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“This is all you are eating? Is not enough, Hollander.”
They’re all sitting around the resort bar after the game. A few guys ordered food - most of them eating the high-calorie shit that hits the spot after playing hard. Only Hollander is picking at a small, unseasoned-looking salmon fillet and a little scoop of brown rice.
Shane bristles. “Fuck off. I work with a nutritionist and a trainer. I eat what - what I'm supposed to eat.”
“It is one meal. Off season.”
“And I have that photoshoot next week-”
“I will get you so fat before then. Round.”
Shane's face burns. “Shut up.”
Ilya knew what it was like, cutting weight. Eating the smallest bites possible to fool your brain into feeling less hungry once all the food was gone. He didn't even really know why he was picking on Hollander’s meal, except that he was turning that shade of pink under his freckles that made Ilya’s jaw ache, made him want to herd Shane up against a wall. Fuck.
“You will be reclining, like goddess in painting, and I, with the -” he mimes holding the stem of an invisible bunch of grapes, above Shane's head.
Pike chuckles, awkward. Ilya forgot he was here. He wants to shove him off his barstool. “Yeah, Shane's like, super specific about food. My wife has gotten, like, really good at cooking his weird meals.”
Pike’s wife cooks for Hollander? Something about that rankles. “Your teammates WAGs are feeding you?”
Pike’s voice goes all bitchy. As though Ilya was even speaking to him. “Shane and I are buddies, so he comes to my house for dinner. You know, like friends do. Probably don’t have any of those, Rozanov, since you’re such an asshole?”
Shane's kind of gritting his teeth. “Hayd, it’s fine. He’s just...”
“Just leaving, anyway.” Ilya claps Pike on the shoulder hard, then winks at Shane. “See you, Captain. See you don’t waste away.” He saunters off to find a drink, thinking about how he can invite Shane to his room tonight. As he walks off he hears Pike muttering, “God, that guy is such a fucking dick.”
Hollander doesn’t say anything, but he does text Ilya later. To ask for his room number.
-
Ilya gets him up against the wall, too fast, too eager. He wills his heart to slow, pushing up Shane’s shirt to feel his smooth skin over lithe musculature.
Hollander pants into his mouth. “What the fuck was that?”
“Is what?”
“The thing about - feeding me!”
Ilya shrugs. “You are always looking so frail to me, Hollander.”
“Oh, shut up. Fuck you.”
“Weak. Like you are wasting away.”
“I’m not, you know that’s bullshit.”
“I am, what is it, pulling my punches with you, as you’re fragile-”
“Shut! the fuck! up!” Shane laughs, breathless, as Ilya's strong hands shove his shirt up and over his head.
“Is no wonder you’re so hungry for my cock. You are starving. Ah, Hollander, fuck.” Shane sinks to his knees, as if proving Ilya’s point.
-
“Imagine you with just ten, fifteen more pounds.” They’re laying naked and sweating on the bed, still out of breath.
“What? Why?” Shane squirms. Ilya brushes his lower belly, grips his hips.
“Not enough to slow you down on the ice. You would hit harder that way. You would have something right here for me to hold, yes?”
“I’m the right weight for my height.”
“And your tits-” Ilya gets a good handful, squeezes a squeak out of him.
“Oh, my god! Quit!”
“Don’t be shy, Hollander. Your tits are already perfect.”
“It would all go to my belly anyway,” Shane gripes. “I’d look-”
Ilya’s eyes get bright. His face is somehow both gleeful and predatory. “Da?”
“Shut up.” Shane’s face hadn’t lost its rosy, post-coital glow, but if it had, it’d be heating up again.
“No, no. How would you look?”
“Shut up, dude, oh my god.”
But Ilya’s behind him, cradling his belly. He noses at Shane’s neck, his ear, making him ticklish. He whispers. “You’d look pregnant, yes?”
Shane bites down on the sounds he’s making, wishing vainly that Ilya didn’t track him so perfectly. He’s deadly. He latches onto the breathy whine that Shane makes and groans, rubbing his hardening cock against Shane’s ass.
“So round,” he sighs, dreamily.
“I’m not,” Shane protests. A horrible warmth is writhing inside him.
“You could be.”
“I - no -”
“I get you full of me. And you’ll be hungry, growing my strong baby. I would be feeding you. All day.”
“Oh, god.”
“You like this.”
“No...” Shane tries to ignore how his cock is twitching in Rozanov’s hand.
“Pike knows about us, da?”
“What? No, of course he fucking doesn’t. Why would you say that?”
“You are such bad liar, I just thought-”
“Dude. Fuck off. Ilya.” Humiliation burns in his belly as Shane’s hips shift back and forth. Rozanov moans into his neck.
“And after I get you pregnant, everyone will know. They will know you open your legs for me. Da, like that.”
The thought is too much. Too confusing, too hot, too humiliating. Shane needs him now.
“Come on, come on.”
“Tell me.”
“Fuck me, Rozanov.”
“You need this?”
“I need it. You know I need it.” Shane hates how breathless he sounds, how helpless. He can’t stop it, though, not with Ilya rolling him over onto his belly, pushing him down with his weight.
“You need me to make you full? Fuck, Shane!” Ilya gasps as Shane bucks back against him, arches his back.
He talks a big game, but Rozanov is breathless, too. Eager. Groaning against Shane’s skin as he opens him up, intense and intentional and focused.
They’d already gotten off once so it takes forever the second time, which Shane’s grateful for. He writhes back on Rozanov’s cock, moaning unreservedly into the scratchy hotel sheets, drinking in the thick accented words. It’s only once Rozanov’s really starting to come undone that he slips and starts muttering in Russian again.
“Yeah, come on, Rozy, yeah,” Shane’s panting. “Get me - get -”
“Say it, fuck, Hollander. You want it so bad.”
“Give it to me, please, Ilya, I need - fuck, get me pregnant, come in me-”
Ilya erupts in a stream of curses and one muttered, desperate Shane. His sharp, arrhythmic thrusts send Shane over the edge, clutching his dick in his hand, spending onto the blanket beneath him.
They fall together in a panting, sweating pile. Rozanov’s hand is soft and sweet on his flank, his hip, his ass, until he lands one sharp smack against his thigh.
Shane jumps and makes a pretty unmanly sound. He bites his lip.
“You like it,” Ilya grins, slow and crooked.
Shane rolls his eyes. He catches his smart mouth in a kiss, just to shut him up.
They kiss, warm and languid, for long minutes. Shane shivers, come cooling on his skin and shame cooling in his belly. Rozanov feels him stiffen.
“I should go,” Shane mutters.
Rozanov shrugs. “Could stay.”
Shane wants to, badly. “No.”
Rozanov looks around the room, casual. “Always you are taking only half of what you want, da?”
Shane sits up jerkily. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Okay, Hollander.”
“It’s - this is - we can’t just, like...”
Rozanov scoots to the edge of the bed and hooks his chin over Shane’s shoulder. “Eat until we’re full?”
Shane scowls. That’s the problem. He’s never been full. Never.
Except when it’s Ilya filling him. And then that’s over, and he’s left feeling even emptier, more carved out.
Shane has self-control. He does. He’s maybe the best in the league. He didn’t get this far by cheating on his diet and he’s not letting Rozanov talk him into -
Well. He doesn’t have a lot of self control when it comes to Ilya Rozanov.
Rozanov reads it all in his face. He brushes a thumb over Shane’s cheekbone, featherlight.
“Okay.” He smiles. Cocky, a little edgy, and that’s safe enough that Shane can stand and dress himself. He sighs as he goes to open the door, glancing back at Rozanov, gorgeous and still naked on the bed. He’s got to get out now, while he still can.
“Goodnight, Hollander.”
“Night, Rozanov.”