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“Pitiful,” Ilya mumbles, nails tapping against his phone. He’s lounging lazily in his hotel bed, pleasant day-after soreness of a good game curling in his muscles, leaving him warm and content.
He considers the TV screen. Hollander is antsy, movements just a little too sharp, aggression as obvious as it gets when playing a team that isn’t even fucking trying. Another assist from Taylor, and the puck is slamming into the goal, virtually untouched by any kind of defense.
It’s almost rude, Ilya thinks, irony dripping from the thought. “Not so polite, are you, Hollander?” The almost-betrayed look Hollander sends Scott Hunter is enough to set off a chuckle from Ilya, delighting in watching him thoroughly thrash the Admirals, scoring again in the last seconds of the game.
The clock ticks down, and Hollander’s teammates crowd around him, slapping him across the back and grasping at his jersey, raucous in their excitement. But Ilya really only has eyes for Hollander, his furrowed brow, and the downward tilt of his lips. He’s – what is the word? Unsatisfied.
Hollander was spoiling for a competition — practically begging for it — and Scott Hunter had neither stepped up to the plate or offered any kind of reparation. Ilya understands, Hollander is the type of player, no, the type of person, who on some kind of level needed the outlet and the competition the game provided. He, in fact, lived off of it, craved it. Always pushing, too focused, too honed to enjoy any kind of taunting, had no interest in any of the satisfaction Ilya himself found in chirping at an opponent until they broke, and either starting a fight or providing some kind of pushback.
Privately, Ilya knows the focus makes him ridiculously good, a true, sharp player. Genuinely something historical. If only he’d have a little more fun.
Perfect, polite, good-boy Shane Hollander.
He drags his hands through his hair, flashes of deep brown eyes framed by long eyelashes shining with unshed tears and thick thighs briefly making themself known.
“Fuck,” Ilya mutters, tugging roughly at his curls. He stretches, yawns, makes to turn the TV off and get up. Maybe take a shower and jerk off to the thought of Hollander, maybe make himself free tonight, work off some of. Well. Whatever this is. He's got the time – why not?
But his fingers grasp the remote and he looks up and pauses, squinting. Shane Hollander, skating towards a kneeling Scott Hunter. He grins, eager to see what kind of puppy-soft comment Hollander is going to make to good-naturedly rib the older player. Ilya sits up straighter as Hollander spits down at the ice, face hardening, then watches as his shoulders tighten and his head whips up in clear indignation, teeth clenching, and the furrow in his brow deepening.
Hollander is angry. Really, truly angry. Ilya’s eyebrows inch up on his forehead, something brewing in the back of his head. What the hell did Scott fucking Hunter say in the two seconds Hollander had moved toward him to rile him up quite that quickly? Not even Ilya gets under Hollander’s skin without at least some pre-warning that he’s digging himself a hole.
“What the fuck.”
Hollander’s fists are clenched, he barks something back, the announcers making stupid, vapid commentary in the background, and suddenly he’s dropped his gloves, charging at Hunter.
Ilya’s eyebrows have officially made their way to the top of his forehead, mouth dropping open. Hollander, Shane motherfucking Hollander, is genuinely, actually fighting. Shane Hollander’s fists are flying into Scott freaking Hunter’s face, catching him upside the chin, and throwing his head back.
“What the fuck,”
Hollander is grabbing Hunter’s face in both hands and slamming him into his knee, blood exploding from the older man’s nose. Hunter seems to finally have gotten with the program, his own fist flying at Hollander’s face, clumsy with the probably newly-broken nose streaming blood down his face. Hollander, shockingly, isn’t remotely clumsy, slips right past the fist and throws his own left hook, catching Hunter in the cheekbone, spit flying. Both sides are flooding the arena, grasping at the jerseys of their respective captains.
It slows the momentum for a second, then Hollander is tearing free, lunging for Scott Hunter, fisting his jersey in his hand and punching him in the face again, once, twice, sending Hunter’s helmet flying. Hunter finally makes contact himself, catching Hollander in the lip. It’s not light either, a solid blow that would’ve likely sent anyone else reeling for a second, but Hollander braces, licks the new blood off his lip, and is immediately back in the older player’s face, sneering, bloody teeth shining in the stadium light.
A spark travels directly south in Ilya’s blood, a strange jealousy growing in his chest. He’s fully stood up now, inches from the television. He sets aside the sudden need to be on top of Hollander for the sheer fucking novelty that is Shane fucking Hollander fighting, really, truly, fighting. He even looks like he knows what he’s doing. A shiver runs down Ilya’s spine.
There’s another lull as whistles are blown, players reaching for the two, pulling, trying to separate them. Referees are flying in, yelling, attempting to get in between the two. Hollander has managed to break free again, full body tackling Hunter, another fist cracking into his face, even as Hunter tries to hold his own, attempting to unseat the other, his own fist catching Hollander once on the eye, then again. Hollander has become something else entirely, something inhuman, nearly marblelike, in his rage. He lets Hunter push him back, then sends his own helmet flying across the ice, hand once again fisted in the other’s jersey, as he bodily lifts the older man and slams his forehead into Hunter’s now definitely broken nose. He’s looking the other man in the eyes still, sending insults, or some kind of commentary, hurling at the other player.
What are they saying?
Finally, Taylor manages to get ahold of Hollander’s shoulders, and the rest of his teammates catch up, hauling him back and away from Scott Hunter. Ilya can’t catch his breath, his blood suddenly boiling, his shirt suffocating. Then, “For the first time in his professional career, Shane Hollander has started a fight, and boy is it a good one! What could have started that?”
There’s more, but Ilya can’t process English anymore, can’t see anything but Hollander’s hands, bruised, bloody, his eyes, flaming, passionate. Ilya is panting, incapable of anything conscious, the memory of Hollander’s bloody teeth burning an impression behind his eyes.
He needs a cigarette. No – a drink – maybe both, as he paws at his loose sweats that are suddenly restricting, desperate to get a hand on his cock. Another bolt of heat travels downward as the camera pans back to Hollander, still struggling against his teammates. Ilya makes out a, ‘you fucking asshole,’ the words more familiar on Hollander’s lips than anything else he’s sent flying at Scott Hunter today. Ilya sucks in a breath, dick grasped in his hand, remembering when he’d last seen Hollander this unhinged, this unencumbered by societal rules and expectations. The memory of him underneath Ilya, flushed, angry, hungry, and so fucking hot has Ilya working his hand up and down himself, just on the edge of painful.
The jealousy comes rushing back as he falls back onto the bed. He wants to lick the blood off of Hollander’s teeth. Wants to grasp those bruised and bloody hands, slide down to those delicate, corded wrists. Wants to see what his fingers look like on Hollander’s chest, on his shoulders, in his mouth, on his cock. Wants to feel him use the kind of bruising, inhuman strength Ilya had seen today. Wants to see if he could match it, beat it, even. The hunger is rampant as Ilya continues to jerk himself off. It’s not enough. He finishes. Catches his breath. Thinks about the way Hollander looks when he’s frustrated and naked.
Impulsively, he pauses, reaching for his phone. Snaps a picture, adds a snarky little line, and sends it.
Lily: Feeling wound up without me to help? [image]
Jane: The actual hell? You ghost me for months and now you appear like a horny poltergeist? I could still be in the locker room.
A smirk creeps up on his face, even as his brow furrows.
Lily: Great. Convenient surface heights in there.
Lily: What is poltergeist
Jane: Dead person with powers
Jane: I hate you.
Lily: No you don’t. How’d it feel to beat up the old man?
Lily: I am not dead
Jane: Please go choke.
Jane: I know. You're too annoying to be dead
Ilya decides to let it go.
Lily: Aww. You’re shy about it.
Lily: Adorable.
Lily: And extremely suspicious.
Jane: I have been in fights before.
Lily: Yeah, scrums. Shoves. Playground shit.
Lily: This was different.
Jane: Shut. Up.
Lily: Did Hunter spit in your cereal? Kick your puppy? Insult your skincare?
Jane: No, and that’s disgusting.
Lily: Maybe you like disgusting.
Lily: Maybe you even like it in your mouth.
Jane: You’re vile.
Lily: You were fighting people today, Hollander. Let’s not pretend you’re the moral compass here.
Jane: Shut up
Lily: Hot, though. Maybe you should get into fights more often.
A pause. Then a read receipt. No typing bubbles. Ilya grins, slow and smug. Victory. He glances at the TV—post-game interviews have started. The grin slips a little when Hollander doesn’t appear. Hunter doesn’t either, but honestly, he doesn’t care.
Hollander missing an interview is new. Very new.
Lily: Did the old man kill you or what? You weren’t on TV being awkward.
Again, just a read receipt. Ilya clicks his tongue, irritation pricking at his chest where something more tender tries to form. That’s stupid. Very stupid. He refuses to name it.
He tosses his phone aside and finally drags himself to his feet. The adrenaline is gone; the heat isn’t, exactly, just muted. Manageable. Enough to shower without immediately combusting. Still, the image lingers—Hollander bloody, furious, incandescent. A version of him no one else had ever earned. A version that did something dangerous and electric to Ilya’s pulse.
He steps into the bathroom, shaking his head at himself, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth despite everything. “Fucking Hollander,” he mutters, and the warmth in his voice betrays him completely.