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Shane’s first thought when he goes down late in the second period isn’t about the game, or his team, or even what the twinge in his knee might mean for the rest of this road trip.
His first thought is: Fuck, but I really wanted to get railed on all fours tonight.
He can sense Rozanov’s eyes on him as he picks himself up off the ice. When he looks up, Rozanov is staring at him from across the rink, face pinched behind his visor.
Probably worried about the same thing.
Shane grits his teeth and finishes his shift. During intermission, they tape his knee and load him up on anti-inflammatories before sending him back out.
The Metros eke out a victory. Shane scores the winning goal.
By the time Rozanov texts him a ten-minute heads-up, the painkillers are wearing off. Shane gingerly makes his way around his hotel room, switching on all the lights just to keep himself busy. He leaves his key card in the reader outside the door so he won’t have to get up to let Rozanov in.
Then, he sits on the edge of the bed and waits.
Rozanov slips into the room like he’s here to rob the place. “How’s your knee?” he asks while kicking off his sneakers.
“It’s fine,” Shane says, bristling at the question even though there’s no trace of mockery in Rozanov’s voice. For a change. “Just a tweak. Nothing serious.”
“Looked like it hurt. What did trainers say?”
“What do you care?”
Rozanov pauses halfway through shrugging out of his leather jacket. “Is more fun when you’re at full strength.”
“I won,” Shane reminds him.
Rozanov flashes a smile over his shoulder. “I was not talking about hockey.”
Walked right into that one. “They said I just tweaked it a little.”
“Shouldn’t you be resting and icing it?”
“I just iced it for, like, twenty minutes. Just get over here and fuck me,” Shane says impatiently. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”
The words come out harsher than intended. They’ve hooked up like this about half a dozen times by now, maybe more; often enough, apparently, for it to become something Shane eagerly looks forward to. Beat Boston, then get railed by Rozanov. Preferably on all fours.
But it’s been almost two months since they last got a chance to meet up, and sometimes it seems like the longer they go without seeing each other, the longer it takes Shane to warm up to Rozanov again. Like Rozanov is a slightly too-tight pair of jeans he washed and put away for the summer, and now he has to break them in all over again.
Or maybe it’s more accurate to think of himself as the pair of jeans, and Rozanov as the one who has to break him in again.
“Yes,” Rozanov says after a long moment. “Is why I’m here.”
He continues to undress, leaving his clothes in a heap on the floor.
Shane takes a steadying breath. He strips off his own shirt, folds it, bends down to put it next to his socked feet.
That’s as far as he gets. When he sits back up, he freezes with his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his sweats.
Rozanov is swaggering up to the bed, gloriously naked, dick swinging obscenely between his legs.
Shane can’t look away. His face grows hot, which makes no sense at all. He’s seen Rozanov’s cock before—has touched it, held it in his mouth, felt every thick inch of it inside him. It’s absurd for him to be blushing like a virgin at the sight of it.
He tears his eyes away before Rozanov can say something obnoxious like “Like what you see?” or “Is rude to stare,” but Rozanov is towering over him now, and when Shane drags his gaze up, his entire field of vision is filled with rippling muscles.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters.
“Like what you see?” Rozanov asks, looking down at himself.
“Yeah,” Shane says, resigned. No point in denying it.
Warm hands cup his face, tip his head back. “Is rude to stare, you know.”
Shane allows himself to melt into the touch. “I know.”
He feels the tension drain from his shoulders the moment their mouths meet.
The kiss is gentle, lingering. Rozanov tastes faintly of cigarettes and strongly of peppermint. There’s something soothing about it, but before Shane can figure out why that is, Rozanov pulls away and drops fluidly to his knees.
And takes one of Shane’s feet in his hands.
Shane says, like an idiot, “Uh?”
“You need help with clothes,” Rozanov says matter-of-factly, his thumbs digging into a sore spot at the base of Shane’s toes. “Socks on or off?”
Shane blinks. He’s never thought about this before. Does he usually take his socks off? Does he leave them on? What’s the right answer here? Rozanov looks distractingly handsome like this, hair falling into his face, eyes soft and patient.
“Off?” Shane ventures.
He watches, dumbstruck, as his socks are peeled off with such care that he wonders if he should remind Rozanov he hurt his knee, not both his ankles.
Rozanov then folds Shane’s socks and places them on top of his shirt. “Pants next, yes? Come on, ass up.”
Shane can’t help but snort. He has to hold on to Rozanov’s shoulder for balance, but he refuses to feel awkward about it. Just like he refuses to feel any type of way about the look of concentration on Rozanov’s face as he eases Shane’s sweatpants and underwear down over his wrapped knee.
“You really don’t need to—” Shane starts to say, but Rozanov is already folding them and adding them to the pile.
Embarrassingly, Shane’s cock swells. Precome is welling at the tip.
Rozanov leans in with a knowing smile. “This is doing it for you, Hollander?”
“Sure looks like it,” Shane says roughly, bracing himself with one hand on the bed as Rozanov swallows him down.
Shane learned early on that Rozanov sucks cock like he’s trying to prove something. Not to himself, but to the person whose cock he’s sucking. He throws himself into it the way he throws himself into plays, with a confidence bordering on recklessness.
He was a fucking menace all game long—trash-talking Shane’s guys, cleverly drawing penalties left and right. Now, kneeling naked at Shane’s feet, golden curls framing his head like a halo, he’s putting that sharp tongue and laser focus to much better use.
It’s a heady feeling, getting to narrowly beat the Ilya Rozanov on the ice and fuck his talented mouth all in the same evening. A dizzying rush of heat shoots through Shane as Rozanov’s throat contracts around his cock, taking him deeper than he ever thought possible before he met Ilya fucking Rozanov.
“Fuck, Rozanov.” Shane grabs a fistful of Rozanov’s hair to hold him still, give them both a moment to breathe. “Don’t choke on it.”
Rozanov glances up, arching an eyebrow. There’s a slight swelling below his left eye from where someone—probably J.J.—wasn’t amused by his on-ice antics. Shane strokes a fingertip over it. Some indefinable emotion rises in his chest, something that has no business being there. He clears his throat to chase it away.
“You’re a menace,” he tells Rozanov. The words come out fonder than intended.
Rozanov winks. He takes Shane’s hand and presses it flat to the side of his own face.
Shane obediently rubs his thumb back and forth, feels the hard shape of his cock through Rozanov’s hollowed cheek. “Fuck me, that’s hot,” he whispers, touching the corner of Rozanov’s lips where they’re stretched wide around his cock.
Rozanov hums. The vibrations send another bolt of heat straight to Shane’s groin.
“Rozanov,” he grunts, “if you wanna fuck me tonight, you better…”
Rozanov pulls off with that wet popping sound Shane is determined to master one day. “Got stuff?” he asks in a hoarse voice, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth.
Shane nods at the neat pile of his clothes. “In there somewhere.”
Rozanov grins. “Didn’t want to waste any time, huh?”
“Just being efficient.”
Leaving Rozanov to extract a condom and a packet of lube from the pocket of his sweatpants, Shane moves onto the bed as quickly as his knee will let him. It throbs in protest as he gets down on his stomach, with his head pillowed on his folded arms and his good knee drawn up slightly to the side.
Rozanov settles behind him. “This okay?” he asks, spreading Shane’s ass cheeks with both hands.
Shane fights back a shiver at the feeling of Rozanov’s warm breath brushing his hole. “Yes, Rozanov, you have my permission to kiss my ass.”
“I mean for your knee.”
“Oh. Yeah, no, it’s fine. I only feel it when I move.”
“Okay, then don’t move.”
“I’m not moving.”
“You pushed your ass up.”
Shane relaxes into the mattress with a scowl. “I’ll do my best impression of a corpse from here on out.”
“Hollander,” Rozanov says plaintively. “This is very unsexy of you. Please don’t be a corpse.”
“Jesus Christ, man, just get on with it.”
Uncharacteristically, Rozanov does as he’s told. For about a minute or two. Then, he lifts his head again.
“You’re so tight, Hollander,” he says, still rubbing a slick finger into Shane. “Your poor dildo must be lonely.”
And just when Shane thought he was getting the hang of this part—of not tensing up, breathing into the stretch. Embracing the vulnerability instead of shying away from it.
He burrows his face deeper into the crook of his arm. “It’s not the same,” he admits through gritted teeth.
Rozanov lets out a breath of a laugh. “You like my cock better?”
“That’s not what I said.”
Truthfully, Shane’s dildo can fill him up well enough. What it can’t give him is the soft warmth of Rozanov’s mouth, the low rumble of his teasing voice. It can’t give him Rozanov’s hands roaming all over his body, making it hard to think about anything but how badly he wants Rozanov’s cock inside him.
It still surprises Shane to find he carries this—this bottomless capacity for pleasure, this searing, all-consuming desire—around with him wherever he goes, hidden in some deep and private place. Only Rozanov seems to know exactly how to access it, to know where in Shane’s body these sensations are stored and how to draw them out with a ruthless precision that leaves him writhing and clutching at the sheets.
When he feels like he might come apart at the seams if Rozanov makes him wait any longer, Shane pushes himself up onto all fours. He pointedly ignores the flare of pain in his knee.
“Are you sure?” Rozanov asks, sounding unsure. “We can—”
“No. I want it like this.”
“Hollander, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“This is what I want,” Shane says, more forcefully. “I can take it. It’ll be fine.” He adds, “I’ll tell you if it hurts.”
He isn’t going to let a tweaked knee get in the way of something he’s been looking forward to for weeks, goddammit.
Shane loves it when Rozanov takes him from behind. He tells himself it’s because it feels more impersonal; because this way, it could be anyone but Rozanov fucking him. Just some guy he picked up at a hotel bar. Or someone on the street who gave him a long, appraising look before beckoning him into an alley, or the back seat of an idling car.
The thing is, the faceless men in those fantasies invariably end up taking on Rozanov’s shape.
It’s always Rozanov smoothing a firm hand up and down Shane’s spine, Rozanov’s breathing growing ragged behind him. It’s always Rozanov drawing lazy circles with his thumbs while holding Shane’s hips steady, keeping his body where he wants it.
It’s always Rozanov.
So sometimes, instead of pretending he’s pretending it isn’t Rozanov, Shane pretends that Rozanov is just… taking him. That he isn’t an active and willing participant in what is happening here; that he hasn’t been fucking dying for it ever since Rozanov unlocked this vast and urgent need inside him, leaving fingerprints all over it.
“Okay,” Rozanov says, oblivious to Shane’s shameful thoughts. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
Rozanov puts a warm hand on Shane’s lower back, fingers splayed wide, and pushes inside.
Shane gasps, groans. His arms threaten to buckle. The indignant throb in his knee is the only thing keeping him from burying his face in the pillow and fucking himself back on Rozanov’s cock.
“Is this okay?” Rozanov curls his other hand around Shane’s hip, setting a slow and shallow pace. He’s being a lot more careful than usual, hasn’t even bottomed out yet, and Shane wants to snap at him to cut it out—fuck me like you mean it, Rozanov—but the words curdle on his tongue.
“Yeah,” he lies, because he knows how to push through the pain. He’s played through plenty of minor, and not-so-minor, injuries. This is nothing, really. It’s more annoying than anything.
But it’s enough to jolt him out of the dreamlike state he slips into whenever he’s alone in a room with Rozanov. To remind him that the real world is still out there, beyond this pocket of space and time they just can’t seem to stop carving out for themselves, and.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. These moments with Rozanov are supposed to be an escape, a way to blow off steam, get out of his head, not—not this.
Shane’s cock is going soft.
He takes a sharp breath. His lungs feel too small for his body.
“Fuck,” he bites out. He doesn’t like how his voice sounds, thin and a little shaky. “Fine. You were right.”
Rozanov has gone very still. “It hurts?”
Shane nods, not trusting himself to speak.
Rozanov says something in Russian. The warm weight of his hands abruptly disappears. “I will pull out now, okay?”
It’s not a punishment. Shane knows it’s not a punishment.
It feels like one anyway.
“I’m sorry,” he says, though he’s not entirely sure what he’s apologizing for. For catching an edge and going down during the game? For being stubborn, and irritable, and ruining his own plans for tonight? For being unforgivably selfish with the multi-million-dollar asset that is his body?
“No, Hollander, don’t say that.”
Shane shifts onto his back with a hiss. As soon as the pressure is off his knee, the tightness in his throat eases. He sucks in a gulp of air.
Rozanov is sitting back on his heels, one arm wrapped around his waist. “Do you want me to go?” he asks evenly.
“Go?” Shane echoes, baffled. “I want you to fuck me.”
Rozanov shakes his head. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“No, but we can—like this.” Shane gestures at himself, naked on his back with his legs spread apart. Fuck, Rozanov can’t just leave him like this, cold and open and empty. Can he? “I just—you were right, okay, I shouldn’t have put weight on it. It’s fine if I’m on my back, I think. I’m pretty sure.”
Rozanov frowns.
“I’ll tell you if it hurts,” Shane says, a little desperate now. “I told you just now, didn’t I?”
“I don’t—”
“I know you don’t want to hurt me.”
Rozanov’s eyes are fixed on some point near Shane’s elbow. He’s wearing the same pinched expression he wore after Shane hit the ice earlier.
“Hey.” Shane prods Rozanov with his big toe. “Come back here.”
After a beat, Rozanov huffs out a breath and shuffles forward until he’s leaning over Shane, propping himself up with one hand beside Shane’s head.
Shane pulls him down and kisses him, hard and hungry. He hooks his good leg around Rozanov, and Rozanov—taking the hint—slides an arm under his thigh to spread him wider.
“No pain?” he asks, drawing back to look Shane in the eye.
“No pain,” Shane reassures him.
“Okay, good,” Rozanov says. “Because Montreal people would kill me if I hurt precious Shane Hollander.”
“Oh, for sure. They would stone you in the streets.”
“Hmm.” Rozanov nuzzles Shane’s inner thigh, the slight roughness of his cheek scraping deliciously against the sensitive skin. “You are very flexible.”
Shane flushes at the note of approval in Rozanov’s voice. “I’ve been getting into yoga lately,” he explains, breath catching as Rozanov lines himself up again.
Rozanov searches Shane’s face. Apparently satisfied with what he sees, he dips his head down to bring their lips back together.
Sparks of pleasure skitter down Shane’s spine at the twin sensations of Rozanov’s tongue sliding into his mouth and Rozanov’s cock sinking into him. “Fuck,” he gasps into the kiss.
Rozanov pulls back slightly. “Good fuck, yes?”
“Nnghh.” Shane lets his head drop back into the pillow, shuddering with relief as Rozanov finally bottoms out inside him. “Uh-huh.”
“Wow,” Rozanov says. “‘Uh-huh.’” He drags the syllables out while dragging his cock halfway out of Shane. “High praise, Hollander. You will make me blush.”
He’s such an asshole. Shane is about to say it when Rozanov begins to fuck him with deep, languid thrusts, punching a needy sound from his throat.
“Rozanov,” he moans instead.
Rozanov’s arms are trembling with the effort of holding himself up, holding Shane open. “Knee okay now?” he asks in a strained voice.
“Doesn’t hurt at all.” Shane isn’t lying this time. “You—ah, fuck—good fuck—you can go faster.”
“Eh, no.” Rozanov shakes his head. “I make the decisions now. You have lost this privilege for tonight, I think.”
“Oh?”
“You don’t know what’s good for you.”
“Oh, and you do?”
Rozanov shifts his weight to one arm and tucks a knuckle under Shane’s chin. “You tell me, Hollander,” he whispers, planting a soft kiss on the corner of Shane’s mouth, and.
God.
They don’t—they don’t do this. They’ve only fucked face to face once before, probably because Rozanov wanted to make sure Shane wasn’t freaking out before flipping him over and showing him what he’d been denying himself for so long. Every time since then, Rozanov has fucked him from behind.
This, Shane thinks as Rozanov steals another moan from his lips, this isn’t fucking.
They are having sex.
It’s shockingly intimate. They’re moving slowly together, panting hot and wet into each other’s mouths, touching foreheads between kisses. Shane can really study Rozanov’s eyes this way, although he’s starting to think he’ll never pin down what color they are. Blue, gray, gold-flecked green—every time he thinks he’s got it figured out, they seem to change again.
It’s like every part of Rozanov is determined to keep him on his toes.
And maybe that’s what this is, Shane thinks muzzily. Maybe Rozanov is just throwing down a challenge, like at the 2011 All-Star Weekend, when he covered Shane’s mouth with a sweaty palm and jacked him off while whispering for him to be quiet or Scott Hunter would come knocking.
But there’s no mischief in Rozanov’s blue or gray or gold-flecked-green eyes now. He rocks into Shane, the cross on the chain around his neck swaying in the narrow gap between their chests. The clasp has slipped to the front. Without thinking, Shane reaches up to fix it for him.
“Fuck,” Rozanov chokes out.
Shane slides his hands up the sides of Rozanov’s neck and into his curls, nails grazing his scalp. He feels Rozanov shiver everywhere they’re touching.
“Yeah, you like that, Rozanov?” Shane murmurs, tugging Rozanov down so he can press his face to his throat. Rozanov smells like citrus and cedarwood, like fresh sweat and the best kind of trouble.
“Don’t bite,” Rozanov murmurs back. “We are shooting some stupid TV spot tomorrow.”
Shane just wanted to feel, to smell; to close the remaining distance between them, no matter how small, no matter how briefly. He wasn’t going to bite, but now he kind of wants to. He imagines leaving a hickey, the other Raiders razzing Rozanov about it. He laughs, breathlessly, against Rozanov’s salt-damp skin.
Rozanov—who, when Shane called him ticklish a few hotel rooms ago, swore up and down that “this is not a thing in Russia”—twitches away from Shane’s mouth with a little yelp.
“Sen,” Shane gasps, “sensitive.”
Rozanov either misunderstands or, more likely, willfully misinterprets him. “Yeah?” he says, reaching down and rubbing Shane’s rim where they’re joined together. “You are sensitive here?”
Shane’s eyes roll back in his head. Up until this moment, he thought that only happened in porn. He tries to play it off as rolling his eyes. “Ngh,” he says.
“What about here?” Rozanov cups Shane’s balls, drawn up tight against his body.
“Oh, God.”
“And here?” Rozanov presses down on his taint.
“Gah—”
“Hollander, you make the most beautiful noises.”
Shane viciously pulls himself together for a second. “Fuck you,” he says, loud and clear but without heat.
Rozanov snorts, trailing his fingertips down the side of Shane’s face. Shane mindlessly turns into the touch, but Rozanov catches his jaw and reels him in for another kiss.
There’s a lot of kissing in this position. It’s nice. Shane likes kissing Rozanov. On impulse, he takes Rozanov’s head between his hands and angles it so he can brush his lips over the swelling on his cheekbone.
Rozanov makes a soft, whimpering sound. Something shifts in the set of his shoulders, the roll of his hips.
Shane’s own orgasm, when it comes, is the same—not an explosive climax, but a gentle release. He rides it like a wave, with Rozanov’s hand snug around his cock and Rozanov’s face smushed in the curve of his neck.
When Rozanov makes no move to pull away, Shane runs his fingers through the fine hair at the nape of Rozanov’s neck. He strokes his hands down Rozanov’s shoulders, over his muscular back, to his ass.
Rozanov raises his head. “Are you trying to cop a feel, Hollander?”
“You’re literally still holding my cock,” Shane says. “You’re still inside me.”
Rozanov seems to take this as his cue to pull out, which is a shame. Shane doesn’t want the moment to end just yet. He isn’t ready for the real world to come flooding back in.
He stretches his back and tentatively flexes his knee as he watches Rozanov take off the condom, tie it off, and put it on the nightstand next to Shane’s glasses case.
Shane says, “Seriously?”
“What?” Rozanov flops back down. “How is—”
“Oh my God, my knee is fine. Stop asking.”
“We did not make it worse?”
Shane shakes his head. “If anything, we made it better.”
“This is sex endorphins talking,” Rozanov says, patting Shane’s stomach. “I think you should let me carry you to shower, to be safe.”
Shane bats his hand away. “Yeah, there’s no way in hell I’m letting you carry me to the shower.”
“Hollander. Do you want people of Montreal to kill me with stones?”
A laugh bursts out of Shane. He thinks he manages to disguise it as a groan. “Fine,” he says. “You can carry me to the damn shower.”
Rozanov carries him to the damn shower.
The next day, Shane is zoning out while waiting for their flight when his phone buzzes in his hand. He jerks, startling Hayden, who’s slouched in the seat next to him.
“Sorry,” Shane mumbles.
Rozanov has texted him. How’s the knee today?
Shane bites down on a smile, but not fast enough.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Hayden says, sitting up. “Who’s got you smiling like that? Is Boston Lily sexting you again?”
“Don’t be weird.” Shane turns his screen away from Hayden. “She’s just asking about my knee.”
“Aw,” Hayden says. “That’s actually really sweet of her, bro.”
“She has her moments,” Shane says absently as he types, Good as new.
He hits send, then follows up with, Thanks for checking in.
And then, after making sure Hayden is no longer looking: Next time I want you to rail me on all fours.
Rozanov’s reply is instant. Deal.