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The first lie I tell myself is I don’t check his ring. The plain gold ring that cleanly tells everyone Ilya Rozanov is married. The second lie is that I don’t care.
But the stupid, humiliating thing to admit is the ring is the first thing I notice every single time I see him now. It’s not his stupidly perfect mouth pursed into a sexy frown. It’s not the way his eyes find me across a crowded room like I’m a magnet and he’s my steel. Even now, as I grip my stick harder on the bench and pretend I’m watching the play, I can feel Ilya watching me.
The final lie I tell myself is I won’t come to his hotel room in Montreal after our game, but the number is seared in my memory despite the whispered, rushed “1310” Ilya says confidently as he skates by me and sprays me with shredded ice. To everyone else, though, it’s just a continuation of our rivalry.
Boston wins tonight, but barely. Ilya played like a man possessed. I hate that part of me knows exactly why and when he starts playing for me instead of the game. It’s the one perk of our decade long dance. I can read his tells as much as he can mine. I only wish I hadn’t been sidelined just as things seemed to be going so well between us. We never recovered from that, and during my recovery, Ilya married Svetlana to stay in the US.
We don’t talk after the game. I watch him clap his teammates on their backs and tell them he loves them like he’s never said to me. When we leave the ice, we barely look at each other. We never do when it’s like this. The sexual tension is wound so tight between us it feels like one wrong breath will snap it, and I want him snapping my back as he fucks me later.
After a conciliatory talk with Hayden and after nearly everyone has left, I linger in the visitor’s locker room hallway pretending to tie my Reebok shoes and pat down my pockets to make sure I didn’t forget anything. The hallway smells like sweat and melted ice and something sharp and chemical. I consider exiting — I know where his hotel is — when I feel the air shift and I become aware of him.
“You look tired,” he says behind me. His voice is low, his accent familiar enough to live rent free in every goosebump. It’s so casual I can’t help, but feel he’s just being an asshole for old time’s sake.
“I’m fine,” I deflect. I don’t turn around even though I want to. Not here, though. It’s too public.
“You played too many minutes.”
“Thought you were supposed to hate me on the ice,” I say, turning around. His gaze sharpens slightly, studying my face with that familiar, too-perceptive focus. He doesn’t respond right away, but I feel him moving nearer. I don’t want to get caught, but I want to touch him. It’s killing me.
“I do hate you on ice,” he says mildly. “Off ice is different.”
My pulse flickers, but I ignore it.
“You are mad,” he says softly. His dark blonde hair is still damp and curling at his temples. His jaw is covered by a golden shadow I missed while playing. His eyes are intent and hungry, too hungry for a man wearing a wedding band, but my body doesn’t care.
“I’m not mad,” I say as my stomach fluttering betrays me. All I want, all I need is him. His gaze quickly drops to my mouth as he has done many times. It’s so quick, anyone would miss it if they saw it.
“You are terrible liar, Shane.” He smirks, and the lightness in my stomach moves to my guts where I want him to be. We don’t touch. We never do. Yet my desire for him is becoming too much.
“Yeah?” I step closer before I can stop myself. “And you’re married.”
I panic as I hear what I said. It’s true. We don’t lie to ourselves about the thing between us, but the reality of what we are doing hits the floor like broken glass. For a brief second, something more complicated than guilt flickers across his face.
I haven’t met Svetlana, and I don’t want to. I understand their story. Everyone does. Marrying her provided citizenship. The paperwork was easy and quickly completed. It was a logical, necessary action. The timing worked out a little too cleanly, though, and it feels like someone keeps reaching into my chest and squeezing my lungs every time I think too much about it?
Ilya steps back and leans against the concrete wall. “You know why.”
“I know what you said.” My voice is sharper than I mean it to be. “It’s not the same thing.”
His eyes narrow slightly. He hates when I push about the marriage, which is why I do it. He whispers, “You think I lie to you?”
“I think,” I say slowly, because I know it’d be easier if he did lie to me, “that you did what you had to do.”
“And?” he presses back.
“And I think you’re still playing house with someone who isn’t me,” I admit. I had invited him to my cottage. I had it all planned for us to spend two weeks together, just us, where we could simply be. But he chose to marry her, and now I’ve said it and it’s out there and ugly and way too honest, but it’s what I feel.
He stares at me intently. For a second, I think he’s going to walk away. Instead, he steps close enough that I can see the tiny scar near his chin. Even though I’m frustrated about his truth, my body still goes into full traitor mode. Heat pools low in my core as it always does when he gets inside my space.
“You are jealous,” he says softly. He’s not laughing like I expect. I laugh but it comes out wrong.
“Of your wife?” I shake my head. “Get over yourself.”
It’s my fourth lie, and he knows it, and I know he knows it. And that’s the worst part of this whole thing. We’ve never once said what this is, but somehow he still sees straight through me like glass. We don’t touch in the hallway. I look around because even now, after ten years, I still worry about being found out. The air between us is thick with almosts and maybes and all the things we never say out loud.
“You coming tonight?” he asks, and he knows the damn answer. Before I say anything, my mouth betrays me. His mouth curves. He steps back and says “1310” before walking away from me.
—
We’re at his hotel, both of us lingering in the quiet stretch of hallway outside the private team floors like we didn’t absolutely plan this down to the minute. The hotel carpet is ugly. The lighting is too warm. Somewhere down the corridor an ice machine hums like it’s trying to eavesdrop. No other players are in sight.
Ilya leans against the wall, arms loose, expression carefully neutral. If you don’t know him, he looks relaxed, but I know better. His left shoulder is tight, and he’s rubbing it anxiously. That’s new, and I wonder if he got hurt in the game and I missed it.
He hasn’t taken the ring off. He never does. I’ve always noticed that, but I also notice how he doesn’t touch it, either. It’s simply there, and if he’s doing this on purpose — keeping it on but never playing with it absentmindedly or when he’s nervous like I would — that means something.
“You’re late,” he says. I check my watch automatically, even though I know I’m not.
“By thirty seconds.”
His mouth twitches into his sexy, asshole-ish smirk, and I smile back, checking again to see we’re alone before we duck into his room.
The first thing I notice is his hotel room smells like him: his soap, fresh coffee, the underlying sharpness of athletics. I also notice something distinctly him that I’ve never been able to name but always recognize instantly. It’s comforting and infuriating at the same time.
I stand just inside the door with my arms crossed like maybe if I build enough walls around myself this will stop feeling like coming home. Behind me, the door clicks shut.
“You want drink?” Ilya asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
If I start drinking, I’m going to stop thinking, and if I stop thinking, this is going to go exactly where it always does. He regards me silently.
“You’re quiet,” he says, coming up to me with a ginger ale and his own glass of vodka. I can drink this without losing control of my thoughts. I glance over, both wondering why he has ginger ale in his hotel room and stuck on the reality of his relationship status.
“You’re married.” I say flatly. His shoulders tense briefly.
“I was married last time you were here, too,” he says carefully.
“Yeah,” I say. “Still weird.”
His mouth presses into a thin line, but he steps closer slowly.
“You want me to apologize again?” he asks. My chest tightens because he already did when it first happened. It was a quiet revelation, but his eyes were wet and his voice was rough like it cost him something. I could tell he was hurting then, and I don’t want to keep hurting him, but I hurt, too. I shake my head.
“No.”
“Do you want to?” he asks. I look closely at him, not sure what he’s asking. I replay his question, looking for a deeper meaning I might have missed, and feel like he asked me something more vulnerable that he didn’t want to share. I don’t trust myself enough to assume what he means, so I just ask it in my head.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I reply. His brow furrows.
“You did not ask one.” He squints at me, and I realize he’s right.
“Why me?” I say. Why won’t he quit me? I need to know why he keeps coming back for me. It sits between us like something fragile and explosive all at once. For a long moment, he just looks at me without a clear expression.
“You are serious right now,” he says finally and slowly. I blink and nod. “You think this is… casual for me?”
I don’t answer because I don’t trust my voice after finally asking and because the analytical part of my brain is suddenly very, very interested in his tone.
He moves closer again. I can see the faint crease between his brows and my body responds without my consent.
“You are impossible man,” he mutters.
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
His hand lifts and hovers near my elbow. He doesn’t make contact, giving me an out like he always has since I fled his home in Boston, always letting me be the one who decides how far this goes.
My heart hurts again because that is not how someone behaves when they don’t care.
“Ilya,” I say, quieter now. He pauses. His expression becomes alert and focused. “Do you ever–” I stop and figure out how to say this. “Do you regret it?”
His eyes meet mine for a long time. He’s quiet and then, “No.”
My stomach flips. I never even said what ‘it’ was, but I think he knows I meant marrying Svetlana and not us. I press on. “Not even a little?”
His jaw tightens slightly. He hates it when I want to talk about feelings. “You are pushing very hard tonight.”
“Answer the question.”
He’s very quiet for a long time before saying softly, “I regret… timing.”
My pulse spikes. “What does that mean?”
His gaze flicks to my mouth and then back to my eyes. “I think you know.”
We’re standing too close now. I can’t breathe. My chest is too tight. Because, yeah, I do know. I don’t remember either of us moving, but his hand finally settles lightly against my arm. It’s grounding and warm, steadying me as I try not to obsess over what he means.
“You are thinking too loud again,” he murmurs.
“Yeah, well,” I mutter, “somebody in this room should.”
His jaw tightens slightly, and I’m glad. Let him feel off-balance for once. It doesn’t last long. He laughs softly, and his smile is affectionate.
“Ilya,” I say again, quieter.
He hums softly, giving me time to put together words. He always does, and it’s killing me. I swallow and think about the words sitting in my mouth. Saying them is a bad idea, terrible idea, but I can’t help it.
“Sometimes,” I say slowly, “I think you’re about to say something.” He freezes in front of me, and his grip on my arm remains firm but unyielding. “And then you don’t.”
For a long moment, neither of us moves. The air feels thin and sharp, like we’re standing on a knife’s edge. His thumb shifts slightly against my sleeve in tiny movements. It’s one of his tells.
“You want me to say something?” he asks quietly. My heart is beating way too fast, but I ignore it and hope he doesn’t notice.
“I want to know what this is,” I say. I don’t know how much longer I can keep meeting him in secret.
His eyes soften and he blinks. “You already know what this is.”
My breath catches because I do know what this is, and that’s the problem.
He leans in slowly until our foreheads almost touch. “I would not still be here,” he says softly, “if it was nothing.”
My chest hurts because I know it’s not nothing. I exhale slowly and try to still the spinning part of my brain.
“You’re still married,” I whisper. His eyes close briefly.
When he opens them again, his voice is rougher. “Yes.”
“Okay,” I say quietly. I don’t know what else to say. How I feel doesn’t change that fact, and it never will. Not when it’s just me admitting it.
He studies my face, trying to read my expression.
“I told you,” he says. “It is paperwork.”
My laugh is sharp. “Yeah? Funny way to file paperwork.”
His expression shifts. He’s not angry, more hurt. It hits me right in the sternum.
“I had no choice,” he says, his voice low.
“And I didn’t have to keep showing up,” I shoot back. He looks wounded. That’s the real question, not why he did it but why he keeps coming back and why I do, too.
“You are not running away,” he says. It’s not a question.
I shrug slightly. “That’s not my style.”
Something warm flickers in his expression. Something dangerously close to relief. Words sitting heavy in my chest and in his, too. I can see it in the way his mouth opens slightly and how his grip tightens slightly on my arm. My breath hitches. His eyes drop to my mouth. And for one second, I am absolutely certain he’s going to say it.
Instead, he exhales slowly and murmurs, “And you are terrible liar.”
I huff out a breath that might be a laugh or a simple surrender.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Working on it.”
His forehead finally rests lightly against mine. We don’t kiss. We’re just close enough for it to hurt in a way I’m starting to recognize and want to name but can’t. He hasn’t said the words, but neither have I. But if love is a series of choices repeated over and over and over again, then the data is getting hard to ignore.
Unlike when we were younger, we don’t rush into sex. That’s the thing about us — it’s always been this slow burn, this constant push and pull that never quite tips over the edge into something either of us is brave enough to name.
His thumb brushes absentmindedly over the inside of my wrist — and my pulse jumps like it’s got something to prove.
“I’m glad you keep coming back,” he adds, moving his thumb to my lips. I suck his digit in for a moment before I let it slip out. I need him. I can’t help it. I’m in love with a married man.
“Me, too,” I sputter. Then there’s heavy silence, and for a brief moment I think he might finally say it. Instead, he exhales slowly and leans in, kissing me as we repeat the dance we’ve been doing for a decade.
Ilya yanks my joggers down and as I kick them off, he literally tears my briefs off, and spins me around. I brace my hands against the wall as he knees my legs apart and places his rough hands on my ass. Fuck, I’ve wanted this so badly. It’s been months since I was back on the ice and we last fucked. He handles me like he’s as desperate as I am, and I wonder if he’s like this with Svetlana or if it’s just me.
I arch my back and push my ass out, eager for him to fill me. He mauls my cheeks as he spreads them, and soon I feel his spit hitting my hole and two of his fingers prodding me. I push back further, forcing him in up to the second knuckle.
“Fuck, Shane, so needy,” he grunts, spitting again for more lube.
“I need–“ I whimper. He inserts his fingers deeper, and he swirls them around. I bite my shoulder.
“Say it,” he demands as he pokes at my prostate. I moan filthily.
“I need you,” I groan. “I need your dick.”
Ilya laughs lowly behind me and withdraws his fingers, replacing them with his tongue. This is what I need, what I can’t get from a toy and don’t want from a stranger. Ilya makes my ass feel owned and loved. It’s one of the reasons I think about him every day and night.
As he darts his tongue in and out and slathers my asshole in spit, I return to Svetlana and whether he thinks about me when, if he does this to her. I know I did when I was having sex with Rose. It was the only way I was able to keep hard. He’s never had that problem, thank god, and it’s fucked to think of his wife as he’s fucking me, but I can’t help it.
“Fuck me, Ilya. Please,” I beg. He laughs again and gives my ass a slap before guiding me to the bed.
“How do you want?” he asks.
“I need to see you. Want to watch you fuck me,” I breathe, rolling onto my back, kicking my legs back, and presenting for him. He smirks and licks his lips before grabbing condoms and lube. He warms the liquid in his hand before putting three fingers in to make sure I’m ready for his girth. I moan and clutch the sheets below me, and he knows it’s time.
“This okay,” he says as he guides his Russian missile into my Canadian silo. I nod and blather out an affirmation. He grips a lug to roll me slightly into a better position for him, one that fits the curve of his dick. He kisses my calf and bites my ankle as he drives deeper. His eyes never leave me.
“You’re tight,” he grunts, but it doesn’t stop him. And I don’t want him to stop. It’s been too long.
“I haven’t, you know, been with anyone since the last time,” I admit, slightly embarrassed by the hold he has on my heart and hole.
“Me too,” he says, biting my heel harder as he fully inserts himself. I clench around him both in pleasure and confusion. What does he mean?
“You and Svetlana–?” I ask through pants. He shakes his head, gripping my ankle to adjust our position. “Really?”
“No,” he says quietly. “Not since wedding.”
Oh. Maybe he does think about me when he’s with his wife, so much he can’t or won’t fuck her. I worry he’s lonely when he’s with her and hope he’s wishing it were me. I could press him, but I need to be fucked more than think about his married life.
I lean into his new position, and we lock eyes as he begins to piston into me. He fits like a glove, perfect husband cock material for me had things been different. We grunt and check in and meet each other thrust for thrust. As his nipples constrict into nubs and his skin tightens, as he get closer, he takes my cock in his hand and starts stroking me in time to his fuck pace. I’m close to heaven as well.
“Shane,” he almost whines as he begins pulsing inside me. His grip on my dick tightens, and seeing his face contort in pleasure from being inside me pushes me over the edge and I spurt in his hand.
“Ilya,” I breathe as I coat my stomach in my months-stored funk.
“Fuck,” he grunts, looking at my mess. He pulls out of me, tossing the used rubber in the bin and placing his palm over my seed and spreading it between us. He brings his hand to his mouth and licks me off before bending between my legs and cleaning me with his tongue. When he’s done, he falls on his back beside me and I wrap an arm around his shoulder as we rest and avoid what always comes next.
—
Later, when I’m lying awake in the familiar dark of his hotel room, staring at the ceiling while his breathing evens out beside me, my fears and doubts take over because this, whatever this is, lives in the spaces between us. We always find each other, and neither of us ever walks away. But the ring is still there like a golden, immovable obstacle.
I turn my head slightly and look at him sleeping next to me. I watch the steady rise and fall of his chest. I track the trail of golden brown hairs that circle his nipples and trail down his torso until they meet his beautiful cock.
I don’t know which possibility scares me more — that he doesn’t love me or that he does. All I know is he married Svetlana right as we were getting closer, and while I fully understand why, I wish he hadn’t. We could have found another way. In fact, I had another way in mind that I never brought up at the time.
I nudge his sleeping body until he groggily wakes up. He blinks at me and wipes a trail of drool from his mouth. “Wha– Shane? Is too early.”
“Divorce Svetlana,” I rush out. “Just do it.”
“Shane,” Ilya argues. His voice is soft and woozy. “I can’t.”
“You can,” I insist. Words spill out of me like I had drunk the vodka instead of the ginger ale. “You married her to stay in the country, but what if you came to Canada? The Ottawa team needs a strong center, and you’d be closer to me there than in Boston.”
Ilya blinks some more as he tries to take in my idea. “I don’t know. Is too late for me.”
“But listen,” I continue, “We could be together more easily, and we could make media appearances together for a charity or something, like one that supports mental health, so no one would suspect we’re actually together, but when then we retire, we can get married in Canada and be together.”
“You would do this? You think that far?” he asks.
“I’d do anything. Wouldn’t you?” I ask. He rolls onto me.
“Da,” he says, kissing me. “I did.”
I kiss him back as he mumbles in Russian. He sounds like he’s crying but I’m not sure until I taste wet and salty when I kiss his lips.
“I love you,” he stutters out. It’s thick and syrupy, like his voice is gargling. I’m shocked for a moment and pull back.
“Holy shit,” I blurt out, excited to have finally heard him say what I’ve wanted to say for years now.
He grows pale even in the dark, and I worry he thinks he made a mistake. He murmurs, “I mean–”
“I love you, too,” I quickly add, cutting him off before he regrets saying it and so I can finally say it to him, too. He starts crying, so I say it again, “I love you so much.”
“Fuck, Hollander.” He kisses me and buries his face in my neck. He chuckles with what might be relief, but it could also be the fucking reality that even if he loves me, he’s still technically married. It kills me, but at least we’ve said it aloud and can maybe find a way forward. He rolls onto his elbow and looks at me, his smile more tender than anything I’ve ever seen from him. “I talk with Svetlana tomorrow.”