Chapter Text
WINTER 2013
L: I’m going to score 9 goals next week.
J: Why 9?
L: One for each inch of the dick you want.
Shane could barely choke back the tortured laugh that was about to tear past his defenses— here, in this random ass gym in some random ass city, surrounded by the thick smell of sweat and rubber sneaker soles.
Nervously clicking his phone shut, he shoved it into his pocket and continued his reps on the rowing machine— cranked up to maximum strength, of course, since his trainer (and let’s be real, his mother) wanted to see “more mass” on him when the winter break was finished.
36… 37… 38… 39….
Shane felt the heat rising in his cheeks as he thrashed and cranked his legs forwards and backwards, feeling the comforting burn spread across his thighs as he pushed himself harder and harder to his absolute edge. It was addictive, this ache— the way his defenses tingled and resisted, only to give way to the delight of buzzing, sweaty endorphins as he rowed faster and faster.
He definitely wasn’t overcompensating to keep his mind off something.
The heart rate monitor was pulsing full throttle now, blinking on and off like a hyperactive strobe light. In an instant, Shane was thrust back into the memory from months, maybe even years— god, was it years? — ago in the hotel basement, the last time he’d pushed himself this hard and made his heart race this quick biking with Rozanov in the hotel gym. He didn’t know if it was competitiveness, or attraction, or just some dumb ass “boys will be boys” impulse, but in that moment absolutely nothing mattered except him and Rozanov, their puffs of breath matching and their eyes catching in the glass mirror. Shane had been stupid with the smell of Rozanov’s sweat, the beads of it starting to glisten on his upper lip, those dumb curls getting frizzier and more damp by the second.
Maybe, if you just keep biking faster and faster, Rozanov won’t see how stupidly turned on you are right now.
The thought had entered his brain like an atomic bomb, and left a similar amount of destruction in its wake. Shane had immediately tried to shut it down, shut everything down, and basically had stared at Rozanov in silence for the remaining 5 minutes of the night once they collapsed on the floor.
Now, here he was— in the same fucking predicament, nearly working himself to death in a gym to avoid a visible boner after one dirty text from Ilya Rozanov.
Shane would be the first to admit that he wasn’t good at this— all this gushy, dating, romantic stuff. If anything, Shane was lucky if he patted one of his teammates on the shoulder and called him “bud” without overanalyzing if it was an awkward thing to do. Add a slight amount of attraction into the situation— okay, maybe a whole lot of attraction— and Shane was absolutely fucking lost.
One for each inch of the dick you want.
Shane let his head flop back while he kept pushing himself forwards and backwards, nearly knocking out an earphone in the process. Nine inches. He knew he wasn’t ready last time— even just touching Rozanov made him feel like he was about to explode, never mind touching Rozanov’s dick. He’d ignored Rozanov’s text to meet up after the Montreal game, because he knew he couldn’t handle it without being an absolute idiot. To have Rozanov inside him— the whole length of him, touching him where he’d never been touched before— it was enough to make Shane’s blood go south on the spot, despite his very intentional efforts to distract himself by nearly giving himself an exercise-induced heart attack.
But maybe, next time, like Rozanov had said… he’d be ready.
198… 199… 200.
Shane flopped forward onto the front of the rowing machine, removing the handlebars from his slick grasp before he could change his mind and pump another 200 to distract himself.
Don’t be a fucking pussy.
Folding up and propping his legs up more comfortably on the cold metal bars to steady himself on the moveable seat, Shane sharply breathed in and took his phone out from his pocket again.
He hadn’t been consistently replying to Rozanov’s texts— partially because Rozanov was a flirty asshole who had probably texted hundreds of people like this throughout his short life as a man built like a Roman god, and partially because Shane was too much of a chicken to even try to flirt back. What the fuck was he supposed to say— yes, I want you inside me so much I can barely stand it and I fuck myself to sleep multiple times a week just thinking about it?
Nope, nope, nope. Embarrassing, desperate, too clingy to fathom. There was no fucking way Shane’s emotions could be set loose like that on Ilya fucking Rozanov.
But fuck— he didn’t want the texts to stop. He had to say something.
He thumbed over to the text thread on his phone.
You’re ridiculous. He typed it out, then immediately deleted the message from the screen.
Nine? Try again, Rozanov. Ugh. He could do better than that, especially for the man whose nine-inch dick he’d been dreaming of daily since the spring.
He bit his lower lip, hoping anyone else in the gym who’d spotted him would assume he was just sending some stressful email to a high-powered manager or something.
You’re gonna have to try harder than that if you wanna get me to respond. Shane clicked send, before he could regret it. While he wished he had the inner strength to shut his phone again and stash it away, Shane stared at the screen with full, burning focus until the white message box appeared.
L: Oh, yes? And what exactly should I say, Jane?
Shane breathed out in defeat, and was about to slam the phone shut again when he saw a second message appear.
L: Should I say that I’m getting hard right now just thinking about touching your cock?
A third.
L: Should I say that I want to hear how you sound when I’m finally inside you? That I miss your perfect ass and want to find out how you taste?
Shane felt the sweat on the back of his neck turn cold. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He really was going to get a boner here, in some boujee ass gym in a random city in the middle of hockey season.
L: What do you think, Jane? Is that enough for you to respond?
He blew out a puff of air.
Before letting his brain get the best of him, Shane’s thumbs returned to the keypads.
J: I’d say you’ve got my attention.
Jesus Christ, he was so, so bad at this.
L: Wow, Jane. And I didn’t even have to use emojis.
L: 😘
L: Want to fuck you so bad.
Shane could, at the very least, respond to that.
J: Want you to fuck me too.
J: Someday.
L: Someday?
L: Seems like never, since you’re too boring to come when I want to meet up
L: But don’t worry Jane, I am very patient
J: Someday. I promise.
Shane steeled himself for his next response. Fuck it— now or never, right?
J: Miss your dick too.
L: Oh yeah?
L: How much do you miss?
L: Fuck
L: You touching yourself right now Hollander?
Shane winced at Rozanov’s obvious slip into using his name— a wince that turned into a scowl when he noticed the clearly growing problem of hiding the semi in his lap.
Shit, shit, shit.
He finally got himself under control enough to dart his eyes around the room— the gym was fairly empty, other than a few other undoubtedly big-shot athletes who wanted to keep a low profile. But, thank fuck, no recognizable other MLH players.
Before he knew what he was doing, Shane stood and strode across the room, over the polished tile and through the sliding door that led to the locker room. From the lack of noise, Shane could tell that no one was loitering by the lockers or taking a post-workout shower.
For a random gym some of the other guys had recommended from when they were last on the road, Shane had to admit that this one was nice— there was a steam room and sauna which undoubtedly would feel amazing after putting himself through hellish strength training all winter, but that wasn’t where Shane was headed now.
Clutching his phone in his hand in a death grip, Shane peeled back the curtain of the first shower stall he saw and wrenched it shut just as quickly as he had opened it.
There. He was alone.
Fuck.
He couldn’t control the way his hand reached downward, caressing the slope of his dick as he pressed his forehead into the wall of the shower. Rozanov would do it like this— gently, so gentle Shane wouldn’t see it coming when he was cumming like an idiot before they’d barely even gotten started.
Ilya was like that— rough, but gentle.
Shane wrenched his phone up into eyesight, and clumsily replied.
J: So what if I am.
L: Fuck
L: You are serious right now?
L: Such a good boy, touching your dick for me
Shane nearly preened in delight, tossing his head backwards as he picked up the pace. If Rozanov kept texting him like that, this would be over before it even started— and that was probably for the best, given that someone could walk in at truly any moment.
He was about to let himself go, but at the very least Rozanov deserved a reply.
J: Want to feel you.
L: Want you keep touching yourself for me
L: Want you to touch that pretty hole
Shane nearly gasped and let his hand go slack. Fuck, Rozanov. His body was already thrumming with heat— one more second and he’d be gone, but all he wanted was the feeling of Ilya Rozanov’s dick inside him.
Maybe… this way he’d be ready next time.
Biting his lower lip, and despite his better judgement, Shane let his hand move downward, circling and teasing himself the way he knew Ilya might. His breath was coming fast in hard, steady puffs, and he knew if he kept going that this was going to ruin him.
J: I’ll touch my hole if you touch your cock
Rozanov’s reply was instant.
L: Oh I am
L: Tell me what you want me to do to you
L: Once you stop being boring and come meet with me
Shane pushed away all the self-conscious thoughts clouding his mind— that he was too desperate, too clingy, too new at all of this. I mean, shit, Rozanov was asking, wasn’t he?
J: Want you to fill me up
J: I think about it all the time
Closing his eyes again, he let a finger slowly slip into his entrance. He had no lube— of course he didn’t— and he felt a pleasant burn as he filled himself with a single finger. He was going to have to go slow— but he had no doubt that if Rozanov was with him in person, he’d be taking his sweet time anyways.
He was still grasping his phone in his left hand, and opened his eyes to glance at the new message filling the screen.
L: Thinking about how tight your hole would be
L: And the pretty noises you would make
L: How I would get you ready for me
Fuck, Rozanov. While he knew that spit obviously was terrible lube, Shane spit on two of his fingers anyways and shoved his gym shorts all the way down. He started with one, feeling the burn as he slowly loped his finger in and out of his hole.
L: I’d give you one finger to start
L: Not too much
L: So you can really feel me when I fuck you
Shane felt his eyes roll back. Without thinking or giving himself permission, he added another finger to the rhythm, feeling his cock swell to an almost painful degree. He was so, so close.
L: You are not answering
L: This means you are fucking yourself, no?
Shane bit his lip— smug asshole. Before judgement got the better of him, he swiped his phone to the camera.
The picture wasn’t perfect— he didn’t put his whole face in it, obviously, but Rozanov could still see the bottom half of his flushed face, his teeth biting into his pink chapped lower lip. It was embarrassing, but also kind of hot— seeing a picture of himself from a low angle, his hand clearly fingering himself and his cock in the foreground glistening with pre cum. He was always so leaky when he fucked himself— it was embarrassing, but hopefully Rozanov would think it was hot.
It was definitely a longer stretch of time before Rozanov replied this time.
L: Fuuuuuuuuuck
L: You are so pretty
L: Fucking yourself so good for me
L: You know your pretty face made me cum
L: Before I could even stop
Well, shit. Maybe he was better at this sexting stuff than he’d thought.
Shane felt a rosy glow flush in his cheeks, and gave himself full permission to throw his head back and pick up the pace. He jammed another finger in, feeling the stretch and ache as he fucked himself into a delicious rhythm of friction and heat. This is how it would feel, taking the whole length of Rozanov’s cock inside him.
He curled his fingers, pulsing into the spot that made him see stars and feeling his muscles tighten.
Your pretty face made me cum.
Shane couldn’t hold it back now— two more seconds and he was cumming, releasing and letting out a small moan before he could stop himself. His legs felt like jelly as he let himself slide down the wall onto the shower floor, his breath coming in hot, hard pants.
Well, at least this gym seemed pretty clean.
When the room stopped spinning, Shane wiped a hand through his sweaty hair and breathed out a laugh. Fuck. He hadn’t even turned the fucking water on.
Before he stood and peeled off his shirt to take an actual shower, he couldn’t stop himself from texting Ilya with what he knew was a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.
J: See you in the playoffs, Rozanov.