feel delicious and electric, but now just feels wrong. Painful.
There is no chirping. No patented Ilya Rozanov, Sex God wink as the Russian bites down on his mouth guard. There is just silence stretching between their bodies, and Ilya’s steel-blue gaze fixed somewhere over Shane’s shoulder.
Shane knows he deserves it.
It’s been four months since they ended things at Christmas. Ilya had wanted him to go to a party with his teammates; Shane had refused. Too risky. He doesn’t know how it all spiraled out of control so badly, but he’d said some stuff he couldn’t take back. They wanted different things. They were done.
Shane’s heart is mostly scabbed over now. The part of him that had come alive under Ilya Rozanov’s touch is buried again, locked away deep inside Shane Hollander, Hockey Robot. But seeing Ilya tonight tears the wound open fresh, has him bleeding here at center ice. Dying invisibly on national television.
Ilya wins the faceoff.
Luca Haas, the 21-year-old Swiss rookie, skates away with the puck, and Shane speeds after him. He’s not going to be bested by a kid on the fucking Centaurs. When Shane gets the opportunity to slam him into the boards and regain control of the puck, he takes it.
And then Ilya—who hasn’t spoken to Shane in months, who didn’t come near him during their last game, back in February—barrels into him, snarling.
Like he’s protecting the rookie.
Montreal wins, 2-1, but it doesn’t feel like a victory.
Shane goes out with the team. Their flight home isn’t until ten thirty tomorrow morning, and everyone wants to celebrate winning the last game of the regular season. As captain, it’s his job to show up, even if he wants the sticky bar floor to swallow him whole.
He allows himself one beer, then two. He allows himself to think about Ilya.
After an hour of stilted conversation over too-loud music, Shane calls a cab. Tells the guys he’s going back to the hotel and he’ll see them in the morning. Hayden shoots him a sympathetic look, eyes soft around the edges in a way that makes Shane’s tongue feel thick in his mouth.
Somehow, Shane ends up at Ilya’s.
It’s stupid, so stupid, because Ilya has his number blocked—his texts don’t show as delivered, and his calls go straight to voicemail—so he’s got absolutely no reason to believe that Ilya wants to see him. The beer has made him cotton-headed, though, and Ilya’s feral snarl is still echoing in his ears, and his better angels left him months ago.
He still can’t give Ilya what he deserves. But maybe Ilya will take his body as a consolation prize, just for tonight, if he begs.
Ilya has never been able to resist Shane on his knees.
The cab drops Shane at the curb, leaving him shivering in the April chill as he punches 122008 into the key pad at Ilya’s gate. The month and year they met, his boyfriend’s—ex-boyfriend’s—longtime password.
The light flashes red. No entry.
Hot tears prick at the corners of his eyes.
He tries again: 818181. The gate opens noiselessly and Shane pads onto the property, looking over his shoulder in case any nosy neighbors have spotted him lurking, but the street is empty.
Fuck, what is he going to do now? He hadn’t thought this far ahead. Showing up at the door seems bold. He’s technically trespassing. Ilya doesn’t want him here—he’s changed the gate code, erased the anniversary of their meeting. Can Shane really just knock? Would Ilya even answer?
Before he can think better of it, Shane walks around the back of the house, where there’s a wall of windows facing the woods. If Ilya is home, he’ll be able to tell. He creeps up the stairs to the back deck and freezes when the brightly lit living room comes into view.
Ilya is on the couch, and there is someone kneeling at his feet.
The breath knocks out of Shane’s lungs in a painful spasm. He drops low, crawling back down the stairs until his ass thuds against the third step, forehead pitching forward until it’s pressed to the deck. The one they’d stained together over the summer, shirtless and laughing in the August heat, Ilya’s lips sticky with pink lemonade.
Shane can’t look. He has to look.
Luca Haas is kneeling between Ilya’s legs.
They’re both fully clothed, but Ilya’s legs are spread wide, and Haas’s blond head is resting sweetly against a splayed thigh as Ilya strokes his hair. The rookie gazes up at Ilya as he pushes a pair of black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose.
Does Haas always wear glasses off the ice, or are they just for Ilya?
Has he let Ilya come on them?
Ilya’s eyes are on the television, soft blue light dancing across his features. It’s hard to tell from a distance, but Shane thinks Ilya looks calm. Content. Certainly more at peace than he had been during his last few months with Shane. When Shane had missed—everything that had been going on with him.
His heart constricts somewhere deep within the cage that Shane Hollander, Hockey Robot has locked it in.
Shane has been right there on that sheepskin rug where Haas is now, kneeling in front of Ilya. The kid is fucking nuzzling into Ilya’s thigh, like Shane has done a thousand times; Ilya’s fingers are tightening in his blond waves. Shane’s hand slides into his own hair, tugging hard, just to remember what it feels like—the pain and pleasure and the don’t stop, Ilya, don’t stop of it.
It’s somehow worse that they’re clothed. Ilya’s been photographed since their breakup, of course, stumbling out of clubs with women—shitty, but meaningless in a way Shane can bear. But whatever’s happening here looks almost sweet, not vulgar. He presses his knuckles to his lips, unable to tear his eyes away.
Every stupid, awful thing he said at Christmas echoes in his head:
It’s not my fault your team sucks and you’re bored.
You’re asking me to give up the only thing that’s ever mattered to me.
The whole conversation had been an out-of-body experience. He was horrified by the things coming out of his mouth, but he couldn’t stop, fear hijacking his brain until all that was left between them was stunned silence.
The weight of his mistake lives like a boulder on his chest now, a constant pressure that’s made it impossible to take a full breath for months. But it’s too late to take it back, and even if he could, it wouldn’t change the fact that outing themselves is a fucking terrible idea.
Shane is about to slink back to his hotel, tail between his legs, when movement catches his eye. Haas is—
Oh, God. He’s pressing his face between Ilya’s thighs.
Ilya’s head tilts back against the couch cushions, baring the pale column of his throat, and his eyes flutter closed. When Ilya’s lips part, Shane can practically hear his low, broken moan. He knows exactly how to wring that noise out of him, how to mouth at Ilya through his pants until the fabric is soaked and Ilya’s thighs are shaking. Something about the pathetic desperation of it, of Shane needing him so badly that he can’t even stop to remove his pants, gets Ilya off every time.
So needy, Hollander, he would say. Such a slut for it.
Now Luca Haas is Ilya’s needy slut. A fucking rookie.
Shane can grudgingly admit the kid is gorgeous. That halo of short, blond hair framing his delicate features. The sharp, green eyes that had widened adorably when Shane checked him into the boards. Like he wanted to thank the famous Shane Hollander for touching him. He looks so fucking young, at twenty-one—cherubic, almost, his cheeks flush with the kind of innocence Shane once had, back when he first met Ilya.
Until Ilya had fucked it out of him.
Has Ilya fucked Haas? Has he taught him how to suck cock, eaten his tight little rookie asshole? Was it his first time, like it had been Shane’s?
Does Ilya say Luca when he comes?
Shane’s fists are clenched so tightly that his knuckles have gone bone-white in the dark. He’s shaking, emotions he probably doesn’t deserve to feel twisting low in his gut along with something else he doesn’t want to look at too closely.
When Ilya lifts his hips and tugs his pants down past his muscled, golden thighs, freeing his cock, Shane stuffs his fingers into his mouth.
He hasn’t seen Ilya’s cock in nearly four months. The sight of it makes his mouth water—the thick shaft dotted with moles, a constellation Shane loves to map with his tongue. The rounded tip, always red and leaking for him, with the sensitive spot just below it on the underside. His balls, which Ilya loves to have played with and sucked on. Fuck, he misses all of it.
Shane sucks his fingers. His dick twitches miserably in his pants.
He wonders if this is the first time Haas has seen the perfection of Ilya Rozanov’s cock. The kid dives on it like a man starving. It’s impossible to see exactly what he’s doing from this angle, but based on Ilya’s body language—hands clutching at the couch cushions, lips parted—Haas is giving it to him good.
God, what a little whore.
Shane realizes with a shameful start that his hand has dipped between his legs. He jerks it away, like he’s been burned. The sight of Ilya’s cock has always wrecked him—they might be broken up, but that doesn’t change his biology. Still, he can’t do this here, behind Ilya’s house like some creepy stalker while Ilya’s new toy blows him.
Ilya bends down and hooks his arms under Haas’s, pulling him up onto the leather couch until the kid is splayed out beneath him. They’re tugging their clothes off, fast and desperate, when their lips finally meet in a long, filthy kiss.
A cry wrenches from Shane’s throat. What he wouldn’t give for another of Ilya’s kisses. The taste of him, mint and cigarettes. The hot slide of Ilya’s tongue against his own.
You did this to yourself. You could undo it, if you weren’t too much of a pussy to go public.
God, would Haas go public with Ilya? Is that what this is?
The kid’s hips are bucking helplessly, his fingers scrabbling at Ilya’s bare back as they suck each other’s faces. Shane imagines Haas whimpering, whining—please, Captain, give me your cock. He knows what it’s like, being under Ilya Rozanov. How quickly desperation takes over. The need to be filled by him, covered in him. Owned by him.
Ilya pushes Haas down and starts to fuck his face.
He pins the rookie’s hands above his head, and the kid just takes it. Like he’s used to Ilya wrecking his throat.
Shane’s cock throbs in his too-tight boxer briefs. He reaches down to adjust himself, and the contact sends a jolt of electricity shooting up his spine, hot and sharp. Heat pools dangerously in his gut.
This is so fucked up. He’s a lot of things right now, but somehow horny is overriding it all because he’s Pavlov’s dog for Ilya Rozanov’s cock.
Shane closes his eyes, allowing himself to grind against the heel of his palm for just a second, when his phone rings.
Out loud.
He shoves his hand into his pocket, fingers trembling as he scrambles to silence the ringer. It’s too late.
Ilya and Haas freeze, eyes snapping to the windows. They’re double-paned, but it’s the middle of the night and the world is quiet—Shane’s phone would have been all too audible from the living room. He crouches on the staircase, not daring to move for the longest minute of his life. His pulse thuds in his ears.
The back door swings open.
“Who’s there? I am calling the police!”
A wave of sheer panic crashes over him. This is the last thing they need—the police showing up to discover three pro hockey players in various states of undress. Details would leak. It would be all over the tabloids. Shane might as well have come out back in December; he and Ilya could still be together right now.
He closes his eyes. There isn’t another way to do this. Shane stands up, raising his hands in surrender and praying the darkness hides what’s left of his hard-on.
“Look, I can explain—”
“Shane? What the fuck are you doing out here?” Ilya’s eyes are wild, his chest rising and falling hard. He is stupidly, painfully beautiful in the moonlight.
“I just wanted to talk. Ilya,” he says, and he hates that it sounds like a plea. “What are you doing with that kid?”
“That is none of your goddamned business, Shane.”
“Cap? What’s going on?” Haas’s voice, small and uncertain, calls from inside.
“Cap?” Shane splutters. “Cap?”
Ilya’s face is stone.
Haas appears in the doorway, his shoulder brushing Ilya’s. He’s shirtless, too, clad only in a tiny pair of red running shorts.
“Is that—what is Shane Hollander doing here?”
“I am wondering the same thing,” Ilya says grimly, eyes never leaving Shane’s face.
Haas looks between them, blond brows knitting together in confusion. His nose scrunches up and twitches, like a bunny’s. Shane has been told he does something similar. It’s like Ilya’s traded him in for a newer model.
“Er, Hollander,” Haas starts, in his soft, melodic accent. “Shane? I do not know what you think you saw, but—”
“Oh, I saw plenty,” Shane grits out.
Haas’s eyes go wide. For a second, Shane almost feels bad for the kid. No one deserves to be outed, even if they’re fucking his boyfriend.
“Maybe you should come in and we can talk about this,” Haas says, like it’s his house to invite people into.
“Hollander will not tell anyone. Will you, Hollander?” Ilya’s voice is tight.
Shane should reassure Haas. Put the kid out of his misery and leave. But for nearly four months, he’s wanted to speak to Ilya face to face. Just to be in the same room with him.
“I think I would like to come in and talk about it,” Shane says evenly.
“No.”
“Please, Cap.” Haas clutches at Ilya’s bicep. “We should probably let him.”
Ilya lets out a slow breath. “Fine. If that is what you want, Haasy.”
It’s just a hockey nickname, but the familiarity grates anyway.
Shane closes the distance between them, but Ilya’s blocking the doorway. They’re inches apart; he can feel the heat rolling off Ilya’s bare chest, smell the musk of sweat and sex on him. He tries to keep his eyes on Ilya’s face but the pull of his body is magnetic.
There are small, teeth-shaped bruises hiding in the hair around Ilya’s nipples. Like someone has been sucking at his pecs, then biting them, the taste too sweet to resist. He’s overcome with the urge to latch onto Ilya’s nipples here in the doorway, to sink his teeth into one and then the other until his bruises cover the rookie’s.
When Shane forces his eyes upward, Ilya’s expression is caught somewhere between a smirk and a sneer.
“Come in, Hollander.”
Haas is already seated on the leather couch, knees drawn up to his chest as he gnaws on his lower lip. His ass cheeks are peeking out of his stupid, tiny shorts.
Ilya sits next to Haas, his hand going to the rookie’s back, rubbing slow circles on his bare skin. Casual, like it’s something he does all the time.
Shane takes the armchair across from the couch and forces himself to ask.
“Is he your boyfriend?”
Ilya looks to Haas. Of course he’ll let the rookie take the lead, say whatever he’s comfortable with sharing.
“I do not understand why you’re here,” Haas says, looking between Shane and Ilya for an answer that doesn’t come. “But no, he is not my boyfriend. He’s just…”
Haas looks up at Ilya adoringly. It makes Shane a little sick.
“He is my captain,” Haas finishes, like that explains it. Ilya wraps a hand around Haas’s thigh, fingers brushing the hem of his shorts.
“Это хорошо, новичок. Хороший мальчик.”
That’s good, rookie. Good boy.
Haas probably doesn’t understand it—not all of it, at least. Ilya’s said it for Shane’s benefit. Because Shane will know exactly what it means.
Shane is focused on staying seated and keeping his hands to himself when Ilya continues. “Hollander isn’t going to tell anyone, Haasy.”
Worry creases his baby-smooth forehead. “How can we trust him?”
Ilya looks at the ceiling. Shane waits for because Hollander and I hooked up for ten years. For because even though I hate him, Hollander is a good person.
Instead, Ilya says, “Because he liked watching you, Котёнок.”
Haas’s mouth drops open. “What?”
“Mm. He was so hard when I came outside.”
Fuck. He noticed.
Ilya’s eyes are glittering ice, fixed on Shane. Daring him to deny it.
Haas lets out a choked whimper, his eyes going dark.
“You will have to excuse Haasy, Hollander. He is very young and very horny all the time. Is hard to keep up with him, sometimes, but I try.”
Ilya pets Haas’s hair. The kid looks like he might faint.
“So it is okay, Haasy, do not worry. If Hollander tells anyone, I will show them security footage. Shane Hollander, stalker sex pervert.”
Jesus, he hadn’t even thought of the cameras. “I’m not a stalker. Or a—a sex pervert. I only wanted to…”
“What, Hollander?” Ilya snarls. “You want to tell Haas why you are here? Actually, I would like to know, too. Because I cannot think of a single good reason for you to be at my house. Looking in my windows.”
Not a single reason.
Shane presses his lips together. He’s not going to pour his heart out here. Not in front of the rookie, who’s looking between them like they’re speaking a language he doesn’t understand. He also looks—fuck, Haas is sporting a semi in his tight little shorts, cock beginning to bulge against the flimsy, red fabric. All from the brief mention of Shane being hard.
“You don’t want to tell us, Hollander? Are you maybe a little distracted?” Ilya says, voice like steel. His hand slides between Haas’s legs, and the kid gasps. “Is okay. I think Haasy is a little distracted, too. Aren’t you, rookie?”
Haas’s hips buck as Ilya strokes him through his shorts, slow and teasing. Shane can see the thickening outline of his cock, suddenly too big for the miniscule amount of fabric covering him. “Captain,” he moans, throwing an arm across his eyes. Like he can’t bear to look at either of them.
The word goes straight to Shane’s cock. Shit. He can’t get turned on by—this.
“Shh, do not be embarrassed, Милый мальчик,” Ilya sing-songs, cupping Haas’s jaw in one hand as he squeezes his cock in the other. “Hollander likes what he sees. Maybe he wants you for himself. But he wants a lot of things he does not deserve. Things he cannot actually handle.”
Ilya’s smile is cold and cruel.
“Should we make him watch, Haasy? Show him what he is missing, how talented my rookie is for me?”
Haas is whining now, grinding against Ilya’s hand. It’s pathetic and desperate and unbearably hot—just the kind of thing Shane used to do for Ilya. He locks eyes with Ilya, sees the challenge in his gaze, bright and defiant. The growing hardness between his legs. Proof that Shane isn't the only one who can do this to him anymore.
This is his punishment, then.
Shane knows he could leave. He should leave. His chest wants to crack open and blood is rushing in his ears and the door is right fucking there, but he doesn’t move.
Because Ilya is looking at him. Talking to him. Because this—twisted and unbearable as it is—is the closest Shane’s been to him in almost four months.
Something is better than nothing. Even this.
Shane dips his chin in a small, deliberate nod. Yes, make me watch. Punish me, Ilya. Please.
Ilya’s lip curls. “Say it, Hollander. Say you want to watch him suck my cock.”
This is such a bad idea.
“I want—” Shane’s breath catches. “I want to watch Haas suck your cock.”
For a split second, something flickers across Ilya’s face, but it’s gone just as quickly as it appears.
“Oh my God.” The rookie lets out a wrecked little moan, color rising in his round cheeks, still sweet and pinchable with baby fat even on his hard athlete’s frame. His green eyes finally dare to meet Shane’s, looking up at him from under blond lashes. “You’re—I can’t believe Shane Hollander wants—fuck, you are so hot.”
“You heard him, Haasy. On your knees. Show him.”
“Yes, Captain,” Haas says, thudding to the rug, and Shane can’t help the stab of heat that knifes through his belly. The armchair is angled toward the couch so that he’s got the perfect view: Haas in profile, kneeling before Ilya, eyes wide and wet.
“Good boy. Now, Hollander,” Ilya says, stroking Haas’s blond waves without bothering to look at Shane. He pushes a finger into the kid’s mouth, fucks it in between his pink, pouty lips. “Tell him how to suck my cock.”
Jesus Christ.
“He looked like he knew what he was doing earlier.”
“Mm, yes, he is very good. But he admires you,” Ilya says, adding another finger, chuckling as Haas moans desperately around them. “I think there is so much he wants to learn from his hero.”
Haas’s eyes go wide. He looks between them, clearly lost—but doesn’t ask.
Ilya is going to make Shane talk him through it.
He takes a breath. He can do this. Make it good for Ilya, good enough that he remembers who he really wants.
“Ask him to take out his cock for you, Haas,” Shane says, voice thick. “Say ‘please’.”
Haas swallows, his cock straining against those tight little shorts, a dark patch spreading across the front. “P-please, Cap,” he groans. “Need your—”
He squeezes his eyes shut, biting his lip.
“I know it’s hard,” Shane says quietly. “Just repeat after me. Say ‘I want your big, fat dick in my mouth.’”
God, he does.
“I-I want your big, fat dick in my mouth,” Haas whispers.
Shane doesn’t look at him. Only at Ilya. “Good. Now—” His voice drops. “‘Please, Captain, fuck my face.’”
Ilya’s breath catches. His legs spread wider.
Good.
Haas repeats it, voice breaking on Captain, a pitiful little whine—but Ilya’s eyes stay locked on Shane’s, dark and glittering.
“Yes, Haasy, you can have it.”
Ilya tugs off his pants. His cock springs free, flushed and hard. Haas groans loud enough to cover Shane’s pained whimper, but the heat of it still burns across his face. It’s Pavlovian, as automatic as breathing. He can’t not want it.
There is nothing Ilya could do that would make him not want it, Shane realizes. He could hit him with a career-ending injury, then take out his dick on the ice as Shane lies twitching and crying, and Shane would still moan for it like the hopeless cockslut he is.
He needs to make sure Haas treats it properly.
“Thank him,” Shane says. “Thank him for letting you have his dick. Then kiss it. He—” Shane forces it out. “He likes when you kiss it just under the head.”
Haas freezes, like something has just clicked into place. “Wait—so you mean you have—I don’t—”
“Kiss it, Haas.”
Haas jerks forward, his mouth a breath away from Ilya’s cock. He looks to Shane, wide-eyed. “Here?”
Shane’s throat is tight. He nods.
“Thank you for letting me have your cock, Captain,” Haas says, cheeks flushing impossibly pink as he kisses the spot. Shane exhales, low and helpless.
Ilya’s hips roll forward, dragging his cock against the rookie’s face. Haas takes it, groaning.
“Oh—yes, want it so bad, please…”
“Da, just like that, Haasy, good boy,” Ilya murmurs, voice already rough.
It stirs something primal in him, that rasp in Ilya’s voice. Shane’s cock throbs, like it doesn’t know how deeply he’s being humiliated. Or, worse—it does, and it likes it.
Fuck, he wants to see Ilya come. Wants to watch him shoot down the kid’s throat.
“Take him into your mouth,” Shane says. Haas plunges down quickly, too eager, and Ilya winces—teeth, probably. “Careful, not too much at once.”
“I’m sorry. I am nervous in front of you. I swear I know how to do this.”
“It’s okay. Just go slow—yeah. Like that.”
The words come too easily, calling up the years of muscle memory he’s spent nearly four months trying to forget. Haas suckles at Ilya’s tip, slower now, and Ilya groans softly beneath him.
A flicker of pride stirs in Shane’s chest.
“Look at him while you suck him. He loves that.”
Haas does, and when Ilya gasps, the rookie’s pace turns eager and messy on Ilya’s cock, his mouth making obscene noises around the length.
“Come hold his head, Hollander,” Ilya says. “Show him how I like it.”
Shane goes still.
It’s too much. Too humiliating. He doesn’t even know if he can get that close to Ilya without touching him. Without dragging Haas out of the way and taking his place. But Ilya’s lips are twisted into a smirk, like he knows exactly what Shane is going to do. Like he always has.
Because right now, he’ll do anything to be close to Ilya.
With a grunt, he falls to his knees behind Haas, draping his body over the rookie’s back.
“Good boy,” Ilya smirks.
Haas’s hard, muscled back presses against his chest, heat leaching through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Shane’s hips slot neatly against the supple curve of his ass and he palms the back of his head, feeling the slight tremor there, the breathless anticipation.
“Relax, Haas.”
Shane guides the rookie’s head down until his lips touch Ilya’s cock. At the contact, air hisses between Ilya’s teeth. He should be watching Haas, but his eyes—bright blue and burning—are fixed on Shane.
Keeping his gaze locked on Ilya, Shane twists his fingers into Haas’s hair and forces his head down slowly, making Ilya feel every inch of it, then drags him back up with a sharp tug.
“Fuck,” Ilya rasps. “Yes, take it.”
And he could be talking to Haas, but it lands in Shane’s chest. Ilya is talking to him. Telling Shane to take what he’s given, to take the punishment.
Shane’s grip tightens in Haas’s hair. The rookie whines.
He sets a steady, controlled rhythm, fucking Haas’s face down onto Ilya’s dick.
Sweet, punched-out whimpers reach his ears—the kid is gagging for it—but Shane barely registers the sound. All he sees is Ilya: the sweat beginning to bead at his temples. The crucifix glinting at his throat, his pulse hammering behind it. The heat in his gaze, sharp and searching, focused entirely on Shane.
He has Ilya’s attention. He can make him unravel.
“Now hollow your cheeks and suck like a good little slut, Haas.”
Ilya moans, low and guttural, fingers digging into the couch cushions. “Blyat, yes, fuck.”
Shane guides Haas more firmly now—pulling him up Ilya’s shaft, shoving him back down, deeper each time, until the kid’s nose is pressed against Ilya’s pelvis. The rookie makes small, choked noises, breath catching as he tries to keep up, spit leaking down his chin. Shane doesn’t let the pace falter.
“Da, don’t stop.”
Shane is so focused on Ilya—on the way his chest rises and falls, on the tension in his thighs, on coaxing the next moan from his lips—that he doesn’t register what he’s doing. Not at first.
There’s a slow, creeping heat between his legs. A dull, rhythmic pressure. The rasp of denim against thin running shorts.
Oh, fuck.
Shane’s hips have started to move on instinct, grinding against the curve of Haas’s ass. And Haas—Jesus—Haas is pushing back, grinding into him as he sucks Ilya down. Like he wants them both.
Ilya grins wickedly.
“Mm, you like his ass, Hollander?”
Shane’s hips freeze. “Fuck—I didn’t mean to—no.”
“That is not what your dick says.” Ilya’s voice is lazy, relaxed, like Haas isn’t gagging on him as he says it. “Look at you. Can’t even help yourself.”
His gaze drags over Shane, slow and knowing.
“Like horny little dog in heat… oh, da, just like that, Haasy, keep sucking my cock.”
Ilya’s head falls back against the couch, throat exposed as a low moan tears out of him.
“Is okay, Hollander,” he adds softly, when he lifts his head again. “I like his ass, too. You can see why I fuck it.”
Shane chokes on his breath. His fingers fist in Haas’s hair, and he yanks him off Ilya’s cock.
“You’ve fucked him?”
Ilya pats the rookie’s cheek. “Tell him, малыш.”
Haas gasps for air, lips wet and swollen, tears clinging to his lashes. He twists, looking back over his shoulder at Shane, dazed and flushed. “Cap fucks me,” he whispers, voice wrecked and full of pride. His hips rock back again, seeking friction. “He fucks me so good, Shane.”
“When?” The question rips out of him. “Where? How often?”
“Before every game. And—and after.” Haas swallows. “I stay in the locker room and let him use me in the shower.”
“My good little slut,” Ilya murmurs.
Heat blooms in Haas’s cheeks, but he’s smiling. Like it’s his greatest accomplishment.
“You could—you could use me too. If you wanted.” Haas licks his lips and leans in. “Do you want to use me, Shane?”
Shane groans. Haas is so close, and his dick is so hard, and if he can’t have Ilya, maybe this is the next best—no. He shakes his head. This has already gone far enough.
“Don’t be shy, Hollander,” Ilya drawls. “I will share my rookie. Haas, do you want to suck Hollander’s dick while I fuck you?”
Haas stills, then looks back at Ilya, his eyes bright. “Can I, Cap?”
Shane is going to pass out.
“Mm,” Ilya says, not looking at him. Keeping his eyes, dark and unreadable, on Shane. “You will have to ask Hollander.”
A shiver burns through him. What the fuck is Ilya doing? He blinks, hard, like this is a hallucination he can clear away.
“Shane,” Haas says, nuzzling against his neck, all too real. Tentative at first, then bolder, when Shane doesn’t shove him away.
“Hollander,” the rookie tries again, his voice going a little ragged around the edges, and that does something to Shane’s stomach. “Can I suck your dick?”
Haas’s soft mouth finds the sensitive spot below Shane’s ear. Ilya is watching, his eyes heavy-lidded, and oh—his hand wraps around his stiff cock. Gives it a long, lazy pump.
“Bitte? Please?” Haas whimpers, and Shane’s breath stutters.
If he says no, this stops. He’ll go back to his hotel, alone. Ilya will fuck Haas anyway, only Shane won’t be there to see him come. To make him remember what he could be having instead.
“Yes,” Shane says, voice wrecked.
Haas surges forward to kiss him.
The rookie’s mouth is warm and soft. Sweet. His tongue traces the seam of Shane’s lips, pries them open, and he whimpers into Shane’s mouth.
“God—I can’t believe I am kissing Shane Hollander,” Haas breathes, fingers tangling in Shane’s hair. “I’ve fantasized about you since I was a kid.”
“You are a kid,” Shane mutters, but Haas just laughs.
He shoves Shane back on his ass, then climbs onto his lap, grinding down without hesitation, slow and filthy. It’s the closest Shane has been to anyone in months, and his body reacts before he can stop it.
He moans.
Haas wraps a hand around Shane’s throat, squeezing lightly, and Shane’s vision sparks. He thinks of Ilya—how he used to do this, how Shane had begged for it—and something hot and ugly surges up in his chest. He grabs Haas’s ass hard, squeezing until the kid yelps.
Ilya chuckles. “I said I would share, Hollander. Not that you could break him. Though—” he raises an eyebrow “—he does like it rough.”
Haas makes a little uh-huh noise into Shane’s mouth, still kissing him. Shane grips his hips and thrusts up, hard. Haas keens.
“Fuck, Shane—yes.”
Shane tries to lose himself in the sighs he makes, the way he tastes, the insistent, growing hardness grinding against his own. But he can’t stop cataloging. The moves that are like Ilya’s. The sounds Ilya must love.
A bottle plunks down at his feet.
“Open him up for me, Hollander.”
Shane sucks in a breath. Before he can stop to question it, Haas scrambles out of his shorts and crawls back into Shane’s lap, cock hard and leaking against his belly. It’s not as long as Ilya’s, but it is thick and pretty.
Shane’s mind traitorously imagines it bouncing as Ilya fucks him. Then imagines it inside him.
Jesus.
Haas’s mouth is on his, hot and insistent. “Please, Shane. Give me your fingers.”
Shane’s not usually a big talker during sex, but the kid’s hero worship has made him bold. “Yeah,” he murmurs, breath rougher now. “That what you want, rookie?”
He slicks his fingers. He doesn’t do this often—Ilya is rarely in the mood for it—but when he is, Shane knows how to do it right.
He leans back against the ottoman and spreads his legs, letting Haas settle between them, ass hovering just enough for access. Haas drapes himself over Shane’s shoulder, his breath hot on Shane’s neck, teeth catching an earlobe.
“Play with my ass,” he begs. “Bitte pressiere.”
On the couch, Ilya fists his cock. “I told you. Very horny.”
Shane locks eyes with Ilya as he circles the rookie’s asshole. When he presses gently against the tight furl of muscle, it flutters.
“Nngh, yes—”
“Oh, needy little thing. You know how that feels, don’t you, Hollander? Give it to him.”
Shane pushes inside him, shuddering at the tight heat clenching around his finger. As he begins to fuck it in and out of Haas’s hole, the rookie’s hips start a slow grind—pushing his ass back against Shane’s hand, and dragging his cock where it’s trapped between their chests.
“I need more,” Haas whimpers, clinging to his shoulders like a helpless fuckdoll. It’s a heady, powerful feeling, one Shane isn’t used to—but he doesn’t hate it.
“Shh, kid,” he says, rocking him gently. “I’ve got you.”
Shane gives him another finger, and Ilya picks up his pace on his own cock. They fall into a steady, pounding rhythm—Shane fingering Haas’s asshole, Ilya jerking his dick, gazes locked and burning. The filthy noises of skin and lube and heavy breathing fill the living room, punctuated by Haas’s fucked-out moans.
“Is he ready for me?” Ilya asks. “Tell me, Hollander, can his hole take my cock?”
Haas is already loose and pliant in a way that used to take Shane more time and effort. The rookie mewls into his shoulder, grinding their hips together. Shane’s dick throbs in his jeans even as his heart clenches at the thought of what comes next.
“Yes,” Shane rasps. “He’s ready.”
Ilya pauses.
“Are you?”
His gaze searches Ilya’s. For a moment, the edge is gone. There’s no defiance, no anger—none of the challenge that’s been animating him all night. Even the cloud of lust seems to clear for a second. It’s just Ilya, asking if he can do this.
Shane wants to say no. To say, please don’t fuck him. Just me. Only me. Forever.
But Ilya won’t be his secret anymore, and Shane won’t be his in public, and if that means this is all that’s left to him, if this is as close as he gets, then—he’ll take it.
“Ready to take us both, Haas?” Shane says, with more conviction than he feels.
“Shit. Yes. Yes.”
Ilya joins them on the rug and pulls Haas to him, his broad, naked body dwarfing the rookie’s smaller one as he crushes him in a kiss.
“On all fours, дорогой.”
Sweetheart.
“Yes, Captain.” Haas obeys eagerly, presenting his pert ass in the air, facing toward Shane. Ilya moves behind him and palms his cheeks.
“So pretty,” Ilya says. “Such a perfect ass.”
Shane is glad Ilya didn’t suggest moving to the bedroom. There are too many memories there, and the rug softens the floor a little.
This should hurt, anyway.
“Take your cock out, Hollander.”
Shane removes his jeans, folding them over the armchair before settling in front of Haas. He doesn’t miss the way the rookie’s eyes widen at the sight of his dick.
“Can I taste it? Please?” Haas begs, crawling toward him on all fours. The embarrassment that clung to his cheeks earlier in the night has burned away—the rookie is shameless, wanton, moving like a little sex kitten.
Shane nods. “Suck my cock, Haas.”
Haas’s tongue darts out to lap at his slit. Shane inhales sharply—it’s been so long. When Haas pulls away, a string of precum stretches between Shane’s cockhead and his lips.
“Mmm, you taste good. So wet.”
“Yes, Hollander leaks like a girl. He used to love it when I fucked his pussy.”
Shane’s face burns. “Ilya—”
“What?” Ilya asks, pressing his hips flush with Haas’s ass. “I think Haas knows by now that we have history.”
“’s so fucking hot,” Haas gasps. He licks Shane from root to tip and wiggles his hips against Ilya.
Ilya pushes inside him, tearing a cry from the rookie’s lips that’s quickly muffled by Shane’s cock in his throat. Wet heat envelops his length. His toes curl.
“Shane used to be my Montreal girl, Haasy. He was such a good girl—until he wasn’t.”
“Fuck you, Ilya.”
Ilya ignores him, sinking deeper into Haas’s ass. “But now I have you, новичок. In every city, all the time. To please me whenever I want, yes?”
Haas glows with the praise.
“Yes, Captain. Anytime you want. Anything you want,” he moans, breath going ragged as Ilya bottoms out. “Just please fuck me.”
“Oh, sweet boy. I will give you what you want, since you are being so nice.” Ilya starts to move his hips, every punishing thrust fucking Haas’s mouth onto Shane’s hard cock. “Hollander could learn something from you.”
Shane wants to fire back. To say something biting. But Haas is choking on his dick, eyes wide and brimming as Ilya fucks desperate moans out of him, and all rational thought has fled Shane’s brain.
“You like that, rookie? You like being a little slut, split open on two big MHL players?"
Haas makes a garbled noise around Shane’s dick. The slide of his tongue feels like heaven; he’s leaking into the rookie’s mouth.
“What was that?” Ilya pulls out and slams back into him, hard, jolting his head on Shane’s cock. “I can’t understand you, with all that dick in your mouth. Do you like it, Haasy?”
A high, strangled whine. God, Haas looks wrecked.
Shane can’t help it—he braces his hands on the rug and thrusts up into Haas’s mouth.
Again, and again, until tears are spilling down the rookie’s ruddy cheeks. Shane twists his fingers into Haas’s blond waves and pumps his head up and down his shaft, delicious pressure building at the base of his spine.
“Fuck,” he moans. “God, it’s so good.”
He watches Ilya pound into Haas—the flush across his chest, the crucifix bouncing between his pecs. The tight set of his jaw. He is brutal and beautiful and inside someone else.
The question slips out before Shane can stop it. “How does he feel?”
Ilya’s lip curls, baring his teeth. “So fucking good. So tight, like a little virgin still. Is he being a good little cocksucker for you?”
“Yes,” Shane gasps, as Haas’s tongue swirls around his tip. “It’s—really good.”
“Mmm. Haas is perfect boy.”
Shane’s chest burns. He knows he shouldn’t ask.
“Better than me?”
“What do you think, Hollander?” A wicked smile spreads across Ilya’s face as he grinds into the rookie. Haas writhes underneath him, whining. “He gives me everything I need. He is proud to be mine. He even let Marly watch him suck me, let me show his slutty photos to Connors. He is so good for me.”
“You—what? People know?” Shane splutters, fingers tightening in Haas’s hair as the rookie swallows him down. It’s either the worst or the hottest thing he’s ever heard, or maybe both—he’s so close his vision is whiting out.
“Not everyone is a little bitch, Shane,” Ilya smirks. “Haasy, make him come now. Put your finger in his ass and suck him faster.”
“What—no—” Shane tries to protest, but Haas is already obeying and the feeling is electric. “Oh, fuck, fuck.”
The rookie works him relentlessly, pumping his finger in and out of Shane’s hole as he sucks him. Shane is pinned under Ilya’s gaze, unable to look away, and when Haas curls his finger, he cries out.
“Come for my rookie, Hollander. Come like the little bitch you are.”
Ilya thrusts his hips, forcing Shane’s cock to the back of Haas’s throat. The rookie’s finger hits his prostate again as his vision starts to blur at the edges.
“Right. Fucking. Now,” Ilya growls.
Shane’s orgasm crashes through him, hot and shameful and utterly unstoppable.
“Ilya,” he cries, before he can stop himself—then bites his lip hard enough to taste blood. He’s spilling down Haas’s throat, hips grinding helplessly against the rookie’s face, fingers twisting in his hair. Just fucking using the kid’s mouth to take his pleasure while he drowns in Ilya’s steely gaze.
Haas moans greedily around his cock, his throat working to swallow the thick ropes of cum pulsing into his mouth.
“Fuck—oh, fuck, there’s more—”
The kid’s eyes roll back in his head as cum dribbles down his lips. He makes pained, urgent whimpers around Shane’s dick before he comes untouched, cock painting the rug in desperate spurts. Ilya grabs Haas by the waist to keep him upright; his legs are shaking too hard to hold him.
“Good boy, Haasy,” he murmurs, slamming into him one more time as Haas’s spasming hole milks him. “Such a good little slut, made Hollander come for us—oh, God.”
Ilya’s face crumples as he comes with a shout.
Inside someone else.
Shane’s chest constricts as Ilya pumps Haas full of his cum. His eyes prick with hot, stupid tears as he watches Ilya ride it out, head tossed back in rapturous pleasure. Ilya grips Haas’s hips hard enough that his biceps bulge and ripple—he’s going to leave bruises, and people will chirp Haas in the locker room, but apparently the Centaurs know and it doesn’t fucking matter.
When Haas collapses onto the rug, spent, something inside Shane snaps.
He dives onto the rookie. Wrenches his legs apart.
Shoves his tongue into that wrecked hole and takes Ilya’s cum for himself. Mine.
It’s bitter and familiar, and he’s missed it desperately. The hot tang of it on his tongue. Shane moans into Haas’s asshole and eats like his life depends on it. He’s vaguely aware of Haas wailing underneath him—too sensitive, too much—and of Ilya staring, open-mouthed, but he won’t stop until he’s swallowed every last drop.
“Oh God, I’m going to—Shane, I’m going to come again—” Haas whines, grinding his hips into the rug. “Fuck, don’t stop, please.”
He’s not even trying to make Haas feel good. He just wants Ilya on his tongue. Wants to make this moment last before they have to face the after. When he plunges into the rookie one more time, savoring the taste, Haas loses it.
“Fuckfuckfuck, Shane,” he cries, fingers twisting in the rug.
Shane pulls back, wiping his lips and then sucking his fingers clean. Not sated, exactly, but full of Ilya in the only way he’s allowed to be now. His chest hurts.
Beneath him, the rookie twitches through the aftershocks of his second orgasm. The kid’s so blissed out it probably won’t occur to him that what Shane did was strange. That it meant anything.
Ilya is still staring at him, like it’s the first time he’s seen him all night. Shane stands too quickly, picks up his clothes.
“Nooo, Shane, don’t go,” Haas whines, rolling over to look up at him. “That was so hot.”
Shane focuses on his hands. On keeping them still as he steps into his boxer briefs, then his jeans. He fumbles for his phone and calls an Uber. He can’t look at either of them— especially not at Ilya, who hasn’t moved.
“Yeah,” Shane says. “That was—” He swallows. “Yeah.” He tries for a smile, but probably looks like he’s having a stroke. “I’ve got an early flight tomorrow, though, so I should go. My Uber will be here in a minute.”
“Can we do this again, Cap?” Haas asks. “Play with Hollander, I mean?”
There’s a pause.
“You will have to ask him,” Ilya says finally. His voice is distant. Wrong.
Shane is halfway to the door, but he looks at Ilya then, where he sits naked on the rug. He looks cold. Smaller, somehow, with his knees drawn up. His hair is a mess, his chest still rising too fast, his lips parted like there’s something else he wants to say.
For a heartbeat, the room disappears. Like it’s just them again, back in December, before everything fell apart.
“Bitte, Shane? Please?” Haas asks, and the moment snaps like a pulled thread.
He closes his eyes.
“Call me,” Shane says, because he hasn’t learned a thing tonight. It comes out quieter than he means it to.
Shane leaves without looking back, because if he does—if he has to see them together in the house Ilya bought because of him, for the future he fumbled—he will lose it. He will cry and beg and Ilya won’t want to do this again.
Please call, he thinks, as he waits for his Uber.
It’s a prayer, or maybe a death wish.
Please.