Chapter Twenty-Five #2
“Like where?” Ilya could see the thoughts play out on Shane’s face like a movie: What if we played together in Montreal? No. Montreal couldn’t afford both of us.
“Not Montreal,” Ilya said gently.
“No. I know.”
But good god, now Ilya was imagining that. Playing together, living together, being together.
It was never going to happen.
But it was a nice thought.
“I could marry Svetlana,” Ilya said, out of nowhere. It was the following night, and they were playing pool.
Shane frowned at the three ball that just missed the side pocket. He would have made that shot if Ilya hadn’t just casually dropped his worst nightmare on him.
“Oh?” Shane asked calmly.
“She is American, so it would mean American citizenship, but she would do it.”
“Would she?”
“I think so. Yes. She is Sergei Vetrov’s daughter. Did you know?”
“What? Really?”
“Yes. She would help me.”
Shane watched Ilya sink the twelve ball. And then the fourteen ball. He felt like snapping his own cue over his knee.
“Do you—I mean—is she someone that you would...want to marry?”
Ilya straightened his posture and looked at him. “I like Svetlana, yes. But it would be for citizenship.”
“But,” Shane said. He had to say this next part. It had been eating away at him for too long. “You want to get married, right? To a woman, I mean. You’re not...like me. You like women. And I’m sure... Svetlana is gorgeous and fun and...all that stuff. Right?”
“Yes,” Ilya said. “I do. She is. But.”
“But?”
Ilya shrugged, and he looked like he was possibly blushing. “I have this problem,” he mumbled.
Shane waited.
“I like women. I always was thinking that to get married would be nice. Kids. All of that. Someday. But...this problem will not go away.”
Shane bit his lip. “Tell me about this problem.”
“Is so annoying.” Ilya sighed, and Shane could see him fighting a grin. “Always I am with beautiful women. Wonderful women. Everywhere.”
“Sounds rough.”
“Yes. Listen. These women, they are so sexy and fun, but is no matter. I cannot stop thinking about this short fucking hockey player with these stupid freckles and a weak backhand.”
“A weak backhand?” Shane couldn’t stop smiling.
“Yes. And he is just so boring and he drives a terrible car and...that is my problem. All of these beautiful women and I am always wishing they were him.”
Ilya bent to take his third shot. “Is terrible problem.”
Fuck. Shane was going start crying right here in his games room. He swallowed and steadied himself. “Do you want the problem to go away?”
“No,” Ilya said seriously, looking Shane dead in the eye. “I do not want the problem to ever go away.”
“Don’t marry Svetlana,” Shane blurted out.
Ilya raised an eyebrow.
“Just...don’t. I know it wouldn’t be...for love or whatever. But don’t. I couldn’t—we can figure something else out, okay?”
Ilya looked surprised, but he nodded.
“Okay.”
“I was thinking,” Ilya said. It was late morning the next day, and they were sitting on the deck with coffee. “If I played for a team that was not Boston. Maybe in the west. The rivalry would not be such a big deal.”
Shane seemed to consider this. “That’s true. We’d only play against each other twice a year.”
He frowned and Ilya knew he didn’t like that idea any more than he did. We’d only see each other twice a year.
“Is...like, sacrifice. For future gain, yes?”
Shane brightened. “Future gain?”
“Yes. Our rivalry has been huge. But maybe we can help it to...fade away? A little?”
“Yeah...” Shane said. He was getting excited. “Yeah! I don’t like the idea of you being so far, but we could make people forget all about us as rivals and maybe no one would care about us at all one day.”
“One day. Yes.”
Shane smiled shyly at him, and Ilya grinned back, and they both sat there, smiling stupidly at each other while they thought about the possibility of one day.
“I have another idea,” Shane said. He’d been thinking about what Ilya had proposed all day and he had come up with a plan of his own. He propped himself up on an elbow and poked the sleepy Russian in the shoulder.
Ilya rolled over. “What idea? About what?”
“What if you played for Ottawa?”
“Ottawa? Is almost as bad as playing for Boston. We would be rivals just the same.”
“Yes, but listen. First of all, Ottawa desperately needs a star center, so there’s an opening there. But what if you played there and we...changed the narrative a bit?”
“The what? What the fuck with these words, Hollander? I’m tired.”
“Sorry. I just mean...we would still be rivals on the ice, but we wouldn’t have to pretend to be enemies.
I mean, lots of guys have friends all over the league.
But we’re, like, the only guys who have this whole story built around them where we can’t stand each other and love nothing more than destroying each other every time our teams meet. ”
“That story was kind of true, for a long time, Hollander.”
Shane smiled a little. “Yeah, well. It’s not true now. I think it’s safe to say that, right?”
“Sure.”
“There are going to be new players—younger players—and new rivalries will form. Do we really need to keep this dance up until we both retire?”
Ilya’s brow furrowed. “Is very late, Hollander. This is a lot of English. What is your idea?”
“You play for Ottawa, I play for Montreal. Those cities are two hours apart. We start a charity together, you and me. Something that benefits both cities. So now people see us working together on something. We make up some story about how I approached you with this idea, and—”
“Or I approached you.”
“Whatever. The point is, we tell the press, the fans, everyone, that by working together on the cause that means so much to both of us, we have developed a mutual respect for each other...”
“Yes. And also we are fucking each other. Any questions?”
“Fuck off! This is a great idea, Rozanov!”
Ilya laughed. Shane hit him with a pillow.
“Is not bad,” Ilya finally conceded. “So we start this charity...”
“And it wouldn’t be bullshit either. I’ve been wanting to start one anyway. We’ll do something that means a lot to both of us.”
“Yes. Okay.”
“We still play hard against each other on the ice, obviously. I mean, I am never going to stop enjoying beating your ass.”
Ilya snorted. “Sure.”
“And...like I said. We’re two hours away from each other. All year.”
He wanted Ilya to see this vision as clearly as he could. It seemed tantalizingly possible. Easy, even.
“And you’d be in Canada. And you could apply for citizenship eventually.”
“Yes. I understand that part.”
“And maybe...someday. When we both retire. We can...be together. For real.”
Ilya looked stunned by that part. “You really think that far ahead, Hollander?”
“I do about this.”
“You want that? To be together?”
“I do. So much it terrifies me.”
Ilya turned his face away from Shane, and was silent. Cold dread flooded Shane’s stomach; he had admitted too much.
But Ilya turned back and quickly rolled on top of Shane and was kissing him and kissing him and kept murmuring the same thing in Russian over and over again until he pulled back and translated:
“I love you.”
Shane froze. And then Ilya froze.
“Holy shit,” Shane whispered. It wasn’t how he had meant to respond.
“I...” Ilya’s eyes were so wide and so scared.
“I love you too,” Shane said.
Ilya gave a shaky smile and exhaled. “Thank Christ.”
“Does it...does it feel like agony for you too?”
Ilya started to nod, then stopped. He shook his head slowly instead.
“Not anymore.”
Ilya felt like his smile was going to split his face. He was overwhelmingly happy.
Shane was beaming up at him, eyes bright and freckles crinkled, and Ilya loved him. And Shane loved him.
Holy fucking shit.
Shane Hollander is in love with me.
He wanted to kiss him, but he couldn’t stop looking at him.
“How could we let this happen?” Ilya asked, and his voice was shakier than he would have liked.
“I don’t know. We are very stupid and irresponsible.”
“Very dumb, yes. Oh god, Hollander.” And then he did kiss him. How could he not?
Ilya got the urge to pin him down, as if he would disappear if Ilya didn’t keep a tight grip on him. He wrapped his fingers around Shane’s wrists and held them to the pillow on either side of Shane’s head.
“This is real, yes?” Ilya asked. He just had to make sure.
“It’s real,” Shane said. His voice was low and adorably scratchy.
“I feel like... I am dreaming?”
“You’re not. I love you.”
Ilya wasn’t sure his heart could take any more of this. It felt like it was pushing up against his lungs, making it hard to breathe. Hard to think. Hard to do anything except hold Shane down and kiss him over and over again.
Shane’s back bowed against the mattress, and he pressed his rigid cock against Ilya’s thigh. “I want to be as close as possible to you,” he said breathlessly.
“You are.”
“No. I want...”
“Tell me.”
“I want to be in your lap when you fuck me. Facing you. Holding you. I...ahh. Fuck, yes...”
He trailed off when Ilya wrapped his hand around both of their cocks.
“I want that too,” Ilya said. “I love you.”
They moved quickly, Ilya sitting with his back against the headboard and Shane straddling his lap. They kissed for a long time like that, as Ilya continued to stroke their cocks together.
“Oh god,” Shane shuddered. “I have to—you have to stop. I need you inside me.”
“Mm. Not yet. Stroke yourself for me.”
“Can’t. Ilya, I’ll come. I swear—”
“Stroke yourself. A little. I think you can do it and not come.”
Ilya had no idea why he got so much enjoyment from causing Shane distress, but he did. He loved to see him all agitated and struggling to keep control.
“If you love me...” Ilya added obnoxiously.
Shane’s eyes narrowed. “I’m starting to question that.”
Ilya shook his head, grinning. “You love me. Show me how much. Stroke yourself and maybe I will fuck you.”
As if there was even a chance that Ilya wouldn’t.
Shane wrapped trembling fingers around his cock and very carefully dragged them up the length of his shaft. Ilya gasped at this display of obedience. He knew Shane wasn’t lying about how dangerously close he was. His slit was dripping precome.
“I love how fucking wet you get, Shane.”
“Sh-shut up.” Shane’s whole body was shaking. “I’m trying to concentrate.”
Ilya chuckled. “Your dick wants you to go faster.”
“Can’t go faster,” Shane gritted out.
Ilya lightly cupped Shane’s balls, causing Shane to hiss out a breath and a string of profanity. “So tight, Hollander. Keep going.”
Shane whimpered. “You bastard. You have to fuck me.”
“Soon.”
“Now.”
A fresh bead of precome spurted out and Ilya caught it on his fingertip. Shane watched, wide-eyed, as Ilya sucked the finger into his mouth.
“God, Ilya. You are—fuck. Would you please fuck me?” Shane panted.
All right. Enough was enough. Ilya reached for the lube and a condom from the bedside table and got himself ready.
And, oh, god, when Shane sank down on him, his whole body trembling with need, it was the most incredible thing Ilya had ever felt. He rocked up into Shane’s body as Shane held Ilya’s face and kissed him.
He felt Shane everywhere.
Shane braced himself with a hand on the headboard, and the other on Ilya’s shoulder, and used all of his considerable strength to ride the hell out of Ilya’s cock. He trapped Ilya’s hips between his solid thighs, and pounded that perfect ass down on Ilya’s lap over and over and fuck.
Shane threw his head back, and Ilya watched his cock bounce in the space between them. Ilya wondered if Shane would shoot instantly if he touched it.
He wondered if Shane would shoot anyway, without any contact on his glistening cock.
“So good, Ilya. Holy shit. Fuck. I am so fucking close.”
And suddenly Ilya realized that he was too. He had the endurance of a stallion with most partners, but he couldn’t ever seem to control his body when he was with Shane.
“Do it, fuck. Give it to me, Hollander. I’m right there.”
“I love you. I love you. Oh, shit. Here it comes—”
They both cried out as Shane’s release splashed against Ilya’s chest. His body spasmed around Ilya’s cock and Ilya was hurled over the edge, coming hard with a garbled “I love you.”
“Oh my god,” Shane wheezed. His forehead landed on Ilya’s shoulder. “That was perfect.”
“Yes. Perfect.” Ilya wrapped his arms around him and held him tight. As close as possible.
Eventually, Shane eased off him, and Ilya disposed of the condom. They cuddled together in bed, both men quiet and sleepy and deliriously happy.
“What was your mother’s name?” Shane asked suddenly. His fingers were tracing the chain around Ilya’s neck.
“Irina.” Ilya hadn’t said her name in so long, it felt strange in his mouth. “Why?”
“I was just thinking.” He propped himself up on an elbow. “The charity we start, I think we should start a hockey school. Like, we could have summer hockey camps in Ottawa and Montreal.”
“And we give the money away?”
“Yeah. I think we should give the money to mental health organizations. Maybe...suicide prevention?”
Shane was looking away, as if he were embarrassed, but Ilya held his chin and guided his face toward him.
“It was just an idea,” Shane said quietly.
And Ilya was not going to cry right now.
“Shane,” he said, “I love that idea.”
“Yeah?” Shane smiled.
“Yes. It’s very...” Fuck. What was the right word? Was there a right word for everything Ilya was feeling in that moment? He couldn’t think of one, so instead he said, “She would have loved you.”
“I wish I could have met her.”
“Yes. Me too.”
Shane yawned and snuggled against Ilya’s chest. “Sorry. I’m exhausted.”
“My fault, I suppose.”
“Absolutely your fault. But I forgive you,” Shane said with another yawn.
“Good night, Hollander.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Mm. Can you say it in Russian again?”
Ilya pulled Shane’s hand to his lips and kissed his fingers. “Ya lyublyu tebya.”
“Ya-loo-blue-tee-baa,” Shane murmured back.
Ilya laughed, and turned off the lamp.