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Shane Hollander lifts his travel bag into the overhead compartment, on the left side, closest to the front of the plane, before sliding into seat 3D, a window seat in first class. He completes his standard flight ritual: iPad loaded with an eBook and game footage in the seat pocket; mini travel bag with a sleep mask, reading glasses, two pairs of headphones, and a pair of ear plugs hooked onto the tray for easy access; charging cable for his phone plugged into the USB, backpack slotted under the seat in front of him.
Then he leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. He is exhausted.
Never one to miss a good business opportunity (or three), Yuna Hollander set up several sponsorship meetings for Shane in New York City during the week between the Stanley Cup Finals and the MLH Awards. He’s spent the last five days smiling, shaking hands, chatting politely, being primped and made-up, and posing. On his one off evening, he took his parents to a nice dinner and a Broadway show, which was very loud and included actors coming into the audience and caused his normally-rational father to sing “Memory” the entire cab ride back to the hotel.
Needless to say, his social battery is at zero. He silently pleads with the airplane gods that his seatmate doesn’t care about hockey.
Outside the plane window, steady rain falls onto the tarmac outside LaGuardia Airport.
As passengers filter onto the plane, Shane looks at his phone, smiling when he sees a few texts from Rose.
Rose: the CK test shots are 🔥🔥🔥
Rose: awoogah and all that
Shane: Down girl
Rose: not to pressure you but these would kill on a certain app
Rose: if ya know what i mean 👀
Rose: (ya know what i mean)
Shane looks around self-consciously, tilting his phone toward the window even though there’s no one near him to see. Rose seems to be trying to get him more comfortable with his sexuality through exposure therapy. He can’t complain. He feels beyond lucky that his last desperate attempt to date a woman was with someone as wonderful and understanding as Rose Landry.
Besides, her methods are working. He said the words “I’m gay” out loud for the first time in his hotel room earlier this week. Sure, it was to himself, but still. Baby steps.
Shane: I told you I’m not ready for Grinder
Rose: oh my hopeless baby gay
Rose: grindr*
Rose: a grinder is a sandwich
Shane: Duly noted
Rose: my best student
Shane: Homo school is really competitive
Rose: lmao shane
“Shane Hollander.”
His own name rolls off an accented tongue, making Shane jump in his seat. He slams his phone against his lap and looks up toward the aisle.
He sees a black hat pulled down over unruly blond curls. Sunglasses perched on sharp cheekbones. A fitted Boston Raiders tank top and a pair of black joggers making him look even stronger and jockier than usual. Over-the-ear headphones draped around his neck. A shit-eating grin that Shane usually only sees on the ice.
Ilya Rozanov is standing there, looking dangerously like he’s about to sit down.
“You’re kidding,” Shane deadpans.
“3C.” Rozanov holds up his phone to show his ticket.
“3D,” Shane replies with a sigh. Rozanov’s face lights up with mischief, and he pulls off his sunglasses. “Pardon this insane question,” Shane continues as Rozanov slings his suitcase into the overhead bin, “but… did you plan this somehow?”
Rozanov shakes his head. “I wish I planned this. This is too good.”
“Weird coincidence, I guess,” Shane mutters. He nestles into his seat and blindly clicks the lock button on his phone a few times out of an abundance of caution. His conversation with Rose is safe and away. Maybe he’ll get lucky and pass out for the full flight.
“Seriously, what are the odds?” Rozanov slides into his seat and ignores Shane’s leave-me-alone body language. “The number one and number two hockey players in the league, seated together on a flight to the MLH Awards, where they are both nominated for the Hart. Kismet, huh?”
“Let me guess,” Shane drones. “You’re number one.”
“So generous of you to admit it, Hollander.” Rozanov nudges Shane’s elbow with his own. Shane shoves his elbow back.
“Fuck off.”
“It’s a fairytale!”
“So in your fairytale, we both lose MVP to Hunter?”
It’s kind of a chirp at both of them, but it’s true. Scott Hunter took a career-worst start of the season and turned it into a dominant Stanley Cup victory. He deserves it. And as for what he did after… Shane can’t think about it too hard without getting either emotional or anxious. Or both.
“Hm, good point,” Ilya agrees. “Maybe not a fairytale, then.” He pretends to think hard. “Roger Crowell’s wet dream?”
Shane snorts despite himself. “Gross.”
“Rivalry brings the big bucks, after all.” Rozanov leans in conspiratorially. “Should we fist fight? Could be an exciting story.”
“I’m good.”
Shane’s week is catching up with him. His eyes feel suddenly heavy, and he fiddles through his bag for his sleep mask. Rozanov either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, lounging as much as he can in the plane seat given his size and turning toward Shane. He would be the kind of person who chats up his seatmates on a flight.
“Why are you even in New York?” Rozanov asks.
“Sponsorship stuff.”
“Now ask me.”
“What?”
“Is how conversations work,” Rozanov teases. “I ask question, you ask question.” Rozanov looks at him, raising his eyebrows when Shane still doesn’t say anything else. Then he continues in a godawful Canadian accent, “‘Why are you in New York, Rozanov? Sorry.’” He flips back to his normal voice. “Thank you for asking, Hollander. I was visiting my old friend from Russia. She lives here. Very nice time.”
This is the most Rozanov has spoken to him since they filmed a commercial together right before their rookie season. His English is much better now, and his eyes glimmer like he knows he’s getting away with something. Not that Shane notices things like that.
“Rozanov, I’m exhausted,” Shane finally says.
Rozanov rolls his eyes but slots his headphones over his ears, a passive-aggressive surrender. “Fine. Boring. Get your beauty sleep, Hollander. Not that you need it.”
Shane hopes the dim lighting of the plane hides the immediate flush that comes to his cheeks. He makes sure his seat belt is buckled and visible and then puts on his sleep mask and ear plugs. The dark and the quiet soon overcomes his nervous energy, and he falls into an empty sleep against the plane window.
***
An hour later, Shane wakes up to stillness. Is it possible he got lucky enough to sleep through takeoff?
He pushes off his eye mask and pulls out his ear plugs, expecting to hear the loud hum of the engines. Instead he hears chatter. Murmuring. Nothing mechanical.
“You snore, Hollander.”
Shane’s eyes snap to Rozanov, still seated beside him. Right. His knees look crunched up underneath his tray table, but he seems relaxed, reading a detective novel and sipping on a glass of champagne. His headphones are propped half on his ears.
“No, I don’t,” Shane protests.
“Little baby snores. Like a puppy.”
If it’s true, Shane is mortified. If Rozanov is fucking with him, he’s successfully gotten a rise out of him, which is also mortifying. So Shane decides to deflect instead.
“Are we still in New York?” he asks, peering out the window.
Rozanov nods. “Our flight has been delayed.”
“Weather?”
“Something with the plane.”
“Until when?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did they say what’s wrong?”
“So many questions,” Rozanov says with a sigh. He pulls his headphones fully off. “Am I your secretary? It’s not my fault you slept through all the announcements.”
“Whatever,” Shane mutters, embarrassed. “You don’t need to be a dick about it.”
Rozanov smirks. “But I’m so good at it.”
“Something we agree on,” Shane says, half-joking. He clicks through the screen on the back of the seat in front of him, scrolling through the terrible movie selections and pretending he doesn’t feel when Rozanov leans closer.
“You’re a little bit of a dick, too. I can tell,” Rozanov says.
Shane frowns. “No, I’m not.”
“Oh, I know so.”
Don’t take the bait, Shane. He immediately takes the bait.
“How could you know? We aren’t friends like that.” Rozanov just shrugs. Shane continues, “Is that some kind of inside joke in Boston? That I’m an asshole?”
“Tell me,” Rozanov says, resting his chin in his hand. “What did you think about Florida’s starting line this year?”
“It’s a miracle they made the playoffs at all with Svenson dragging them down from the center,” Shane says automatically. Rozanov breaks into a proper smile. “Okay, fine,” Shane relents, “but I’ve earned the right to be a dick about hockey.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” Rozanov says, hushed. “It’s our little secret, Captain.”
He gives Shane a little salute, pinky and ring finger curling into his large hand as his lips quirk up, and Shane’s stomach flips.
Oh no.
The thing is, Shane may have only recently accepted that he is, to quote Rose, “full blown gay.” But he’s known he is attracted to men since he was a teenager. He did a lot of mental gymnastics back then to excuse it. Sure, he got hard thinking about a guy on his school’s varsity soccer team. But Britney Spears was also hot. Sure, he sometimes fantasized about sucking a dick when he jerked off. But he also managed to come when his first girlfriend gave him a blowjob. So he couldn’t be gay. Not completely.
The first time he fucked a man while on vacation in Mexico, it was so much better than having sex with women that he had a low-grade panic attack for two days. In the years since, every attempted hook-up with women and every rare hook-up with men pushed him further into a dark corner he didn’t want to be in, one where he might only want to hook up with men and may not be sexually attracted to women at all.
Thank god Rose Landry was there to turn the light on. The corner is less scary now.
All this to say, Shane knows his type and he knows how he feels when he’s attracted to someone.
To his own horror, he is definitely attracted to Ilya Rozanov.
(Not that he was not aware that Rozanov was an attractive man. But when you’re closeted in the world of male sports, you try to not spend a lot of time thinking about that stuff.)
To stop this spiral before it gets out of hand, Shane mentally lists some facts.
This is a flight from New York City to Las Vegas.
The flight is delayed.
Ilya Rozanov is a notorious playboy who chirps at and flirts with anything that moves.
Ilya Rozanov is straight.
Ilya Rozanov is waiting for him to say something.
“I still can’t believe the Admirals won the Cup,” Shane blurts out.
Rozanov straightens in his seat. “Yes, they started the year like shit. Did not expect it. But maybe Scott Hunter had one of those…” He snaps his fingers a few times. “You know in movies when someone dies and their ghost is suddenly young and hot again before they disappear to the great beyond?”
Shane snorts. “Hunter’s not that old.”
“He’s president of AARP. In fact, he founded it.”
“I think he’s three years older than us,” Shane says. Rozanov looks at Shane expectantly, raising an eyebrow, and Shane can’t help himself. “But I am happy for him that he won before he retires next year.”
Rozanov laughs, bright and generous. “You’re funnier than I thought.”
“Big compliment,” Shane deadpans.
“Explain the sarcasm.”
Shane tugs on his sweatshirt sleeve, forced nonchalance. “I know my reputation. As long as I’m funnier than a turtle, I’ll be funnier than people think.”
“Eh, I don’t know about that. Some turtles are very funny,” Ilya jokes. Then he takes his hat off and shoves it into the seat pocket in front of him, fluffing his hair out with his fingers. Shane pinches his thumb to focus on anything else. “But yes, Hollander, you are perfect and boring,” Rozanov continues. “Great, clean hockey. No mistakes. You don’t even fight, which is one of the big reasons hockey is better than other sports.”
“Someone in this league needs to keep all their real teeth,” Shane teases, enjoying the way Rozanov’s mouth drops open in genuine surprise.
“Really? All real?”
“Yes.”
Rozanov whistles. “Impressive.”
Suddenly Rozanov’s face becomes more serious, and his knee fidgets under the tray table.
“Scott Hunter may be the crypt keeper,” he says, “but it was very brave what he did after the game. It will change things for people.”
Shane gulps. “You think so?” he asks, working overtime to keep his voice as even as possible.
Rozanov nods. “I will tell him so in Las Vegas.”
“That’s very decent of you, Rozanov.”
“See? I can be nice guy.” Rozanov leans a little closer to Shane, lips curving back into an impish grin. “Not as nice as Rose Landry, maybe, but I’m okay if you give me a shot.”
All at once, Shane’s blood runs cold.
As grateful as he is to have Rose as a friend, their brief, very public relationship drew a lot of unwanted attention toward Shane, namely from other players in the MLH who were desperate to know why it ended. There was a giddiness to it all, like sharks preparing to feed. Everyone had been waiting for the great Shane Hollander to show some kind of character flaw, and he finally did. They couldn’t wait to chirp him for it, on and off the ice.
How boring, how unpleasant, how bad at sex, how gay do you gotta be to blow it so quickly with a hottie like Rose Landry?
Rozanov cutely raises an eyebrow, and Shane’s mood sinks further. He’s just like the rest of them.
“Fuck off,” Shane says quietly, retreating into his seat.
“What?”
“Don’t make fun of me.”
“Make fun?” Rozanov frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” Shane snaps. He hurriedly retrieves his wireless headphones from his bag, hands trembling so badly that he almost drops an AirPod. “Whatever. I’m going to watch a movie.”
“Hollander—”
“Sorry. I’m just… I promised I’d watch this.”
“Promised who?”
Ignoring that last question, Shane shoves his headphones into his ears and clicks the first movie his finger finds on his seat-back screen. He stares intently as the production companies and film title pop up, forcing all of his focus onto the movie and away from his seatmate’s confused face.
Whatever A Dog’s Purpose is, it has to be better than continuing this conversation with Ilya Rozanov.
***
A Dog’s Purpose sucks.
In the hour Shane’s been watching this, the dog has died and been reincarnated three times. It’s the kind of maudlin movie that Shane’s paternal grandmother would make him watch when he stayed there for the weekend as a kid. He hated weekends with that grandmother.
Plus it includes one of Shane’s pet peeves: animals’ thoughts being expressed in human voiceover. He has a distinct memory of watching Homeward Bound with a babysitter and asking so many questions about the logic of it that the teenager finally groaned, “It’s just a movie, Shane.”
The plane still hasn’t moved.
Right as the dog is seemingly about to die again, his headphones make that ominous downward chime. The left AirPod dies just seconds before the right does. The ambient plane sounds are back.
Shane Hollander is nothing if not an experienced traveler. He opens his mini bag to grab his wire headphones, but the pocket where he normally keeps them is empty apart from a travel pack of Advil. Pulling his backpack out, he looks through all the compartments and pockets, but he doesn’t find them.
Suddenly, a horrifying flashback.
On the flight back from their last playoff game, a painful loss against Boston in the first round, Hayden asked to borrow his headphones and then… never gave them back.
Now Shane is headphone-less until his AirPods fully charge in a few hours, unless he can flag down a flight attendant and grab a cheap pair.
Risking a glance to his left, Shane sees Rozanov leaning back against the headrest, eyes closed and headphones slotted back over his ears. In sleep, he looks relaxed, mouth slack and lips barely parted. His profile is striking. His nose has been broken a few times—the way he runs his mouth on and off the ice, it’s not surprising—but it adds a ruggedness to his otherwise beautiful face, with his high cheekbones, sharp jaw, and strong chin. Shane’s never been this close to him for this long before…
Well, except the night of the draft all those years ago, in a hotel gym, when they sat on the floor, sweating, gasping for air, feet in lockstep, their hands clasping over a shared water bottle, a night of what-if and possibilities that Shane fantasized about in the shower multiple times before ultimately breaking up with his high school girlfriend…
Jesus, Shane needs to get laid. If that night was even anything, which it wasn’t, Rozanov probably fucked it out of his system by the first All Star Game. Maybe he’ll be able to find someone discreet in Vegas, since his parents aren’t coming this year.
“You plotting to murder me?” Rozanov says suddenly, one eye peeking open.
Shane exhales sharply. Chirping is safe. “Nah,” Shane says. “If I kill you, history will remember me as the guy who murdered Ilya Rozanov, not as the best hockey player of our generation.”
Rozanov smirks. “You’ve thought this through."
“I was trying to flag down a flight attendant.”
“Shane Hollander. Driven to drink by my presence.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “My headphones died, asshole.”
“Spoiler alert.” Rozanov taps his finger against the paused movie on Shane’s screen. “The dog learns a life lesson.”
“You’ve watched that horrible thing?” Shane asks, surprised.
“It’s a dog movie!” Rozanov says defensively. “It’s supposed to be fun, like the dog basketball movie, or the other dog basketball movie.”
“Air Bud and Air Bud 2?”
“Yes, the Golden Receiver.” His accent wraps charmingly around that second word. “But who wants to watch a poor doggy die a billion times?”
“Not me.”
Rozanov frowns, an indignant pout on his face. Then it fades, and he’s just looking at Shane, like he’s trying to puzzle something out.
“What?” Shane asks self-consciously.
“I think I offended you before, but I don’t know why.”
Shane chews on his lip. Rozanov is usually not subtle with his insults, and he seems genuinely confused. For the sake of a peaceful flight, Shane gives him the benefit of the doubt.
“It’s a me thing,” he says as a nonexplanation. “Sore subject. Can we drop it?”
Rozanov nods. “Okay.”
The speakers crackle overhead and then the voice of the pilot comes through, low and annoyingly steady. “Passengers, uh, this is your captain speaking. We are still working on the issue with the brakes. Currently we are delayed waiting for personnel to finish up with another job at the next terminal. We appreciate your patience, and we’ll update you again when we can.”
“Great,” Shane mutters.
“Is hard to understand him. Still delayed?”
“Yep.”
His phone buzzes with a text from his mom, who still tracks his flights like he’s an unaccompanied minor.
“Hollander. Smile.”
“What?”
Shane looks up and sees Rozanov holding out his phone in selfie mode with a big smile on his face. Shane glares, which makes Rozanov smile even bigger. He snaps a picture.
“Is funny,” Rozanov explains. “Hockey’s biggest rivalry, defeated by a dumb plane.”
“Don’t post that until we’re in Vegas.”
“I know how to be a public figure, Hollander.”
“Right.”
Shane never does that well with casual conversation, usually because he has a hard time feigning interest in people and topics he doesn’t care about. But that’s not what’s happening here. He feels off-balance, like his coordination is being compromised by proximity to Rozanov’s bare shoulders. It’s, frankly, embarrassing and awkward.
Luckily Rozanov seems to be immune to awkwardness.
“Let’s play a game,” he says suddenly, clapping his hands together.
“A game?”
“Yes. Unless you want to watch the rest of your dog trauma porn with no sound.”
“I could put on subtitles.” It’s the flimsiest excuse, and Rozanov rolls his eyes at him accordingly. “Okay, fine,” Shane relents. “What game?”
“Truth or dare.”
“Absolutely not.”
“So boring.” Rozanov sighs dramatically, retrieving a can of Coke he’s stored in the seat pocket and cracks it open. “Okay, two truths and a lie, then.”
“What are these game ideas? Are we having a slumber party?”
“Maybe.” Rozanov waggles his eyebrows. “I have jammies in my carry-on.”
Shane shoves a really inconvenient mental image of Rozanov sleeping in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs out of his mind immediately.
“How do we know who wins?” Shane asks, folding his arms across his chest.
“So competitive, all the time.”
“Duh.”
Rozanov’s lips quirk to the side as he thinks. “First to trick the other person five times wins.” Shane looks at him, unsure, and Rozanov correctly takes his pause as an attempt to back out. “What are you more afraid of, Hollander, getting to know me a little or losing to me at another game?”
“Fuck you. I’m going first.”
They start out with surface level trivia.
Shane likes pontoons, likes kayaking, but doesn’t like cruises. (“It’s like being trapped in a nightclub for the elderly.”) Rozanov likes Vancouver, likes Toronto, but hates Winnipeg. (“You would be big party boy in Winnipeg.”) Shane knows how to surf and snowboard but has never skateboarded. (“I was always afraid to fall on cement.”) Rozanov enjoys burgers and pizza but doesn’t like cheesesteaks. (“What is Cheez Whiz? What is wrong with normal cheese?”)
Shane tricks Rozanov by revealing that his favorite hockey movie is Goon.
“It’s a little bloody, but it’s the most Canadian hockey movie. I keep it downloaded on my iPad in case I ever don’t have WiFi on a roadie.”
Rozanov tricks Shane back by revealing his only pet growing up was a fish.
“Papa said no pets, but I caught a little fish in a small river near my house. I kept it in a big glass vase by my bedroom window. Fed it little fishy flakes.”
Soon, they are tied 4–4.
“We don’t have all day, Hollander,” Rozanov says, tapping his fingers against his chin impatiently as Shane tries to think of a good last set of facts about himself.
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Only seventeen more hours until flight takes off.”
“Oh! I got it.” Shane smiles. “You’re fucking finished, Rozanov.”
“Bring it.”
Shane leans forward, already proud of himself. “I hold three Montreal Voyageurs records: most goals in a rookie season, most points in a regular season, and most assists by a player under 30.”
Ilya’s face drops. “That’s your big smoker’s gun?”
“Smoking gun? Yeah. Which one’s a lie?”
“You’re giving me hockey facts.” Shane nods. “Jesus, Hollander, you are like a Terminator who was created to make mediocre goalies cry.” Despite Rozanov’s exasperated tone, his eyes are sparkling and bright as he ponders his answer. “I think… you do not have most assists under 30.”
Shane frowns. “Fuck.”
“Ah ha!” Rozanov cheers, grinning brightly. “That’s advantage me. If I get you, I win.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Shane mumbles. “Give me your best shot, ‘Roz.’”
“Okay, ‘Hollzy.’”
Shane shudders at the nickname, which makes Rozanov chuckle. Then Rozanov thinks quietly for a minute. Something akin to nerves crosses his face, and he looks over Shane’s face so intently that it makes Shane averts his eyes. Shane realizes a second too late that instinct drew his gaze to Rozanov’s mouth instead, and in a panic, he ends up staring at the small brand logo on Rozanov’s chest.
“Okay,” Rozanov finally says quietly. Shane can barely hear him over the din of the plane cabin. “I like women. I like men. I eat a salad every day.”
The world flickers and resets.
Shane’s eyes snap back to Rozanov’s, looking for any sign that this is a joke, a trap, a long fakeout before the big laugh. He’s been in too many rooms where being gay is the punchline.
But he finds nothing but sincerity and perhaps a hint of anxiety looking back.
Shane gulps. “You don’t eat salads?”
Rozanov takes a sip of his Coke, his smile pressing against the metal lip.
“Tied again, Hollander.”
What the fuck. Shane has never been more grateful for a loose-fit sweatshirt and black joggers. His body is shorting out, unsure if it’s terrified, horny, relieved, panicked, or… well, even more horny. He feels flushed and cold, skin warm even though goosebumps are prickling over both his arms. He’s not hard, but he embarrassingly feels like he could be at a moment’s notice.
“You…?” Shane asks.
Rozanov raises an eyebrow. “You are surprised.”
“Kind of, yeah.”
“I think perhaps you too,” Rozanov says carefully.
Shane’s body isn’t confused anymore. This is anxiety and fear and panic. His pulse spikes so quickly, he feels lightheaded. His voice comes out very breathy.
“How…” He shakes his head. “Does everyone…?”
“Hollander, you are panicking,” Rozanov says with a small smile. “No one knows.”
“Then how?”
“Breathe first.” Shane audibly sucks in a breath. Rozanov rolls his eyes. “And out. Come on, Hollander, you know how to do this. Sleeping people do this.”
“Fuck you,” Shane says as he exhales.
Rozanov chuckles. “Very good. And to answer your question, I have a skill for this. My secret talent.” Then he leans closer to Shane, so close that Shane can smell the mint of his chapstick. “Plus you gave me a hard-on in a hotel gym on draft night.”
Heat creeps up Shane’s neck and cheeks.
“You remember that?”
“Is hard to forget.”
Shane must have hit his head getting into his taxi this morning. Or the dead dog movie was so bad it sent him into some kind of rage-induced coma. It’s the only explanation for the fact that Ilya Rozanov, man of a thousand “Woman’s Name (bar)” phone contacts, is so casually mentioning a night that Shane looks back on as his likely sexual awakening.
Or the fact that Rozanov is currently looking at him with such open curiosity.
The pilot’s droning voice snaps Shane out of his gay-panic trance.
“Attention passengers. We have an update from the technical crew. Uhh, the brake issue is more complicated than originally anticipated.”
“He has mush mouth,” Rozanov says, visibly struggling to follow the announcements. “Very xenophobic.” Shane holds up a finger, as polite as a shush can be, and listens for them both.
“In order to ensure a safe flight, we will be asking you to collect your belongings and deplane the aircraft in just a few moments.”
The entire plane seems to let out a collective groan.
“A new aircraft should be arriving from Charlotte in about two hours, and we will do our best to get you all on that plane as quickly as possible. Thank you.”
“Bad news?” Rozanov asks.
“We have to get off,” Shane replies, accidentally suggestive. “The plane,” he adds, making it worse.
This is the perfect opportunity to pop this weird, suddenly way-too-personal bubble that’s formed around them. Shane can get up, go read his book in the lounge by himself, and return to the new plane ready to sleep for six hours. Rozanov can do whatever he does to pass the time.
Instead, they just stare at each other. Shane lets his gaze move over a familiar face that suddenly looks a little different. He’s becoming a real person in front of Shane’s very eyes. Rozanov is doing the same to him. When he exhales, his mouth opens slightly and Shane can see a tiny scar on the inside of his lower lip.
Shane’s balancing on a dangerous ledge.
Turns out, it doesn’t take much of a push.
“I’m going to eat dinner,” Rozanov says.
“Okay.”
“You come with?”
“Yes.”
Four hours after Rozanov sat down next to Shane in seat 3C, they step back into the airport with instructions to keep an eye out for their new departure time. They’re as incognito as they can be, Rozanov’s hat sitting low over his eyes and Shane’s hood flipped up as they roll their carry-ons away from the gate. They walk, side by side.
“Where are you taking me, Rozanov?”
The smile Rozanov tosses over his shoulder hits Shane like a brick.
“Call me Ilya.”
***
“You look confused, Shane.” Rozanov—Ilya says his name like it’s a secret they share. “Do you need me to read to you?”
Shane stares hard at the menu, as if the suboptimal options can distract from this new state of constant, low-level horniness.
“This food is disgusting.”
“It’s Chili’s.”
“An airport Chili’s.”
Ilya snorts. “Who knew you were such a snob?”
“I’m not a snob,” Shane protests.
“Shane.” Ilya raises an eyebrow. “You model for Rolex.”
Shane glares at him, though he’s not sure how effective it is. They’re seated at a table in the back corner with a hanging lamp. Both of them are sipping on water from red plastic cups. If you swap out the black-and-white Statue of Liberty artwork for a poster that said the word “RIBS” in ten different fonts, Shane went on this exact date with his girlfriend in ninth grade.
Not that this is a fucking date. Jesus, Shane, get a grip.
“So what?” Shane asks defensively. “Aren’t you like a fancy car guy?”
Ilya grins wickedly. “Why, Shane Hollander, are you keeping tabs on me?” He leans a little closer. “Do you secret follow me on Instagram?”
“Fuck off,” Shane says, fighting a smile. “I remember seeing some article about it.”
“What’s your burner account, RozanovFan69?
“You wish, dude.”
“IlyaLover69?”
“HollanderRules.” Shane grins. “69.”
The waiter comes by. Shane manages to order a chicken sandwich. (“No bun, no sauce,” Shane requests. “So just piece of chicken,” Ilya adds unhelpfully.) Ilya, on the other hand, orders steak fajitas and two Coronas.
“Two beers?” Shane asks when the man leaves.
Ilya shrugs. “Extra in case you decide to live a little. Otherwise, I’m getting airport tipsy alone.”
Shane takes the beer.
And then they just… talk.
They talk hockey.
“What did you think about Colorado this year?”
“Embarrassing,” Ilya says. “They shouldn’t be allowed to come back to the mountains until they learn how to skate. What about LA?”
“Good team, but maybe a fluke they got to the Finals this year. Really weak third line. Toronto?”
“More talented at being assholes than at hockey.”
“They’re pretty great at hockey.”
“They’re prodigies at being assholes.”
They talk gossip.
“There’s no way,” Shane says, mouth agape.
“That’s what Carmy heard from old teammates in Carolina.”
“During the All Star game this year?”
“Peterson sleeps with Marakov’s wife. Marakov gets revenge with Peterson’s wife. Is like Wife Swap, but they’re both getting divorced now.”
“Where the hell was I?”
“You were probably too nervous, getting ready to play your first hockey game on the same team as the great Ilya Rozanov.”
“Yeah. I hear that guy’s a prick.”
They even talk about things Shane doesn’t usually like talking about.
“So Rose Landry…” Ilya asks, trailing off.
“What about her?” Ilya shrugs and takes a sip of beer. “She’s just a friend,” Shane clarifies. “A really great friend.”
“Sex was that bad, eh?”
“Fuck you.”
“Or maybe the sex was so good you had to end it, for the sake of her action movie career.”
Shane snorts. “Common problem?”
“Oh yeah. Back gets too blown out, you forget how to stage kick.”
“Sounds like you’re familiar with that dilemma.”
“Is why I had to stop sleeping with Chris Evans.”
As the minutes pass, Shane finds his shoulders lowering, his muscles feeling calm and loose as he relaxes into the booth. The beer helps. But the alcohol isn’t what’s unwinding the tension that generally courses through Shane’s body like a second skeleton. (Even a lightweight like Shane is still a 200 pound man who can handle a Corona.)
It’s the conversation. It’s Ilya.
Shane can’t remember the last time he sat across from someone and didn’t feel like he had to be on his best behavior. Maybe it’s because he’s closeted to everyone close to him, with the exception of Rose. Maybe it’s the pressure that comes with being exactly as good at hockey as everyone thinks he is. All of the authority figures in his life, from parents to coaches, have expectations of how he should act and speak and behave. Everyone wants something from Shane Hollander.
Ilya doesn’t want anything from him except his company.
Plus he’s fucking hot.
That might be the beer a little bit.
When the busser arrives with their food, Ilya is delighted by the sizzling fajita plate, and Shane is delighted by how many teeth he shows when the waiter warns him not to touch the pan.
“You eat like a dog,” Shane says after Ilya devours half his dish in about five minutes.
“I’d like to see a dog assemble a taco.” Then Ilya thinks for a moment. “Would they use their noses, you think? Pushing tomatoes around?”
He nudges his nose forward as he talks. It’s cute. Fuck this guy.
“Better than using their dirty paws,” Shane says lamely.
“How is your dry, bunless chicken?”
“Dry and bunless.”
Ilya grabs the guacamole container off his plate and drops it next to Shane’s barely-eaten French fries.
“Take it. It’s avocado, so it’s healthy.”
“Ilya—”
“You must take good sauce that is offered to you,” Ilya says, waving his hand in Shane’s direction. “Is important Russian custom.”
Shane smirks. “Oh, is it?”
“Yes. You will offend me greatly if you don’t eat it.”
Shane rolls his eyes but feels warm as he spreads the guacamole over his chicken. It’s not bread, but it certainly tastes much better this way.
Suddenly Shane’s phone starts vibrating on the table. Yuna Hollander (Mom) flashes on the screen. Shane gives Ilya an apologetic nod and steps away from the table toward the front of the restaurant.
“Hello.”
“What is going on with this flight?” his mother asks, launching right in. “I’ve been tracking and other flights are taking off, so it can’t be just the rain.”
“No. It’s some kind of mechanical issue. They’re swapping out the plane.”
“What a nightmare. I’m sorry, honey.”
“Eh.” He glances back toward the table in the back of Chili’s, where Ilya is trying to scoop the last of his pico de gallo up with two of Shane’s fries. “Could be worse.”
He hears typing on the other end. “It looks like there is a flight to Vegas out of Newark in three hours that I could get you on, though you’d have to sit in coach.”
“Mom—”
“Or you could catch a connecting flight to Charlotte, right there from LaGuardia in about an hour. Extra time in the air, but a more guaranteed departure.”
“Okay, but—”
“I also gave a heads up to your travel agent, and she is more than willing to put together an alternate travel plan that will get you to Vegas faster. We’re not looking to charter a jet or anything, but she may be able to piece something together—”
“Mom,” Shane snaps. “I’m fine. I don’t want to change my flight.”
“Shane,” she says in a voice that always makes him feel like he’s somehow being unprofessional. “Realistically, best case scenario, you’re taking off in four hours.”
“And the awards aren’t until tomorrow night,” he pushes back. “I’ll be fine.”
After a long moment of silence, she says, “Are you sure? You’ll miss the welcome party. You never know who you might meet at one of those.” Hockey players and overeager executives who think they count as hockey players, he thinks. “It’d be a great opportunity to… I don’t know. Put yourself back out there.”
There it is. “Mom.”
“Just saying, it’s been a few months since Rose—”
“Mom, stop.” A completely reckless part of him wants to tell her he’s already sort-of-putting himself out there, sort-of-flirting with a hot guy that he definitely shouldn’t be sort-of-flirting with. Instead he reiterates, “I’m fine hanging here. It’s kind of nice, actually. I’m taking it easy today.”
“You?” she asks skeptically. “Taking it easy?”
“Yes.”
“At the airport.”
“Yes.”
“Fine,” she says. “Oh, I also followed up with Reebok and Calvin Klein. They both said you were great this week, and Reebok had a really interesting pitch about their spring campaign for next season that I’d love to talk over with you.”
“Mom, please.” Shane hates how his voice sounds, whiny and frustrated. “Can this wait? I don’t want to do business stuff today.”
He hears her sigh. “Okay, honey.”
“I love you.”
“Love you, too. Text me when you have a flight update.”
Shane feels like a pouting teenager as he drags himself back into the depths of the airport Chili’s. He even lets out a dramatic sigh when his phone pings with a text from his father:
David Hollander (Dad): Remember to text your mom.
The booth squeaks when Shane plops back down.
“Fun call?” Ilya asks, looking amused.
“My mom,” he sighs. Then he shakes his phone in his hand. “And my dad. I think they forget I’m a fully grown adult sometimes.”
“I see.”
“I love them, but they can be so annoying. Just leave me alone for one day.”
Ilya chuckles, touching a chain around his neck absentmindedly, and a realization hits Shane like an ice cube down his back. Ilya missed a week of the season two months ago because his dad died. His dad is dead, and Shane’s whining about his parents being too involved in his life.
“Oh god,” Shane says, dropping his head into his hands. “Sorry. I’m sorry for complaining.”
Ilya cuts him off with a wave. “Is fine.”
“No, I’m an asshole.”
“Please be normal, Hollander,” Ilya says with an eyeroll. “My dad is dead. Your parents are bugging you. Unrelated things.” Ilya steals another fry off Shane’s plate. “That being said, I reserve the right to pull out the orphan card whenever I feel like it.”
“An orphan?” Both of his parents were dead? “Jesus, Ilya, I’m so sorry.”
“Uh uh.” Ilya blows a raspberry. “Is my orphan card. Give it back”
Shane’s lips quirk up. Then he flicks an imaginary card across the table. Ilya pretends to catch it and mimes putting it into his back pocket.
“Will you tell me why that phone call gave you,” Ilya reaches across the table until his thumb is centimeters from Shane’s forehead, gesturing between his brows, “little line right here?” Shane pinches his own thigh to stop himself from doing something stupid, like leaning forward, or putting Ilya’s thumb in his mouth.
“It’s been harder to talk to them lately,” he admits.
“They are mean?” Ilya asks, not judgmental, just curious.
“No, not at all. They’re great.” Shane mulls over how to phrase this without sounding like a spoiled only child. “My mom is also my manager. And sometimes what her son needs is different from what her client needs.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“I think I’m also making it more complicated by not telling them…”
“That you don’t like cruise ships?” Ilya teases.
Shane smirks. “Yeah. Cruise ships.” Then he sighs. “They were so excited when they met Rose. Which was literally one time, at a game, mind you. But they acted so… relieved, like finally their sad, single son was dating someone.”
Ilya snorts. “You’re 26, Shane, not a spinster.”
“‘Spinster?’ Where’d you learn that one?”
“Grey Gardens.” Shane shrugs, unfamiliar. “You don’t know? Come on, Hollander. Learn some gay culture.”
“Fuck you.” Ilya just smiles, so Shane continues, “You know how hockey is. Guys start their families super young. I mean, Hayden Pike just had his fourth.”
Ilya’s eyes bug. “Four children?”
“Yep.”
“And he is our age?”
“Basically, yeah.”
“Is he trying to make a Sound of Music?” Ilya asks, scrunching his nose. “Little child chorus they can tour around?”
Shane laughs. “They’re sweet kids. And his wife is one of my close friends.”
“Tell your close friend Mrs. Pike to shove her husband off every once in a while.”
Shane wants to argue, but… he also agrees. Both Shane and Ilya finish off their beers. Ilya stretches out his legs under the table, bumping his knee against Shane’s. Shane thinks it’s an accident until Ilya does it again. Silent encouragement to continue.
“My parents mean well. They just want me to settle down with a nice woman.”
“I don’t know the rules in Canada,” Ilya says in a loud whisper, “but two Stanley Cups should get you out of the wife and children conversation for at least a few more years.”
Shane swallows. “That’s the problem. I don’t think I am going to have a wife. Period.” He risks a glance up at Ilya. The man’s face softens with understanding.
“Ah.”
Shane smiles, small and embarrassed. “Recent realization.”
The restaurant noise around them gets distant and muffled, or maybe Shane’s focus just tightens. Ilya’s bone structure looks unfairly sharp and handsome in the crappy airport lighting, and he has one of his long arms stretched across the back of the booth seat. In a moment of courage, Shane shifts his leg under the table until the contact between them is constant. Ilya’s eyes flare, and his mouth curls up, just barely. Shane only notices because he’s staring.
“After the Cup,” Shane says, his voice huskier than usual. “I started an email to Hunter like six times. I couldn’t figure out what to say. But it meant something, to know I wasn’t alone.”
“Same. To me.”
“Have you ever,” Shane asks, “with…?” A man goes unsaid.
Ilya nods slowly. “A few times. You?”
“Yes, a few times.” When Ilya chuckles at this, looking a little too delighted, Shane frowns. “Are you that surprised?”
“Uh, no, Shane.”
“Why not?”
“You look like that.”
Then Ilya drags his eyes up and down Shane’s body, and Shane’s heart jumps into his throat, his skin feeling alight and fizzy like he’s actively being touched.
His experiences so far with men have been intentionally impersonal, fucking strangers while on vacation, exchanging blow jobs at a gay bar in Ohio, letting anonymous bodies make him feel good on the rare occasions he’s feeling brave (or so horny that he doesn’t care). But this is new. This is already the most he’s talked to a person he’s this attracted to, and it’s allowed him to settle, relax in a way he usually can’t. And Ilya’s looking at him like he did back in that hotel gym, but even more so, because the question is gone. It’s all making Shane feel a little crazy.
As if reading his mind, Ilya says, “I thought we might, after the draft.”
Shane’s pulse thuds. God, what would have happened if Ilya Rozanov had gotten to him first? Would he have ruined him for other men, just like that?
“Part of me hoped we would,” Shane admits, trying to ignore how hot his cheeks suddenly feel. “And then we started actually playing each other, and you were so fucking annoying.”
Ilya breaks into a brilliant smile. “You love playing against me, Hollander.”
“Not as much as you love playing against me.”
“That’s not fair.”
“How come?” Shane asks with a frown. Ilya props his elbow on the table, resting his chin in his hand as he stares at Shane.
“I love playing against you more than most things.”
Ilya grins again, slow and sexy. Shane is so dazed by his face that he forgets they are anything but Shane and Ilya, two men crowded into a booth at an airport, flirting pretty aggressively.
What if Shane slouched down now? What if he moved his knee until it pressed between Ilya’s legs, coaxing a hiss from his outrageous mouth? What if Shane just… let this happen?
Would his teeth snag against Shane’s bottom lip before he kissed him? Would he open his mouth right away or make Shane beg for it? Would he fall to his knees or would he command Shane to fall to his? How dark would his eyes get? What would his sweat smell like? Would he fuck Shane if he asked? Would his accent get thicker before he comes?
With a careful inhale, Shane slides his foot forward, seeking something, anything.
Then two cell phones vibrate in unison against the table, snapping Shane back into his surroundings and making him bang his leg against the table.
“Ow, fuck.”
“Careful,” Ilya says, catching an empty bottle before it falls over. Maybe it’s Shane’s horny brain talking, but Ilya’s voice sounds a little strained. Then Ilya wraps his long fingers (stop it, Shane) around his phone and reads out loud off the screen.
“Flight rebooked for tomorrow morning, 10 o’clock.”
“Oh.”
It’s not quite cold water, but it’s water all the same.
What the fuck has gotten into him?
Shane had been about to feel up Ilya Rozanov, infamously his rival in the world of professional hockey, under a table at an airport restaurant surrounded by dozens of potential witnesses. They’re both quite famous in a very specific circle. If someone had taken the wrong picture, Shane’s big gay secret would be public before he could even tell his parents.
Is this all it takes to turn Shane Hollander into a slut? A pretty face, some big muscles, and a light, flirtatious compliment on his hockey? Embarrassing. Rose will be equal parts delighted and scandalized when he tells her.
Ilya seems to notice the shift in Shane’s mood. He flags down the waiter and hands over his card, watching Shane carefully even as he signs the receipt.
“Hollander,” he says softly.
“Rozanov.”
“Shane.” Even softer.
“Rozanov.” It’s like he’s reminding himself who he’s talking to.
“You are thinking very loud right now.”
“What are we doing?” Shane asks with a gulp, gripping the edge of the table with his hands.
Ilya takes a sip of water. “Well,” he says casually, “we just finished eating a fun, delicious dinner at one of America’s finest chain restaurants. Or I did. You ate boring chicken. We had good conversation. Very informative.”
“Oh yeah?” Shane asks, voice still a little shaky. “What’d you learn?”
“You are an anxious little thing.”
“Fuck you. I’m not little.”
“And you make me curious.”
“Oh.”
Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Yes. Oh.” He licks his lips, probably on purpose given how much he smiles when he notices Shane noticing. “And now, I am going to book a room at…” He grabs his phone, clicking around quickly, looking up every few seconds to make sure Shane is still with him. “The Westin while I wait for rescheduled flight to Las Vegas. Premium suite. Private balcony. King bed. Very secretive.”
“And what am I going to do?”
“That is up to you.”
Ilya laces his fingers behind his head, pulling his elbows back and twisting to stretch out his back, flexing the thick muscles of his arms, properly peacocking. And then, the dagger: He winks at Shane. Shane’s mouth goes dry.
His libido is battling his brain. His libido’s winning.
“Is the hotel near the airport?”
Ilya just smirks, rising from the table and gathering his bags. For a moment, Shane is frozen in place. Ilya looks down at him. Amusement makes his eyes flicker.
“You coming, Hollander?”
“Hopefully.”
Shane braces for an innuendo, some fuck-me eyes, maybe a teasing remark about Shane’s lame joke. That isn’t what happens.
Ilya fucking giggles.
***
Shane is either in a porn or a horror movie.
He treads down a hotel hallway, decorated with a geometric carpet and uncanny valley overhead lighting, watching the numbers tick closer to his destination. His body is bracing for a jump scare that he orchestrated himself. His dick is the killer.
He and Ilya parted ways at the elevators half an hour ago, the second key card to Ilya’s room hanging heavy in Shane’s pocket. In record time, Shane dropped off his bags in his own room, showered, panicked, showered a second time, brushed his teeth, dressed in clean jeans and a T-shirt (resisting the urge to put on the somewhat formal outfit he brought for the MLH Awards welcome party), texted Rose, ignored Rose’s follow-up call, shouted into a pillow, and did his usual pre-game five-minute meditation to settle his nerves.
And now, feeling properly insane, he is walking to Ilya Rozanov’s hotel room. Presumably to have sex.
Either that or Shane has so thoroughly misread things he might have to retire from hockey; and using heavy machinery.
Then he reaches the end of the hallway, room 1826. He looks at the closed door and tries to find the strength to not knock, to turn around and go back to senses. Instead the door swings wide open to reveal Ilya. Shirtless Ilya, with wet hair and just a pair of joggers hanging low on his lips. A thin gold chain with a small variant of a cross hangs around his neck.
“How long have you been standing there like home invader?”
“How long were you waiting at the peep hole?”
“No waiting,” Ilya lies. “I could hear your brain spinning from down the hall.” He steps to the side to let Shane in. When Shane passes him, his shoulder dangerously close to brushing against Ilya’s chest, he hears the soft sigh of a shaky exhale.
Ilya’s nervous too. That loosens something in Shane’s stomach.
Then the door clicks shut.
Shane works his way up to eye contact, which conveniently means basking in the beautiful sight of Ilya’s torso, dusted in moles and hair and absolutely carved with muscle. His shoulders look strong and broad, grippable. Shane wants to dig his fingers in, press until he leaves marks on his pale skin that linger. He’s a work of art, Roman marble with a jester’s mouth.
A hand firmly grips Shane’s chin. Ilya lifts his face, tilting it left and right, almost inspecting him. And then they’re looking at each other. His breath hits Shane’s nose, minty and clean. He brushed his teeth.
“What does that mean?”
“Is Russian for ‘smokeshow.’”
“Fuck off,” Shane tries to sigh, though it comes out more like fuck, or even just a pathetic moan.
He’s suddenly aware that his hands are hanging like limp noodles at his side. When Ilya takes a step forward, crowding Shane back against the wall, Shane takes the opportunity to grip his hips. He’s so warm, and when he slides fingers beneath Ilya’s waistband, he finds nothing but skin underneath.
“This is a bad idea,” Shane whispers half-heartedly, mostly because he thinks one of them should say it at least once.
“Probably,” Ilya smirks, his eyes flicking between Shane’s. “But you know what they say. What happens in Vegas...”
“We’re in Queens, Ilya.”
“Come on, Shane. Use your imagination.”
Shane expects him to kiss him then. He automatically parts his lips in expectation, his tongue prepping for contact. Instead, Ilya arches forward. His body presses Shane firmly against the door, and the layers of fabric between them do little to hide the fact that they’re both already half-hard. In a move Shane finds staggeringly hot, Ilya uses his grip on Shane’s chin to tip his head back, revealing his neck. Still his lips don’t touch Shane’s skin. Ilya drags his nose from Shane’s collar up to just below his ear. His pauses before saying, crystal clear:
“I should have fucked you after that stupid photoshoot.”
A shiver runs through Shane’s full body, and then thinking is out the window. His hands fly up to Ilya’s jaw, yanking his head up and then finally, Shane crashes his mouth against Ilya’s.
The kiss is instantly filthy. Shane nips at him, and Ilya responds by sucking hard on Shane’s bottom lip, tilting his head back, and pressing his tongue against Shane’s, hot and wet and skillful. While Ilya’s mouth sets about mapping every inch of Shane’s, his hands grip onto Shane’s ass through his jeans, pulling them flush together.
No one has ever kissed him like this. He feels fucking plundered.
When he starts to feel dizzy, Shane drops his head back against the wood.
“What the fuck?” he gasps.
“You mean where the fuck?” Ilya replies, shit-eating tone still there even though he’s also out of breath. “The bed? The floor? Right here against the door?”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“So…”
“Bed.”
Before Shane can make his feet move, he’s lifted off the ground. His brain tells him to smack Ilya’s arm, even as his legs tighten traitorously around Ilya’s waist. They stumble backward, and Ilya practically throws him onto the mattress. Shane uses the brief break in contact to yank his shirt off, and they kick off their shoes, and then Ilya is on him again.
He’s everywhere. Shane’s a big guy, a professional athlete who gets slammed into boards for a living, but for the first time with a partner, he feels properly manhandled. Ilya hooks his hands onto Shane’s biceps and pushes his arms up on the bed as he grinds his hips down, making Shane arch against him instinctively.
When he kisses and bites down the column of Shane’s neck, tonguing his sensitive skin, Shane moans—until he feels suction.
“Don’t give me a hickey, asshole,” he says, kicking his heel into Ilya’s calf.
“Would be hot. Bruise on your neck where everyone can see.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Very adventurous for good boy Shane Hollander.”
Embarrassingly, Shane whimpers at being called a good boy, which, okay, he knows he loves praise, loves to let go of control in the bedroom. Still, when Ilya chuckles, pressing another hot, open-mouthed kiss onto his collarbone, Shane hears the teasing for what it is. It’s a challenge.
And he’s never let Rozanov win before.
Using his core strength, painstakingly developed over years of hard work and discipline, Shane flips them over until he’s on top of Ilya, straddling his waist. Ilya’s eyes flare with delight and he wriggles beneath him as Shane ducks his head, kissing his way down Ilya’s chest. Shane glances up, watching the way Ilya’s lips part as Shane drags his tongue over his nipple, and then grins before biting and sucking at a spot on his pec, hard enough to leave a red mark.
Ilya’s hips jerk up. “Feisty predator,” he sighs, “like a kodkod.”
“What’s a kodkod?”
“Smallest wild cat in the Americas.” Ilya smirks and combs his fingers into Shane’s hair. “Is fluffy and grumpy, like you.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “Do you, like, spend hours learning random facts on Wikipedia so you can more specifically insult people?”
Ilya shrugs. “Sometimes.”
“You’re a menace.”
“Yes.”
Then Ilya rolls his hips, grinding their erections together, and Shane’s eyes flutter. Who cares if this guy is a menace? Who cares about anything? Shane mouths his way down Ilya’s body, hooking his fingers into Ilya’s waistband and chuckling when Ilya jerks his hips up to help Shane get his pants off. They shove the fabric down together, and Shane is momentarily speechless.
It’s perfect. Thick and heavy. The kind of cock men would go to war for.
“You will stare all day?” Ilya asks mockingly, but Shane sees right through him. A creeping blush has bloomed on Ilya’s neck and chest, and his eyes have gone glassy.
“Do you want me to suck your dick or not?”
Ilya, incredibly, shuts the hell up. And Shane gets to work.
Shane loves giving head. He loves the feel, the taste, the sounds. He loves how fuzzy and quiet his brain goes as he sucks and swallows, singularly focused on the task at hand.
Wrapping his palm around the base of Ilya’s dick, Shane drags his tongue up the underside before taking Ilya into his mouth, a little further down with every bob of his head. With a grunt, Ilya sits up to give him more room on the bed and then grabs onto Shane, one hand smoothing over his back and the other scratching into his hair.
“, Shane,” he groans as Shane takes him almost all the way down, his cock bruising the back of Shane’s throat. Ilya makes a choked out sound and pulls Shane off of him.
“Stop, stop.”
“What’s wrong?” Shane asks, wiping the drool off his chin.
Instead of answering, Ilya smashes his lips against Shane’s, making out with him like a man possessed. Before Shane knows it, he’s on his back again, and Ilya is unbuttoning his jeans while Shane sucks on his tongue. Shane feels out of control. He hasn’t had sex with a man in a while, and he hasn’t had sex with someone this attractive ever. Pushing his hands into Ilya’s curls, he tightens his fingers and tugs, drawing a low moan from Ilya’s throat.
“I want to fuck you,” Ilya says directly into Shane’s mouth. “Can I fuck you?”
“God. Yes.”
While Shane pushes his jeans down his legs, folding them quickly and tossing them toward a chair near the bed, Ilya reaches for the nightstand, where he’s already stocked lube and condoms. They meet back in the middle, another insanely hot kiss that ends with Shane laying flat while Ilya tongues his way down Shane’s abs.
Then—to Shane’s wild frustration—Ilya slows down.
He squeezes his pec, rolling his thumb across Shane’s nipple. He drags his hot mouth over Shane’s stomach and then blows cool air until Shane is whimpering and squirming toward his hand. Then he slides down the bed, finally face-to-face with Shane’s dick, but then keeps going, grazing his teeth down Shane’s leg before, inexplicably, biting the side of his knee.
“I thought you were going to fuck me,” Shane whines.
Ilya chuckles. “So eager.”
“Give me the lube, I’ll… prep.”
Shane sits up to reach for the bottle, but he’s stopped by Ilya’s hand. He sits up and pushes Shane back against the mattress, his face just inches from Shane’s the whole way so they’re chest to chest. He kisses Shane tongue first, until Shane’s is boneless and distracted, and then slides back down Shane’s body.
“Are you always in such a hurry?” Ilya asks.
“Kinda, yeah.” Such is the way with anxious, anonymous hook-ups.
“Your men don’t open you up for you,” Ilya says against Shane’s hip bone, running his hands underneath Shane’s ass, “stretch you out on their fingers until you’re begging for it?”
“They can,” Shane says breathily. “I’m just more efficient at it.”
Ilya glares up at him. “You have not been fucking the right men, Hollander.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “Let me guess. You have.”
“No, sweetheart,” Ilya presses his mouth against the inside of Shane’s thigh, which falls open automatically at the contact. “I am the right man.”
Then he nuzzles at Shane’s dick through his underwear, grabs the waistband with his teeth, and tugs them down. Within seconds, he takes Shane’s cock into his mouth, deep-throating him on the first go. Shane arches off the bed. He may be levitating.
“Hnnnng, Jesus Christ, Rozanov, fucking… what?”
Ilya chuckles and kisses beneath the head of Shane’s dick. “You’re a poet.”
Shane would write poems about this. He would write a fucking sonnet, learn whatever the hell iambic pentameter is if it got Ilya to keep sucking his dick like this. His mouth is perfect. Soon Shane hears a faint pop and feels a warm, slick finger press against his hole.
“Is okay?” Ilya asks.
Shane aims for, “yes,” and lands somewhere around, “yuhhh please.”
And then Ilya pushes in one finger, then two, then curls them up while sucking Shane’s dick like a champ. Shane’s being attacked with pleasure from two points.
“Holy shit,” Shane moans.
“Yes, I’m very gifted.”
Shane’s had great sex. He thinks. Before today, he was really certain he’d had great sex. Or at least really good sex. But this is something different entirely, surprising, all-consuming, hot as well, and it’s recalibrating something deep inside him. The fact that Ilya Rozanov is the one doing it is breaking his brain a little. He sees new colors. He might speak Spanish now.
After inserting a third finger, stretching Shane out with perverse patience, touching him until he’s sweating and writhing and practically whimpering for it, Ilya finally sits back from Shane to roll a condom on.
The physical space gives Shane enough room to set a necessary personal goal.
Experience be damned, Shane is not going to let Ilya beat him at sex. If Ilya’s going to rock Shane’s world, Shane is going to rock it right back, more, better.
He’s Shane fucking Hollander, after all. Every coach he’s ever had has called him a fast learner.
Ilya grabs Shane’s hips to flip him over onto his stomach, but Shane shakes his head. He forces himself to hold eye contact with Ilya as he shoves both hands against Ilya’s chest until he’s on his back, confused head nearly hanging off the foot of the bed.
“You want to wrestle?” Ilya asks.
“You’re so annoying.”
Then Shane straddles Ilya’s hips, raises up on his knees, and watches the naked wonder on Ilya’s face as Shane sinks down onto his cock, inch by inch. It would be a better power play if Shane wasn’t panting like a dog. But a win’s a win.
“Ungh, Shane. Tight. So good.”
“Fuck.”
He’s only ridden a guy once before, an equally closeted soccer player he met last year while in London for Wimbledon. The experience had been a bit awkward as Shane struggled to figure out the motions. And there’s a little of that here, but Ilya’s such a mess underneath him, mumbling bilingually in both Russian and sex noises, that it spurs Shane on. He tries out a few angles until he finds one that grinds against his prostate, and the shock of pleasure nearly knocks him over.
“Look at you,” Ilya groans. His hands roam over Shane’s hips and thighs, up to Shane’s chest, over his shoulders, and back to his waist, like he’s trying to feel up everything at the same time.
It takes all of Shane’s concentration, but he manages to chirp back. “Hottest player in the MLH.”
“The cowboy’s a narcissist,” Ilya grunts out with a smile. “So fucking hot.”
Shane holds on Ilya’s shoulders for leverage as he finds a good rhythm, rocking and grinding on Ilya until they’re both breathing heavy and covered in sweat. Looking down at his chest, Shane is hypnotized by the flex of his muscles, his skin. Without thinking, he ducks his head and licks the sweat off Ilya’s collarbone.
“Jesus, Hollander.”
Then Ilya grips his ass hard and fucks up into Shane with intensity, punching out noises Shane didn’t know he could make. Ilya’s cock is so big that Shane feels him in his stomach. He’s exploring his guts, staking claim, and rearranging things to his liking, and there’s nothing Shane can or wants to do about it. Ilya has squatter’s rights to his asshole.
“Fuck me,” Shane moans as the heat builds in his body.
“Okay,”
Suddenly Ilya wraps an arm around Shane’s waist and rolls them over, only pulling out for a moment before thrusting back in, harder, faster, deeper. He locks his hands on the back of Shane’s thighs, pushing his knees up, and the new angle makes Shane see spots. Shane thought he was doing yoga for better mobility and less injury risk, but clearly it was for this, so he could fold himself like a pretzel and get fucked like he deserves.
“Fuck I’m close,” Shane chokes out, half-desperate to come and half-devastated it’s almost over.
“Touch yourself,” Ilya grunts.
“What?”
“Touch your dick. Now”
Yes, sir, Shane thinks, though even in his blissed out haze he’d rather die than give Ilya that leverage. He uses his own precum as lube—god, there’s so much of it—and grips his very sensitive dick. He only has to pull once, twice, and then he’s coming harder than he’s ever come in his life, an electric shock of pleasure hitting every cell of his body.
Angels weep. The heavens part. Little cartoon birds float around his head.
This might be the meaning of life, getting split in two by Ilya Rozanov’s perfect dick.
Ilya’s thrusts speed up, and Shane can tell he’s about to come. The only coherent thought that gets through Shane’s fucked-out brain is that he needs to see it. He needs to see Ilya come.
“Come on me,” he hears himself say. “On my chest.”
Ilya visibly shudders at the order. Then he drops Shane’s legs, which flop uselessly down to the mattress, and pulls out. He rips the condom off, and in a move out of Shane’s wildest fantasies, gathers some of Shane’s cum and uses it to jerk himself off. Shane is left cockdumb, eyes locked on Ilya as he loses rhythm and then stills, moaning loudly as he spurts ropes onto Shane’s already messy stomach and chest.
Then he collapses his full weight forward, knocking an “oof” out of Shane as he nestles his face into Shane’s chest. Shane mindlessly wraps an arm around Ilya’s back. His brain is slowly flickering back on again, but not yet. He will enjoy the cuddling until he remembers why he shouldn’t be doing this.
“You killed me,” Ilya says happily, still panting. “You are murderer after all.”
Shane snorts. “Then it was a murder-suicide. I’m dead too.”
“Like Romeo and Juliet. Very romantic.”
“Romeo and Juliet doesn’t end with a murder suicide. He drank poison, and she stabbed herself because their letters got mixed up in the mail.”
“This is very strange pillow talk, Shane Hollander.”
Ilya tilts his head up, propping his chin on Shane’s shoulder. He’s looking at Shane with something close to fondness, a small smile resting on his kissed-swollen lips. And if Shane leans forward and kisses him once, twice, nipping at his mouth until he laughs, that’s his own business. He’ll leave for his own room soon. In a little bit.
After Ilya cleans them both up with a warm wash-cloth, he settles back, flopping half on top of Shane.
“That was so hot,” Shane says, lightly scratching his nails against Ilya’s ribs. Ilya hums in agreement. “I guess we both won.”
“Won what? Sex? I didn’t realize we were competing at sex.”
“Get a grip,” Shane says, shoving Ilya’s shoulder even as he can feel a blush warming his cheeks. “We’re always competing.”
Ilya shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, and then lays a big one on Shane, his tongue doing things that should violate at least some local laws. “Then I definitely won,” Ilya says when they separate to breathe. “I got to fuck the best hockey player in the league, according to some metrics.”
“So did I.”
“Yeah, but mine is really flexible,” Ilya says, pulling Shane’s leg over his own hip to demonstrate. His fingers trace warm circles into Shane’s skin.
“I do yoga,” Shane explains.
“At lakeside cottage, yes?”
For a moment, Shane is confused at how Ilya could know that. There’s no way that Ilya fucked him so good that he developed mindreading powers, right? That’s not possible. Then, a realization. Shane has only publicly talked about his cottage one time, a few years ago.
“You saw that ESPN video?”
Ilya shrugs. “I jerked off to it.”
And somehow, of all the impossible things that have happened today since Ilya Rozanov sat down next to him on a broken airplane, this is the one that breaks Shane.
He laughs until he has tears in his eyes. Then Ilya’s laughing too. Then they’re making out again and any thoughts of sneaking away back to his own hotel room go right out the window.
***
“Shane!”
“I know.”
“Shane!”
“I’m as surprised as you.”
He sees himself in the corner of his Facetime call with Rose, looking embarrassed but happy. Rose meanwhile looks like he just gave her a really expensive, really shocking present. If they were together, she’d probably be shaking him.
“How was it?”
Shane rubs his hands over his eyes. He can’t look at her while he says this. “We fucked for like an hour. And then we took a break, watched a movie together, and fucked again.”
“So… good, then.”
“Good is an understatement.”
They’d watched Goon together on Ilya’s laptop, Ilya cackling with delight every time blood splattered across the ice. Then Ilya rimmed him and fucked him so hard in the shower that he almost cried. Shane has bruises on both elbows from when his hands gave out against the ceramic tile, stupid and clumsy with desire. It was one of the hottest, most fun nights of Shane’s life.
“I can’t believe you hooked up with a random guy you met on a plane! That’s so slutty of you.”
“I want to protest, but my ass is literally sore today.”
Shane feels a little guilty about not telling her the full truth. But if he’s being honest, he hasn’t fully processed it himself. He left Ilya’s room around sunrise, too tired to do much beyond taking another shower and packing up his carry-on. They shared an Uber to the airport, dozed quietly near each other in the first-class lounge, and both looked a little disappointed when they realized they had been shuffled into separate rows on the new plane.
He didn’t ask Ilya directly, but Shane sensed they both understood this was a one-time unbelievable thing that would turn back into a rivalry when they arrived at the MLH Awards. It didn’t stop Shane from being bummed when he walked into his Vegas hotel room by himself.
“You don’t even need Grindr,” Rose says. “You’re picking up guys all by yourself.” Then she mockingly sighs. “They grow up so fast.”
“Rose, I’m an adult man.”
“A brand new baby, born two days ago.”
“You remember that we had sex, right? A few times.”
She snorts. “Shane, I love you so much that I’m really trying to forget that.”
“Hurtful,” he jokes.
“Hey. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be moping away as my boyfriend, pretending you weren’t gay, and then you wouldn’t have gotten your brains screwed out by your airplane man.” She curls a piece of hair around her finger, seemingly very pleased with herself. “So in many ways, I did you a favor.”
“A big favor. Like shockingly big.”
He holds his hands out to demonstrate, and Rose laughs loudly. Then Shane’s phone pings. Uber.
“I gotta go,” he says, sliding on his jacket. “My car is almost here.”
Rose blows him a kiss. “Tell Scott Hunter congratulations for me.”
“Ha ha,” Shane deadpans. “Love you.”
“Love you too, slut.”
***
The awards go as expected.
The players are loose and quickly tipsy. The non-players are both complimentary and happy to tell Shane exactly what they think, in their expert and executive opinions, went wrong with Montreal this year. Everyone seems very amused that Hollander and Rozanov ended up on the same badly delayed flight.
Surprisingly Ilya himself is harder to pin down. Shane sees him only briefly as everyone’s taking their seats, looking unbelievably handsome in his tux. It’s hard to believe this was the man Shane watched house a tray of fajitas yesterday.
Scott Hunter’s MVP speech is so touching and terrifying that Shane has to go collect himself in the bathroom afterwards. He might not be brave enough to talk to Hunter tonight. He hopes he will be soon.
And now it’s the after party.
Shane is nursing his one glass of champagne while he fields questions from a terrified twenty year old who just lost Rookie of the Year.
“It’s just, Mr. Hollander—”
“Seriously, call me Shane.”
“Shane, Shane Hollander, sir, how do you get past that voice in your head that’s like, ‘Whoa. I’m playing hockey. Fuck.’”
Shane has never had a voice say that in his head ever, but he doesn’t think that’s very comforting.
“Um, it can be tough.”
“And dexterity. You gotta get that going. But what’s the line between dexterity and strength, and also, how do you know?”
“You had a great season,” Shane interrupts, pretending to wave to someone over the kid’s shoulder. “Just work hard, keep your head down, and remember: hockey is fun.”
“That’s amazing. Thank you, Mr. Shane. Hollander. Shit. Can I get a picture?”
Shane poses for the most awkward selfie of all time, and then excuses himself. Thankfully he finds Matheson from Colorado holding court with a group of Canadian players and joins them, happy to stand on the outskirts while they talk at each other.
He keeps thinking about Ilya.
He can’t stop thinking about Ilya.
He thinks about the sex, obviously. It was incredible sex. But it’s the rest of it that’s making him feel so out of sorts. Conversation where he doesn’t have to worry about being too intense or too boring or too focused on hockey. Easy laughter and easier banter. Having a person's focused attention on him and giving it back it spades.
The entire evening felt like an alternate reality where Shane was just a man with a crush on a really hot guy who seemed to like him back.
Who is Shane kidding? He definitely liked him back. He ate his ass in the shower.
Shane drains the rest of his champagne and flags down a waiter to grab a second glass.
He needs to get a grip. If Shane is feeling this stupid about Ilya already, maybe it’s good they only got to do it once. A one-time thing is exciting and romantic and fucking hot. A one-time thing means no broken hearts or hard feelings, just a lot of laughs and a few incredible orgasms. A one-time thing is just what Shane needed.
Shane’s phone vibrates a few times in his hand in quick succession.
Rose: shane hollander
Rose: if there’s even the tiniest chance this means what I think it means………….
Rose: [A screenshot of an Instagram story posted by @ilyarozanov. It’s a selfie where Ilya is smiling brightly while Shane glares at the camera with the caption “Two losers headed to the MLH Awards.”]
Rose: …………………..
Before he can respond to Rose, he receives another text.
+1 (617) 555-8561: let’s play a game
He frowns, glancing around.
Shane: Who is this?
+1 (617) 555-8561: a gifted, sexy, charismatic man who charmed ur number out of carter vaughn
+1 (617) 555-8561: he’s very drunk btw
Shane’s heart flutters. He looks around the room again, seeing hockey player after hockey player (including Vaughn, who is indeed very drunkenly dancing near the bar next to his embarrassed girlfriend). And then he finds him. Lounging back against the wall across the room, his tie off and a few buttons undone on his collar, a small smirk on his face, is Ilya Rozanov. He’s holding his phone. And he’s staring right at Shane.
Shane: You’re an asshole
Shane: Why did you post that picture?
+1 (617) 555-8561: is funny no?
+1 (617) 555-8561: only we know we’re both winners ;)
Another text pops up from Rose but he swipes it away.
Shane: What game do you want to play?
+1 (617) 555-8561: two truths and a lie
Shane: You go first
+1 (617) 555-8561: i had a really great time last night
+1 (617) 555-8561: i want to do it again tonight
+1 (617) 555-8561: i eat a salad every day
Shane looks up at Ilya and smiles.
Ilya smiles back.
Okay, maybe a two-time thing would be fine too.
