Chapter Text
Shane stepped off the ice as a flurry of Ottawa jerseys flew over the boards to replace him and his linemates. Sweat poured down his brow as he collapsed onto the bench, hastily squirting water into his open mouth. He wiped at his eyes as he glanced from the Jumbotron to the ice and back again. Thirty-eight seconds. Thirty-seven. Thirty-six. They were going to win. His body was buzzing as the crowd roared their approval when Ilya cleanly stole the puck off a Colorado Avalanche defenseman. Ilya’s face was set in a hard line of concentration as he sent the puck sailing back to their zone, where Wyatt collected it behind the net. Twenty-two seconds. Shane rose to his feet, the melee of sounds muffled by the blood pounding in his ears. This would be his fourth Stanley Cup trophy, but it had never felt like this before. Terror over a last-second goal combined with disbelief and a flicker of hope. He clung to that little flame of hope as the seconds ticked away. A gloved hand clutched his shoulder and shook him violently, but he kept his gaze locked on the puck. Sixteen seconds. He held his breath. A Colorado player slammed Barrett into the boards, their sticks clashing together violently as they battled. A flare of panic bubbled up when Colorado’s star center broke free, sprinting at full speed over the center line. Eight seconds. Shane’s lungs burned, but he couldn’t breathe now. His heart was hammering against his ribcage in an erratic frenzy. He was gripping the railing so hard his hands hurt. The world narrowed down to the puck as it sailed through the air.
“Common, Hazy!” Someone screamed from somewhere to his left.
Hayes’s trapper shot out, closing cleanly around the puck. Shane sucked in a lungful of air as relief washed over him. One more face-off. Six point nine seconds. He watched as Ilya lazily skated to the faceoff circle in Ottawa’s zone, his mouthguard lolling out of his mouth as he grinned. The hand on his shoulder tightened as a hush fell over the arena. The puck dropped. Ilya won the faceoff, sending the puck to Bood, who took off towards Colorado’s empty net on the other side of the ice. A defender bullied it off Bood’s stick, but it was too late. The sound of the buzzer was instantly drowned out by the 18,000 fans in the stands. A rush of pure euphoria flooded Shane’s body. They had actually done it. They had won Ottawa a fucking cup.
Shane vaulted over the boards, his gloves dropping to the ice, making a beeline for the scrum of teammates all piling onto each other. Shane whooped and flung himself into the mess of bodies. The entire building was vibrating with unbridled joy, and Shane was soaking it in. His cups with Montreal had been a rush, but winning one for his hometown, especially with this team, was on another level entirely.
“We fucking won!” Luca screamed next to him, launching himself from one teammate to the next, tears streaming down his face.
As the puppy-pile of fully grown men slowly broke apart, Shane found himself collected into hug after hug. Everyone was crying, yelling, and collapsing into each other's arms in a chaotic mess of emotions. In any other situation, Shane’s skin would be crawling, but right now, in this moment on this ice, it was impossible to be anything other than ecstatic. Players moved around him in a blur. The kids all gathered around Shane for one big group hug, bouncing up and down and screaming. Troy’s face had broken into the biggest smile Shane had ever seen on his usually stoic features. Wyatt squeezed Shane so hard his chest physically couldn’t expand to breathe. Evan had put one hand on each of Shane’s cheeks and yelled so loudly that his ears were ringing. Shane worked through every one of his teammates, coaches, and staff, mentally cataloging their jubilation. He wanted to live in this moment forever. But one teammate in particular was noticeably missing.
Shane’s head whipped around, his eyes scanning for a familiar mop of curls. His heart stopped the moment their eyes met. Ilya was breathtakingly beautiful, his sweaty hair matted to his forehead, blue eyes shining with barely contained tears, the ugly Centaurs logo plastered on his chest, and Shane’s heart skipped a beat. The whole world stopped and faded away. They both took off at the same time, crashing their bodies together, arms tangling around each other. Shane let out a surprised bark of laughter as he felt Ilya lift him completely off his feet and spin him in a circle. His hands slid up to cup Ilya’s flushed cheeks, their lips meeting in the middle. Fireworks erupted behind Shane’s closed eyes as he kissed his husband in full view of the entire world. They had kissed more times than either of them could even count, but this one was the best one yet.
“Я тебя люблю(I love you)”, Ilya whispered, his voice rough with emotion.
A sob bubbled up from deep in Shane’s chest before he could say it back, as the gravity of the moment hit him like a freight train. He buried his face into Ilya’s neck, the last year flashing through his mind at warp speed. Being outed, getting married, leaving Montreal, signing with Ottawa, moving in together, the backlash from the hockey world, and the outpouring of support and love. Then there was the fan outrage when they were left off the All-Star roster, followed by a social media campaign that made national news, and a whirlwind record-breaking season for the whole team, all culminating in this exact moment. Ilya pulled back just enough to look into Shane’s eyes.
“We did it.” Shane managed to choke out.
“We fucking did it,” Ilya confirmed through his sniffles.
Shane cleared his throat, wiping the tears off Ilya’s cheeks before he pulled back. They had a team to celebrate and a cup to lift. Shane skated over to the line forming of Centaurs preparing to shake the hands of the Avalanche players who were standing awkwardly on the ice next to their bench. He worked quickly through the line, accepting the congratulations and offering them all a “good game” and a compassionate smile. He knew how much it sucked to lose, especially in a tight series and by only a single goal.
Ilya skated back to his side as Colorado filed off the ice, and the podium was set up. He slid an arm around Shane’s waist as they watched the cup emerging from the tunnel; unfortunately, accompanied by Roger Crowell. Shane shook his head, banishing the storm cloud of negativity that threatened to eclipse his joy. They had won the cup despite all odds. Fuck the talking heads that insisted that having your spouse on your team would be a distraction. Fuck the assholes on social media who predicted that Shane’s performance specifically would plummet because he had come out as gay. And most of all fuck Roger Crowell, who had spent the entire season throwing up every obstacle possible. They had won fair and square, proving everyone wrong, and no one, not even the commissioner, was going to take that away from them. In fact, the idea of Crowell having to hand over the cup to Ilya himself made the petty side of Shane absolutely giddy. Ilya skated towards the cup, a maniacal grin splitting his face.
“Commissioner,” Ilya greeted.
Shane had never met anyone else who could make a seemingly innocuous word into an insult quite the way Ilya could. It was honestly impressive.
“Mr. Rozanov,” Crowell replied just as coldly. Clearly, he was dreading this moment just as much as Ilya was looking forward to it. Crowell’s knuckles had turned white with how tightly he was gripping the microphone that had been handed to him. They stood there glaring at each other for a solid five seconds, the tension visible in both of their bodies. “On behalf of the MLH, it is my honor—“ Crowell paused, seemingly swallowing around the lump in his throat. “To present the Stanley Cup to the Ottawa Centaurs. Congratulations on a great season.”
Shane wanted to laugh directly in the commissioner’s face, then maybe punch him. Positivity. Fuck him. We won.
Ilya shook Crowell’s hand so hard the man actually winced, and Shane didn’t think he could be prouder until he saw Ilya hoist the cup over his head. His mind flashed back to 2014, watching Ilya win with the Raiders on the TV at Hayden’s house, unsure of why tears of pride had brimmed his lower lashes. Back then, he hadn’t dared to dive into why he was so happy for his rival, but now, eight years later, he wanted to reach back in time and shake his younger self. Of course, it was because he had been in love. Shane was snapped back to the present day as a chorus of “CAP! CAP! CAP! CAP!” filled the air around him.
Ilya skated into the group, the cup lofted high above his head as he shouted incoherently. When Ilya passed it off to Bood, Shane found himself once again gathered into his husband’s arms for another crushing hug. He pulled back just enough to press his forehead into Ilya’s.
You were amazing tonight,” Ilya whispered.
“You too! We did it, Ilya! We fucking won!”
Shane beamed up at his husband, just basking in the bliss of the moment.
“Hollzy,” Bood called, and Shane was pulled away to take his own victory lap around the rink with the cup raised above his head.
Winning in Montreal had always been amazing, but it couldn’t hold a candle to seeing his hometown fans’ reaction. So many people were crying, pointing at him like he had given them the whole world. They were all chanting his name in unison, echoing off the rafters where a Stanley Cup banner would soon hang. He passed the cup off to Troy, who Shane had to admit he was kind of starting to like, if for nothing more than his salmon recipes. Troy passed it on to Wyatt Hayes, then Tanner Dillon, then Luca Haas, and on and on down the roster until they had each gotten a turn. Family members of the players spilled out onto the ice, his mom finding him in the chaos while his dad dragged Ilya into a hug so tight he could hear Ilya’s breath wheezing out of him. Shane was crying again. Ilya hadn’t had any family on the ice with him in 2014, but now he had three people who loved him more than words could even describe. Yuna cupped his chin, swiping away the tears and leaning in to kiss his cheek.
“We’re so proud of you, Shane. Of both of you.”
**********
Corks flew across the room as the whole team cheered. A spray of champagne hit Shane directly in the cheek, and he squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his own bottle, not caring who was getting showered. He quickly swiped at his eyes, the sting of alcohol making them burn. Ilya was standing in his stall, shirtless, with his head tilted back, with a bottle held upside down over his open mouth. At least half of the champagne was carving a river between Ilya’s impressive pecs and down the center of his impeccably toned abs. Shane bit down hard on the inside of his cheek in an attempt to calm his dick down with little success. The adrenaline and excitement, along with the first sips of alcohol he had consumed in months, pulsed through him, lighting every cell of his body on fire. Add in his impossibly sexy husband, sweaty and soaked in champagne, and there was no hope. Ilya swallowed down his mouthful of champagne and held the empty bottle up high, whooping. Shane gulped as Ilya hopped down and made a beeline across the room until his bare, soaked chest pressed into Shane’s compression shirt. His devastatingly sexy smirk made Shane’s knees wobble precariously.
Ilya lowered his voice to a sultry whisper as he leaned in, lips brushing the shell of Shane’s ear. “I’m going to destroy you when we get home.”
Every single drop of blood in his body was immediately redirected to his cock. It strained uncomfortably against his jock, making his vision swim momentarily. The sound of camera shutters clicking and teammates shouting rang in his ears. He needed to get himself under control. Now. He did the only thing he could think of: he planted his hands on Ilya's chest and shoved him back a half step, hissing, “Fuck off, Rozanov.”
“Later,” Ilya quipped back, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.
Before Shane could reply, he was grabbed by an ESPN reporter, and a microphone was shoved in his face. “Shane, this has been quite the year for you!” The reporter half shouted over the clamor of celebration.
His years of media training and experience kicked in instantly, “I am so proud of this team and what we’ve done here tonight. It was a hard-fought victory, and Colorado played an amazing series. I am just so grateful to have such a great team surrounding me.”
“And for you personally, what does this win mean to you?”
“It means everything to me. I don’t think it’s really hit me yet how much it means to win a cup for my hometown.”
“And to win with your husband by your side! That must be so special.”
Shane couldn’t hold back a giddy laugh as he watched Ilya a few feet away, on his knees, while Bood and Wyatt dumped champagne over his head. “Yeah. That has been an amazing experience.”
“Congratulations, Shane! Do you think we can grab Ilya?”
Shane shook his head fondly at Ilya, who was still on his knees, pumping both fists in the air. He snorted and called his husband’s name. Within seconds, Ilya saddled up to his side, a sticky arm wrapped around his waist.
The reporter beamed, “Ilya, first of all, congratulations!”
“Thank you. Has been a very good year, and today was the second-best day of my life. Best day was my wedding day.”
Shane rolled his eyes, his cheeks turning pink. There was still that momentary zing of panic up his spine whenever Ilya spoke publicly of their relationship, but Shane swallowed it down.
“You two on the ice together have been pure magic! It’s really been a joy to see you guys play together.”
Ilya’s smile was blinding as he turned to meet Shane’s gaze, matching love-sick grins plastered on their sweaty, champagne-coated faces.
“We are perfect together,” Ilya said simply.
And Shane’s heart somersaulted in pure joy.
**********
Shane groaned, rolling over to bury his face in Ilya’s shoulder. He inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of shampoo, body wash, and a distinct undercurrent of his husband’s natural scent.
“Morning,” Ilya grumbled, his voice rough with sleep.
“Mmm,” Shane replied, wincing in pain.
His head was pounding with the worst hangover he’d had in years, and his entire body was aching.
“What hurts?” Ilya asked, his lips pressing into Shane’s temple.
“Everything.”
He felt the rumble of a chuckle under his cheek, “Okay, мой любимый(my beloved) , let me go grab you some medicine.”
Shane wanted to protest the loss of his pillow, but Advil sounded like a good idea. Ilya carefully extricated himself from the bed, ducking into the bathroom and returning a moment later with two little pills and a glass of water.
“I’m never drinking again,” Shane grumbled and opened his mouth.
Ilya huffed and placed the pills in Shane’s waiting tongue before tipping a few small sips of water in. “You were very drunk last night. Was adorable. At least now you can shave off your terrible playoff beard.”
Shane fixed his husband with a withering glare and flopped back down into the bed. “Fuck off.”
“How much do you remember from last night?” Ilya asked, brushing his fingers through Shane’s hair soothingly.
“I remember everything! I wasn’t that drunk!” Shane shot back.
“Uh huh. Do you remember what you asked for?”
His mouth went completely dry, racking his brain for the answer. “I asked you for a lot of things; you’re going to have to be more specific.” Smooth, Shane. Super fucking smooth.
Ilya placed the water glass down on the nightstand and cupped Shane’s scrunched face with both hands, “You let the cat free in a crowded room, котёнок(kitten).”
“Let the cat out of the bag,” Shane corrected, his expression softening.
“Why would cat be in bag? Whatever,” Ilya huffed, waving his hand dismissively. “Not the point. You told me about a very nice scene you wanted. As reward for winning the cup.”
Shane’s face instantly heated with a blush, “I—umm—yeah, I remember! Of course I remember!”
“You are still a bad liar.”
Shane made a disgruntled noise and pulled back to bury his face in Ilya’s pillow. He took a deep breath through his nose, sinking back into the heaven of his husband’s scent. He nuzzled into the silk pillowcase with a little sigh, willing the medicine to work faster. “Go make me breakfast,” Shane demanded, not lifting his head even an inch.
Ilya leaned in to kiss the back of Shane’s head. Through the sheets, he cupped an ass cheek with one massive hand, giving the mound a firm pat. “How about you ask nicely?”
Shane rolled his eyes, his stomach flipping at the gesture, “Make me fucking breakfast, please.”
“Better,” Ilya commented before he stood, leaving Shane to stew in his misery.
He lifted his head a little, peeking one eye open to make sure Ilya was gone before dissolving into panic. What scene was he talking about!? Oh my god! What the fuck did I tell him about?
**********
Shane had spent the last four hours slowly coming back to the land of the conscious. All it took was one protein shake, a shower, two electrolyte packets, a half gallon of water, a second dose of Advil, three protein bars, and a bite of one of Ilya’s pancakes before he felt mostly human. They were sprawled out on the couch, Shane’s body draped over Ilya. The gentle hand on his lower back began to rub in soothing circles, and he let himself melt into the touch. Shane’s eyes drooped closed, and he practically purred with pleasure. It felt perfect. Memories of the celebrations flickered through his mind as he let himself relax. Ilya shirtless in a club, pressed against Shane’s back, strong hands on his hips, guiding their bodies together to a deep, thumping beat. The scratch of Ilya’s thick playoff beard tickled Shane’s neck as they moved as one. The way the hard line of Ilya’s half-hard cock had been pressed into his ass in full view of the world, which had unexpectedly set Shane on fire. Never in his life had he even considered how affected he would be by public displays, but something about the atmosphere of that club had made Shane pulse with need.
Unfortunately, by the time they had stumbled back to the house around 4 a.m., they had both collapsed into bed and immediately passed out, erections and all. His cock began to stir in his sweatpants, goosebumps prickling his skin. He worried his bottom lip with his teeth, eyes flicking up to Ilya, whose gaze was still glued to his phone. Maybe if I just— A little gasp caught in his throat as he subtly shifted his hips. The barest breath of pleasure zinged through his spine as he shifted his legs a little wider. Shane gulped, feeling the heat of a flush creep up his neck. The hand that was on his back slid down, fingers digging into the meat of his asscheek.
Ilya growled, his chest vibrating under Shane’s cheek. “What are you doing, котёнок(kitten)?”
“Nothing!” The word came out way more panicked and defensive than he had intended.
Ilya placed his phone on the coffee table and cupped Shane’s chin, his blue eyes narrowing, “Shane.” His voice was laced with a hint of warning that made Shane’s heartbeat ratchet up another notch. “What are you doing?” Ilya asked again, pausing after every word. Shane swallowed thickly. His eyes lowered for a moment until Ilya tightened his hold. “Look at me and tell me what you want.”
Embarrassment and unbridled lust coursed through him in equal measure, flooding his nervous system. “Just—I—uuhh—I wanted to take the edge off.”
“Just the edge?” Ilya asked, brushing his thumb over the freckles on Shane’s cheek.
Shane paused before breathing out, “No. Need you.”
Ilya leaned forward to press their lips together for a brief kiss before murmuring the words, “my good boy,” against Shane’s lips.
Every ounce of blood in his body rushed south. Those fucking words had become Pavlovian, and his mouth was watering in anticipation. Shane let out a shaky “fuck” as Ilya pulled him into a deeper, more insistent kiss.
Shane’s freshly shaved cheek slid against Ilya’s lush beard as their lips molded together, tongues darting out to meet in the middle in a familiar dance. Shane moaned happily into his husband’s warm, wet mouth, digging his fingers into his shoulders. One of Ilya’s hands held his chin steady while the other slid over his hip to press a palm into Shane’s aching cock. Shane bowed instantly, and a reedy whine spilled out between panting breaths.
Ilya thumbed at the head through the sweatpants, his mouth breaking into a devious smile, “So hard for me already. Is this what you want? Just my hand?”
Shane’s eyes snapped shut, pressing his hips down hard into the delightful pressure. If he rocked his hips just right, it was going to be enough. But it had been weeks since they had really had a chance to play. Neither of them were crazy enough to attempt a playoff run without sex, but for two months, the cloud of a possible championship had been weighing heavily on them. Every bit of their focus had been on winning Ottawa’s first Stanley Cup. And now that they had finally emerged victorious, Shane could feel himself vibrating with need.
“No, Sir. Please.”
“Playroom. Now.” Ilya ordered through clenched teeth.
Shane took off like a shot, sprinting up the stairs with Ilya hot on his heels, both cackling with excitement. Anya’s head quirked with curiosity before settling back down with a snuffle of disinterest. She was accustomed to the two of them rushing to the bedroom on a moment’s notice. Shane skidded to a halt at the door, punching the code in frenetically. A tremor of anticipation passed through his body as he swung the door open, flicking the lights on with a quick swipe of his hand. The moment his nose filled with the scent of teakwood and tobacco, he froze in the doorway. His pounding pulse settled, washing over him like a salve to his frantic energy. Ilya placed a steadying hand on his lower back, urging him forward, and the door clicked closed behind them. Shane took a slow, steadying breath.
“What is your safeword?”
“Loon,” Shane responded instantly.
He could feel Ilya’s presence at his back, but remained perfectly still, his breath hitching as a hand wrapped around his hip.
“And your color?”
“Green.”
“Strip and get on the bed,” Ilya whispered into the shell of Shane’s ear.
A full-body shudder traveled through every muscle at the deep, dominating tone of Ilya’s voice. Shane made quick work of his sweatpants, t-shirt, and boxer briefs, folding them all neatly and placing them on the table by the door they had set up specifically for that purpose. He climbed onto the bed, relishing the caress of the silk sheets on his bare skin. The first time Ilya had opened the door to the playroom, it had taken Shane’s breath away. Everything had been meticulously designed with every single detail accounted for, and it was breathtaking. The deep espresso-stained wood furniture and trimming perfectly accented the dark blue walls.
When Ilya had mentioned the idea of building a dungeon, Shane had pictured only a harsh, black-and-red room covered in chains and torture devices. Well, there were still chains and torture devices, he supposed, but they were artfully displayed or tucked away on a shelf. If you paid no mind to the spanking bench, St. Andrew’s cross, the suspension rig in the ceiling, or the contents of the shelves, it would just look like a normal, cozy guestroom. He sat cross-legged on the bed, watching Ilya saunter over to the toys. Nimble fingers lazily traveled over the display, his brow furrowed in thought.
“What do you have planned for me?” Shane asked, consciously keeping his palms pressed to his knees to prevent them from shaking with nerves.
Ilya picked up a black leather blindfold. “I am going to reward you for winning.”
Shane chewed on his bottom lip anxiously. Losing one of his senses was always a mixture of exhilaration and terror. Being unable to see what was coming next forced him to live completely in his submission and trust that Ilya would take him where he needed to go.
“Reward me how?”
Ilya raised an accusing eyebrow, “I thought you remembered?”
Shane’s brain immediately stalled out, “What?”
“Mmm,” Ilya purred. “When I asked you earlier if you remembered the scene you told me about, you told me you did. Was a lie?”
The way Ilya moved across the cushioned carpet made Shane’s heart stutter in his chest. He was in full predator mode, corded muscles shifting under his clothes in a way that breathed power and control. Ilya stopped at the edge of the bed, blindfold hanging loosely in his left hand. From his spot on the bed, Shane was forced to crane his neck to look up at his breathtakingly beautiful husband.
Shane could feel the color draining from his face. “I wasn’t ly—“
Ilya’s hand shot out, thumb and index finger, squeezing Shane’s cheeks until his lips puckered, “Think very hard before you lie again, or we can go from reward to punishment.” He lightened his hold, but his fingers remained on Shane’s cheeks, palm holding his chin.
Shane swallowed thickly, his brain moving a mile a minute, “I don’t remember.”
“Mmm. I will show you then. Lie down, arms above your head.”
With a little nod, Shane slowly lowered his body to the bed, letting his hands settle near the headboard. Ilya knelt next to him, the fabric of his joggers brushing against Shane’s bare side. Time seemed to slow when Ilya placed a hand on his bicep, calloused fingers traveling up to his arm before the cool weight of a leather cuff was secured around one wrist, then the other. It had been so long since he could truly let himself go, and his brain was already starting to list heavily in the sweet, fuzzy space it longed for. Ilya secured the cuffs to the headboard and leaned back, gently brushing his thumb over the freckles that dotted Shane’s flushed cheeks.
The world went dark as the blindfold slid over Shane’s eyes, blotting out the room’s soft light. He held his breath for a moment, allowing himself to adjust and sink into the loss of control. The distinct click of a lighter almost made him jump out of his skin. His mind reeled with possibilities, but there was really only one that made sense: the body-safe candles. He shuddered at the memory of the hot wax pooling on his skin, the heat building and lingering until it slowly cooled into a solid form. His breath sped up, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he prepared himself for the first drop.
He bucked when it finally landed on his skin, falling just above his hipbone. It was such a surprise he didn’t even register that the warmth didn’t pool as the wax would have, but dripped, leaving a line down to his groin. It took four more drops before he finally realized something was different. The clatter that sounded like glass or maybe ceramic came from the nightstand, and he whipped his head towards it. Ilya made an amused sound, only adding to his confusion.
“Is not wax, котёнок(kitten),” Ilya said, one finger dipping into the liquid and smearing it around.