Chapter Six #2
The whistle blew and Shane just locked on to those targets. He watched each one burst apart with four perfect shots.
Six. Point. Seven. Seconds.
The crowd went wild. Shane threw his arms over his head and celebrated more than was probably necessary or sportsmanlike, but fuck, it felt good.
He smirked at Rozanov as he skated back to his teammates. Rozanov wasn’t smiling now, but the look in his eyes was...
Shane flushed and turned his attention to his teammates.
His contribution to the competition completed, Shane could now just relax and enjoy himself as he watched the others battle each other.
He would like to say his gradual movement down the line in front of the bench to where the two teams met was not deliberate, but that would be a lie.
And it seemed he wasn’t the only one making that journey.
Shane leaned casually against the boards at the end of the bench, pretending to focus on the players competing for hardest shot, instead of on the man who was standing a couple of feet from him.
“Nice job, Hollander,” Rozanov drawled.
“Thanks.”
“Have fun last night?”
“Last night?”
“With your teammates. Dinner somewhere? Get drunk?”
Shane looked down at the ice. “Oh. Yeah. It was fun. Um...how about you guys?”
“Lots of fun. No fucking Canadians or Americans. Was perfect.”
“Ah.”
He turned his gaze to Rozanov’s face. No one wore helmets for the skills competition, since there was no actual body contact, and Shane could admire the profile of his chiseled jaw, and the soft curls of his hair.
“Going to bed early tonight. I think,” Rozanov said suddenly.
Shane’s mouth went a little dry. “Oh?”
“Yes.”
They stood in silence, watching the action on the ice. Loud music blared and the crowd cheered as another record was broken.
Rozanov leaned down. His breath ghosted over Shane’s ear when he said, in a low voice, “Twelve twenty-one.”
A shiver ran through Shane’s body, and before it had even left him, Rozanov was gone. Shane watched him skate down the ice to talk to a fellow Russian player.
Shane hoped he wasn’t blushing.
“The fuck did Rozanov want?” asked Liam Casey, a defenseman for Pittsburgh.
“Nothing,” Shane said quickly. “Just shit-talking, you know?”
“Guy’s a fucking asshole.”
“Yeah,” he said.
Ilya wasn’t surprised at all when the knock came.
It was late. After midnight. He had been back in his room for almost two hours.
Hollander pushed into the room as soon as Ilya opened the door. He turned and flipped the bar latch as if someone was going to burst in any moment.
He looked terrified.
“Is there a ghost out there?” Ilya asked, amused.
“No. Fuck you. This is fucking dangerous and you know it.”
“Is it? We are not doing anything.”
Hollander looked at him hard. His dark eyes were a mixture of anger and lust. Ilya decided to drop the act.
“You came anyway,” he said.
“Yeah,” Hollander said, his voice tight and full of forced courage. “I guess I did.”
Ilya nodded, and then Hollander swore under his breath and lunged forward to kiss him. He grabbed Ilya’s T-shirt in a tight fist and pulled him closer.
Ilya moaned at the hot slide of Hollander’s tongue against his. He tugged roughly on the hair at the back of Hollander’s head, tipping his head back so he could deepen the kiss.
They broke apart and Hollander looked at him, eyes wild and dark hair a mess, silently begging for instruction.
“On your knees,” Ilya said softly, just to see what he would do.
Expecting Hollander to tell him to fuck off, Ilya’s breath caught in his throat as he watched him sink fluidly to the floor. His gaze stayed on Ilya. Those eyes that were always so sharp were now hazy with desire as he leaned forward to nuzzle and mouth at the bulge in Ilya’s sweatpants.
“Christ, Hollander,” Ilya breathed, gently pulling at Hollander’s hair as he pressed hot, openmouthed kisses to the fabric that pulled tight over Ilya’s erection.
He felt dizzy and less in control than he wanted to be as Hollander tucked fingers into Ilya’s waistband and pulled down until Ilya’s cock was freed.
Hollander didn’t hesitate. He dragged his tongue up the length before wrapping his lips around the head and sinking down.
Ilya couldn’t even make a smart remark. He just gasped and let his head fall back, completely overwhelmed by Hollander’s need for this.
He certainly didn’t have the ability to conjure English words right now.
Hollander reached a hand up and slid it, fingers splayed, under the hem of Ilya’s T-shirt.
He pushed the shirt up until Ilya took the hint and pulled it off over his head.
He carefully stepped out of his sweatpants, Hollander’s mouth never leaving him, and planted a hand on the back of Hollander’s head.
He was careful not to hold him too firmly in place.
This wasn’t control—Ilya just wanted to touch him.
To let the silky strands of his hair slip through his fingers as Hollander gave in to what he had clearly been craving.
Hollander’s hands wandered as he sucked him.
His touch was light and curious, his fingertips almost tickling Ilya as he explored his thighs and hips and around to his ass.
Ilya wondered how far Hollander was willing to go with him.
He wondered if he’d done anything with another man since their last time.
The desperate, unskilled motion of his mouth and the slight tremble in his hands suggested that he hadn’t.
The idea that Ilya was probably the only one who ever saw him like this—that he was the only person in the entire fucking world who knew what it felt like to have those pretty pink lips wrapped around his cock...
Ilya swore in Russian and pulled away. He grabbed Hollander by the front of his shirt and hauled him up, kissing him roughly before throwing him on the bed. He wanted to know how much he would give him tonight.
Hollander stared up at him, lips dark and wet and parted. His hair was everywhere. Ilya just stood there and watched him toe off his sneakers, never breaking eye contact. Hollander was breathing heavily, as if he wasn’t one of the most physically fit people on the planet.
Ilya bit his lip and watched him pull his shirt off. In seconds Ilya was covering him on the bed with his body, and kissing him hungrily.
Ilya had always been this way. He loved sex, and he loved it more when it was dangerous—when it was with someone he knew he shouldn’t be with. Whether that was his coach’s son, or his brother’s girlfriend, or his teammate’s sister, Ilya couldn’t resist a bad idea.
And Shane Hollander was a bad fucking idea. The worst idea. Wrong in every way imaginable. Two men. Two NHL players, poised to be the two biggest stars in the league soon enough. Two bitter rivals on opposing teams that had hated each other for almost a hundred years.
Plus, Ilya hated this guy. He hated his pretty boy face and his perfect goddamned English and his perfect goddamned French and his loving parents and his polite little manners and his million-dollar smile.
He hated how serious he was. How earnest. He was everything the league wanted from their stars.
Ilya kissed his dumb mouth and swallowed his stupid little sighs and felt his annoying fingers in his hair. He pulled back so he could look at his horrible face with its ridiculous freckles.
Fuck.
Ilya kissed him again so he wouldn’t have to think about him. He wanted to fuck him. God, would Hollander let him fuck him?
They kissed each other frantically, rolling and taking turns straddling each other and pulling off what was left of Hollander’s clothes in the process.
Ilya kissed his way down his body and took him into his mouth.
Hollander’s hips jerked off the bed, nearly forcing Ilya off him, but Ilya held on.
He sucked him and enjoyed the desperate noises he pulled out of him.
He let his fingers trail down below Hollander’s balls. He tapped one finger against his puckered opening and waited for a reaction. Hollander’s body stilled on the bed, so Ilya drew light circles around his hole, just a casual suggestion.
He could feel Hollander tense up. He was completely silent now. Ilya pulled his mouth off him and looked up at his face.
“Have you ever?” Ilya asked.
Hollander shook his head.
“Would you like to?”
“I don’t know.”
“You are scared.”
“No! No, I’m not scared.”
“Is okay to be.”
Hollander exhaled loudly. “I’m not scared,” he said again.
“Have you ever touched yourself,” Ilya asked, circling his finger again, “here?”
Hollander’s face flushed bright red, and Ilya grinned.
“Jesus Christ,” Hollander muttered.
“You are embarrassed.”
“Well!”
“You don’t play with your ass? It makes you gay?”
“Oh my fucking god...”
“You know what makes you gayer?”
“Rozanov...shut the fuck—”
“Sucking my dick. You were doing that a minute ago.”
Hollander sat up. “I’ve played with it, all right? I’ve—I’ve got a...thing.”
“A thing?”
“A dildo! Okay?”
Ilya grinned so hard it hurt. “What color?”
“Fuck you!”
“Is it big?”
“I’m leaving.”
Hollander moved to get off the bed. Ilya quickly covered him and pinned him back down. He held him down by the wrists, and Hollander made a halfhearted attempt to fight him off, but stopped when Ilya kissed him.
“I want to fuck you, Hollander,” Ilya said against his ear.
Hollander shuddered, and Ilya was sure he was going to say yes, but instead, “I...no. I can’t. Not here.”
Ilya considered his answer, and nodded. Not here. Not in a hotel surrounded by their fellow NHL players. By the media. By fans. Not now, when they would both have to be as close to silent as possible when Ilya entered him for the first time...
“Okay,” Ilya said, nipping at his throat. “Next time, then.”
Hollander snorted, but he was smiling hopefully. “Next time?”
Ilya shrugged one shoulder. “We play in Montreal in two weeks.”
“That doesn’t mean we can... I mean, how would we? Where would we?”
“Are you homeless?”
“No.”
“Well then...”
“So, what? You’re just gonna sneak out of your hotel? What will you tell your teammates?”
“The fucking truth! I’m going to get laid! Like every city we play in!”
Hollander’s brow furrowed. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
“So...after the game you just want me to wait at home for you?” Hollander’s voice was tight, like he was angry about something.
Ilya rolled his eyes. He had no idea why they were wasting time talking right now anyway. “Yes! Wait for me. I will come to your house and fuck you.”
Hollander looked embarrassed again. “It’s an apartment,” he mumbled.
“Jesus! Fine! I will fuck you in your apartment. Can we get back to things now?”
“Yes.” Hollander frowned. “But...”
“But?”
“In the shower. The water will drown out...anything.”
Rozanov huffed, but it was actually a good idea.
“Yes,” he said, springing off the bed and onto his feet, “but hurry the fuck up.”
Hollander shoved him as he walked by, leading the way to the bathroom.
He turned the water on, and as they waited for it to get hot, Ilya kissed him against the closed door until Hollander shoved him away so he could pull Ilya into the shower.
He slammed Ilya against the tile and wrapped a hand around his cock as he kissed him.
Ilya grinned against his mouth. This was the Shane Hollander he wanted: competitive, aggressive.
“Your hands are so soft,” Ilya said. “Like a girl’s.”
“Fuck you.”
Ilya laughed. Hollander jerked him harder, as if trying to prove how strong and masculine his hands were.
Ilya bit his own lip and gave up teasing his rival. For now. He reached for Hollander and they brought each other off frantically and roughly in the shower, letting the rush of water muffle their English and Russian profanity.
Hollander got dressed quickly when they were done. Ilya stood with a towel wrapped around his waist, waiting to hear what Hollander would say.
“Um...”
Ilya didn’t say anything back. He waited.
“I know we said...about Montreal...but...”
Ilya crossed his arms and leaned against a wall.
“We probably shouldn’t,” Hollander finished.
“No?”
“No. I mean...obviously, right?”
Ilya watched Hollander run a nervous hand through his damp hair.
“It’s stupid,” Hollander said, more to himself than to Ilya. “This is stupid. I don’t know why we did this. Again.”
Ilya walked slowly toward him. When he reached him, he put a hand on the side of his face and tilted his head until he could look directly in his eyes. “Give me your phone.”
“My phone?” Hollander asked weakly.
“Yes.”
Hollander fumbled the phone out of his pocket and handed it to Ilya. Ilya took it and entered his number into Hollander’s contacts, under the name Lily. Hollander snorted when he saw it.
“Who should I be?” he asked as he picked up Ilya’s phone from the dresser. “Shannon?”
“Jane,” Ilya said.
“Jesus Christ,” Hollander muttered as he typed.
“No. Just Jane.”
Hollander glared at him as he handed his phone back. “This isn’t a yes, just so you know,” he said.
“It will be.”
Hollander shook his head, but Ilya could tell he was fighting a smile.
“Good luck tomorrow,” Hollander said.
“Sure.”
Hollander turned to open the door, but stopped. “Hey, um...you wanna take a look out there and see if the coast is clear?”
Ilya couldn’t quite translate his words. “Sorry?”
“Just...take a look and see if the hall is empty. I don’t want anyone to see me coming out of your room!”
Ilya opened the door enough to stick his head out. “Empty.”
Hollander blew out a breath. “Okay. Well...bye.”
“Good night.”
Hollander nodded. And left.