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Shane spent the handshake line diligently looking at a spot somewhere in the middle distance over each player’s shoulder. The whole All-Star circus had a way of making everything feel staged, but a loss was a loss, and Shane was a notorious bitter loser. 

If it wasn’t infuriating enough that his team had found a way to lose this glorified scrimmage of a game, the other team’s captain had been pestering him all night. Rozanov, Boston’s shiny new center, and already playing like he owned the ice. They’d drawn opposite sides for the tournament, and the guy played it like a grudge match, all stick and shoulder and that fucking smile. He kept checking Shane into the boards hard enough to rattle his teeth, looking straight back at him, smirking through his mouthguard. Either the ref was a Raiders fan or he had a hard-on for big Russian assholes; Rozanov never even made the sin bin.

Once the carnival was over and the guys ganged up to try and convince him to join their night of drinking and debauchery, Shane’s answer was a resounding no. He wouldn’t be good company, anyway, pissy as he felt. He had a flight early in the morning; the best he could do was sleep it off. He just needed to figure out a way to stop the noise.

The team psych would be on his case again if she could see the inside of his mind right now. Rumination, she called it. The breathing exercises she’d shown him didn’t do shit, except adding a heap of boredom on top of the irritation.

He picked up his phone to check the alarm was properly set. It was. Of course, it was.

Predictably, counting his inhales and exhales didn’t do shit to stop him from replaying the game in his head. He thought about those board checks exactly as much as when he was breathing normally, which was way too much. Especially the one in the second, when Rozanov had pinned him for a solid two-seconds longer than the play required, chest to back. He’d said something against the side of his helmet that Shane hadn’t caught. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, wondering what it was he’d said in that low, accented voice. Going by the intonation, it wasn’t a regular chirp. He’d made it sound filthy.

If only it was just anger he was feeling. Anger, he could deal with. Run it off in the morning, if it wasn’t entirely faded. But here, in the privacy of his nondescript hotel room, he could admit to himself that it wasn’t. Or not just. Not primarily.

What did it say about him that he managed to barely ever think about sex unless some big jerk of a guy slammed him into the boards and pushed all his buttons? Did he really have to be so fucked-up that getting manhandled in public by some asshole was a major turn-on? As if it wasn’t bad enough that he was probably gay –something he’d only just started acknowledging– in a sport where it was essentially a career-ending fault.

So, maybe he was fucked-up, but he was also disciplined. Most of the time, he could suppress it all, channel every last bit of his energy into the game. He’d only slipped a couple of times, and both times he’d been far away from home and the hockey world. Once in Mexico two summers ago, then again in some club in Los Angeles this last spring, to equally tepid results.

The app was still somewhere on his phone, under a different name and a fake innocuous icon, buried in a folder full of other useless apps, meditation, gratitude, socials he never used. He’d meant to delete after that last time, for sure.

But he hadn’t deleted it. It was right there.

The grid loaded, a wall of torsos and distances, filters, tags. Practical. Impersonal. 

It was so fucking reckless. Everyone in a thirty-mile radius knew it was All-Star weekend, and his face (and abs, for some reason) was plastered on half the billboards in the city. 

But the vague, amorphous sound of Rozanov’s mangled chirp echoed inside his head, amplified and twisted into dirty commands. The sensory memory of his hard-muscled torso pressing into his back was an ache he couldn’t shake. 

The grid refreshed.

100 feet away.

No face. Hot chest, toned with a dusting of moles and light brown hair. But it was the wording of his profile that gave Shane pause.

He could have sworn the bio had a fucking Russian accent. He could hear it in his head, smug and commanding. 

He sat up, the sheets pooling at his waist. Don’t be a psycho, he told himself. A luxury hotel like this hosted hundreds of people. It could be anyone. A guest from that wedding party downstairs. A sales rep making the most of their weekend away. It was, clearly, just a coincidence.

But… It didn’t mean he couldn’t look. Didn’t mean he couldn’t fantasize about rude and bossy Russian centers just a few doors away. About how they would pin him to a mattress the way Rozanov had shoved him into the glass, rough, relentless, shutting down all the noise in his head.

His phone vibrated and a message popped up.

The knock on the door came two minutes later. Not that Ilya was really counting; the countdown was just a little trick he used to set the tone, and weed out brats and time-wasters. 

If he’d gone out with the rest of the team, he would have been drowning in vodka and willing girls by now, soft and pretty and eager to please an MLH All-Star. But he was too wired for a normal night out.

He’d spent the entire game hunting one guy up and down the ice, hitting him just to feel the violent shove back, saying things into the side of his helmet he had no business saying to watch the anger flare in his eyes. Instead of getting it out of his system, it had left him with an adrenaline surge and a persistent, horny ache. So, he’d fired up the app to find an easy substitute, someone willing to be used and forgotten before his early morning  flight. 

He was still uneasy about doing this over All-Star weekend, but horniness had won over caution, like it so often did. The guy had been prickly and green over text, and Ilya had liked it more than he wanted to. He pulled the door open, already impatient–

And there he was. Tall and broad in his Metros sweater, hood cinched tight, like that would fool anyone. Like his face wasn’t plastered on the gigantic billboard facing the hotel’s parking entry. Not a stand-in, not a Shane Hollander-shaped rando. Him.

Ilya bit down on the urge to laugh, to tease. Right on time, Hollander. What a clever disguise. He already looked deliciously annoyed, face flushed just right, every freckle standing out. Instead of a chirp, Ilya said a silent, thankful prayer to the universe and watched the exact moment it landed for Hollander, too. Recognition, first. Then, something closer to horror, his weight rocking back toward the hall like his body had already decided to run. For a second, Ilya was sure he would.

Instead, he stepped inside, jaw tight, the tips of his ears going red, and Ilya shut the door before either of them could think better of it.

"So, do I, just, uh." He looked, sheepishly, at a spot in front of Ilya’s feet. Oh, he was delightful.

"Come here."

He did. That was a surprise, how fast, how readily, three steps across cheap hotel carpet like he’d been patiently waiting for permission. 

Ilya let him squirm for a beat. He’d learned a long time ago that silence was the best interrogation tactic you could use, and right now, Shane Hollander was telling him everything he wanted to know. His jaw was locked tight, his throat working. He couldn’t figure out where to look, his eyes darting from Ilya’s face to his shoulders, dropping to his mouth before they snapped back done to the floor.

"You could leave," Ilya said, conversationally. "Door is right there. No one is forcing you to stay."

Something flinched across his face. Not fear. Defiance, maybe. "I’m not leaving."

"No," Ilya agreed, enthralled. "I do not think you are."

He stepped forward and Shane Hollander backed up until his shoulders hit the wall. Slowly, gently, Ilya’s hand came up and wrapped around the side of his face, careful not to spook him. His thumb brushed across a freckled cheek. He took another step and then, they were standing chest to chest, with nowhere left for Hollander to escape. 

Ilya leaned over and pressed a kiss on his mouth, light and easy, and Shane Hollander’s  mouth opened a fraction. 

"This okay?" Ilya asked. This wasn’t what he’d meant to do when he’d opened the app. He tended to operate on efficiency, on a clean exchange: get in, get off, gone before the sheets cooled. No lingering. But he’d had his eyes on the guy all weekend. The freckles, the mouth, the ass. The way Hollander owned the ice and then folded off it, his shoulders rounding like he wasn’t entirely sure his large, muscular body was allowed to claim all the space it needed. His eyes going hot and black every time Ilya slammed him into the boards just for the thrill of watching it happen again. He’d wanted to kiss him so badly then.

The few seconds Hollander spent frozen felt endless. Ilya was just about to pull back –to tell him that it didn’t mean anything–  when Hollander surged forward and crashed their mouths together with a graceless, bruising urgency. It was a messy collision of resentment and raw want, all clashing teeth and incursive tongue and a ragged breath that shuddered against Ilya’s mouth.

It was nothing like the polite-Canadian response he’d been expecting, and the sheer desperation of it went straight to his cock. He groaned his approval, kissing him back just as hard.

"Take this off." He pulled at the drawstring of the hoodie, and Hollander did as he was told. "That too." The shirt came off after it, and instead of letting either drop, Shane automatically folded them into a neat square and set it on the dresser by the door.

Ilya filed the quirk away, his hands already roaming over Hollander’s bare chest. He was broad, densely muscled and warm under his palm. His thumb grazed over a dark nipple he definitely intended to take his time tasting later. Ilya’s mouth was watering at the sight of him. He looked completely unreal.

"Remember what you’re here to do?" Ilya asked, calmly, as if he couldn’t feel his heart pulsing at his throat, his dick aching to be touched.

"Yeah." 

Hollander’s eyes had dropped again, looking more resigned than eager. There was a glaring disconnect in his body language, a chasm between what he was desperate to have and what he allowed himself to enjoy. To Ilya, sex was just an itch to scratch, easy and guiltless. But Hollander looked like he was marching into the penalty box.

"You have done this before, yes?" Ilya asked, raising an eyebrow.

Hollander nodded once, then again, less certain. "Couple of times."

"You did not like it?" Ilya pressed, the words coming out gentler than he intended. There was no answer, just a dark flush climbing up Hollander’s throat. "If you don’t want–"

But Hollander didn’t let him finish. He just dropped awkwardly to his knees on the cheap carpet, hands already reaching for Ilya’s zipper. Ilya’s breath caught. So that’s how it was going to be.

The fly was stiff, unfamiliar, and his fingers weren’t helping. Too unsteady. Rozanov held still above him, all nonchalant patience, but he was already hard, straining the denim. Knowing he’d done that sent a hot thread of something like pride straight through Shane’s gut. 

He got the jeans down and couldn’t stop himself pressing his face into the fabric of Rozanov’s boxer briefs. He breathed him in –body wash and sweat and skin– and mouthed at the thick ridge of him through the fabric.

His head was finally going quiet. The endless replay, the wasted chances, the score, all of it draining out for one, leaving nothing but this. Months the team psych had spent trying to get him to shut it all off. Turned out, all it took was Rozanov’s cock right in his face.

He was clumsy and he knew it. His hands were shaking, the nerves rushing right back. Normally, he had a strict method for things he didn’t know how to do: watch first, break it into steps, drill the steps until muscle memory took over. But he’d barely practiced this. It was mostly still theory: the grip, the angle, whatever was supposed to do with his tongue.

He could feel Rozanov watching. Curious. Intent. He’d felt those eyes on him all weekend, on the ice, in the box, and now here, looking down at him. Shane had convinced himself it meant the guy hated him on sight. Feeling the heat radiating off him now, that was getting real hard to sell.

The last layer came down and Rozanov’s cock sprang free, heavy and flushed, moisture already beading at the tip. Shane licked it away –tangy and warm, feeling the soft give of skin before he pushed it back– and then immediately tried to swallow him whole. 

It was a terrible miscalculation. Too much, too fast. He hit the back of his throat and gagged, pulled off with a wet cough, tears stinging the coçrners of his eyes.

"Slow," Rozanov scolded gently, a hand coming down to rest on the back of Shane’s neck. "Is not a race. You always rush like this?"

Yes. The answer was yes. 

He tried again, slower, his hand working the length he couldn’t fit into his mouth, and found a rhythm he could hold without embarrassing himself. The sound Rozanov made above him was a low, devastating rumble, and Shane immediately wanted to hear it again. He set himself the task of earning it, methodically, cataloguing which slide of his tongue drew the sharpest exhale. A hand settled in his hair, not pushing, just anchoring him there, a thumb grazing his temple.

"Look at you," Rozanov purred. "Look how good. You see? Was not so hard." 

The praise crackled over Shane like a live wire. His entire life, he’d been chasing that exact validation –how to be good, better, the best. But now, down on his knees with a hand on his cheek and a hard cock filling his mouth, the word struck a completely different nerve. It landed somewhere raw and deeply buried, scratching an itch that no amount of coaching could ever reach. 

He kept working him, greedy about it now, chasing those heady sounds, and Rozanov let him for a while. Then the hand in Shane’s hair tightened and Rozanov firmly guided him off. A string of spit  broke between his mouth and the head of his cock.

"Up," Rozanov ordered.

Shane stood, suddenly aware of the dull ache in his knees.

Rozanov looked at him. Not at his mouth or his chest. At him, the way you’d look at a play developing, reading where it was going before it got there. Shane held still under it and tried not to do the same thing, not to solve the next move instead of waiting to be told what it was.

"You do not have to win here." Rozanov took Shane by the jaw, not hard, just enough to trap his gaze. "You only need to do what I say. Can you do that?"

It should have been insulting. He’d built an entire life on being good at things, and some part of him filed the instruction away to get pissed off about later. The rest of him went loose the moment he was given permission to drop the persona –Shane Hollander, Metros captain, generational talent, leading the scoring race for the third year in a row– and let somebody else hold the clipboard for the night.

"Yeah," he said, his voice barely sounding like his own. "I can do that."

"Good." Rozanov’s thumb dragged across his lower lip, spreading spit down the side of his chin. "Bed."

The bed was unmade, the sheets already rumpled from Rozanov lying in it. Shane sat where he was told, then lay back when a heavy hand on his sternum pressed him down. He stared up. It was a standard hotel ceiling, the exact same one over his own bed a few of identical rooms away.

Rozanov undressed him the rest of the way, brisk and impersonal about it, the way you’d handle equipment, and that was somehow a lot easier than being asked to help. Shane let it happen, holding perfectly still. He braced himself when the last layer was peeled away, but Rozanov didn’t even blink at the slick rigid length of his cock. He didn’t reach for it. He simply finished the job and dropped to the bed next to him.

"Look at you," Rozanov said, taking him in. He said something else in Russian, clearly not meant for translating. His hand moved over Shane’s thigh, his hip, then pressed flat to his stomach, deliberately avoiding Shane’s straining cock and the smear of precum down his stomach. "Every time I am hitting you into boards, I think about this. You know that?"

"I thought you wanted to punch me."

Rozanov’s laugh sounded both surprised and delighted. "No, no. Other thing." He leaned down. Put his mouth to the spot under Shane’s ear and spoke against it, the way he had on the ice, except this time Shane caught every word. "Whole weekend, every time you get up off the ice and look at me like that, I think, he would look so pretty begging for my cock. And here you are."

Shane lay very still. He was used to being scrutinized, challenged, and picked apart by every player in the league. Being desired by one instead –one who existed in the exact same high-pressure, unyielding world he did, yet appeared completely unperturbed by the risk– made his brain start spinning. 

"Still thinking too hard," Rozanov murmured.

"Working on it."

"I know you are." His hand moved lower. "I think we can get you out of there."

Ilya couldn’t believe how lucky he was, watching a man like this, so disciplined, so controlled, giving himself away in small, successive increments.  

He kept his hand slow and tried to notice everything. Hollander’s breathing, first: how it snagged when he traced the crease of his thigh, went shallow when he didn’t follow through. The flush climbing from his chest to his throat, the way his hips lifted off the mattress before he caught himself. That furious little self-correction. Every part of Hollander was telling on every other part, and Ilya read all of it, giving back only as much as he decided to –for now, not a lot.

"Still trying to control the game," he said, drawing one knuckle up the inside of Hollander’s thigh, and watching the muscle jump ahead of his touch. "You want to tell me what comes next? You have a plan, yes?"

Shane’s jaw worked, but he didn’t answer.

"Good." Ilya closed his hand around the base of Hollander’s cock and gave it a hard squeeze, feeling his whole body arch up into the touch. He let go before it was enough. He watched the frustration break across Hollander’s face, the wanting, the outrage of being denied it. "Only what I give you," he reminded him.

He did it again, more indulgent this time, allowing Hollander’s cock a few much-needed strokes. He drew it all until his breath went ragged, his hands fisted in the sheets, then stopped abruptly again. A whine broke out of him while his hips chased nothing. 

It was a very good look for him. Too good. Ilya kept his voice even and his hands slow –all patience, all control– but under it, he was wound incredibly tight. He’d been even before he even felt that sullen mouth going soft on his cock. His pulse was loud in his own ears, his restraint waning fast. To keep from rushing, Ilya forced himself to pause. He kept one hand resting heavily on Shane’s hip, and used the other to tip Shane’s face up until those glazed eyes found his.

"Look at me. Yes. There." He waited until he was sure he had his attention. "I texted you things before. About what I want to do to you." He watched Hollander’s flush go deeper, his chest rising and falling fast. "Still okay? All of it? You tell me now if it is not. We find other things. Is no problem to me."

For a second, he thought Hollander would overthink his way out of it. He could see it starting in the way his jaw worked and his gaze flickered away. "Yeah. All of it. I want…"

"You want what?" Ilya prompted softly.

Shane let out a ragged exhale, his eyes snapping back up to his. Ilya could tell the exact moment he abandoned his pride to give him what he asked for. "Want you to fuck me."

"Mmh. Okay." Ilya swallowed his relief and reached across for the bottle he’d stashed in the nightstand drawer, just in case.

When he settled back, Hollander was watching his hands, tense, waiting. He didn’t tell him to stop, just made it worth watching. He took his time squeezing the lube into his palm, warming it hands, thoroughly coating his fingers. Hollander’s pupils wide and dark, his breathing reduced to shallow, rapid bursts.

"Eyes up," Ilya instructed, shifting his weight between Shane’s knees. He didn’t wait for him to grace again; he just pressed against the entrance, swirling the slickness over the tight ring before pushing inside.

Shane choked on a gasp. His hips jolted upwards, his hands fisting in the sheets until his knuckles went white.

"Down," Ilya corrected, pressing his free hand flat against Shane’s stomach, pinning him to the mattress. 

He kept his finger perfectly still until Shane forced a shuddering exhale, his body sinking under Ilya’s palm. Only then did Ilya begin to move. He worked him open methodically, testing the limits of Hollander’s body. When he added a second finger, pushing past the initial clench of muscle, Shane let out a quivering breath and threw a thick forearm over his eyes, hiding his face.

Ilya opened his mouth to order it away, but the words died in his throat. The dense musculature of his chest and shoulder was on full display, his bicep flexing beautifully tight over the crook of his armpit and its dense tuft of dark hair. It was an incredible view. Ilya swallowed the command, deciding he could let him hide just this once, and curled his fingers deeper. 

He watched for the exact moment the resistance shifted and the stubborn will to endure –the athlete’s instinct to fight through the discomfort– were no longer needed. He felt the precise second the internal muscles stopped fighting his hand and started yielding to it instead. A ragged noise hitched in the back of Shane’s throat, his head tipping back into the pillows to expose the long, vulnerable line of his neck.

It was a beautiful thing to witness. The rigid control that kept the great Shane Hollander bolted together finally gave out. His arm slid off his face, heavy and boneless. The relentless crease between his eyebrows smoothed away. His jaw unclenched, his mouth going slack and wet as a heavy breath punched out of him.

"Look how beautiful you are," Ilya murmured, his voice entirely devoid of the mocking edge he usually reserved for the ice, and gave himself a quick, hard tug.

Hollander’s glazed eyes fluttered open to meet his. The frantic overthinking was completely gone, washed away by an all-consuming haze. Ilya held his gaze, pinning him with it, before he slowly withdrew his fingers. Hollander let out a sharp, confused whine, his hips instinctively lifting to chase the loss of pressure.

"Ah," Ilya clicked his tongue, tracing a hand down Shane’s quivering thigh to hold him in place. "So greedy, already."

Instead of moving up to cover him, Rozanov shifted his weight down the mattress, settling between Shane’s knees and, for a moment, only stared at him. Shane had never felt so thoroughly exposed, spread open and laid bare, his cock thick and leaking, aching to be touched. Then, Rozanov leaned in and dragged his flat tongue up the hot underside of his shaft.

Shane’s entire body jolted. A strangled gasp tore from his throat as Rozanov’s lips closed over him, taking him deep.

He was so fucking thorough. It was the same relentless, predatory efficiency Rozanov used on the ice, applied entirely to destroying Shane’s remaining control over his own body. He sucked hard, swirling his tongue over the sensitive ridge, drawing out breathless, fractured sounds that Shane didn’t even recognize as his own. 

The tension Shane had just shed came rushing right back, only this time it was a desperate, vibrating tautness.

The walls around them ceased to exist; the ceiling blurred into a smear of white. Shane’s hands gripped the sheets until his knuckles ached, anchoring himself against the dizzying rush of pleasure. He’d never been touched with such weaponized focus. The pressure coiled tightly in his groin, urgent, ready to snap. He couldn’t stop his hips from bucking upward, blindly chasing the wet friction. He was right there. He just needed one more second–

Suddenly, the heat was gone.

Rozanov pulled off with a wet smack. He wrapped a hand around the base of Shane’s cock in a merciless grip, strangling the climax dead in its tracks. Shane choked on a sob, his eyes flying open. He stared wildly down the length of his body, his chest heaving, his brain short-circuiting at the sudden denial.

"Oh, please, fuck–"

"No." Rozanov squeezed once more, just hard enough to make him hiss. "You do not come."

Shane was trembling, suspended in pure, exquisite agony.

"You do not get to come now," Rozanov said again, holding Shane’s pleading gaze. His thumb rubbed a slow, cruel circle over the frantic pulse jumping under his grip. "Not from this. Not until I tell you to. Understand?"

Shane could barely breathe around the ache in his gut. His ingrained instinct to fight back flared up for a second, but it died just as fast. He’d agreed to those rules. He just had to obey.

"Yeah," Shane choked out. "I understand."

"Yes," Rozanov murmured, his voice heavy with satisfaction, right before he lowered his mouth back down. "Good boy."

"Fuck off," Shane bit out, reflexively fighting against a praise that felt as heady as it was demeaning.

Rozanov laughed. The sound vibrated directly against Shane’s over-stimulated skin, sending an electric shock straight to the base of his spine.

"Mmh. Say that again," Rozanov murmured against him, sounding infuriatingly amused. 

Shane’s jaw clamped shut. A sudden flare of ego demanded he pushed Rozanov away and reclaimed whatever shreds of dignity he had left. But his hands remained stubbornly, immovably fisted in the hotel sheets. His body had already picked a side and betrayed him.

Rozanov dragged his teeth lightly over the underside of the shaft in a sharp, calculated scrape that made Shane buck helplessly upward.

"Tell me to fuck off while you push your cock into my mouth," Rozanov challenged. He pulled back just an inch, his grip at the base tightening to reinforce the absolute lockdown he had on Shane’s release. "Come on, Captain. Let me see how much you mean it."

Shane stared down at him, his chest heaving, vision swimming at the edges. The calm, effortless authority radiating from Rozanov triggered the muscle memory to push back and take control, but that wasn’t what he wanted. The stubborn urge to resist finally gave out.

"Please," Shane whispered instead, the word tasting foreign on his tongue. "Please, I will–"

"You will what?"

"I’ll be good," Shane choked out in complete capitulation.

"Better," Rozanov decided, his eyes crinkling at the corners in genuine approval. He licked a long, slow stripe up the front of Shane’s straining dick, and swirled the top of his tongue right over the slick slit. "Much better."

Ilya swallowed the groan that threatened to rumble out of his own chest. Hearing Hollander beg –actually beg, entirely stripped of his righteous golden-boy armor– was a high he wasn’t prepared for. It bypassed his brain and went straight to his cock, making him ache for release. He wanted to be inside him so badly, needed to feel that tight heat around him while he watched Hollander break and give up control entirely. 

But first, he had to reward that beautiful display of obedience. He took him deep down his throat, working the agonizingly sensitive head while pressing his fingers inside his open hole. Hollander was bucking against his hold, his hand grabbing blindly at Ilya’s curls. He tasted the salt of his precum, felt the mounting pressure of a climax ready to shatter. And just before it hit –right as Hollander let out a high, fractured keen– Ilya clamped his hand down again. Hard.

Hollander choked. A full-body shudder ripped through him as the release was walled off for a second time.

"I told you," Ilya sighed, his tone so casually unimpressed he sounded almost bored. He released his grip, letting Hollander’s dick slap wetly against his stomach, and pulled back. "You wait."

Ilya stood up. The air in the room was thick, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex. He looked down at his handiwork. Shane Hollander, the untouchable Metros captain, wrecked, flushed and gasping on a cheap hotel mattress.

He looked so beautiful like this. He also looked like a secret. In a few hours, Hollander would go right back to being franchise property, and he’d pretend none of this had ever happened. 

Something darker and fiercely territorial curled in Ilya’s gut.  He thought about the handshake line earlier, the way Hollander’s teammates clapped him on the shoulder, lingering. The reporters crowding him, the fans wearing his name on their backs. They all thought they owned a piece of him. It pissed Ilya off.

Ilya hadn’t needed to push to figure out Hollander’s previous encounters had been rushed and unsatisfying. No one had ever properly handled him. No one else had ever taken the time to dismantle him the way he needed. Ilya was the only man in the world who had ever seen him like this, completely stripped of his defenses and desperate for permission.

He reached down and grabbed Hollander’s wrist. "Get up.".

Shane gasped and stumbled as he was hauled up. His thighs were trembling as Rozanov marched him across the room, shoving him forward until his chest hit the cold pane of the window.

"Wait," Shane groaned, his hands coming up to brace against the frame as his hot skin hit the cold glass. "The curtains…"

"Leave them," Rozanov ordered as he pressed his chest firmly to Shane’s back, pinning him there. 

He caught Shane’s jaw, forcing his head up so he had to look at the sprawling grid of lights. 

"Look at them, Captain." Across the street, the massive glass facade of another hotel faced them head-on, hundreds of illuminated squares, glowing in the dark. "They all think they know you," Rozanov muttered, his breath hot against Shane’s ear. "They have no idea what the great Shane Hollander really wants."

Shane tried to push back, his hips shifting weakly against Ilya, but there was no force behind it. It was a half-hearted effort that Ilya absorbed without even flinching. He just caught his hips, holding him firmly in place.

"Tell me, what is it you want?" 

Shane shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut.

"Say it," Rozanov demanded, his voice dropping into a cold, cruel register. "Say exactly what you want me to do to you, or we stop right now."

A ragged sound tore out of Shane’s throat. "I want you to fuck me," he croaked, completely stripped of his pride. "Please. Just fuck me."

"Bend over," Rozanov ordered, stepping into Hollander’s space. "Hands on the glass, хороший мойmy good boy."

"Rozanov–" he gasped, his breath fogging the pane. His head whipped side to side, panic warring with a violent, illicit thrill. "Someone could see–"

Rozanov pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades. "They should be so lucky, getting to see the great Shane Hollander pressed against a window, begging for my cock like a good little slut."

Shane’s breath hitched, a shiver rolling down his spine. The filthy, degrading words should have snapped him back to reality. Whether he wanted it or not, he was the face of the MLH. It was his responsibility to keep every aspect of his life perfectly sanitized and unimpeachable. But instead of repulsing him, Rozanov’s dirty, degrading words sent a dizzying spike of heat straight to his groin. 

It was a wild, devastating turn-on. 

The realization was paralyzing enough on its own, but the fact that Rozanov knew –that he could look through years of carefully constructed armor and pinpoint Shane’s darkest, most shameful desire without him having to say a word– was terrifying. Shane let out a ruined whine, his hips unconsciously rolling back against Rozanov to chase the friction.

"Ты такая идеальнаяYou're so perfect", Ilya muttered against his skin, admiring the gorgeous flex of tension there caused by fear and blinding arousal. Unable to resist, he opened his mouth and bit lightly into the corded muscle where Hollander’s neck met his shoulder.

Hollander hissed. His back arched, his palms slapping flat against the cold glass to brace himself, but he didn’t try to get away. Ilya sucked at the flesh, scraping his teeth over a mark he hoped would bloom into an unavoidable purple bruise. Something that would peek out of the collar of Hollander’s jersey for the rest of the week. 

"Мой," Ilya muttered against the wet skin, soothing the bite with a slow drag of his tongue. He slipped a hand down to grip Hollander’s ass, squeezing the firm muscle, while his other hand reached between his cheeks to test the give of his slick hole. "Spread your legs, Captain."

Hollander obeyed instantly. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t try to negotiate. He just widened his stance, his bare thighs trembling slightly under the strain as he braced his forearms against the glass. The amount of trust it took for a man like him to hand over total control, to just switch off and let someone else drive… It was the most beautiful thing Ilya had ever witnessed.

Ilya stepped away just long enough to grab a condom and lube. He coated himself with a heavy dollop and rubbed what was left on his fingers right on Hollander’s entrance. He didn’t bother with a gentle re-introduction; he already knew how perfectly Hollander yielded to a firm command. He slid two fingers inside, pushing deep into the tight, slick heat.

Hollander’s forehead dropped against the pane with a soft thud. A fractured groan fogged the glass directly in front of his face.

"Look out there," Ilya ordered, adding a third finger, stretching him with a slow scissoring of his fingers. "Look at the lights. Do you see the windows across the street?"

Hollander nodded frantically, his breath coming in ragged, shallow bursts. His fingers left sweaty streaks on the glass as he dragged them down. "Fuck, Rozanov, please–"

"Keep your eyes open."

The contact between their bodies –Shane’s skin shivering against the icy glass and the hot, sweat-slicked weight of Rozanov’s chest on his back– was electric. 

"If someone is watching, I want them to see your face. I want them to see how easy you open for me. How much you like my fingers inside you."

Shane let out a helpless whine, his hips rolling back to invite Ilya’s hand deeper. The threat of being watched, combined with the absolute authority in Rozanov’s voice, was short-circuiting his brain completely. His cock was dripping between his stomach and the cold window.

He withdrew his fingers slowly, replacing them with the broad head of his own cock, resting it right at the entrance. Shane’s breath stuttered in anticipation. 

"So good, красавчикhandsome. Are you ready to take my cock?"

Shane’s frantic nodding seemed like enough of an answer. 

The first push was a blunt shock of pressure that stole the air right out of Shane’s lungs. Rozanov felt huge, pressing into him. He choked on a gasp, his fingers slipping on the condensation. Rozanov was stretching him wider and fuller than he’d ever been, but there was no fumbling, no clumsy hesitation. Just a smooth, inexorable glide as Rozanov anchored a hand on his hip and drove himself inside him in one fluid, careful motion.

"Okay?" Rozanov muttered above his ear, and Shane let out a shapeless sound of affirmation.

The sense of fullness was dizzying. Shane’s knees threatened to give out, his thighs trembled, but he didn’t fall. Rozanov held him up effortlessly, taking his weight, perfectly balanced and completely in control. Christ, he’s good at this, Shane thought idly as Rozanov pulled out, only to drive back into him, still slow, still careful, only this time he didn’t stop until his pelvis was pressed against Shane’s ass.

"Look out there," Rozanov commanded, his voice a harsh rasp close to Shane’s ear. "Keep your eyes open." Rozanov’s hand shot up to fist tightly in the short hair at the back of Shane’s head, pulling it back so he couldn’t hide his face against the glass. 

Every thrust drove Shane flush against the pane. In the high-rise across the street, dozens of squares were still glowing. Any one of them could have a line of sight to the Metros’ star center pinned, spread open, being ruthlessly fucked, his mouth open in a silent scream. They would know how much he liked it. How much he enjoyed taking Rozanov’s big cock and obeying his commands. It would ruin everything.  

And still, he couldn’t get himself to stop it. Couldn’t even protest a little.

Instead of terror, a spike of pure, unadulterated arousal was spreading in his groin. His cock ached painfully under the strict order not to come, trapped by his own desperate obedience. He was exposed, ruined, and he had never felt so entirely unburdened in his life. Shane sobbed, a loud, wet sound he didn’t try to suppress, and threw his head back against Rozanov’s chest. He chased the brutal rhythm, letting his hips snap back to meet every thrust, surrendering to the devastating sensations Rozanov was sparking inside him.

The grueling pace didn’t let up. Shane lost track of time, lost track of anything beyond the sharp snap of Rozanov’s hips against his own and the daunting exposure of the open window. But the sensory overload was rapidly stripping away his physical endurance.

His thighs were on fire. The strain of keeping his stance wide, combined with the relentless force of Rozanov driving into him, was taking its toll. He tried to lock his knees to brace himself, but his damp hands were slipping further down the condensation on the glass.

Then, his left knee started giving out.

Rozanov’s arm locked under his stomach, catching his entire weight. He didn’t stumble; he didn’t even lose his balance. The sheer, physical power of it –the ease with which Rozanov held a two-hundred-pound professional athlete suspended against the glass– sent another euphoric spike of heat straight to Shane’s aching cock.

"Legs are done, Captain?" Rozanov murmured into his ear. He didn’t sound annoyed, just deeply, smugly satisfied.

"Can’t–" Shane gasped, his forehead resting heavily against the glass, his lungs burning. "I can’t hold it."

"Is okay. I have you, малышbaby."

Rozanov pulled out in one smooth motion, earning a pathetic little whine from Shane’s throat. Before he could even process the loss, he was being turned around, hauled away from the window with a firm grip on his bicep and waist. Rozanov half-propped, half-carried him across the room, manhandling him with a brisk efficiency that made Shane’s head spin. 

The backs of his calves hit the mattress and Shane collapsed on the bed, scrambling to push himself up on his elbows, his chest heaving.

Rozanov barely gave him a second to recover. He stepped right between Shane’s sprawled legs, his large hands clamping down on his thighs to drag him forward until his hips were hanging right over the edge of the mattress, lifting him up to place a pillow under his hips like he weighed nothing.

"Look at me," Rozanov ordered, stepping between his sprawled legs.

Shane looked up, expecting to see more of the same infuriating confidence. Instead, Rozanov was staring down at him with a hunger so raw, so unguarded, that Shane’s heart stuttered. The smug mask was slipping, replaced by something feral and consuming that sent a fresh spike of heat to Shane’s crotch.

Rozanov gripped the back of his thighs and drove back inside him to the hilt. He felt impossibly deep, every thrust grounded out at the very root of him, hitting a spot that sent blinding flashes of white in front of his eyes. He was completely untethered, anchored by nothing but the grip of Rozanov’s hands on his hips and the relentless rhythm driving into his body.

A stream  of wet, needy sounds poured out of him, the kind he’d never let anyone hear before. Rozanov just swallowed them up, licked them right off his mouth, while the harsh slap of their bodies echoed like a pulse in the hotel room.

Rozanov was hovering mere inches above him. His hair was a damp, messy halo of fluffy curls, his face flushed, his blue-green eyes gone dark, unguarded, and oddly tender. His hand came up to cup Shane’s jaw and he leaned forward for a messy, needy kiss that made Shane whimper. 

The ache in his groin was past the point of agony. He was trembling, teetering right on the edge, desperately fighting his own body’s urge to push him over because he still hadn’t been given the word.

Rozanov broke the kiss and rested his forehead against Shane’s, their lips still brushing as they dragged in rough breaths of shared air.

"So beautiful like this," Rozanov murmured, his voice thick and entirely wrecked. "You did so good for me, Hollander." He pushed his hips down, burying himself as deep as he could possibly go, and picked up a quick, wretched pace. "You can come, малыш. Is okay."

The permission snapped the last remaining thread that held him together. Shane cried out, throwing his head back into the pillows as his climax ripped through him in a blinding detonation, his cock spurting hot and thick over their stomachs. He squeezed his eyes shut, his muscles clamping down violently around Rozanov’s shaft in rapid, helpless spasms.

"Tell me where," Rozanov demanded, his voice urgent, and the words took a few seconds to register through the haze, while his body still trembled through the aftershocks of his climax. 

He knew all too well how he wanted to answer the question. It was something he’d only let himself imagine in his dirtiest, most shameful fantasies, and deeply resented himself for wanting afterward. He couldn’t possibly say–

"My face," Shane begged. "Come on my face."

"Oh god, Hollander…" Rozanov’s voice sounded utterly wrecked. He pulled out in one swift motion, tore off the condom and threw it on the carpet.  The mattress dipped next to Shane’s chest and then Rozanov’s was towering over him with his dick in his hand and the most dazed, helpless expression on his face.

Shane met Rozanov’s gaze and, emboldened by his feral stare, opened his mouth wide and pulled out his tongue. 

God, the sounds this guy made when he came.

Shane watched, transfixed, as thick white ribbons spurted from Rozanov’s cock, narrowly avoiding his eyes to hit his cheeks, his hair, his eager mouth. He couldn’t look away.

Stripped of his smirk and his swagger, Rozanov was so beautiful it made Shane’s heart ache. A wave of something disgustingly soft and sappy washed over him. Not just the euphoric rush of dopamine but a weird and misplaced swell of affection. It was even more embarrassing than everything that had happened in this room up to this point. 

Then Rozanov collapsed, heavy and boneless, burying his face in the crook of Shane’s neck, right next to the bruise he’d left earlier. Shane hoped it would last for days, for weeks, even, so he could replay this night in his mind over and over.

But soon, the feel of sticky come drying on his skin started registering, and with it the urge to either wash it off or jump right out of his own skin. It was on his stomach, on his chest, his neck, his cheeks –everywhere.

"I need… shower," he muttered and dashed to the bathroom, feeling Rozanov’s eyes on him every step of the way.

The shower was running. Through the thin hotel wall, the muted rush of water was the only sound in the room. Ilya sat on the edge of the bed, resting his forearms on his knees as he stared blankly at the carpet.

He’d bargained for a quick release. A simple, anonymous hookup. Instead, he got Shane fucking Hollander. And of course, he had to be the most perfectly responsive, exquisite thing Ilya had ever touched. Fuck. 

This was the opposite of anonymous. He was going to have to see the guy again on the ice, at press conferences, across the red line. For years. Probably for the rest of his career.

With the adrenaline crash, a distressing realization washed over him: Boston played Montreal next month. And with that came the burning hope that if he played his cards right… this might happen again.

Ilya let out an incredulous laugh and dropped his head into his hands. He was so completely, thoroughly fucked.