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By the time Ilya gets home, pours himself a glass of vodka, and finally manages to turn the TV on, the score is already 3-0 in favour of Montreal.
He sets his drink down and flops gracelessly onto the couch to watch the third period.
“Montreal has a solid lead,” one of the commentators says, “but, Chris, we can’t write Colorado off just yet— they came back from a 3-0 deficit just last week against Vegas to win in OT, they could easily do it here again tonight.”
Ilya rolls his eyes and hits the mute button on his remote. Comparing Vegas to a team like the Metros was ridiculous enough, he didn’t need to hear any more than that.
He hates himself a little for watching the game at all. Hollander hasn’t spoken to him since that day on the couch. This very couch.
Ilya shakes his head, trying to clear it. The last thing he needs is to think about That Day. Or the fact that Hollander has been spotted in public, holding hands with Rose-fucking-Landry.
As if reading his thoughts, the camera cuts to number 24 on the bench, helmet off, spraying his water all over his face and neck. Ilya’s stomach swoops uncomfortably. He keeps a straight face, though, jaw clenched, as if Hollander can see him through the television screen.
The camera cuts back to the ice where there’s a face off in Colorado’s zone. Ilya tries not to feel disappointed.
The next time he spots Hollander, it’s a few minutes later and he’s fighting for the puck near the boards at center ice. The look of determination on his beautifully freckled face has heat flaring, unexpected and low in Ilya’s abdomen.
“ну давай же,” he mutters at the miniature Hollander on his screen, “Вам нужно действовать более напористо.”
Hollander wins the puck and immediately passes it off to one of his teammates, who tries for a breakaway goal, but gets checked into the boards by Colorado’s enforcer. Ilya winces in sympathy as Pike goes down hard onto the ice, then hates himself a little for sympathising with Pike of all people.
Hollander steals the puck right off of the enforcer’s stick and speeds off in the other direction, weaving his way in between Colorado’s defensemen to make it to the net.
Ilya’s cock twitches in his jeans, the fucking traitor.
Swallowing hard, he undoes his pants with one hand, still gripping the television remote with the other, as Shane— no, Hollander— faces Colorado’s goalie. He wraps his hand around his cock and watches Hollander aim for the five-hole, but Colorado’s goalie is too quick for him, slamming his pads together and covering the puck until the whistle blows. Ilya shakes his head. He would’ve gone top shelf.
The camera follows Hollander around for a moment, zooming in on his disappointed face. He looks even more like an angry kitten than usual.
Ilya spits into his hand and brings it back down to stroke himself, rougher this time.
Hollander is just so fucking pretty. Ilya can’t help but imagine him here, kneeling on the floor in front of him, begging to suck him off. And of course, Ilya being as generous as he is, would let him. Would grip him by the hair and pull him in until Hollander was choking on his dick. And Hollander would just take it like he always does, making the prettiest noises in the back of his throat.
“Fuck, please, Ilya,” he’d gasp, pulling off, because now that he’s heard his name from Hollander’s mouth, all he can think about is hearing it again and again. And Ilya would just lean forward and trace his bottom lip with his thumb.
“Please what, Shane?” he’d ask, even though he knows. He always knows what Hollander needs. And of course, this Hollander would let him call him by his first name.
“Fuck my throat,” Hollander would beg, and Ilya would pull him back in by the hair and do exactly that, rocking forward into his pretty mouth.
Ilya glances back up at the screen. The Metros are on the power play, which of course means Hollander is out on the ice. He’s playing keep-away with the puck, passing back and forth between Pike and Boiziau.
Pike passes back to Hollander and Hollander delivers a beautiful slap shot straight to the net. It pings off the post.
Ilya swears and shudders, gripping himself a little harder as precome drips onto his fingers.
The Hollander in his mind swallows around his cock, takes him deeper. Looks up at Ilya through those pretty, dark eyelashes.
Ilya spreads his thighs a little wider, sinks further down into the couch, rocks up into his fist. It feels so fucking good. He can picture Hollander reaching a hand down to his own erection to palm at it through his jeans while he takes him inch by inch.
Wet sounds of skin on skin fill the empty, quiet room. Ilya wishes it was full of Hollander’s muffled needy whimpers instead.
Ilya looks back at the screen. Time is ticking down in the corner, ten minutes left, and Ilya doesn’t know if he’s even going to last that long. He wants to watch past the game, wants to see reporters interview Hollander, all smug and victorious from the shutout. He wants to come to the sight of him, face flushed and dripping with sweat.
He focuses back on the other Hollander, the one in his mind. “Touch yourself,” Ilya would order, and Hollander would whine and scramble to obey, yanking his pants down and wrapping a fist around his leaking cock. He always gets so wet for Ilya.
He wonders if he gets that wet for Rose-fucking-Landry.
He shakes his head furiously to get rid of the thought.
On the screen, Hollander takes a rough check right to the numbers and still doesn’t give up the puck, using his shoulder to slam back into the Colorado forward.
“хороший мальчик,” Ilya groans, stroking himself a little faster. His vision blurs at the edges, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of Hollander as he races back up into the Colorado zone. Reilly and Ernst— two of Colorado’s best players— come barrelling after him. They’re about to collide into either side of him when Hollander darts out of the way and takes off, letting Reilly and Ernst crash into each other instead and tumble into a heap on the ice.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Ilya gasps, grip tightening around his cock. There’s no fucking way he’ll be able to hold out until the post game interview. Not when Hollander is playing some of the best hockey he’s seen in a while, clearly showing off.
Ilya wonders if Hollander knows he’s watching. If he knows Ilya’s about to come all over himself just from watching him play.
Time ticks down, down, down, only five minutes left, and the score is now 3-1. There’s still time for Colorado to score, but with the way the Metros are playing— their captain in particular— it’s highly unlikely to happen.
The Colorado team seems to realise this at the same time, because their play starts getting more aggressive. With two minutes left in period, Hollander takes a high stick to the face, as if Colorado can afford a penalty right now.
The camera zooms in on him, his split, bleeding lip, and that should not in any way make Ilya even harder, but it absolutely fucking does. Something about Hollander’s furious expression and swollen mouth makes Ilya want to kiss him stupid.
“Fuck, Hollander,” he groans, hand speeding up a bit as the Metros go on another power play.
Hollander wins the face off, which doesn’t surprise Ilya at all. The camera follows him around as he skates down towards Colorado’s net, followed closely by Pike.
The clock seems like it is going impossibly slow, but before Ilya knows it, there’s only 30 seconds left in the game.
Hollander has the puck. He takes off towards the net, passes to Pike without even looking back at him. Pike skates around Reilly, aims for the net, and tries to backhand it in, but Colorado’s goalie easily swipes it out of the air. Hollander gets the rebound. He skates around behind the net to the other side, gets up close to the goalie, dekes, and scores so quickly Ilya almost misses the puck going into the net.
The camera zooms in on Hollander again as baseball caps rain down from the crowd onto the ice and he celebrates his hat trick. Then he looks directly at the camera, mouth-guard hanging out of his mouth, and fucking winks.
Ilya fumbles for the remote, manages to hit pause, and groans loudly as he comes all over his hand, eyes locked on Hollander and his sweaty face, his delighted grin.
He hits play again and his cock twitches as they show the slow motion replays. Ilya ignores the television in favour of cleaning himself up. He tucks himself back into his jeans, leaving them unbuttoned, and leans back against the couch, entire body relaxed and boneless.
He picks up his phone without thinking and finds ‘Jane’ in his contacts.
’Good game,’ he types, then deletes it.
’That last goal was so fucking hot,' he types, then deletes it.
’I miss you.’ His finger hovers over the ‘send’ button for a moment. He hesitates for so long that the screen goes black.
He tosses his phone off to the side, sighing. It’s not like Hollander would reply anyway.
On the screen, Hollander stands under the harsh lights, shirtless, hair damp and curling at the ends, sweat still slick across his chest and shoulders. A towel hangs low around his neck and he’s breathing hard, flushed and exhilarated from the win. Reporters crowd around him, shoving microphones close, asking the same recycled questions hockey players have answered a thousand times. “How did the hat trick feel?” “What changed in the third period?” “Talk about the chemistry on that line.”
Ilya’s heart clenches so sharply it feels almost physical, like something twisting between his ribs. He reaches for the remote without looking away, thumb pressing down a little harder than necessary. The screen goes dark, cutting Hollander off in the middle of a laugh.
He picks up the glass on the coffee table and drains the last bit of vodka. It slides down his throat, cold and clean. The glass clinks hollowly against the coffee table as he sets it down. For a moment he just sits there, staring at his reflection in the blank television screen, as if it might flicker back to life on its own.
It doesn’t.
He stands and heads for the bedroom.
In here, the air is cooler, heavy and still. Ilya doesn’t turn on the lights; he doesn’t want to see the emptiness laid out so plainly— the wide bed, the untouched half of it, the quiet that settles too easily around him.
He undresses slowly, movements dulled by vodka. His shirt hits the floor. His shoes are flung off into the corner. His jeans land somewhere near the window. Hollander would be appalled.
He sits on the edge of the mattress and stares at the dark wall, jaw tight, pulse loud in his ears.
He shouldn’t check.
He knows he shouldn’t.
He reaches for his phone.
The screen lights up, cold and indifferent. No notifications. No missed calls. Just the message thread open, his own words waiting in the text bar, a confession he’s too cowardly to make.
’I miss you.’
He reads it again. And again.
In Montreal, Hollander is probably still riding the high of the win. Laughing with teammates. He's probably showered and dressed now. Phone buzzing with congratulations. Messages from his new girlfriend.
Ilya’s thumb hovers one last time.
He deletes it.
The words disappear in an instant, swallowed by blank space. As if he never felt them. As if he never almost reached across the distance and admitted it.
He locks the phone and sets it face-down on the nightstand.
The silence rushes back in.
He lies down without pulling the blankets up right away, staring at the ceiling he can’t quite see in the dark. His chest aches in a dull, persistent way.
On the nightstand, his phone remains silent.
No vibration. No light.
Eventually, exhaustion drags him under— not peaceful or restful, just heavy.
In the morning, there will be highlights of the game. Headlines with Hollander’s name. Those beautiful freckles on every screen.
And Ilya will watch.
But for tonight, there is only the dark, and the empty space next to him.