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1
“He said your name once, in bed with me,” Svetlana tells Hollander once Ilya’s left the table to fetch another bottle of wine. “Of course, he was so caught up in the fantasy he didn’t even notice that he said it, or that he was speaking English.”
She takes a sip from her mostly empty glass. As first meetings go, she knows she isn’t being nice. But neither is Hollander. All evening he’s been quiet, and serious, and not even smiling at her at all. Svetlana was excited to meet him; he is the best hockey player of his generation, after all, and she’s spending her evening trying to make conversation, none of it really working on him.
He’s her best friend’s lover, and he’s treating her with a distant politeness that would be more appropriate towards a new coworker. She was looking forward to this dinner, imagined them talking details about his two recent goals against Toronto. She should have maybe expected him to be jealous, but it never occurred to her. She isn’t the jealous type herself, and she’s completely happy for Ilya. So there’s really no need for all this, and she’s had it up to here.
She goes on. “He asked me for anal that time, but I wasn’t in the mood. He said, fine, but it had to be from behind. He didn’t say he didn’t want to be reminded it’s me, but I’m not stupid, so.” She shrugs. “I said, sure.”
More wine. More pain etched on Hollander’s face.
Still, she keeps talking. “He didn’t even kiss me that night.” Not that she and Ilya were ever much into kissing for the sake of it. It was still a slight, though, that he actively avoided kissing her.
Hollander flinches at her words. Something that might be fury flashes in his eyes, just for a fraction of a second.
“That’s funny,” he says. He looks so cute that she wants to wrap him in a blanket even as he seems to gear up to retaliate while she observes him like prey.
Bizarrely, the urge persists even when Hollander responds with big sweet eyes and perfect politeness, his Canadian accent rounding all the edges off his words: “He’s never said your name when he’s with me. I didn’t know you existed until a year ago.”
She drains her glass. “Well. Did you use to talk much?”
He blinks at her. “My best friend hates him. It kills me, it hurts me.”
His eyes get even bigger, even darker, pleading.
Of course Ilya was lost to those eyes the second he first looked into them. She can see it clearly. Ilya has always had a weakness for the soft things he so rarely got to have. A pet bunny his father dumped in the forest. A teddy bear his asshole brother gutted while Ilya and Svetlana watched, crying and powerless. Shane Hollander, sometime back when they were only just on the cusp of being Hollander and Rozanov.
“You wouldn’t want him to hurt like that, would you?” Hollander asks. “I know he gets sad. Do we need to make it worse by not getting along?”
Svetlana’s never particularly enjoyed sweet things. She recognises manipulation when she sees it, even if Ilya might not. Of course, Hollander is where he is in the sport, is who he is to the sport. No one gets there without at least a little ruthlessness, be it buried ever so deep.
“Look,” she says. “You want to speak plainly?”
“Yes, please,” he says.
“Fine. You’re making him move to Ottawa. His career will never recover, even if he makes them good. He could win so much if he signed with a better team, and you’re not letting him.”
Hollander looks at her in silence.
“He’s mine to protect, and he’s sad, and he’s moving to fucking Ottawa,” Svetlana says. She feels embarrassingly close to tears. Just the thought of Ilya being so far away, alone, on a shit team, is enough to make her want to tear her hair out. The least she should be getting out of it is a new friend to talk hockey with.
“You’re not his manager,” he says.
“And you’re not giving up your career, your friends, your life. He is.”
He frowns at her. “You aren’t his girlfriend, either.”
“I am well aware,” she says. “I don’t want to be.”
He eyes her doubtfully. “Why not?”
“He was never for me,” she says. She drains the rest of her wine. “For the record, despite everything I just said, I’m still so fucking happy for him. He’s happier than I’ve ever seen him.”
Before Hollander can respond, they hear Ilya’s steps in the hallway. He comes back bearing a fresh bottle of the same orange wine they’ve been drinking all evening.
Before going to open the bottle, Ilya drops a kiss onto Hollander’s head. “Everything okay?”
Hollander leans into him. “Mhm.”
Ilya smiles like Svetlana’s always hoped he’d be able to smile again someday.
Svetlana and Ilya have finished about half of the second bottle of wine when Hollander yawns adorably, squinting his eyes shut so he looks like a kitten.
“All right,” Ilya says, petting Hollander’s hair. “It’s late.”
“You’re joking, right?” Svetlana says. “It’s barely past eleven.”
Ilya shrugs. “Shane is tired, Sveta. He is already staying up late for this dinner.”
Hollander’s bracing his crossed arms on the edge of the sofa, his chin resting in the crook of his elbow, his dark eyes peeking up underneath long lashes to meet Svetlana’s gaze.
“Well, maybe you and I can have another drink,” Svetlana tells Ilya. “And Shane can get some rest in the meantime.”
“I am tired, too,” Ilya says. “We are not twenty any more.”
“Thank you, baby,” Hollander mumbles sleepily, unfolding his arms to draw Ilya close and give him a kiss.
Ilya leans into the embrace easily. Svetlana wonders whether he’s aware that he’s just passed a test with flying colours.
Svetlana also knows damn well when she’s fighting a losing battle. She sighs, gets up, and downs the rest of her wine in one go. She considers for a moment, then grabs the open bottle. “I’m taking this home,” she announces.
“Of course. I hope you enjoy the rest of your night,” Hollander says.
“You enjoy yours,” she says meanly, but under her breath, and in Russian to be on the safe side.
Hollander takes Ilya’s hand. They walk Svetlana to the door.
She takes a good look at Hollander. He’s barely had half a glass of wine all evening. He offers her a handshake goodbye.
She doesn’t know whether he’ll make or ruin Ilya, but she’ll be here for Ilya through it.
Ilya looks oddly hesitant as they all stand in the hallway. “Was nice evening, right?” he asks eventually.
Hollander wraps a hand around Ilya’s bicep and leans into his side. “It was, baby.”
He turns to Svetlana. A little stiffly, he tells her, “It would be great to see you for dinner when I’m next in town, Svetlana.”
She nods at him, giving him a smile. She sells cars to difficult people. She can be friendly to anyone. Ilya loves this man.
“That would be lovely,” she says. “It was great to meet you. Next time, let’s watch a game together.”
Hollander nods back at her, the corners of his lips lifting slightly. “A good one, though,” he says.
Svetlana blows a breath out through her teeth. “It’ll be tough to find one worth watching that neither of you are playing in.”
Hollander looks almost mischievous. Ilya must be rubbing off on him.
“Ah, well,” he says. He points his chin at the bottle she’s wedged under her arm so her hands are free. “We can always get drunk on more of that wine you enjoyed. That might make watching Hunter creaking around the ice bearable.”
Ilya laughs. Hollander looks at him, clearly delighted, then back at Svetlana. He bites his lips, then smiles at her properly, if a little shyly.
Maybe, just maybe, Svetlana’s passed her test, too.
2
When Rose comes back from the restroom, Shane is at their table, smiling down at his phone and typing rapidly.
“All okay?” Rose asks, sitting back down opposite him.
“Yeah,” Shane says without looking up. “Ilya was just texting me that he’s missing me.”
Rose did feel a little bad for stealing Shane away for dinner while Ilya is in town as well, but it’s been months since she’s seen Shane in person, and it’s not like they can all go out together.
Maybe one day. It would be lovely, even though Ilya is hard for her to get a read on, and she has a feeling that they are never going to fully click. There’s a shrewdness about him, a look in his eyes that made her feel like she was a bug under a microscope when they met. She does like him, though. He’s funny and a good conversationalist. She especially adores how he makes Shane beam and look all giddy.
“That’s sweet,” she says to Shane. “Say hi from me.”
Shane types, grins and puts his phone back down on the table where it keeps buzzing. “He won’t stop messaging now, you know.”
“Because I said hi?”
Shane shrugs. “Yeah, that’ll be more than enough. He was telling me to come home.”
Rose needs a moment to process that before she can speak. “You’re joking, right?” she ends up saying. “He was trying to get you to leave? Shane, that’s – I’m sorry, I don’t want to upset you, but I really don’t think that’s very healthy?”
Shane smiles a little. “I mean, we both get jealous, and it’s – when I get home it’ll be…” He trails off.
Rose leans in over her plate, checking that no one is close enough to hear. “Shane, you know I’m so happy for you and I really like Ilya. But are you scared that he’ll be angry at you when you get home? For going out with me?”
“I mean, he won’t be angry, he’ll just be – it’ll be good.”
“Good?”
Shane nods, blushing. “Uh, yeah.”
“So he’ll be chill about it?”
“No,” Shane says. His blush intensifies. “He’ll punish me.”
“Punish – oh!”
“Yeah,” Shane whispers, eyes flicking left and right to check for any other diners close by. “It’s how it works.”
Rose’s head is spinning. She knows Shane likes discipline, but she had no idea he liked it this much. “Shane, that’s – okay, right, okay.” She takes a large gulp of wine. “And you’re sure you’re fine with that? It’s something you like?”
Shane’s face and ears are completely scarlet by now. “I’m sure.” He leans in, eyes down on his plate but a smile around his lips. “Like, sometimes – forget it, actually.”
“Shane!” Rose whisper-shrieks. “You can’t start saying this kind of thing and then not tell me the details!”
“It – he’ll grab me, and he’ll hold me down and stuff, and it’s – it’s so fucking good, it’s so good, Rose. I can’t – it’s so good.”
Rose used to think that if Shane wasn’t gay, they might have worked out. They adore each other, they always have a fun time hanging out. But right now, she isn’t so sure. If this is how Shane craves to be loved, it was never an expectation she was capable of meeting.
“So you’re out with me to make him jealous so he’ll fuck you extra hard?”
“I – yeah, pretty much.”
“Shane!”
“No! That’s not what I was trying to say! I love spending time with you, you’re my friend, it’s just an, an added benefit! In a way.”
“Oh my god.” Rose is laughing so hard that she can barely down more of her wine. She does need to get drunker, though. “Holly, you should have told me earlier. We can up your game.”
“What do you mean?”
“You want to get fucked especially good tonight?”
“I always get fucked especially good,” Shane says. His blush returns, and he’s grinning a bit, clearly feeling the wine.
Rose smirks at him, drains the rest from her own glass and moves around the table to press herself up against Shane’s side. She takes a picture right as she smacks a lipstick-stained kiss onto his cheek.
“What are you doing?” Shane asks.
“Putting this on my socials,” she says. “That’ll get him going, I’m sure.”
“Ilya doesn’t follow you.”
She scoffs. “Shane. You are too pure a soul. If I learned anything tonight, it’s that Ilya most certainly has secret accounts to follow me on everything. Honestly, I don’t think it’s far-fetched to imagine he’s got a sniper stationed across the street.”
Shane’s phone starts buzzing, and doesn’t stop while they take their time finishing dessert. Ilya must have seen the picture. Shane is as close to giggly as Rose has ever seen him, his eyes sparkling with anticipation and his lips twitching up into a smile whenever he looks at his phone.
“It feels good,” Shane says quietly, when Rose gives him a knowing look and lightly kicks his shin under the table. “Knowing how much he wants me. That he really, truly feels the same.”
“Shane,” Rose says. “Of course he feels the same. It’s so obvious.”
Shane’s head snaps up from his food. “Obvious? Are people -”
“No, no,” She hurries to tell him. “Just, when we met at your place for dinner, he was acting like – I don’t even know.” Certainly, no boyfriend has ever looked at her the way Ilya and Shane looked at each other during that dinner. Like they’d rather devour each other than the food. “It was written all over his face, Shane. He loves you so much.”
Shane hums, considering. “That’s one thing,” he says. “It’s – I sometimes still can’t believe he loves me. But it’s also, you know. The other stuff.”
“The sex?”
“Yeah. I didn’t think it could be good like this. With anyone other than him, I’ve never really enjoyed it, and I tried.”
“Oh, I know,” she says.
He flushes. “Yeah, um. Sorry about that, again.”
“Shane, please. It’s all fine. I swear. Not compatible, right? And you and he clearly are.”
“We are,” Shane says. He looks at his phone, which is still buzzing. Rose giggles, then Shane giggles. They finish their vegan date cake with the air of schoolkids gossiping and splitting the contents of their lunch boxes during break.
When they hug goodbye outside the restaurant, she whispers, “Enjoy your spanking,” into his ear.
There’s a definite spring to his step as he heads off towards where his car is waiting for him. If Rose didn’t know him better, she’d say he was skipping.
3
Hollander is playing with his empty can of ginger ale, eyes fixed on the dance floor where his husband is dancing in clothes so tight they look painted-on. Kip and Elena are laughing and twirling around him. All three of them are covered in copious amounts of the glitter someone was throwing into the air earlier.
Scott loves Kip very much, and it’s Kip’s birthday, and for some reason, Kip thinks it’s fun to hang out with Ilya Rozanov when the Centaurs are in town. So Scott will drink his beer, and be happy Kip is having a great night, and try to make conversation with Shane Hollander.
Not that Hollander is making it easy. He’s been quiet as always, though he’s occasionally smiling at Rozanov and raising his hand in a little wave when Rozanov blows him kisses.
Scott can’t help but get the impression, though, that the bright colourful lights and the loud music aren’t to Hollander’s taste at all.
Hollander accidentally meets Scott’s eye. He clears his throat and immediately looks away again. Scott clears his throat, too, and drinks some more beer. Elena is trying to get Rozanov to lift her up like in the movie set at the country club that Kip made him watch once. Scott doesn’t doubt that Rozanov is strong enough to lift Elena over his head, but he’s a little concerned about everyone’s coordination considering they’ve been avidly consuming tequila shots whenever they’ve taken breaks from dancing.
Elena is now yelling at the top of her voice that she ‘used to be a figure skater, I can do this shit’ while Kip is shouting ‘it’s not figure skating if you have to hold onto the penguin thing, Elena’ over and over again. Rozanov is watching them fight it out, grinning, looking around, presumably for either Hollander or another tray of shots.
Hollander gets up and tells Scott he needs a beer.
Scott nods. That’s fair. He has a new kind of admiration for Hollander for managing to get through the evening sober until now.
Hollander heads for the bar. Before he can order, one of Kip’s work friends sidles up to him, smiling and leaning in close before gesturing at the cocktail menu. Hollander politely shakes his head, saying something in return, probably an apology, before raising his hand a little to show his wedding ring. The other man nods and heads off. Hollander turns back around to order. Another man leans up against the bar next to him, giving Hollander a casual nod.
Over the next ten minutes or so, another two guys and one clearly very unobservant girl try their luck, all to polite but increasingly tense rejections from Hollander. Scott is just wondering whether to go over there and just order Hollander his damn beer and get him out of a situation that he’s clearly pretty miserable in, when Kip drops into the seat next to him and Elena takes the chair opposite.
“Did you guys need a break from dancing?” Scott asks them.
They both grin.
“I almost had Ilya persuaded to try the Dirty Dancing lift,” Elena says.
“You absolutely did not,” Kip tells her.
She glares at him before continuing. “I almost had him persuaded, but then he spotted Shane over there and looked very angry and said he would kill anyone else who hit on him.”
“I do not want Rozanov to start a fucking fight in here,” Scott says.
“Relax,” Kip says. “I think he was being hyperbolic.”
“Eh,” Elena makes. “I’m not so sure.”
They all look at Rozanov, who’s made his way to the bar. He unceremoniously elbows the most recent guy aside, loops an arm around Hollander, and guides him away into the corner where the bar counter meets the wall, where there aren’t any people and the lights are dim.
“Oh, shit, that was hot as hell,” Elena says.
“Was it?” Scott asks.
“Yes.”
“Yeah,” Kip agrees. “It kind of was.”
Scott doesn’t see the appeal, but to be fair, that’s probably because of all those times he’s played against Rozanov and been chirped and been hit. Not that any of that ever appears to have turned Hollander off Rozanov, but, well, each to their own.
Hollander looks for the bartenders from their corner, though over there they’ll probably never catch their attention. Rozanov steps up behind Hollander, crowding him against the bar while they wait.
They’re swaying together, Rozanov’s chin hooked over Hollander’s shoulder. He seems to be saying something. Scott can see the tips of Hollander’s ears flush even in the dim lighting in that corner. He appears to be leaning back into Rozanov’s embrace, like they don’t even want drinks any more. They seem very wrapped-up in each other now rather than paying attention to the world around them.
Rozanov kisses Hollander’s neck. The top of Hollander’s head tilts further back as he leans against Rozanov’s chest. Then Rozanov puts his hands on Hollander’s waist and does something with his hips that he definitely should not be doing in public.
“Jesus Christ,” Scott says. “We should say something. Everyone can see.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s Ilya’s point,” Kip says.
Elena has propped her chin on her hand and looks like she’s enjoying the show.
“Hollander used to be this shy little kid,” Scott says. “I have no idea how Rozanov managed to corrupt him like this.”
Elena tilts her head, eyes fixed on Rozanov’s ass where he’s pushing his hips in against Hollander’s. “None? Really, Scott?”
“Fine,” Scott grumbles. “Seriously, though, Hollander has to be uncomfortable, we should really make him aware that -”
Hollander lifts his hand, threading his fingers through the curls at the nape of Rozanov’s neck, tugging.
“Okay, forget it,” Scott says.
Rozanov’s hands move from Hollander’s hips around to his front. Scott thanks the heavens their backs are turned so they don’t have to see the details. Elena looks a little disappointed.
“Do you think they’re -” Kip starts.
“Yeah,” Scott cuts him off.
“Oh, wow. Good for them.”
“Not good for them!” Scott says. “This is your birthday party, if someone realises what they’re doing -”
Kip leans into him and kisses him. “It’s fine. They’re just being cute.”
“You think it’s cute?” Elena asks. “Looks sort of aggressive to me.”
“Aggressive? How can you tell?”
“I don’t know, I just – look at that hair pulling going on there, that looks painful.”
“It does,” Kip agrees. “I guess they’re into that.”
“This is your fault for inviting Reggie,” Scott tells Kip. “He was first to hit on Hollander. If everyone hadn’t made Rozanov jealous, we wouldn’t be watching this.”
“Thank you, Reggie,” Elena whispers with a snicker, eyes on Rozanov and Hollander pushing up against each other in the corner.
“Reggie just got dumped,” Kip says. “Poor guy, and he doesn’t follow hockey at all, he wouldn’t have known Shane’s taken.”
“He can’t see a wedding ring?” Elena asks.
“It’s dark! Ish.”
“Okay, yeah,” Elena says. “But come on. No offence to Reggie, but Shane is way, way out of his league.”
“You can’t just go based on looks alone,” Kip says. “Reggie has, like, two PhDs.”
“I’m not saying anyone should focus only on looks! But it takes balls to hit on someone who looks like Shane when you’re, y’know. Reggie. As kind and smart as he is!”
“True, I guess,” Kip says.
Scott is so happy to be married to Kip. He can’t imagine going back to dating. Not that what he used to do before meeting Kip really counts as dating.
Rozanov is laughing now, and taking a step back. Hollander turns around, looking almost angry, grabbing onto Rozanov’s shirt. Rozanov kisses him, making his angry expression melt away. Then he takes Hollander’s hand and leads him away from the bar. The way Hollander follows him, big eyes and a soft smile, makes Elena coo something.
Scott is more focussed on the fact that they’re heading in a direct line towards their table.
“Are you joking?” Scott says. “Are they coming over here to say goodbye?”
Whatever happened to just sneaking off back to one’s hotel with the appropriate level of subtlety and decorum?
“I can’t believe they’re leaving this early.” Kip sounds offended. “What, for a quick fuck? Is my party not good enough for them?”
Rozanov leads Hollander straight past them with a triumphant smile, in the direction of the bathrooms. Hollander avoids their eyes, his cheeks pink. He follows Rozanov obediently.
“Cool. Right,” Kips says.
Elena gets up. “Well, that was fun. I’m going to go dance some more. Scott, I think I’m going to need your help with the Dirty Dancing lift.”
4
Luca slinks back towards the locker room once he’s sure everybody except Ilya and Hollander has left. It’s humiliating, but he has to apologise. Everyone was nice enough to pretend not to notice, but they definitely did. And Ilya definitely, definitely, definitely did. Because mortifyingly, Luca couldn’t help but look right at Ilya. While Luca’s dick had been very obviously very hard.
Oh, hey, and Ilya’s husband had been right there in the same room, too!
Maybe Luca should cut his losses and move back home and play in the National League. It’s not the NHL, but his agent can probably get something for him fairly easily, if not with the Lions then with Zug. That could be okay. If he survives the next ten minutes or so.
He rounds the last corner and finds himself outside the locker room. He can do this. He’s a grown man. This shit happens. It’s embarrassing, but they’re all reasonable people. He’s going to apologise, and then he’s going to go home and meditate.
Okay, he’s going to go home and get drunk on the last of the lager his mom sent him in her last care package.
He takes a deep breath and is about to push the door open – it’s only pulled-to, not properly closed – when he hears voices. Voices that don’t sound very happy.
“How dare he,” Hollander is practically snarling. “How the fuck dare he look at you like that? Get hard in front of you? While I’m in the room? Who the fuck does he think he is to you?”
Oh, no. Luca’s definitely going to need more than just the lager. It’s fine, he’ll buy some tequila on the way home. Tomorrow’s morning practise is optional.
“Shane.” Ilya’s voice is steady, calm. Probably loving, not that Luca would really know. “He is very young. He did not mean to.”
“He meant to look at the very least.”
“Yes, probably,” Ilya concedes.
Luca feels his face heat up. He hadn’t meant to look, not really. It had just… happened. Like it sometimes does.
“Has he done that before? Looked at you in the shower, or in the locker room? Before I joined the team?”
“Maybe,” Ilya says carelessly. “I guess so. I did not really notice much.”
“Did you like it? Right now, did you like that?”
Luca shrinks back against the wall. Shit. Hollander sounds dangerous. If he catches Luca now, Luca will be lucky if he makes it back home to play at all. He’s pretty sure his insurance covers repatriation of his body, at least. Good for his parents.
Ilya laughs. “Shane. He is nice kid teammate, yes. He has a lot of talent, yes. He looks at me the way he does, yes. But is nothing. You know you never have to worry. Never ever, Shane.”
Hollander huffs. “I know. I also know you enjoy people admiring you.”
“Yes,” Ilya says easily. “I enjoy it very much. But is like I told you. It is nothing, it means nothing. I am only yours. No one is anything compared to you. You think I notice anyone else when I can be looking at Shane Hollander instead?”
Luca hear the thump of a heavy body being slammed into a wall.
Then Hollander says, “Prove it to me.”
Luca should probably go. He’s pretty sure Ilya would not want him to listen to him begging his husband for forgiveness. Luca can apologise tomorrow.
Only, then. Then, there are sounds that aren’t begging. At least not the verbal kind. And Luca suddenly can’t move his legs at all, not while he hears Ilya groan and smack his lips against skin and gulp obscenely. Not while he is listening to Hollander moaning and rasping out harsh breaths.
The thing is, it’s just that it’s been a while since Luca’s had sex, and even longer since he’s had actually good sex. He’s got off with a few people since moving to Canada, but it was always rushed. While that can obviously be hot, there’s something about the fact that Hollander is murmuring for Ilya to keep going like that, slow, slow exactly as he is, so good, baby, that no one’s ever said to Luca, that Luca’s never said to anyone.
He knows it would be wrong to look. It would be really wrong. Only, probably, Hollander and Ilya know that someone might look, right? Because they’re in a public place. So that’s a risk that they’re clearly willing to take. So probably, they want someone to look and know what they’re doing. Yeah. That makes sense, no? Yeah. That makes sense. Luca very slowly pushes the door a little further open, until he can peek into the locker room.
And there they are, Hollander leaning back against his cubby with Ilya on his knees in front of him.
Shit. Luca should not be seeing this.
He’s never looking at anything else.
Hollander is looking down at Ilya, tugging at his hair, encouraging him, telling him he’s doing perfect.
Luca swallows hard. His dick is suddenly painfully, embarrassingly hard, even worse than in the shower earlier.
Hollander makes a noise Luca has never heard in his life, not even in porn. Luca shouldn’t, but he pushes the door just a little further open, just for a slightly better angle, leans in only a tiny bit more.
Hollander looks up. His eyes meet Luca’s.
Luca opens his mouth to say something, anything, to explain this unexplainable mess he’s got himself into. No words come out.
Hollander smiles, some mixture of coldness and pity. He tightens his hands in Ilya’s curls, holding Ilya’s head still. Ilya makes a noise in protest.
The look in Hollander’s eyes makes Luca feel like the first time he stepped onto a rink for an NHL game. Like he’s going to throw up everywhere, like he’s in so far over his head he’ll never hit the surface again.
Holding Ilya’s head in place, Hollander says, “Shhh, baby, that’s it, hold still for me,” and rolls his hips, fucks Ilya’s mouth. The noises Ilya makes get even more pornographic.
“Like that,” Hollander rasps. He brushes his thumb across Ilya’s cheekbone, then traces the shell of his ear. Ilya grabs harder onto his thighs, Luca can see Ilya’s biceps tense as he digs his nails in. Hollander groans, speeding up the snap of his hips. He throws his head back, lips parted, eyes wide and dark, looking straight at Luca.
“Oh, fuck, Ilya,” Hollander rasps, thrusting harder. “Just like that. Feels so fucking good.”
Luca wants to jerk off almost as much as he wants to cry. Probably he’ll do both when he gets home. Right now, he merely stands still, transfixed, silent, as Shane Hollander moans as if no one’s watching at all and comes in Ilya’s mouth. He breathes something in Russian as he does, like he needs to twist the knife a little bit further.
“Sweetheart.” Ilya’s breath is heaving. Luca can still see nothing but the back of his head, his mussed curls. The reverence in his voice paints a picture, though.
“Love you so much, baby,” Hollander murmurs. From the looks of it, he’s wiping Ilya’s mouth.
Ilya says something in Russian, something tender, probably says it back.
Hollander goes to his knees, wrapping his arms around Ilya and pressing kisses to his neck. His fingers play with strands of Ilya’s hair, stroking through them and winding them into little loops before letting them go again.
Then he looks up at Luca over Ilya’s shoulder. There’s no more pity, no more cold disregard. It’s simply a glance, entirely neutral. Hollander’s done making his point. Luca’s dismissed.
5
When Sasha gets to Svetlana’s party, he makes a beeline for where he can see her across the room. He hasn’t seen her in person in months. She’s the only person he ever truly misses. He ignores Ilya, who’s next to her, for the time being.
He hugs her and lifts her up as much as he’s able, which isn’t more than a few centimetres, what with how tall she stands in her sky-high heels.
“Happy birthday, Sveta!” He kisses her cheek a few times until she squeals and gets him to put her back down.
She smiles and pats his cheek. “How are you? How’s Paris these days?”
He shrugs. “The same. Can I smoke in here?”
“No, you know how these fucking American places are,” she says. “Smoke alarms everywhere. We have to be good. I’ll find you a drink, though, I’ll be right back.”
“Thank you, darling.” Before she dashes off, she gives him and Ilya each a stern look and says. “Be nice to each other while I’m gone.”
Sasha finally turns to Ilya. “Ilyusha, hi.”
“Sasha,” Ilya says, looking distinctly unimpressed. “Are you high already? It’s Sveta’s fucking birthday, do you have no respect?”
Sasha rolls his eyes and doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Of course he’s a little high. He has no idea why anyone would torture themselves by going through life sober. Sveta doesn’t mind, otherwise she wouldn’t have told Sasha he can be here. She understands him.
Ilya doesn’t say anything else. He merely takes a sip of his wine. Sasha’s eyes land on his ring.
“How’s married life?” Sasha asks.
Ilya smiles. Actually, really smiles. “Good,” he says, so softly Sasha can barely hear it over the music. “It’s good.”
He’s looking across the room. Sasha follows his gaze to where Shane Hollander is standing at the bar.
Sasha has seen plenty of pictures of Ilya’s husband of course, on Ilya and Sveta’s socials, and in the media. He is, unfairly, even more attractive in person, though he holds himself just as awkwardly as he does in photos.
“Very pretty,” Sasha says. “You know it’s not usually my preference, but I’d fuck him.”
Ilya doesn’t even turn his head as he responds. “If we were on the ice, I would hit you right now.”
Sasha rolls his eyes. “You hit everyone on the ice.”
“How would you know? It’s not like you ever watch any hockey.”
“Not like I could miss your reputation. But I know you wouldn’t hit me. We have too much history, don’t we? I was your first, you were so nervous to be with a man, and hiding it so badly.”
Ilya’s lips curl with disdain. Finally, he turns to look at Sasha. “We were friends. It meant something to me that we felt safe enough together to try things for the first time. You really want to cheapen it now by making comments about my husband to rile me up?”
“Who says I’m just trying to rile you up? He looks so innocent. I could do you a favour, teach him what you like.”
“Careful, Sasha,” Ilya says.
“You used to be happy to share,” Sasha tells him. “Are you worried he would be up for it? Green isn’t a good colour on you, Ilyusha.”
For a second, he thinks Ilya might actually hit him, but then Svetlana reappears, Shane Hollander in tow. She hands the drink she’s carrying to Sasha. Shane Hollander, she hands off to Ilya.
“This is Ilya’s husband, Shane.” Svetlana seems to have realised Ilya isn’t going to bother with introductions. “Shane, this is mine and Ilya’s old friend Sasha.”
“Hello,” Shane says. “It is nice to meet you, Sasha.” His tone is polite but cool. His face makes clear that he’s heard Sasha’s name before. His Russian is surprisingly fluent.
“Alexander,” Sasha says.
“Alexander, sure,” Shane says with a tight smile.
Svetlana rolls her eyes.
Sasha looks Shane up and down. His physique reminds Sasha of the boys who used to beat him up at school, but his eyes are huge and expressive, his face soft and kind. Of course Ilya married him.
“Seriously, Sveta?” Sasha says in French, because he and Svetlana both speak it and Ilya doesn’t. “This is the man he chose? Americans are uneducated and moralistic. Nothing good for him. Though at least he picked someone attractive.”
“I’m not American,” Shane says in French, voice a few degrees colder. “I’m Canadian.”
Svetlana smiles. She says, also in French, “This is what happens when you don’t follow hockey, Sasha. If you did, you’d have known that he speaks French.”
Ilya is looking only at his husband now. His eyes are narrowed, but he seems concentrated on Shane’s expression, no longer angry.
“Apologies, Ilya,” Sasha says smoothly, switching back to Russian. “We’re being rude, speaking French instead of Russian.”
“Not all of us were being rude,” Shane says evenly.
Fuck. His accent may be shit, but his grammar is really very good.
“You speak Russian very well,” Sasha tells him softly.
Ilya’s eyes narrow. Sasha knows he’s being a dick, somewhere far in the back of his mind. But Pierre and Christopher kicked him out, and Ilya is married, and Svetlana is successful, and all Sasha ever gets to be is high and drunk and lonely, making shitty art that pales in comparison to his friends’.
“Thank you,” Shane says. His voice is still cold, though, and so are his eyes.
“Shane is a very fast learner,” Ilya says.
Shane’s lips quirk at the corners. “Ilya,” he says, like he’s scolding and petting at the same time.
Ilya smiles. “You are.”
“Thank you, baby,” Shane says. His eyes, when he turns them on Ilya, are wide and adoring.
“You are very sweet,” Sasha tells Shane. “Ilya is lucky to have you.”
Shane smiles, happy and bright and untouchable. “I thought you knew him,” he tells Sasha. “Guess I was wrong. If you did, you’d realise I’m the lucky one.”
Ilya presses a kiss to his husband’s jaw. Shane takes his hand. “Let’s go get you a drink, Ilya,” he says. “Okay?”
“Sounds perfect,” Ilya says.
They leave without looking back.
Sasha sighs, gulping down too much of the drink Svetlana brought him.
Svetlana takes his arm. “You’ll get used to it, don’t worry. Let’s get you another drink.”
+1
“M-maybe we shouldn’t,” Shane says, squirming in the passenger seat.
Ilya flips up the indicator and turns the corner to where the event is being held.
“We have deal,” he says calmly.
“But -”
“We agreed,” Ilya says, stopping the car. “We are here. People are waiting. Let’s go.”
Shane’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t argue further. Neither of them particularly wanted to do a date auction, no matter how much the organisers had assured them it wasn’t actual dates people could bid on, more like a meet-and-greet, nothing romantic or sexual. A large percentage will go to the Irina Foundation, so they’d said yes.
Ilya had honestly liked the idea of people bidding on going out with him, but the thought of someone bidding money to take Shane on a date is unbearable. It is for a good cause, though, so Ilya had eventually agreed, though not without putting his conditions down.
Ilya isn’t surprised that Shane is considering going back on their deal, but he’s not letting that happen. He opens his door, grabbing his phone before getting out and handing the keys to the valet. Shane scrambles out of the other door, flushed and awkward and so gorgeous Ilya has to will himself not to turn the car around and drive him straight back home.
Instead, once the event starts, Ilya watches from his seat, idly playing on his phone, making sure no one can see the screen where he’s controlling the toy he had Shane put in before they left. Shane on stage is doing so well, only faltering and shifting a little as the host jokes to the audience that Shane is married and the date that’s up for grabs will be strictly hockey talk.
Ilya still outbids everyone else by a ridiculous amount. The idea that someone else can take Shane out and talk hockey to him makes him furious enough that he gets a bit too intense playing around on the control app. Shane gasps on stage but quickly disguises it as a cough.
Ilya can tell people think it’s rude he’s looking at his phone. He grins to himself and turns the screen off, watching Shane shift his weight from one foot to the other on stage while Ilya offers up random, increasing numbers at every call for bids.
“Fuck you, fuck you,” Shane groans when they meet in the bathroom during a break in the evening.
Ilya tosses his phone from one hand to the other. “Having a nice evening, Hollander?”
“You asshole, do you know how much money you just spent on us going out?”
Ilya shrugs. “You’re mine. I will not let anyone take you on a date.”
“People will think – fuck – they’ll think we’re crazy possessive.”
“Yes,” Ilya says. “So? Will you not do the same, bidding on me?”
“Obviously,” Shane hisses.
Ilya laughs and pulls him in for a kiss.
Shane kicks him in the shin. “All right, turn it off, now.”
“Mhm, no, I do not think so.”
“Ilya – stop messing around, just turn it off and -”
Ilya presses him up against the wall. “I said no.”
“Oh, fuck,” Shane whispers.
He makes a grab for Ilya’s phone. Ilya bats his hands away, shoves his phone into his pocket, and pins Shane’s wrists against the wall.
“You can make it through the rest of the evening like this, I think.”
“Ilya, please, I – I can’t -”
“You can, sweetheart.”
Shane’s eyes have that glassy sheen to them, his fingers twitching uselessly in Ilya’s hold.
“No,” he whines, all perfect. “Ilya, no, I can’t.”
Ilya tightens his hold, pressing harder. “You can, because I am telling you. You will go out there, and sit there quietly, and watch people bid more money on going out with me than with you, because I scored more goals this season.”
Shane’s lips part; he tries to push in close for a kiss. Ilya doesn’t let him. “Shane. Tell me.”
Shane shakes his head. Ilya feels a fierce rush of pride at the tiny motion, the amount of effort it must be taking Shane to push back right now when he’s so far gone, so desperate for Ilya to call their deal off.
Of course, Ilya can’t let him get away with it.
He pushes his thigh against Shane’s erection. Shane flinches as if he’s been hit, that’s how overstimulated he is already. When he tries to grind into the friction, Ilya steps away.
“Ilya, no,” Shane says. “No, please – let me -”
“No,” Ilya says. “You go out there. You will be good and do what I told you. Then, maybe, I will make you come.”
“Yes, yes, I will, I can be good,” Shane babbles. “Just – turn it down, please, just a little, I can’t think, I can’t, people will know, please.”
Ilya shakes his head and feels Shane tense in his hold.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” Ilya says. “I will have to turn it up a bit more, I think, before you go back out there.”
“No,” Shane gasps. “Please, no more, Ilya.”
Ilya kisses him quickly and pulls out his phone back out, watching Shane’s eyes widen in distress. Even though Ilya’s let go, Shane keeps his hands where Ilya had them pinned. Shane is so, so good. Ilya holds that thought for later as always. He has to wait to tell Shane, but it will be worth it.
Shane’s moved on to pleading, “Ilya, no, please stop, for me, stop.”
For me. Shane knows exactly how to play Ilya. But Ilya’s on a mission to break Shane down completely, so he can’t be weak to his pleas right now.
He turns the vibration up just a little further, and Shane wails. Ilya slaps him across the face before he can even think. Not too hard, but definitely enough to sting. Hopefully, no one outside will be able to tell.
Shane goes quiet, biting down on his lip to stifle any noises. Ilya gently trails his fingertips down the side of his face. “You don’t want me to do that again, do you?”
Shane groans, teeth still digging into his bottom lip.
“Shane. I asked you something.”
“No,” Shane whispers. “I don’t want you to do that again.”
Ilya nods. “Then go on. Go back to your seat.”
Shane goes.
Ilya smiles to himself. He bets he can get Shane to bid more on him than he bid on Shane.
Shane bursts into tears as soon as they’re through the door back at home. He clutches and tears at Ilya’s clothes until Ilya grabs a firm hold of his jaw and moves his head so their eyes meet. Shane is struggling to hold Ilya’s gaze. He’s rapidly slipping away to where Ilya can’t do anything but take care of him as best he can.
“Sweetheart, Shane,” Ilya says. “Colour?”
“Green,” Shane hiccups. “Green, green, Ilya, I need it, please.”
Ilya observes him a moment longer. The tears have stopped as abruptly as they started, already starting to dry in tracks down Shane’s cheeks. Ilya licks them up before shoving Shane back against the door, hard, and pinning his wrists either side of his head.
Shane leans in, trying to break away, and Ilya presses his own chest against Shane’s to keep him in place. A second later, he realises that he gave Shane exactly what he wanted, because Shane grabs the collar of Ilya’s shirt between his teeth and rears back, smacking his head into the door and successfully tearing Ilya’s shirt open.
Ilya laughs. “Crying so prettily to get me to let my guard down, huh?”
Shane defiantly stares up at him, teeth still biting down on the fabric of Ilya’s shirt. Ilya lets go of one of Shane’s wrists to slap him, with more force than in the bathroom earlier. Shane gasps in pain, and then bites Ilya’s shoulder through his shirt, clamping down his teeth hard.
“Enough,” Ilya rasps and threads his free hand through Shane’s hair. Once he has a secure hold on the soft strands, he yanks Shane’s head away from his shoulder and drags him down the hallway to the bedroom.
Shane makes beautiful sounds as Ilya pulls him along and tears off their clothes, crying out and groaning and pleading as Ilya shoves him down on their bed. He re-gains a firm hold on Shane’s hair with one hand and plays with the base of the plug with the other. The battery ran out a while back, but Shane is wound so tight now it barely seems to make a difference. He bucks his hips back into Ilya’s hand until Ilya kneels on the back of his thighs to keep him still. Shane thrashes and writhes underneath him, panting curses, making Ilya laugh.
“Hollander, you know how this works. I decide when I fuck you.”
“Fuck you,” Shane spits. “All fucking evening you keep me -” He tries to twist out of Ilya’s hold, so Ilya pushes down harder. “You fucking torture me and you don’t fucking stop,” Shane rasps. “Come the fuck on -”
Ilya idly pulls at the plug, twisting it a little. “Come the fuck on what? You? I can do this, no problem.”
He strokes his achingly hard dick – fucking finally, as if Shane doesn’t know this is torture for Ilya in its own way – until he’s dripping precome onto Shane’s lower back. “This, yes?”
Shane has had enough, clearly, using Ilya’s momentary distraction to try and get away. He manages to dislodge Ilya from his legs and crawls forward, flipping over and levelling a hard glare up at Ilya.
This third time, Ilya slaps to hurt.
The sound cracks through the silence of their bedroom. Shane’s head snaps to the side with the force of it, Ilya’s handprint blooming across his cheek.
Shane whimpers as Ilya rolls him back onto his stomach and takes out the plug, carelessly tossing it aside. Even as Ilya has to let go to grab the lube, Shane doesn’t move. Ilya strokes down his flanks. “See? This is better, no? You can be so good.”
Shane nods, his face hidden, as Ilya slicks himself up and starts to push in. The first push is easy, Shane’s entrance loose from wearing the plug for so long. He squirms but stays quiet during the last couple of inches, still tight where the plug didn’t reach. He only starts whispering a low string of fucking hell, holy shit when Ilya thrusts into him in earnest, hard and fast and desperate.
Ilya pushes at the back of Shane’s head, pressing his face into the mattress, the sheets muffling Shane’s curses and grunts, snapping his hips again and again, angling for more heat and tightness, more of Shane. He tries to make it last but he knows that after everything tonight, neither of them will manage to hang on very long.
It only takes a couple of minutes until Shane is clenching around Ilya, shouting, arching his back. Ilya is powerless to hold off on his own orgasm much longer, collapsing onto Shane, whose entire body is quaking.
After catching his breath, Ilya presses bruising kisses to Shane’s shoulders. Shane is still trembling.
“Okay, sweetheart?”
“’m great,” Shane whispers.
Ilya nods before resting his forehead between Shane’s shoulder blades for a long moment. He wants to stay just like this, ideally until the day he dies. Instead, he gives himself a kick and slides off Shane’s back, gently tugging at Shane’s shoulder until he rolls himself over into Ilya’s arms.
“Was a long evening,” Ilya says. “You were very good for me.”
Shane’s eyes meet his, warm and tired and sated. “Yeah?”
“Yes. You always are.” Ilya gently traces his fingertips across Shane’s cheek, following the constellations of his freckles. “Does it hurt too much? Was okay?”
“’s good. You didn’t -” Shane interrupts himself with a yawn. “Didn’t slap very hard. I can take more.”
Ilya shakes his head in disbelief and starts digging through the night stand drawer for wipes and a chocolate bar. “You are crazy, Hollander.”
“Only for you,” Shane murmurs.
Shane’s eyes track Ilya as Ilya gently cleans him up, and he obediently drinks a few sips of water when Ilya holds the bottle to his lips. Ilya manoeuvres Shane until he’s resting half on top of Ilya’s chest, making contented little hums.
Ilya unwraps a chocolate bar and starts breaking off little pieces, slowly feeding them to Shane. Shane darts his tongue out to lick at Ilya’s fingers with each bite.
Once Shane has eaten half the chocolate bar and doesn’t want any more, they lie in silence for a while.
Then Shane stirs the tiniest bit. “Ilya?”
“Yes, Shane?”
“Where d’you wanna go?”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
Shane is still out of it, only lifting his head slightly to talk, but there is a teasing little smile on his face. Ilya kisses him softly.
“For our date,” Shane mumbles. “Think we paid the price of a pretty nice car for it.”
“Maybe what you think is a nice car. Definitely not what I think is a nice car.”
Shane laughs softly. “Fuck off.”
Ilya cards his hand through Shane’s hair, tugging very gently this time. “We can go wherever you want, sweetheart, as long as it’s somewhere where everyone can see that you are mine.”
Shane bites him again, exhausted enough now that doesn’t have the strength to do more than make tiny indents in Ilya’s skin.
“You’re mine,” Shane slurs, burrowing closer, tangling their legs together.
“I am,” Ilya promises.
He kisses the top of Shane’s head and holds him tighter, until neither of them can move an inch.