Chapter Text
Boston, July 2025
"Shane Hollander is retiring."
Ilya rolled over to look at his wife. Svetlana was next to him in bed in one of his old Boston t-shirts. She was staring at her phone, scrolling rapidly.
"What do you mean, Hollander is retiring?" Ilya scooted closer to Svetlana, attempting to read over her shoulder. "We are 34, is too early to retire. He won the Stanley Cup three years ago!"
"And hardly made the playoffs this year." Svetlana's eyes remained locked on her phone. "He was out a few games in the middle of the season."
Ilya flopped back onto his pillow. He felt strangely winded. He had hardly seen Hollander outside the rink in more than a decade, but he found himself unable to imagine playing hockey without him.
He thought back to the last time he'd seen — really seen — Hollander. Hollander had Illya's cock in his mouth. Ilya could still remember the blend of annoyance and need on Hollander's face, the tears in the corner of his eyes. Ilya had wanted to dominate him, to take him apart, to wreck him and then put him back —
Svetlana interrupted the memory.
"Man in the Crease is saying his contract was up, and Voyagers were considering a trade. Hollander wanted to end his career in Montreal."
"Idiots." Ilya buried himself back under the covers, turning away from Svetlana. "No Hollander, no Cup."
"Are you finally ready to admit that Hollander is a good hockey player?"
Ilya grunted.
"Not that good," he said. "Just better than the rest."
Ilya could feel Svetlana looking at his back. After six years of marriage, she could read him well — better, sometimes, than Ilya would like.
"You alright?" she asked in Russian.
Ilya did not respond.
Svetlana knew about Hollander. At least, she knew some of what had happened between Hollander and her husband.
He hadn't planned to tell her. But Sveta had been in Montreal in 2017 when Hollander was carted off the ice on a spinal board. Ilya had proposed to her a month before, and she had been traveling to more of his games. ("So we aren't accused of marriage fraud," Sventlana had said. "Or you could just stop fucking random men from Tinder," Ilya retorted. Svetlanda smiled. "I'd rather watch more hockey.")
Back in the hotel room, Ilya had been a nightmare. He rewatched the clip of Hollander being hit, again and again. He slammed drawers and closet doors. He left Cliff a voicemail, calling him a fucking idiot. By the time Ilya had drunk through half of the minibar, Svetlana had reached her limit.
"What is going on with you and Hollander?" she'd asked.
Ilya had tried to shrug away from his fiancé, but Svetlana grabbed him and wouldn’t let go. Looking at his hands in hers, Ilya realized he was shaking.
"You tell me," Svetlana demanded. "It will not scare me. You are my family."
He had taken a sip of vodka. It was a hook-up, years ago, he had said. They'd stopped before the Sochi Olympics. The risk wasn't worth it. It would destroy both of their careers. He'd told Hollander he'd never tell anyone. Svetlana was the only time he'd broken that promise.
"You should go see him, tomorrow," Svetlana had told him.
Ilya didn't visit Hollander in the hospital. But he did open an old text chain on his phone, one he revisited at least once a month.
That night he sent his first text in three years: "Hope you are okay."
Three days later, he received a text back from Jane.
"Thank you. I am."
Ilya looked over at his wife. Her phone was finally off. She appeared to be sleeping, sprawled across the bed, somehow taking up more room than Ilya.
Svetlana was beautiful. Ilya loved her big, brown eyes and the little crease between her eyebrows. He loved that she left him alone when he was sulking, and he loved that she refused to let him sulk alone when she noticed him sinking into a depression. He loved that she was never upset if he left the club with another girl and that she found bringing a third into their bedroom just as hot as he did. He loved listening to her trash his hockey rivals and the feeling of her delicate hands running through his curls.
But that night, Ilya did not want to think about his wife. He closed his eyes and let himself think about Hollander.
--
Boston, January 2014
The second Ilya unlocked the hotel room door, Hollander was shoving his way inside.
To be fair, Ilya had taken his time walking to the door. He had been annoyed with Hollander for how thoroughly he'd managed to worm his way into Ilya's brain. The memory of Hollander coming without Ilya even touching his dick had played on loop in his mind the last month: Hollander's ridiculous spiel about a real estate investment, the blush in his cheeks, those stupid freckles. Ilya sometimes felt as if every moment of his day was spent either preparing for the Olympics or remembering the noises Hollander made when he came.
The Olympics were going to be an endless parade of Hollander's face on posters and footage of Hollander's body pressed against the boards. Thinking about Hollander in the same stadium as his father made Ilya feel as if he missed a stair, a sick drop in his gut. Hollander was locked in one box in Ilya's brain. His fucked up family was locked firmly in another. The idea that the two might ever collide had started waking Ilya up in the night, nauseous from a dream he couldn't quite remember.
Ilya tried to distract himself, but every morning, he woke up wired. He jerked off to the memory of Hollander's eyelashes fluttering, his eyes squeezing shut as Ilya entered him. He spent his days lifting weights and ignoring phone calls from his brother. He chewed pack after pack of nicotine gum.
A frantic electricity built under Ilya's skin, impossible to ignore. Ilya could only think of one solution.
He needed to fuck Hollander before he left for Sochi.
In the hotel room, Hollander seemed similarly desperate. He slammed the door shut, grabbing at Ilya's shirt.
"Don't have much time," he said. "Early flight."
"Ah, Team America needs their beauty rest," Ilya said. He ran his hand through Hollander's hair, pulling slightly. Ilya noticed a moan Hollander attempted to stifle. He pulled harder, then leaned in to press a hard kiss at the corner of Hollander's jaw.
"Fuck, Rozanov."
Hollander was nearly vibrating under Ilya's tongue. Ilya kissed his neck, then ran his tongue across Hollander's jawline. He licked a broad strip down the side of his throat, nipping at where his muscles met. This time, Hollander's moan was audible. He pushed Ilya back, then dropped to his knees, unfastening Ilya's belt.
Ilya's erection was pressed hard against his black briefs. Hollander pushed his mouth against the fabric, his hot breath sending a charge directly to Ilya's dick.
"Ready to take it, Hollander?" Ilya clenched his jaw, trying to keep his voice steady.
Hollander was fully clothed, but already looked wrecked. His hair was tousled and a small hickey was forming on his neck. He looked up at Ilya, his dark eyes unguarded, needy. Ilya wanted to stroke his cheek, to kiss him, to tell him how magnificent he looked on his knees. He let himself brush the freckles on Hollander's cheekbones, just as Hollander swallowed him down.
Ilya swore. Hollander, encouraged, took him deeper. He seemed intent on fucking his throat on Ilya's cock. Ilya gripped the hair on the back of Hollander's head, prompting a groan that sent vibrations through his dick. How was it, Ilya wondered, that Hollander loved being manhandled like this? Was Hollander desperate for this all the time, or did Ilya bring it out of him?
Ilya couldn't help thrusting into Hollander's mouth, earning another groan. Hollander turned his eyes up at Ilya. If they had been needy before, now they were desperate. Hollander didn't break eye contact as he moved in rhythm with Ilya's thrust, taking his dick even deeper. A tear fell down Hollander's cheek. Ilya gently wiped it away, his thumb rubbing soft circles on Hollander’s face.
"You love this," he said. "You want to choke yourself on my cock."
Hollander's moan sent Ilya's toes curling. This was not the time. He needed to fuck Hollander, now, his last chance before Sochi. He needed to get this out of his system. Ilya pulled at Hollander's hair, roughly forcing him off of his dick.
"But this is not about what you want," Ilya said. "Get up."
Hollander stumbled to his feet, panting. Ilya pulled him close, grasping Hollander's hair with one hand to force him to look up into Ilya's eyes.
"Tell me how much you liked that, and maybe I'll fuck you tonight," Ilya said.
"Fuck you."
Hollander tried to bury his reddening face in Ilya's neck, but Ilya pulled him back. There were still unshed tears pooling in Hollander's eyes. Ilya kissed the side of his head, then moved his lips to Hollander's left ear. He nipped at Hollander's earlobe, then held his mouth close.
"You need to tell me what your body makes so obvious," Ilya said. "Say it out loud."
Hollander drew in a deep breath.
"I … liked it," he said.
"Wow," Ilya mocked. "Only liked? Maybe I should send you back to own hotel room."
Ilya continued to grasp Hollander by his hair with one hand. His other traced Hollander's erection through his jeans. He trailed his fingers up Hollander's stomach, then his chest. Ilya vaguely knew that time was limited, but he couldn't stop himself from trying to draw even more out of Hollander. He knew that it would make it so much sweeter when Hollander finally broke.
Ilya moved to Hollander’s neck, then his face, lightly tracing his wet, swollen lips. Hollander squeezed his eyes shut as his mouth dropped open, pulling against Ilya's grip on his hair to try to take the fingers into his mouth.
"Not until you tell me," Ilya said.
"I really liked it," Hollander said. His eyes were still shut tight. "I liked it so much it hurts."
Ilya's mouth was dry.
"On the bed," Ilya said. "Now."
Hollander stumbled into him as Ilya released his hair, rushing to the bed as he pulled his clothes off. Ilya felt a pang of fondness as Hollander folded his jeans before depositing them on a chair. Ilya shucked his shorts onto the ground where Hollander had pulled them down, tossing his tank top on the floor.
"We don't have much time." Hollander’s throat sounded wrecked.
"Do not worry," Ilya said. "Will not let princess turn into pumpkin."
"That doesn't even make any sense. The carriage is the pumpkin."
"But you are the princess."
Before Hollander could protest, Ilya was kissing him. Hollander kissed back, always so responsive beneath him. Part of Ilya wanted to keep teasing him, to see what else he could drag out of Hollander's mouth tonight. Make Hollander tell him if he thought about Ilya when he touched himself. Find out if it wasn't just Ilya who had felt like he was losing his mind the last few weeks.
Ilya grasped Hollander's wrists with his hands, looking down at him. None of their teammates would have recognized Hollander now. He was wild eyed, arching his back as he tried to find some friction for his leaking cock. So wet, Ilya marveled. He ran his thumb over the tip of Hollander's dick, then reached for the lube.
"You are desperate today," Ilya said.
"There's not much time," Hollander grumbled.
Ilya rubbed his finger around Hollander's rim, prompting a sharp intake of breath from Hollander.
"Ah, busy man," Ilya said. "Now turn around."
Hollander flipped onto his hands and knees, nearly forcing himself onto Ilya's fingers.
"None of that," Ilya said, smacking Hollander's ass before he thought about what he was doing.
It was a hard smack, harder than Ilya had intended, and Hollander cried out, burying his face in his arms. The frantic energy that had been building in Ilya for seconds, minutes, days surged as Ilya looked at the red spot his hand had left.
"You like that?" Ilya asked, a finger at Hollander's opening, his other hand massaging the mark.
Hollander let out a choked noise. Ilya was happy Hollander couldn't see his face, sure his raw desire would be broadcast all over it.
"Need words, Hollander."
"Yes," Hollander peaked out from the crook of his elbow, looking back at Ilya. "Yes, please."
He hit Hollander's ass again with a crack, just as he slid his finger inside. Ilya watched Hollander's mouth open in a silent scream, his eyes watering. He worked his finger in deeper, reaching for the spot that he knew would make Hollander gasp. As Hollander bit his own hand, trying to muffle his whimpers, Ilya spanked him again. He worked in another finger, transfixed by the blooming marks on Hollander's ass.
"Rozanov, please, I need more."
"Need my dick, you mean." Ilya was horrified to hear that his voice was almost shaky. Nothing compared to Hollander's, but still. The energy was crawling under his skin. His dick was begging for attention. Ilya inhaled deeply, trying to regain control. "Tell me again, how much you want it."
"So much," Hollander said. "So much it hurts me."
Ilya gripped Hollander's hips. He imagined bruises shaped like his fingers, alongside the red marks on Hollander's ass. He hoped Hollander would look at himself in the bathroom, inspecting the marks. He wanted him to blush in the locker room as his teammates whistled. They would never know it was Ilya Rozanov who could make their perfect little star beg like this.
Hollander cried out as Ilya entered him, and Ilya was struck by a wild need to see his face. He buried himself deeper in Hollander, then pulled out, flipping Hollander onto his back. Hollander let out a noise that Ilya could only describe as a squawk of annoyance, before Ilya was sliding back inside.
"Like this," Ilya said. "Want to see you."
Hollander was fisting the sheets, writhing underneath Ilya, as if trying to grab onto one thing to anchor himself in the moment. A thought flashed through Ilya's mind. I could never get tired of watching this. He thrust into Hollander, dragging filthy moans out of him.
Ilya swore. So good for me, he said in Russian. So gorgeous like this. He leaned forward, pressing hard kisses across Hollander's collarbone. He tasted like sweat. Ilya wanted to bite him, mark him everywhere.
"I'm close," Hollander panted. Ilya reached down and grasped Hollander's dick, stroking as he pounded into him. "Oh God, Rozanov —"
Hollander threw his head back as he came, and Ilya lost all control. His fingernails dug into Hollander's thighs as he wildly thrust into him —
--
Boston, July 2025
"Are you thinking about him?"
Ilya startled in the dark. He had been trying to stay quiet as he touched himself, remembering that night in the Boston hotel room. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. It was too dark to see anything more than the glint of Svetlana's eyes, next to him in their bed. Ilya didn't need to ask her who she was talking about.
"Yes."
"Tell me about how it was."
Ilya thought of the line of Hollander's neck, how it begged to be licked when he threw his head back. Ankles on Ilya's shoulders. His cock leaking on his stomach.
"He was so fucking eager," Ilya said softly. "He would be on his knees in the middle of the hotel room."
Ilya heard Svetlana rearranging herself.
"You can keep touching yourself," she said.
Ilya began pumping again, thinking of the last moments he saw Hollander alone.
"You see him in interviews, and he has this wall," Ilya said. "Perfect Canadian hockey angel. Then, I see him, and it's like the wall is knocked down." Ilya tightened his grip on his dick. "I knock it down, make him tell me what he wanted. What he needed."
"What did he need?"
Ilya stroked himself, thinking of how desperate Hollander looked, peering up behind his eyelashes.
"Some things private," Ilya said, stroking faster. "Just for me and Hollander. But — he needed — me."
Ilya was close, images flashing through his brain. Hollander in the gym on draft day, staring; Hollander's back arching the first time Ilya fucked him; Hollander kissing Ilya, hard and demanding and angry.
"He begged," Ilya said. "Wanted me so much it hurt."
But Hollander hadn't been the only one to want. Ilya remembered the burn he felt for Hollander that night. It felt like being high, a drug scrambling his brain. How he had come inside Hollander, then collapsed on top of him, burying his face into the crook of Hollander's neck. He wanted their bodies to touch at every point possible.
"It hurt how much I wanted him," Ilya said.
And Ilya was coming, all over his hand.
It took a few minutes for his mind to clear. Svetlana had grabbed tissues and shoved them into his lap. She wrapped him in her arms, all five-foot-two of her trying to cradle his six-foot-three frame. Ilya was grateful he didn't have to look her in the eyes.
"I stopped talking to him," Ilya said. "It was too much. The Olympics. My father. Everything."
Svetlana held him tighter.
"It was a hard time," she said. "We were basically kids."
"He deserved better," Ilya said.
Svetlana kissed the back of his neck.
"Better than you leaving him?" she asked. "Or better than you staying?"
Ilya didn't respond. He wasn't sure which answer he had been trying to say. He didn't know why he had tears in his eyes, crying over someone he hardly knew.
"Talk to him," Svetlana said. She gently brushed her hands through Ilya's hair. He loved how her nails felt as they massaged his scalp.
"Please," she added. "You both deserve more."