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Ilya had thought about it all week, each pass of 24 hours another step closer to the CCM shoot. Equal parts agonizing and thrilling.
He couldn’t pinpoint what Shane possessed that magnetized Ilya to him. Talented, of course. Attractive, absolutely. But, Ilya had fucked plenty of talented, attractive people and didn’t feel much beyond present satisfaction.
Perhaps it had to do with who they were—a certain forbidden, intangible desire born from wanting to conquer. They existed within each other’s orbit, whether or not they wanted to. Sutured together by the forced atmosphere of their perceived rivalry, a relationship that was rapidly becoming a fixture in modern hockey vernacular. Ilya had trouble attributing his desire to much else, haphazardly labeling it as a testosterone-heavy need to get his hands on his peer.
Ilya’s mind had wandered occasionally to Shane Hollander since their first meeting. Shane wasn’t like the other hockey players, red-faced and arrogant, filled with rage that had no origin. Shane Hollander had extended his hand off the ice, holding himself high with a quiet confidence. He didn’t need the brusque, stand-offish and disinterested facade that many of Ilya’s Russian teammates put on (a facade that was so easy to see through, once they’d take off their pads and gear, left standing in their human shell) because Shane Hollander was fucking good. Anyone could see it. A legend already.
Ilya needed to know what it felt like to share the same breath with Hollander. He wanted to hold him down and watch—what Ilya assumed was, like all people, a mask he wore, so measured and tight, like a custom suit. Tailored to each divot of his body, smoothing hair and skin into one compressed dimension.
What made it all the more enticing was that despite Shane’s buttoned-up, strict stature, Ilya could tell that he wanted him. Ilya had always been good at telling when someone was attracted to him. Honestly, it wasn’t often a challenge. He was handsome. More often than not, he could have whoever he wanted, a built-in assurance of mutual attraction.
Ilya was an expert in subtle glances, the shift of breath in the back of someone’s throat. He could tell with men, sharing a secret language that Ilya could decipher, whether or not the other person was even aware they were speaking it. Attraction to men, for Ilya, necessitated fluency this language.
Shane spoke the language differently. Ilya could tell he wasn’t fluent in it. A contrast to the only other man Ilya had been with.
Sasha had been intentional glances, the long lingering of fingertips and palms, the curve of a smile shaped into vivid sentences of supreme hunger. It was all subtle, sure, but purposeful, calculated. Sasha wanted Ilya to know he was wanted by him. He looked up from his lashes, let his fingers wrap around Ilya’s elbow, pressed their shoulders together when there was available space.
Ilya had seen a flicker of that in Shane when they sat wide-legged on the gym floor. The graze of their fingers as Shane’s eyes watched his throat. But Ilya could sense it didn’t exist in cognition—pure instinct leading through the heat of desire; the neurons of Shane’s brain suppressing, allowing, all at once. Misfiring and colliding.
So, Ilya had a plan. Today was the day that he would lay down the tightrope that extended from his stomach, nestled in his organs. The tightrope that stretched valleys and rivers, just waiting for Hollander to place one foot in front of the other and walk.
When presented with an advertisement opportunity for CCM, Ilya had felt like a real fucking genius. This was it: an opportunity to get Shane Hollander in his atmosphere, away from the scoreboard and team jerseys. He suggested inviting Hollander to the shoot with his agent, and when she’d smiled politely and said “maybe” he turned the suggestion into a command, not bothering to play loose with what he wanted.
The makeup artist, Becca, violently punched concealer into his face with a small, white sponge. When he sat in the chair, Ilya gave her a wide, lazy smile and asked “I am not perfect?” And Becca had blushed, smiling back and shyly said: “just about.”
Becca was cute, and usually her long brown hair, dark skin, and cleavage in a deep cut t-shirt would have really, really done it for him. Ilya’s desire today (and since the night of the draft, when he’d cracked Hollander’s mask a bit, melted it away with humid sweat) was angular and strong with deep brown eyes and freckles scattered along sharp cheekbones.
Shane must have arrived at a different time, because Ilya didn’t see him in a make-up chair. As he began to dress in his CCM gear, lacing his skates, Ilya felt a ping of panic drop into his stomach, like throwing a penny from a tall building. Small, but deadly in its velocity.
He worried that Shane wouldn’t come.
He skated onto the ice and his worry disappeared when the director told him, “We’re going to do solo shots, then we’ll come back and shoot you and Shane Hollander together.”
The ice in his stomach melted, replaced by a pond of warm, easy water.
Ilya performed, on his best behavior, face schooled into the stern, hockey player persona. It wasn’t hard to achieve. That was a part of Ilya, a part he enjoyed playing, at that. He liked doing media, unlike most of his peers. He felt good in front of a camera. Often appreciated the final product.
In the middle of shooting pucks into a net his skin lit up with awareness, the back of his neck alert like someone’s fingers hovered just above him. He felt eyes. He didn’t need to turn to see who it was. He knew if he looked he’d see brown framed by thick, black eyelashes.
He got his break and spent it watching Hollander skate around the ice. Such a good boy, the way he shook hands with everyone. Said “yes, sir”, found his marks with ease.
And then—finally, finally, Ilya was directed to the ice to stand in front of Hollander.
“You look pretty.” He remarked. And he meant it. Shane looked pretty all the time. His face sold. As soon as they both were drafted, Hollander haunted the edges of Ilya’s world, his face dotting Ilya’s periphery. A billboard in Montreal, a magazine where he stood stiff, shirtless and holding his hockey stick in front of his crotch. Ilya liked that one.
“Asshole. You’re wearing makeup, too.” Hollander retorted, face set in a severe line, jaw clenched so tight Ilya expected to hear his teeth shatter like glass.
So easy to rile up.
“Ah, yes, but I do not look pretty.”
Pretty almost felt like a lie. Hollander was beautiful, his lips full and pink, his freckles looked as if they had been carefully selected by some angel in a workshop; a smattering on the bridge of his nose, blossoming up the peaks of his cheekbones.
Hollander scoffed and rolled his eyes, and murmured, “Whatever.”
Ilya just shook his head in amusement. “Was compliment, Hollander.”
Shane looked at him like he was trying to decipher a math equation, eyes focused on a point on his forehead, brows inching towards each other in an adorable wrinkle. “Oh. Thank you?”
Ilya shrugged and winked at him, reveling in the way Hollander’s lips clamped tight together. Back to business.
Something in Ilya’s stomach was fluttery and warm. His belly a soda can shaken until the carbonation spilt bubbles forth like a detonated bomb.
He wanted Hollander to notice him. He wanted to see him smile.
The shoot rapidly diverged from serious hockey players to two young men giggling at each other; at the ridiculousness of being nineteen years old and skating under a spotlight for an advertisement. Ilya initiated it, of course. Snorting his laughter when they skated up to each other the sixth time, Shane’s face set determined and serious. Ilya didn’t even feel bad when the director reluctantly let them go, obviously exasperated.
He let Shane enter the shower first. Ilya checked his phone and drank a long swig of water with shaking fingers.
Ilya stepped into the showers. As he slid under the water, he allowed himself one greedy glance at Shane. His hands were in his hair, fingers massaging his scalp, dislodging the sweat. The muscles in his arms flexed as he moved, abdomen tight. His ass was perky, sitting on top of thick, strong thighs. Fuck, he was hot. Ilya watched water slide down his straight nose and felt his groin flush with heat. He turned away.
He pumped his hand against the soap dispenser and lathered up. He started at his chest, arms criss-crossing over his torso. And then he felt it—that same thing he felt skating alone for the shoot; the weight of two brown eyes.
Ilya turned, ready to take another quick peek when he caught Hollander’s eyes, who hastily looked away.
His eyesight naturally traveled down, pulled by puppet strings. He almost choked on his own saliva—Shane Hollander was hard. Fully hard, pointing in the direction of his left thigh.
Ilya caught Shane’s eyes again before he could turn away and raised an eyebrow, widening his eyes when he looked down at Shane’s dick. I see you, his eyes said. You can’t hide.
Shane turned his head with a jerk and angled his body away, his back half facing Ilya.
Ilya noticed he didn’t turn all the way around.
“Shut up,” Shane muttered.
He didn’t turn off the water and storm out.
Ilya swallowed and felt his dick grow instantaneously.
Before he could even try to convince himself against it, Ilya turned his body so he was facing Shane, and spread his legs. He wrapped a hand around himself and stroked his cock.
Shane looked at him from the corner of his eye. When he saw the movement of Ilya’s arm, stroking himself slowly, he shifted his body to the side and openly watched. It was warm in the showers, Shane already pink, but Ilya could see his shade darken; his skin changing hue like a human mood ring.
“Not here.” He choked out, turning back to face his own shower head.
Yes, a good idea.
Ilya didn’t stop. He stroked himself faster, using soap to help the glide, waiting until Hollander looked at him again. When he did, Ilya just shrugged, a hand going to fondle his balls.
“I am doing it here. You can leave.” He pointed a hand towards the shower exit.
Ilya imagined the inside of Shane’s brain making the sound of an overheated computer. Whiirr. Shane looked at Ilya, down to the tiles, towards the shower entrance. He repeated it three times, all while Ilya stood there, stroking his dick.
What really could only be seconds felt like an eternity to Ilya, watching as Shane stood still, trapped in his mind. Ilya was suddenly overcome with violent, nauseating terror. What if he had really gotten it wrong this time? What if Shane was going to tell him off, all this time calculating inside his mind was him thinking about whether he could beat up Ilya without anyone finding out. If Shane told someone, it would follow Ilya around for the rest of his career. He’d become a suitcase, new teams every year. Or worse, he’d be sent back to Russia, the GMs deeming him a threat, a hit to morale. A fucking pervert.
Ilya realized he didn’t know anything about Shane besides assumptions, and even those were hard to pin down. He and Hollander had exchanged a total of, what, 60 words? If even that.
His hand stilled on his dick. It began to wilt between his legs. He was about to open his mouth —get a jump on it, tell Hollander he was just fucking around, trying to rile him up. Haha, Hollander, you should have seen your face.
Then Shane started moving, his lips set in that determined line, corners folding downward. He crowded in Ilya’s space —
Shane’s arms came up to his shoulders, gentle and warm. He hesitated for a half a second before pulling in Ilya closer. Ilya felt his breath on his lips before Hollander closed the distance and kissed him.
Shane Hollander: full of surprises.
Ilya’s body reacted before his brain, which was trying to rapidly change its course from disaster planning to heady want and reciprocation. He kissed Shane back, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him in so their chests were pressed together, their lips sliding through the wet stream of the shower.
Shane Hollander kissed like he might die within the next few minutes. Ilya guided him to the shower wall, pulling them out of the water. His other hand roamed up Shane’s chest until it landed on his jaw, cupping his face. Shane moaned against him. Ilya could feel his dick against his thigh, hard as an iron rod.
“Fuck,” Hollander mumbled against Ilya’s lips. He could feel the formation of the consonants against his lower lip.
Ilya pulled back to look at him.
“I thought you said not here?” Ilya mocked. Because he had to. Because he needed to gain back some of the control. Because, he thought, Shane might like a challenge.
“Shut up.” Shane grit out, but there was really no bite to it. His chest was heaving.
“Mm, no.” Ilya grabbed Shane’s dick, smirking when he made a throaty noise. “You’re so hard.” He kissed along his neck, licking the water off.
Ilya played with Shane’s cock for a minute, amazed by how affected he was by it. He was making pretty, breathless noises, tumbling up from his throat and spilling forward like he couldn’t control it. His hips were jerking forward, chasing Ilya’s grip.
“You jerk off to me, Hollander?” He breathed against the heat of his skin, nipping at it.
Shane shivered against him. Ilya expected him to say no, to roll his eyes, get that serious expression on his face again.
“Yes, fuck, Rozanov.”
Ilya would stop expecting. Shane Hollander was a wildcard.
He had to clench his jaw, hearing a bone click with the force of it. He would be thinking about that for a while. Shane alone in his room at night, stroking himself to thoughts of Ilya Rozanov. He answered it so easily. He really was a good boy.
It felt special, in a way, how open Shane was beneath his hand. To answer that mocking question with such honesty. Ilya had thought about him, too. Had groaned and painted his fist thinking about Shane sweaty and moaning on his back.
“Get on your knees.” He commanded. This was a game, now. See what he could get Shane to do. A selfish, covetous game.
Shane met his eyes for a moment—dark and heavy. His hair was pushed back from his forehead, slick with water, a few tendrils plastered around his hairline. He grabbed Ilya’s hips and guided him to the wall between the showerheads to get away from the spray, using his grip to steady himself to the ground.
“Fuck.” Shane stared up at him from his knees, and had the audacity to look bashful. Ilya used a palm to anchor himself to the wall.
Shane blinked at Ilya’s dick, tentatively reaching a hand out to grab the base. He stuck his pink tongue out and licked the head, flattening against it. Ilya hummed approvingly. Encouraged, maybe, Shane wrapped his mouth around it, sucking at the tip. He didn’t move down too far, gagging when it was only about four inches in, pulling off, then going back in with determination.
It was probably one of the worst blowjobs Ilya had ever had in his life in terms of skill and agility. It was obviously one of Shane’s first times, if not his singular first time and that only made Ilya hotter and slicker. He was going to come inside Shane Hollander’s mouth from a couple licks to his dick and a toothy blowjob. Fuck.
He took in a deep breath, angling his hips so Hollander could take it easier. He placed a hand on his head, fingers laced into wet hair.
“Like that, Hollander. Yeah, you like it? Sucking my cock?” He clicked his tongue when he said ‘cock’ enunciating it with a shallow roll of his hips. “So fucking dirty. Getting hard in the showers, getting on your knees for me. I thought you were a good boy.”
Shane made a noise around his cock, eyelashes fluttering. The hand on the base of his dick gripped harder.
Shane’s unabashed responsiveness was making Ilya wild. He wanted to see what he could get away with, see what could make Shane Hollander fall apart on this shower floor. Tight, controlled Shane Hollander, gagging on his cock. That was a sight that Ilya was in the process of tucking away in a safe part of his brain for later use.
“Wow. You do like that. But I don’t think you’re a good boy. I think you’re a slut. A slut who gets on his knees in the shower.” Ilya tightened his grip and pulled Shane’s hair.
Ilya had learned a lot of great English phrases recently. Slut, whore, cock, suck my dick—all of them had so far proved worth the immersion.
Shane’s dick was hard between his knees, Ilya watched it twitch. He started moving faster, making insane, filthy noises around Ilya’s dick.
He loved it. Shane Hollander loved sucking his cock. Shane looked like he was in pure bliss, bobbing his head up and down. He couldn’t take it very far, but he made up for it in enthusiasm.
“Can’t believe—” Ilya had to level his voice. “You are sucking my dick here, Hollander. Anyone could walk in. What if someone comes to look for us, hmm? I bet you want someone to see you.”
Shane shook his head as best he could around Ilya’s cock. He was touching his own dick now, rubbing at the head with his palm.
“You do not want anyone to see? I do not believe you.”
Fuck, he was going to cum. He pulled Shane off his dick and grabbed him under his armpits, hoisting him up and not so gently pushing him against the wall. Shane’s eyes were half-lidded, his already perfect lips plump from sucking cock.
“Tell me you love it.” Ilya commanded, placing one hand loose around Shane’s throat; not pressing. Just showing that he could. His other hand started jerking Shane off, a slow pace he knew must be infuriating with how hard and hot Shane was in his hand.
Shane sighed and squirmed, panting ‘ah, ah, ah.’
“Tell me you love it.” Ilya repeated. “Or I will leave you here.”
Shane threw his head back, vibrating all over.
“I l-love it. I love it. Fuck, Rozanov, please. Please.”
“Please what?” He twisted, thumbing the head. Shane was wet and leaking.
“Please… I dunno. Just anything. Anything.”
“This hard just from sucking my dick? You are slut, Hollander.”
“Yes.” Shane licked his lips wildly.
“Fuck.” Ilya got on his knees, not caring about the cold, wet tile, and sucked Shane into his mouth, easing his cock in until it rubbed the back of his throat. He gagged for a second, then loosened his throat. Shane was almost yelling above him. Ilya pulled off and stood back up. Shane whined in protest, angling his hips forward, trying to find Ilya’s mouth again.
“Shh. So loud. Tishe.” Quiet. He pressed a finger to his lips and placed a palm over Shane’s mouth. Shane nodded.
“I will get back on knees. Put hand over your mouth.”
Ilya descended slowly. Shane clamped two hands over his mouth. Ilya pulled him back into the heat, swallowing him down his throat. He could hear Shane’s muffled moans, noise filtering through the small gaps in his fingers.
Ilya touched Shane’s ass, rubbing over the cheeks, grabbing the flesh in his palm, bringing him closer and further into his mouth. Shane was trembling. Ilya moved his finger from Shane’s ass cheek to his crease, running it along his hole, tapping against it with the pad of his finger. Shane might have fallen if Ilya didn’t have him caged in against his body. He looked up for his reaction. Shane’s eyes were screwed closed.
Shane was responsive both while giving and receiving. Shane appeared almost unable to handle it, and Ilya wondered absently how pent up he was. He kept jerking forward, desperate and selfish. Ilya liked it, though. Liked that he had Shane Hollander in his mouth, under his hands, and had reduced him to something melted and breathy and loud.
He mumbled something behind his hands. Realizing he couldn’t be heard, he pulled his shaking hands from his mouth.
“Gonna cum, Rozanov, fuck. Get off—gonna—”
Ilya worked him through it, roughly pulling him even further against him. One of Shane’s hands clamped back over his mouth and he moaned against it, the other hand tangled in Ilya’s hair. Shane trembled with his release. Ilya placed a steadying hand against his hips, Shane had jerked and spasmed so hard he thought he might fall over with the force of it. Ilya swallowed him all the way down. A piece of Shane inside of him, a mark of their meeting, swirling down his throat to nestle in his organs.
Shane went limp against him when Ilya released him from his mouth. His eyes were dazed, blinking away wetness.
He stood up and kissed Shane’s cheek, his neck, then met him on his mouth, sliding his tongue in.
“Taste good?” He asked and Shane winced, shoving him away weakly with a slurred, “Shut up.”
Ilya fisted his cock between his hand and raised an eyebrow. “I want to cum on your face. Okay?”
Shane took in a shaky breath and nodded. Ilya guided him down onto the floor. Shane looked relaxed, sitting on his knees, his palms on his thighs. Ilya tapped Shane’s cheek with his cock, then slid it along the seam of his mouth. Shane’s tongue darted out in an eager flick.
“Want me to cum on you, Hollander?”
Shane nodded, looking incredibly genuine.
Ilya swore with a grunt and fed it into Shane’s mouth. Shane licked over it sloppily, hollowing his cheeks to give hard, concentrated sucks to the tip. He was looking up at Ilya with fucked out eyes, eyelashes wet from Ilya slipping his hips forward, hitting the back of his throat and making him gag.
It didn’t take long before he was coming, his ass smacking back against the cold tile of the shower as he jolted with the force of it. He aimed the hot ropes of his cum to the bottom of Shane’s face, covering his lips, the mess of it dripping down onto his chin. Ilya felt like he was going to pass out.
He looked really good with a face covered in cum. It clung to the outline of his top lip, gliding down and settling in the seam.
He stuck a finger in the mess and held it out in front of Shane’s lips. “Want to taste?” He asked.
Shane fixed him with a look. His eyes flicked down to Ilya’s finger and then he was wrapping his lips around it, sucking the cum off like it was something to savor. He moved his head back, releasing it from shiny lips with a pop.
“Wow, Hollander.”
Really, it was all he could say.
Ilya helped Shane up from the ground, pushing him under the spray to wipe Ilya’s release from his face.
They finished the rest of their shower routine in silence, speaking with small smiles. Their shower time was much longer than intended, so they rushed out as soon as possible, toweling off.
Silence stretched in the locker room. Ilya glanced over at Shane who was fumbling through getting dressed. Ilya tried not to laugh when Shane’s arm got stuck in his t-shirt and he had to wrangle it into cooperation onto his body.
“We should probably forget that ever happened.” Shane broke through the silence. His voice was quiet, facing the locker in front of him.
Ilya rolled his eyes and walked closer, placing his foot on the bench Shane sat on.
“You can. I will not. I will remember this when I jerk off.”
Shane looked up at him. Something in his expression made Ilya soften.
This was just supposed to be a fun, one-time thing but Ilya heard himself say it before he could register the words, the desire.
“What if I come to your room tonight?”
Shane’s eyes widened, his lips parting. He nodded, slowly, fingers twitching in his lap.
“Okay.”
Ilya grinned, turning on his heel back to his locker.
“Good. I will show you how to suck cock. You need lesson.”
Shane squawked and stood up from the bench. “Asshole!”
Ilya grinned. “Yes, that too.”
He laughed at Shane’s face twisted in embarrassment, the hard edge of annoyance. But Ilya could see something else in it, too. Something sweet. He wanted to kiss him again. Later, he thought, throwing his head back as Shane started thumping around the room, gathering his things. Later.