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Shane Hollander hates phone calls.
It’s hard enough to talk to people when you can watch their expressions, and see how other people are responding. If you can't have that, then texts are best, although of course they’re only really useful for brief things; and if the message is too long for a text, then wouldn’t an email be a better choice? When is a call ever better than a text or an email?
And unexpected calls are the worst—so presumptuous, demanding your time and attention without your ever agreeing to it.
Anyway, he hates them and so he ignores his phone the first two times it rings. It's not the special ring he’s set up for his parents. Besides, he’s on the treadmill and he’s got a programme, and he’s going to stick to it even though it’s Sunday.
The third time it rings, he’s finished his cardio and is stretching. Someone really, really wants to talk to him. He turns the phone over to see who it is.
Coach.
Fuck.
He stares at it, paralysed, for so long that it stops ringing.
Someone else comes into the gym. It’s just the gym in his apartment complex so it’s not big, and Shane doesn’t like sharing the space much, so he cuts his cooldown short and goes back upstairs to clean up.
When he gets out of the shower he sees that Coach has tried again.
Something’s happened, and it’s probably not good. He takes a deep breath and returns the call.
“Hi, bud,” says his father, picking up on the third ring. “What’s up?”
Shane’s mind is blank and white. He breathes carefully. “Um,” he says. “Um. Coach just called. Is, um, is Mom there?”
“Oh, right, is this a Mom job?”
“Maybe, um… Maybe both of you?”
“Sure. Of course. Are you okay, Shane?”
Shane hums, unconvincingly.
“Okay, listen, Mom’s right here. Yuna—no honey, put that down, Shane needs to talk to us.”
“Shane? Are you alright, sweetie?”
God, he’s not a baby. “Yes,” he says, a little snappily; their fussing is making him defensive, and a little bit angry, which isn’t a nice feeling but it’s better than the feeling he had before. “But Coach Theriault called. And. Um.”
The words jumble in his throat, blocking his airway. He gets up and walks to the window, staring out across the darkening city.
His parents wait patiently. They know it takes him a while, sometimes.
“They traded me,” he says. He can hear how confused he sounds. How lost.
“They did what? I’m going to call him,” says his mother, instantly, without a millisecond of reflection. “I’ll ring you back, Shane.”
“No!” he yelps, and he can hear his father at the same time saying, Hang on, no—no, give me your phone. No, Yuna. Listen to him.
“What did he say? Why would they do such a thing? To you, to you, in your rookie year? This is crazy!” The fury in his mother’s voice is barely contained.
Shane swallows. “It's Bridger,” he says. The team’s best goalie, a Montreal lifer and legend. “Bridger went skiing last week and… I don’t know the details, but it’s bad, Coach said. Bridger’s out. Like out, out. So they need another goalie, because—”
“—because Martin is useless and they should never have relied so heavily on Bridger,” his mother cries. This is probably true, but hindsight, twenty twenty, et cetera.
“Yeah, well, anyway, they needed to trade for someone good and I’m, you know… I’m good but I’m new, and we’re strong on centre still. I know the plan is that Voss is gonna retire but he’s got a couple of years yet. So. Coach is really sorry and all but… yeah. He says it’s the best option for the team.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but that is the most short-sighted, idiotic decision-making I have heard of in—in maybe forever—and I really think I should talk to—”
“I said no,” says Shane, even more sharply this time, and there’s a small silence. He can feel her, across the ether, and the way she recoiled from that tone; he can almost see the way she’s arranging her face, sense the control it’s taking her to be quiet. “Please, mom,” he says, softer. “Please, it’s—I think it’s done. It’s okay.”
It’s not okay. It’s nowhere near okay, but Shane has held back a lot from his parents over the last few months. So much that he doesn’t know how to begin to catch them up, now, to a point that they would understand why Theriault’s made this decision. But Shane understands it.
The thing is, his parents have got no idea how badly he’s failed at fitting into the team. At making friends, at forming those relationships you need off the ice if you’re gonna be effective on it. He doesn’t want to tell them, either; that’s why he’s been covering it up so carefully for all these months. It’s too embarrassing.
He’d been so proud to be the number two draft pick, and then to go straight into the league after the draft; he’d thought he was doing so well. But those guys, man. They were like grizzled war veterans. They were fucking scary. Sure, there were a couple closer to Shane’s age, but they're totally different species. Shane has nothing in common with Boiziau, who’s loud and friendly but a total party animal, or Pike, who’s even more friendly—but he’s already got a wife! And twin babies! He talks about baby stuff all the time, which is simultaneously horrifying and tedious, and on the ice…
… yeah, Shane tries not to be too judgmental but the guy is pretty mid for the NHL. He’s basically filler.
Anyway he knows that Theriault’s figured out that Shane can be chucked out of the team and the impact on team dynamics is gonna be minimal. If they need to trade someone with high paper worth (to get a good goalie in return) but lower practical value (to protect the team) Shane’s it. He can see that.
“Traded to where?” says his father.
Shane laughs, and it sounds half like a sob. “Is Mom sitting down?”
*
Coach LeClaire has made his expectations of Ilya clear. Very fucking clear.
He is going to be welcoming. He is not going to play into his famous asshole tendencies, and he is not going to make the new trade suffer. Yes, they play similar positions, but no, this is not a threat to Ilya’s standing in the team. This is a strategy. Boston’s two best centres are ageing out soon, so—
“Two best? I am already a better centre than Butkowski,” says Ilya indignantly, earning narrow-eyed look from his coach.
“You are in your first year with this team, and I don’t care how much potential you’ve got, right now you’re a fucking fetus. This is a long term plan, not a battle for supremacy. Do you understand?"
“I understand,” Ilya mutters. It doesn’t come out very sulky.
He does not understand. It’s fucking ridiculous. They lost Sesh for this? For a fresh-out-the-oven centre to back up their existing fresh-out-of-the-oven centre? Coach has got to know that the locker room is going to give Ilya so much shit he might drown in it, right?
Plus there’s got to be something wrong with Hollander, if the number two draft pick got traded halfway through his first season. He’s done pretty well with the limited ice time he’s had as a rookie, but there’s gotta be something. Maybe he's cracking under the pressure. Maybe he’s got a secret drug habit.
After stewing on it for several nights, he calls Svetlana and whines at length. She listens with more patience than he probably deserves and then says, “Enough, Ilyushka. There’s a huge opportunity here. Huge.”
Ilya subsides and pauses, expectantly. Sveta knows her shit.
“You and the Canadian are top of your game, or you will be soon. Learn to play with him now—learn some flexibility—and you could make an unbeatable combination, especially on a power play if their defence is weakened. And if you’re useful as a pair you’re less tradeable.”
Hmm. Ilya can certainly be flexible. He's never minded the wing, not if the centre's good enough; the problem has always been that he knows perfectly well he's better and he can't stand that. But maybe, with Hollander? He's pretty impressive. And it's also true that Ilya enjoys a good power play, and is discovering that he has a real knack for enraging his opponents to the point that they’ll incur penalties, thereby creating those possibilities. Why not take even more advantage of that?
Sveta is worth her weight in gold. She always helps him find the best approach.
So when the guys start talking shit on the day of Hollander’s expected arrival, Ilya maintains a mature, lofty silence. He stands there with a skate in one hand, sighing dramatically as the locker room workshops nicknames for their new trade.
“We need something that describes how useless he is,” says Marleau. “But not like, in an assholish way.”
“Lovingly.”
“Yeah. Oh honey, we don’t need you, kind of thing.”
(Marleau is probably underestimating Hollander’s potential. Unless Ilya’s right about the secret drug habit.)
“What about Tits,” Berman suggests. “As in, useless as tits on a bull.”
Marleau laughs loudly. “Plus, that fuckin’ underwear ad.”
“My wife looked at that picture way too hard for way too long.”
Ilya is irritated by the accuracy of his recall, because he knows exactly what image they’re referring to and yeah. He’s with Berman’s wife on that one. Wow.
“Nah, he’s not gonna be totally useless. He’s gonna be Plan B,” says Connors, grinning evilly. “Plan B: for when Roz really fucks it.”
Laughter erupts and Ilya has to clamp his jaw shut to avoid either joining in or cursing Connors out, he’s not sure which.
“Plan B,” says Marleau approvingly. “Fuck, Connors, that’s almost clever.”
“Fuck you, I am clever.”
“You’re fuckin’ delusional, is what you are.”
Ilya interrupts. “He will not be useless,” he says. “You idiots do not understand strategy.”
“Ohhhhhh!” Marleau turns, slowly, eyes wide. He is very tall. “Oh, our baby Russian’s gonna mansplain his little backup, his little spare?”
Shrugging, Ilya says, “Paulie and Butts are nearly ready for walkers. Me and Hollander are the next generation.”
“I’m ready for what now?” yells Butkowski, throwing a shoulder pad at Ilya. “Cheeky little shit!”
“A walker!” Ilya yells back cheerfully. “When are your eightieth birthdays, it’s soon, yes? I’m going to buy you each a beautiful cane. Very stylish, all the old ladies will want you.”
“You can’t afford anything I’d carry,” says Paulie mildly, which is a mean burn because everybody knows he just renegotiated a monster of a deal and Ilya… yeah, he’s got a way to go. The locker room erupts into laughter again. Ilya hurls the shoulder pad and gets Paulie in the back of the head, and someone else who’s also not making the big bucks yet joins the peasants' rebellion with a thrown jockstrap. Rivers bellows that’s my lucky fuckin’ jock!, and a moment later there are disgusting socks and undershirts and who knows what else flying around, accompanied by a cacophony of insults about age and pay grades and lucky underwear that never gets washed.
Into this chaos walks Coach LeClaire, and behind him, their new recruit.
“Can it, you goddamn animals,” bellows LeClaire cheerfully, and then, when the yelling subsides, “Meet Hollander. Hollander, your new team. I can only apologise.”
“Um. Hi,” says Hollander, raising one uncertain hand. He looks nervous and exceptionally healthy and clean-cut. Hmmm. If he has a problematic drug habit he is managing it very well.
“Hey,” says Paulie. “Hi, kid.”
“Yo, hi.” “Hey.” “Welcome.”
Ilya says nothing, and realises he might be staring.
He’s seen Hollander plenty of times, of course. Not just on the ice, but at the draft, and before that at the Prospects, and on that goddamn ad.
But every time, he forgets—or maybe he just can’t quite believe—how dark and shining those eyes are. How cute his fucking freckles are, standing out in the ugly fluorescent light of the locker room. How nervously the guy holds himself, even though he’s second only to Ilya as the best hockey player of their year. What a goddamn enigma he is; how interesting. The urge to tease, to prod and provoke, is brutally strong.
But no. Ilya shoulders forward, pushing Connors out of the way. He’s going to show LeClaire that he understands fucking strategy; that he’s looking out for the future of this team. That he’s an adult. A future leader.
“Ilya Rozanov,” he says, holding out his hand. “Welcome to Boston.”
*
The first few weeks with Shane’s new team have been… challenging.
He didn’t even get any time on the ice until the third week, when they played New York and got absolutely fucking trounced. They haven’t won a game since he arrived. They should, on paper; there are some great players here. Paulson is legendary, Marleau’s a beast in defence and Rozanov is crazy strong. But their goalies are struggling to hit the groove after the loss of Sessions to Montreal, letting in way too many easy saves, and morale is low.
Shane has been trying really hard, though. He is not a natural socialiser; he would far rather be at home with game tape or a book than out at some noisy bar, but he made that mistake in Montreal, right? He didn’t make friends, and they decided he was expendable. So he’s trying. He’s really trying this time.
And luckily for him, Ilya Rozanov seems to have appointed himself as Shane’s guardian, or chaperone or… something. Maybe it’s just a power game to show that he knows the ropes and Shane’s just a newbie, but Shane is honestly grateful for it. He lets Rozanov bully him into coming out for drinks with the team, and he tries really hard to join in. He drinks beer, which is full of carbs and so dumb, but it helps him nod and smile and laugh at jokes even when they’re stupid (which is often) or borderline offensive (which is almost always).
It’s okay, because he can just work off the carbs with extra cardio.
He’s not sleeping well in his new, impersonal studio apartment yet. It doesn’t feel like home, even though his parents came down and helped him with cushions and lamps and stuff. So he’s spending long hours down in the gym, trying to get tired and work off the useless calories.
Today he walks into the gym only to see Ilya Rozanov on the treadmill, wearing obnoxiously short shorts and a tank top with armholes so huge it's more like a framing device for his impressive obliques than an actual garment.
Shane stands rooted in the doorway like an idiot, his mind vacillating wildly between He hasn’t noticed you, quick, get out of here! and But he might’ve seen you, so you can’t leave now you muppet!
And the occasional Whoa, look at his thighs. Shane has solid and muscular thighs of his own, but Rozanov’s are, like… shapely.
The Russian pulls one earbud out as he peers around at Shane, and grinning. He doesn't stop running.
“Hello, Hollander.”
“Um. Hi. What are you doing here?”
“Running.”
“No, but do you—do you live here?”
“No. Just visit because is best gym in Boston.”
Shane looks around, confused, at the very averagely equipped and faintly musty basement.
“Is joke. Yes. I live here.”
“Oh. Yeah, of course it's a joke. Sorry.”
Anyway, after that pathetic encounter they start meeting in the gym. Not in the mornings—Rozanov isn’t an early riser, he wastes the best part of the day in Shane’s opinion—but sometimes in the evenings, especially if there’s nothing going on with the team. After a while it falls into sort of a rhythm. They run, they lift and spot each other. It’s kind of nice to have a gym buddy; especially one who pushes you. One you want to beat.
So it doesn't take long before, yeah, Shane’s kind of got a social life? And Rozanov’s a big part of it. He’s rude and funny in a straightforward way that Shane understands. Shane's useless with sarcasm, which goes right over his head, but Rozanov adapted quickly to that; instead he leans towards viciously amused insults and taunts, which make Shane smile and tell him to fuck off.
There are just two problems.
One, this stupid team keeps losing. (Meanwhile, Montreal seems to love their new goalie, which is just salt in the wound.)
And two, Shane’s developing a very inappropriate crush.
Rozanov’s just so… god, he’s so magnetic, and he keeps being so nice, and he’s such a good player, and so handsome and welcoming and—and his shoulders, and his mouth, and his torso and his—
It’s becoming a fucking problem. But it’s not like Shane can avoid him. He’s the closest Shane’s got to a friend, and he’s Shane’s teammate, his peer. His competition. The press are having a ball with the fact that they're on the same team now, after talking them up as deadly rivals for so long; it's Hollander-and-Rozanov this, Rozanov-and-Hollander that.
(Hollander-and-Rozanov sounds much better, though.)
Anyway, it’s not like Shane's going to do anything about this stupid infatuation—he knows that’s completely off the table. It’s unfortunate that he occasionally gets this way about guys, but that’s just his tough fucking luck.
This is a particularly bad bout, though. Like, really bad.
The night before they leave for San Jose, Paulie invites everyone out for drinks. He mockingly calls it a pep rally, but he also kind of means it, so Shane has to go. He eats first, and arrives at the bar a little late. It’s in the older part of town, low-ceilinged and redolent of decades of spilled beer and the cigarette smoke that’s baked into the yellowed paintwork. A Paulie kind of place.
The team has taken over most of the area around the fireplace. Shane goes to the bar and gets a beer before heading over there. He’s finally learned that you don’t approach empty handed unless you want to get sent to the bar with a very long list of drinks to buy.
Rozanov, crammed into a corner with his friend Marleau, yells his name and waves him over. Marleau is lanky and nonchalant and weirdly fond of Rozanov, who he treats like a naughty little brother. Perhaps because of this fondness, Marleau has also welcomed Shane into his social fold.
“Hollzy,” he says, clinking his beer bottle against Shane’s. “Late again. You missed a classic challenge.”
Rozanov squeezes closer to Marleau, making space, and Shane takes a seat. “You missed nothing,” Rozanov tells him. “Was disgusting. You would hate.”
“Okay, now I’m kind of interested,” says Shane.
“You’re such a sore fuckin’ loser, Roz,” says Connors smugly.
“And now I’m really interested,” says Shane, grinning at Rozanov, who hates losing almost as much as Shane does.
“Am not! Was not fair! You cheat!” Rozanov grumbles.
“Show him, Berms,” Marleau demands, and Berman leans across the sticky table, waggling his phone at Shane, who nearly spits out a mouthful of beer. That’s a photo of Rozanov, blurry in the bright flash, and are those—
“Are those fries?” says Shane.
“Yeah, but swipe across. Connors got two more up there.”
Shane swipes. There’s Connors, eyes screwed shut in hilarity, his nostrils stuffed full of… yeah, fries, apparently. He swipes back to Rozanov.
“I don’t think he cheated,” he says. “He just got more in than you.”
“No, but look,” says Rozanov loudly. He grabs the phone, zooms in. “He pick all the tiny skinny ones!”
“Strategy,” says Connors, taking a smug pull on his beer.
“He’s got a point,” says Shane, shrugging.
“You are supposed to be my friend,” Rozanov grumbles. “Rematch, tomorrow night, and this time I find the smallest fries in San Jose.”
“No, you need an independent arbiter to pre-select the fries,” says Shane. “For consistency.”
“You got yourself a job, kid,” Paulie says, as he leans over the table and deposits eight more bottles of beer, four held between the massive fingers of each hand.
*
Hollander is warm against Ilya’s side, squashed on the banquette. He’s such a fucking lightweight, it’s too charming. He’s only drunk three bottles of shitty American beer but he’s got a hazy vagueness in his eyes, an easy smile on his mouth.
Luckily for him, Ilya's his self-appointed guardian. When Berman brings him a fresh drink after Hollander declined the offer, Ilya scowls.
“He said no, Berms—why you wasting money on a no?”
“Ah, come on Hollzy! The night is young!” Berman pushes the beer closer to Hollander.
“It’s okay, I, um, I guess I can do another,” says Hollander, blinking in the manner of a man who should really stop while he’s ahead.
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll do it for ya. No means no,” says Connors sagely, claiming the contested bottle.
“Plus we have long day tomorrow. Tonight is pep rally, Paulie said, not drunken fucking rampage,” says Ilya sternly.
“Roz is right,” Paulie agrees loudly from the other end of the table. “Drunken rampage is for after we win.”
There’s a mixture of half-hearted cheers, and more than a few eye-rolls. Their captain smacks the table with his meaty fist. “What the fuck was that? We’re gonna win, dammit! It’s all in the attitude, boys, so fuckin’ reset yours!”
“Nah,” says Rivers, “at this point I reckon it’s maths. We’ve lost so much it’s getting stass-tistically improbable. We gotta win soon.”
“Statistically, moron.”
“’s what I said.”
“Nah, but close enough, Mississippi,” says Marly, ruffling Rivers’ hair, which is an unpleasant but intriguingly raccoon-like combination of fried platinum ends and dark roots. “You’re wrong, though. If we win it’s because Lady Luck’s decided to give us a fuckin’ break for a change.”
Hollander looks up, frowning. “What? Luck? No, no way, it’s not luck. It’s skill.”
“Partly,” says Marly. “But also luck.”
Hollander snorts dismissively, but Ilya chimes in, “No, we all need luck. We need to feel the luck, yes?”
“Yeah! That’s why I wear my special socks,” says Marly.
“You gotta wash those soon, fuck,” says Butts, shaking his big head.
“Nah, what if the luck gets washed out?”
“Gross,” mutters Hollander.
“Wash ya fuckin’ socks, but ritual’s important,” says Paulie. “Puts you in the right headspace.”
“Yeah, exactly.” Berman slaps his hands on his thighs and stands. “Too right, cap. So I’m off home for my ritual pre-trip lucky blowie.”
There’s a chorus of disgusted yelps. Berman is unfazed. “What? I get to lie back, conserve energy, release tension, AND avoid tempting fate. Win win win. See ya, boys.”
“It’s a pretty good theory,” says Marly, squinting at his phone. “Wonder if Kristin’s still up.”
“Yeah, thinkin’ something similar,” says Paulie, thumbs typing madly. “I mean, if you gotta start a lucky tradition, there’s worse things to pick. Your socks being a prime example.”
“We should all do this tradition,” says Marly, grinning like a lunatic at whatever text message just arrived.
Ilya sighs. Delightful as the idea of a bout of Good Luck Fellatio is, he hasn’t got anyone local he can call on at such short notice. He did have someone, but she got a bit… enthusiastic. Parents were mentioned. Ilya hasn’t texted her back. And while he’d rate his chances at a club, it’s only Wednesday so pickings will be slim. Oh well.
Hollander clears his throat. “I might, um. I might head home,” he says. “Don’t want to be too late.”
“Haven’t found anyone in Boston willing to provide a lucky blowie yet then, Hollz?” says Marly.
Hollander blushes a deep and luscious red. Ilya’s mouth waters a little. He loves that man flustered. It’s so fun! But then he remembers he’s trying to look after Hollander, and kicks Marly in the ankle.
“Leave him alone, asshole.”
“What? Fuck, I’m just teasing. He’s a big boy, Roz, not your baby.”
“Look at him!” says Ilya, waving a hand in Hollander’s direction. “You embarrassed him!”
“No he didn’t,” says Hollander, in a deeply unconvincing attempt at nonchalance. “It’s fine. I mean, no, I haven’t yet, Marleau, I’m kinda, you know, focusing on my game right now. Don’t want any distractions.”
“Kid, I’m not the fuckin’ press, you don’t need to give me a line,” says Marly, eye-rolling and making Hollander go even redder.
Ilya decides to rescue him. “Come on, Hollander. We go home, hey. Leave these old men to find some kindly babushkas willing to suck their wrinkled dicks.”
“Roz, you better hope I don’t tell Suze you said that. She holds a fucking good grudge.”
“Oh, not Suze,” says Rozanov, waving a hand at Paulie. “Mama Suze is hot as fuck.”
“Team milf,” says Rivers.
“That’s better,” says Paulie. “I guess. Maybe.”
“We go, anyway,” Ilya says, getting to his feet.
“You don’t have to leave,” says Hollander, but he’s looking at Ilya with huge, dark, grateful eyes that make it very clear he appreciates it.
“Yes, is getting late. Big day tomorrow. Big win coming, right?”
Butts cackles. “Do him a solid, Roz. He’s new to town. A quick lucky bro-job would—”
“Fuck off, Buttsy,” says Ilya, over the top of the howls of laughter; because if Hollander gets any redder he’s going to give himself a nose-bleed. He grabs Hollander by the elbow and hauls him away through the chorus of whoops and dirty jokes.
It’s not far to their building, only a ten minute walk. Ilya takes the opportunity for a cigarette, because having something to do with your mouth and hands helps when you don’t know what to say.
Hollander apparently doesn’t know what to say either.
Ilya’s been spending a fair bit of time with Hollander lately, but he still doesn’t quite get the guy. Sometimes… sometimes he thinks that maybe Hollander’s looking at him that way, and god knows Ilya wouldn’t be averse if he was, but mostly Hollander’s so careful and correct and good that it feels a bit delusional to imagine he’d ever be the kind of guy who’d mess around with his teammate.
He’s noticeably quiet the whole walk home, to the point that Ilya’s starting to worry that Marly and Butts might’ve actually upset him.
In the elevator Ilya says, “Sorry about Butts. He is a very large idiot. But not a bad guy.”
“Oh. No, it’s fine, I, um. It’s okay.”
“Maybe next weekend we go to club. Find some girls, yes?”
“For sure,” says Hollander, with exactly zero enthusiasm.
The elevator dings and the doors open. At Hollander’s apartment door, they pause for a moment while Hollander digs out his key.
“G’night, then,” says Hollander.
Ilya says, “Still okay to share a cab tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Okay.”
“Okay. See you.” Hollander turns away, pushing his door open.
“Wait,” says Ilya, putting out a hand. Something in him isn’t ready to just walk away; because Hollander seems sad. He’s been squashed, somehow, by all that teasing. It’s not a good headspace before heading off on his first big trip with his new team. Ilya doesn’t like to see him like this. He cogitates madly, looking for something, anything, that will make Hollander feel better.
“Can I ask stupid question?” he says, leaning in, pretending to be embarrassed. Hollander frowns a little.
“Um. Sure.”
“What is bro-job?” says Ilya, who knows perfectly well, but if you can’t play the idiot foreigner sometimes to cheer up a friend, then when can you? It’s got to be useful occasionally.
Also, it makes Hollander flush again, which is unceasingly delightful.
“Come on,” Hollander says. “You must be able to figure that out.”
“Was not in English lessons,” says Ilya innocently.
Hollander is looking at the floor, and then the wall over Ilya’s shoulder, and then the key in his hand. Anywhere but at Ilya. He’s squirming. It’s yummy. More importantly, there’s a curve of embarrassed amusement at the corners of his mouth.
Ilya is fully prepared for an absolutely fucking delicious definition to emerge, full of umming and ahhing and euphemisms, but instead Hollander says, “You’re so full of shit. I know you know what it means, or you wouldn’t have interrupted Butts like that.”
Oops. Ilya’s cunning plan is apparently less brilliant than he hoped.
Hollander’s biting his lip. His very full, red, pretty lip. And now he’s looking at Ilya. And not looking away.
“So… why did you pretend you didn’t know?”
Ilya shrugs, and waits for Hollander to provide his own interpretation. Because, if he’s not mistaken, an interpretation is indeed en route.
Slowly, hesitantly, Hollander says: “Did you want to know… what I thought about that idea?”
His eyes are bottomless, black, gorgeous. Ilya salivates. He swallows.
“Maybe,” he says, very low. “Yes.”
He takes a step closer. Hollander takes a step back, pushing his door further open. Silent communication ensues, and a moment later they’re in Hollander’s apartment, in the dark, and the door clicks closed behind them.
Ilya’s heart is going a million miles a minute. Matters are taking a very, very unexpected turn.
*
It was a devil that took him, a demon, a temporary possession or a madness. Shane’s mind is half-offline, fizzing, futzing, sparking. Somehow in his desperate determination to fit in this time, he’s gotten himself half-drunk, half-crazed with lust, and basically invited his new friend (and teammate!) to come in and… And what, suck Shane off for good luck? He stands there, shocked at himself, while Ilya Rozanov peers into the gloom of Shane’s apartment, illuminated only by streetlight.
Shane should put the lights on. No. No, he shouldn’t. Or maybe—
“Um,” says Shane. “Um, maybe we should—”
Rozanov mutters, “Uh-uh,” and puts two fingers over Shane’s mouth. His eyes gleam in the half-dark. “On couch.”
Leading the way, Shane stumbles, bashing his shin on the edge of the coffee table. Ow. Fuck. Shit. What is he doing?
“Sorry. This got a bit out of hand, you don’t have to—”
Rozanov puts a hand on Shane’s chest and pushes him down onto the couch, then sits beside him, one leg tucked under himself so he’s turned towards Shane. He takes off his leather jacket and tosses it over the arm of the chair. The muscle tee underneath shows off his spectacular shoulders. He grins, as if this is all tremendous fun.
“What? You don’t want the team to be lucky on the trip?”
“I don’t think winning comes from luck.”
A shrug of those big shoulders. “Then is just fun.” Rozanov’s hand hovers over Shane’s fly, though he doesn’t touch him. His eyebrows quirk upwards, asking.
“Fun?” says Shane faintly. Rozanov thinks it would be… fun? He gets another shrug.
“If you don’t want—”
“Um, no, I mean I’m not, like, opposed, I just—”
Not opposed? His dick is straining like it’s trying to rip through the denim to meet Rozanov’s fingers. Oh god. Oh shit. Oh man.
“Then we try. Perhaps you like. Perhaps is lucky. Who knows?”
“Do—do you like?”
“We try,” says Rozanov again, still grinning evilly. “Then you see if you think you like, and if you think I like. Okay?”
Shane swallows and pops open the button of his jeans.
He stares as Rozanov’s long, capable fingers tug his fly down. “Up,” says Rozanov, shifting around until he’s able to get both hands tucked into Shane’s waistband, and Shane lifts his hips, helps push his clothing down around his thighs. His face is on fire in the dark. Fuck, shit, he’s just exposed himself to Ilya Rozanov. He’s got a desperate boner and he’s sitting here with his pants down and he’s—fuck, is he insane? How can he think this is a good way to integrate into his new team, has he lost his everlovingmotherfucking mind, is he—
“Mmm. Nice,” says Rozanov, and then he wraps his fingers around the base of Shane’s cock and leans down and—holy shit—purses his lips and kisses it, then kind of sucks until the whole head pops into his mouth and meets his tongue. Which is hot and wet and slick and moving, and it’s so astonishingly good that Shane, to his absolute horror, yelps.
Instantly, the mouth and hand are gone.
“No?” says Rozanov, sitting back and shrugging. “Is okay. No problem.”
“No! I mean, no, not no! I didn’t mean to make that noise, it’s—don’t—don’t stop! Please?”
“You are sure?”
“Yes, god, yes,” Shane babbles, quivering all over from the aftershocks of that sensation, and then it’s back. Back, and even better. Rozanov’s tongue runs up the length of him, swirls around the head and dips into the slit. Shivers run laps up and down Shane’s spine.
He hopes Rozanov can’t tell, but this is only the second time in his life he’s experienced this, and that first time… well, fair to say it wasn’t anything like this. Rozanov’s fearless, taking Shane deep and humming as if he’s enjoying it. His curly head bobs up and down, and Shane’s neck seems to lose structural integrity, his skull suddenly too heavy. His head falls back against the couch and he gasps, open-mouthed. The hand that was around his cock disappears and starts pushing up under his shirt, stroking his waist and then massaging his chest, gripping his pec, and Rozanov lets out a deep grunt of approval or pleasure. Jesus Christ, he does like doing this, he really does, and there’s no way this guy hasn’t done this before because he is insanely good at it. Not that Shane has a lot of experience to judge him against but still, but surely, the way he goes so far down, the way Shane’s cock gets taken into Rozanov’s throat, the way it moves, is unbelievably skilled.
Shane moans, and with a tremendous effort he lifts his head because he has to watch this miracle happening; and he moans again when he sees the way Rozanov’s spine is undulating, and the way his shoulders and arms are flexing as he gropes at Shane’s chest. Suddenly Shane’s got a hand on one of those shoulders, and another carding through curls, feeling the motion as Rozanov rises and falls, faster and faster, and oh god oh shit oh fuck a huge climax is building and rushing, roaring closer at the speed of sound, too quick, too fast, and what is Shane supposed to do, he’s gonna come, he’s gonna, oh god here it is! He yanks, hard, on his handful of curls—Rozanov lets Shane fall from his mouth and looks up at him, confused, as Shane grabs his cock and squeezes and makes a choking sound as he comes, and comes, and comes, all over Rozanov’s throat and jaw.
It’s horrifying, it’s mortifying, but oh Christ it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen. Rozanov’s plump mouth is all rosy and swollen and spit-slick, half-open; his eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, stare up at Shane with greedy delight, blinking as each new ribbon of semen illustrates his skin.
“Oh Jesus,” says Shane helplessly. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—“
He lets go of Rozanov’s hair, but Rozanov doesn’t retreat. His tongue, which is exceptionally long, swipes over his lip and down his chin, licking up some of Shane’s come. He smiles, his nostrils flaring.
“Is okay. I don’t mind.” he says, his voice a little rough.
Dizzy with the intensity of it, Shane hauls his pants back up and stuffs his damp, sensitive cock into them. He scrambles to his feet. “Sorry, hang on, I’m gonna go get a washcloth. Jesus, sorry,” he gabbles, and literally runs to the bathroom. He dampens a fresh washcloth and scurries back to the lounge, turning on a lamp as he passes.
Rozanov is sitting back on the couch, knees spread, hands on thighs. He hasn’t wiped away a damn thing, after that first lick. He’s just waiting for Shane, wearing his come and smirking. Kneeling in front of him, Shane wipes him clean, shaking his head in embarrassment.
“I don’t know why I did that. I was gonna come, but I didn’t want to, you know, in your mouth.”
“I would not mind,” says Rozanov. “Also, is very tidy to swallow.”
A desperate little laugh escapes Shane. “Yeah. Yeah, um. I guess so.”
“So… you like lucky bro-job?”
“Clearly.”
“Good. I like, also. Even if messy.”
“I guess you’ve… um… done that before?” says Shane, suddenly tremendously aware that he’s kneeling between Rozanov’s thighs, and there’s a visible erection in those fancy designer track pants, and Shane has most definitely not done that before. Whoa. Okay. Okay.
“Yes,” says Rozanov simply. He leans forward and takes Shane’s head between his hands, dropping a loud smack of a kiss on his hair. “I go now. We have enough luck for tomorrow, I think.”
This is both a relief and a disappointment. Shane says, “Don’t you want me to, like, return the favour?”
“I think is enough first times for you tonight.”
“It wasn’t my first time!”
Rozanov puts his head on one side, considering. “Not even with man?”
“Oh. Okay, yeah. That.”
“Is enough, then.”
It’s a little bit insulting. “Don’t you want me to?”
Rozanov smiles, close mouthed. “Come on, Hollander. You must know you have very nice mouth. Of course I want.”
“Well, then,” says Shane, somehow finding himself wanting to do the unthinkable.
But Rozanov gently pushes him out of the way and gets up, shrugging his way back into his jacket.
“We see if it is lucky, yes?” he says.
The door clunks shut behind him. Shane pillows his head on his forearms, on the still-warm couch cushions, and lets out a long, shaky breath.
*
When Ilya swings by Hollander’s apartment the next morning, there’s a sticky note on the door: Left early, see you later.
Fuck.
Hollander can’t face him. That’s… probably bad. Ilya sighs deeply and heads down to catch his solo cab.
He stares out the window, chewing at the inside of his cheek. He shouldn’t have done it, he knows he shouldn’t have. He knew it last night. But it really did seem like that was what Hollander wanted, didn’t it? Maybe Ilya read it wrong. He doesn’t think he did, and he gave Hollander plenty of easy off-ramps if he changed his mind, but… he’s never slept with a Canadian before. Maybe they’re too polite to tell you they don’t want to. Maybe you just find out the next day, when they start ghosting you.
So much for being Hollander’s helpful, mature introduction to Boston. So much for showing LeClaire that Ilya’s a good team player who understands strategy. Sucking off your new teammate before your first big away trip together, like it’s some kind of joke or dare, is not strategic. It’s dangerous, and juvenile, and fucking stupid.
By the time they get to the airport, Ilya’s enraged at himself. When the team gathers at the gate, he sits by Marleau and ignores Hollander, who’s got headphones in and is watching something intently on his phone, ignoring Ilya just as hard in return.
“Cutting it fine, Roz,” says Marly.
“Sorry, captain. Oh, no, wait,” says Ilya. “I remember now, you are not captain, so you are not the boss of me.” He slumps down in the insufficiently padded chair.
“Lemme guess, Rozzy didn’t manage a lucky blowie,” says Berman, who’s wearing a broad, cocky grin. His hands are behind his head and his knees are spread wide in a manner that is offensive to feminism.
“Awww, it’s lovely you’re so happy, Berms. Was it your first? They're nice, huh?” says Ilya, and the guys laugh.
He doesn’t miss the way Hollander glances up, then quickly back down, when he says that. Shit. Dumb joke. He’s got first times on the brain.
“Not first, maybe best though,” says Berms, unrepentant. “Fucking talented mouth, my missus.”
“Hey, a little respect for the ladies,” says Paulie, scowling.
“That was respect! Mad respect!”
“We have to socialise with that woman,” says Marly. “And now I’m gonna have some nasty mental images to deal with.”
“Stop imagining my dick then, ya fuckin’ fag,” says Berms, punching Marly on the shoulder. The row of chairs shakes as play-fighting ensues, along with a torrent of largely homophobic insults.
Ilya puts his headphones in.
It’s a long flight, six hours. He sleeps for some of it. He can’t see Hollander, several rows back. Once they land, Hollander keeps his distance at the baggage carousel and then sits next to Rivers on the team bus, even though there are some completely empty seats in the back—a clear indication he’s still determined to avoid Ilya. Then it’s just a quick drop-the-gear at the hotel and they’re all back in the bus for a stretch skate after the long flight.
The whole session, Ilya might as well be invisible. Either that or some kind of Canadian-repelling magnet. When Ilya saunters into the showers, Hollander immediately leaves.
Marly watches him go and says mildly, “You guys having some sorta beef?”
“No.”
“Only, you’re usually kinda buddy-buddy, and today—”
“Awwww, Marly,” says Ilya, scrubbing at his armpit and blowing an exaggerated kiss. “Don’t worry, don’t get jealous, you are still my number one true BFF forever and ever.”
“You are so full of shit, kid. Last time I try to look out for you.”
“I sit with you at dinner, promise. You will not be sad friendless old man.”
“Fuck you,” says Marly, shaking his head like a wet dog.
Ilya does sit with him at dinner, though. Coach has been very clear that curfew’s serious tonight; the game against San Jose tomorrow is the best chance they’ve had for a win in a while, and they’re not gonna fuck it up. Hollander arrives late, and sits as far away from Ilya as he can. Marleau observes his arrival, then looks at Ilya. Ilya gives him the shut the fuck up look. Marleau shrugs.
It’s five a.m., and Ilya’s been awake for nearly an hour. The timezone change is fucking with him. He’d get up and go to the gym, only they’ve got conditioning and practice this morning, and the game tonight, and he doesn’t want to overdo it. A run will be better. A run through these expensive, balmy Californian streets. A run, to set the rhythm of his mind to rights.
The temperature is perfect, no sun yet to make him sweat, just his own efforts. A quick stretch outside the hotel, and he’s off. It feels good, right, almost immediately. After ten minutes or so he comes across a park and heads into it, following the path across beautifully kept lawns, flower gardens, a small and gentle river. The sky has lightened in the east, and his head is clearing. The facts are rearranging themselves into their proper orientation, the truth of things emerging.
It was purest self indulgence, the night before last. It wasn’t fair to let that stupid “good luck” joke push Hollander into an idea that he’d never have come up with on his own. It was self indulgence and it wasn’t right.
He knows what he’s got to do.
Fate, for once, is on his side. He’s got no idea what room Hollander’s in but he doesn’t need to find out, because the elevator doors are just closing when a large hand wraps around one of them and a polite voice says, “Hey, sorry, room for one more?”
The doors open. Shane Hollander, shiny with sweat, same as Ilya, is standing there, eyes enormous. Apparently the insomnia was catching.
“Oh. Sorry,” he says.
He has got to stop apologising for every-fucking-thing. “For what?” says Ilya, stepping to one side, and then, when the doors start to close again, “Get in!”
“Yeah. Sure. Sor— Yeah.”
Hollander gets in the elevator, standing on the opposite side, and the doors close.
This is it, the perfect simple normal opportunity to clear the air. Ilya clears his throat and says, “You don’t have to avoid me. Is okay. We can forget about… that.”
They’re both looking resolutely forward.
“That’s probably. Um. Best,” says Hollander.
He’s right. It probably is. Pity that idea makes Ilya’s mouth want to turn down at the corners. But he hated being Hollander’s Invisible Man yesterday. It’s got to stop, and if this is what it takes to stop it, then that’s what they’re going to do.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay. Officially never happened.”
“What never happened?” says Ilya.
“Oh—I mean, the, you know, the, when you gave me a—” Hollander stammers, gesturing vaguely at his groin.
“Joke! Joke, Hollander. I know what never happened.” Ilya can’t stop a smile, or resist looking over to see the inevitable embarrassment blooming over Hollander’s freckled cheekbones. Hollander looks down, laughing at himself.
“Sorry. That was stupid.”
“Yes. But we are friends, yes? I don’t mind.”
A nod. The elevator shudders to a halt, dings.
“Friends,” says Hollander.
“Friends. Very appropriate friends,” Ilya agrees. He smiles, and Hollander smiles back, and the unwieldy weight between them dissipates. It’s going to be okay.
Ilya turns left out of the elevator. Hollander turns right.
When Ilya gets to his door, he glances back along the corridor. Hollander’s watching him. For several inappropriately long seconds, they maintain eye contact, until Hollander wrenches his gaze away, and slips into his room.
There. Ilya has done the right thing.
He wishes it felt a little less like losing.
*
LeClaire’s knuckles rap on Shane’s helmet, breaking through the roar of the crowd.
“You’re in, kid.”
Yes! About fucking time! A surge of adrenaline pushes Shane off the bench, over the barrier, onto the ice.
The game’s going so well, so fucking well. They’re up by two with only a quarter of the game left. Butts is playing a blinder—he’s responsible for two goals of their three, and Rozanov’s scored too. LeClaire’s obviously figuring this is a safe time to try out his newest acquisition, and Shane knows this is it. This is his time to prove himself. He has to pull one out of the bag.
At the face off, everything goes silent in his head. Time slowing, awareness sky-high.
“Oh, baby,” his opponent murmurs through his green mouthguard, smiling and wicked. “They put you out here? Your guys were doing so well, and now you’re gonna fuck it all up for them.”
Shane regards him levelly, silently. No way. No fucking way.
He knows in the split second before his stick connects that he’s won. He’s off, he’s flying. He’s entered that beautiful space where he’s almost omniscient, and his heart’s soaring, joyful. He knows where everyone is, their speeds, their trajectories. This is where he’s meant to be. This is what he’s meant to do. He dekes around a defensemen and passes to Rivers, who nearly loses it but Marleau appears just where Shane knew he would and smashes the puck forward to where Shane’s headed. It takes a massive reach and he’s got a guy on his tail like some World War Two fighter pilot but Shane gets there just in time. He pushes left, hard, then sends it back to Marleau, heads right as the goalie goes to cover Marleau’s line of sight, and Marly understands the play, flings the puck back to Shane and—
The screams are so loud, and Shane’s is the loudest of all.
The locker room is wild with celebration. They’ve done it, they’ve cracked that fucking losing streak. They’re back, they’re fucking back, baby! Shane’s shoulder is warm and throbbing from all the congratulatory slaps, even through his padding. These guys are very strong and very happy. Shane and Saintly—St. Simon, who totally stepped up in goal—and Butts and Rozanov are everybody’s heroes, tonight.
Paulie’s being dragged out to talk to the media, a massive grin on his unshaven face, but at the door he stops. “Hey! Hey, Hollzy!”
Shane turns, and the puck comes sailing through the air. He snatches it.
“First goal memento,” says Paulie.
“Not my first goal,” says Shane, shaking his head. “In Montreal—”
“Who gives a fuck? First Boston goal, that’s all that matters,” Paulie declares, waving as he disappears into the corridor.
“Yeah,” says Marleau, shouldering into Shane so hard that Shane stumbles. “First goal with a real team.”
“Montreal’s a great team,” says Shane, to a chorus of boos.
Rozanov swats at him. “Those fuckers gave you away. Idiots. They will regret it, so bad!”
“Yeah, that was immaculate,” says Rivers.
“Thanks, man. But it was only one goal, and Rozanov’s was great, too. And Butts got two, so—”
“Shut up and let us be nice about your first Boston goal,” Rozanov yells cheerfully.
Shane grins at him. God, he’s so relieved that Rozanov found him this morning, that they cleared everything up between them. He’d been so freaked out yesterday, so certain that he’d gone and ruined everything in his new team by doing something so crazy. He’s so grateful they can just pretend it never happened.
(That is such a huge fucking lie. He’s not grateful. He’s gutted.)
(But he’s going to tell himself it’s true, until it is.)
Berman says, “Well, boys, you know the really good news? We’ve now scientifically proven that the lucky blowie is a requirement for success, so I’m guaranteed for life.”
There’s a chorus of laughter and mocking.
Connors yells, “What about tomorrow’s game, then? You gonna bring the missus out on the red-eye, for tomorrow?”
“Connors, my brother in Christ, the power of the lucky blowie lasts days,” says Berman solemnly.
“It could still be the socks,” says Marly, peeling them off. They’re orange, except for the soles, which are a nasty shade of brown.
“Fuck, did you still not wash those things?”
“I did! I washed them after you gave me all that shit the other night. Which, maybe, unlocked their lucky powers.”
Paulie comes back into the locker room, peeling off his undershirt. “I don’t know if it was the socks or Carmichael’s lucky playlist or Saintly’s fuckin’ OCD right-foot-first, no odd numbers bullshit and I don’t care. The important thing is, boys, that we make this the start of a winning streak. We don’t want a one-and-done, right?”
“Fuck no, cap!”
“So whatever you did, better keep fuckin’ doing it.”
Shane can’t help the way his eyes flick right, to where Rozanov’s shucking off his shorts. To his horror, Rozanov’s looking right back; and worse, Rozanov grins at him, and winks.
In the showers, Shane keeps his distance. He’s got to. Rozanov’s body is way, way too much to stand next to when you’ve done what they’ve done.
They’re not going to keep doing it. There’s no such thing as luck. There’s only skill.
And he’s grateful that they’ve decided it never happened. He’s grateful.
He’s grateful, and he’s not going to risk fucking that up again.
He doesn’t go out celebrating with the team. He gets room service, calls his parents, and has an early night.
In the morning, he sees that he missed a text from Rozanov, just before midnight. You up?
He doesn't reply.
*
It’s been a big day. It’s only a short hop to Anaheim, not even an hour and a half, so it’s a travel-plus-game day, and those are always fucking tiring.
Tiring, and now… gospodi, so damn disappointing. Almost as disappointing as Hollander disappearing last night.
They’d come into the game so pumped, so hyped, so certain that the losing streak was broken and now it was time to win, and then they just… fell apart. Literally nothing went their way. Butts got into a fight early on and in the power play the other team got a goal, and after that everything went downhill. Saintly lost his focus again, Squirrel went in but wasn’t any better, Paulie lost his temper with them at half time, Hollander lost two face-offs in a row, everyone basically got the shits and it went to pieces. There was one brief, bright spot in the last quarter where Ilya provoked their giant hairy left wing into spearing him in a fit of rage, thereby getting a full five minute penalty, during which Ilya scored. But it didn’t feel like much of a victory because he came sofuckingclose, TWICE, to getting another goal, but failed; so they were still behind and they still lost, and it was just a general heap of absolute shit.
Afterwards, the whole team is morose. Grumpy and irritable. Damn, they’d needed that to go better, so much better.
They’ve already reached the point of the trip where they’re getting sick of each other, although that might be more to do with the loss than anything else, and they all split up into smaller groups to get food and commiseration drinks after. Ilya goes for pizza with Marly and Rivers and Carmichael; he’d have invited Hollander, too, only Hollander went straight to his room. Again.
It’s not that late when they get back, and Ilya’s not ready for sleep yet. Tomorrow’s a longer flight, to Dallas. Today was fucking endless, but he needs to get some weights in. He heads up to the hotel gym.
Blyat.
Hollander’s there, at the weight rack. He’s gently sweaty and stupidly attractive in white shorts and tank. He looks up, and then down, when Ilya arrives.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
Hollander adds some weights to the bench press, and settles himself beneath it.
“You should not do that without spotter,” says Ilya, gathering his scattered wits and sauntering over to claim the role.
“It’s not that much. I don’t need—”
“Shut up,” says Ilya. “I am here now, so you can bench more, yes?”
Hollander returns the bar to its cradle. “Okay. Give me ten more, each side?”
Ilya does it.
He likes watching Hollander lift. His form is so admirably perfect, his face so unreadable. Most of the guys pull ridiculous faces, they grunt and contort like they’re performing minor miracles. Hollander’s got two expressions: I can do this and I will or I can’t do this so I won’t, and they’re both preternaturally calm.
And yet, the other night when he came all over Ilya, his expression had been anything but calm—so intense. So shocked, so transported. So gorgeous.
They spend half an hour with the weights, not talking much but occasionally surreptitiously eyeing each other. There’s a thought in Ilya’s head, cantering round and round like a horse in a display ring, demanding his attention. He’s trying so, so hard not to let it come out his mouth. So hard. He wants to respect Hollander’s decision, he really does, because it’s a good decision, a sensible one. The only right one. They absolutely should not use this loss as an excuse to—
“So, um,” says Hollander, wiping his face with his towel. “That was a pretty shit game, huh.”
“Very,” Ilya agrees, racking the free weights and manfully not mentioning anything about lucky blowies or people who ignore texts.
“Sometimes it goes so well, and other times…”
“Other times, not.”
“And it’s, like, so hard to know why.” Hollander flicks his dark gaze over to Ilya. Jesus Christ. He is not making this easy.
“Is always tomorrow,” says Ilya.
“Well. Day after.” They’re flying to Dallas tomorrow, but there won’t be a game till the next day.
“Is always day after tomorrow, then.”
“Yeah.”
Ilya’s not going to say anything about luck, or rituals, or point out the tiny statistical sample set of lucky blow jobs and subsequent wins! He’s not! He’s NOT!
“Time for sleep,” he says, like a mature adult.
“Um. Yeah. Yeah, for sure.”
Hollander follows him out of the gym and up to their floor. He’s got a really weird way of saying nothing, but at the same time, making you feel like he’s just about to combust from the pressure of all the words in his throat.
“Goodnight,” says Ilya, when they get to his door. “Don’t worry about game. Next one will be better.”
“Yeah. No, sure. Night.”
“Night.”
Once the door’s safely closed behind him, Ilya strips off his tank top and tosses his sneakers into his gym bag. He deserves a medal, a fucking medal, for pure self-restraint. He’s the one who should be nicknamed Saintly. He throws himself down on the bed and groans loudly.
There’s a quick, tentative knock on the door. He stops groaning and sits up.
The knock comes again. Quiet but somehow urgent.
Ilya pads across the carpet and peers through the peephole. Hollander is looking down the corridor, biting his lip. Then he looks in the other direction, his brow furrowing; then he shakes his head, and turns away.
Ilya yanks the door open and Hollander freezes, caught mid-flight.
“You want something?”
“No, I—it doesn’t matter,” says Hollander, staring at Ilya’s chest. At his right nipple, to be specific. “Sorry, I just had a thought but it was a dumb thought, it’s nothing, I—”
Ilya stands back from the door and motions for him to come in, but Hollander just stares at Ilya's nipple some more, his gaze slightly unfocused.
“Get in here,” says Ilya, in the firm voice of a man who will brook no argument and who is also extraordinarily optimistic right now. Hollander is being deeply weird but… quite possibly in a good way?
As the door clunks shut, Ilya sits on the bed, leaning against the headboard. He watches his unexpected visitor patiently. Hollander perches on the corner of the mattress and then bounces back up again as if it just burned his ass. He’s twitchy as fuck. If Ilya were a nicer human he’d put him out of his misery but it’s totally irresistible to watch. The more discombobulated Hollander gets, the more certain Ilya is that he’s got the right idea; that the same horse has been galloping around Hollander’s head.
“Um. Shit. This is dumb. It’s just… I was thinking, you know, about the game, and how we lost, and how yesterday we won, and how you texted but…”
Hollander is the approximate colour of a late summer plum. Ilya shifts a little on the bed, tugging the leg of his shorts down, and Hollander’s eyes laser in on the movement and don’t leave the general area. He’s just staring at Ilya’s crotch now. It’s patently, deliciously obvious what he wants.
“You think we should? For the team?” says Ilya, gentle and conversational. Sly. “For luck?”
Hollander buries his face in his hands. “Oh god. Oh god I’m so sorry. This is so inappropriate. I’m gonna go.”
“No,” says Ilya, lurching forward and grabbing Hollander’s t-shirt as he turns away. “No! No being sorry. I have same thought.”
The eyes emerge above splayed fingers. “You do?”
*
“You do?” rasps Shane, half insensible with embarrassment. What the hell is he doing? How can he be basically propositioning Ilya Rozanov, again?
But Rozanov grins, a sharp and lupine grin, and Shane knows, all of a sudden, that he hasn’t gotten this wrong.
“I do.”
“And… um… the thought that you’re having is…?” says Shane, just to be completely, utterly sure.
“That maybe it is my turn to be lucky,” says Rozanov.
Shane swallows. Time slows. Yeah, to be honest, that is exactly what he was thinking of; but it’s kind of scary. He’s never… done that. But god he wants to. He wants to strip Rozanov bare, completely bare, and explore his astonishing body.
“Okay,” he says.
Rozanov, without warning, wriggles out of his shorts and underwear and tosses them on the floor; then reclines against the pillows, hands behind his head. He’s already half hard. His thick, uncircumcised cock lies tauntingly on the dark hair at his groin, pointing towards his navel. The head of it peeks out from the sleeve of foreskin and Shane’s fingers twitch, curious.
“Is okay?” says Rozanov.
“Yeah. Yeah, sure, um…”
“Maybe we try something else, for extra luck,” says Rozanov, his eyes roaming over Shane.
“L-like what?”
“Maybe you be naked, too.”
Holy shit. Holy shit.
But also, god yes. Shane pulls his t-shirt over his head and folds it quickly, putting it on the TV console; he tugs off his trainers and then turns away, suddenly shy, before taking off his shorts and boxers and adding them to the pile.
He’s desperately erect.
Rozanov bends one knee and spreads his legs, inviting Shane onto the bed and Shane goes willingly. Mesmerised. Blood is hammering in his ears. He lies prone, propped on his elbows with his hands under Rozanov’s pale, muscled thighs. His feet are hanging off the end of the bed. There’s a cock, a very large, very hard cock, right there, inches from his face. A cock, and rosy balls already gathered up; the skin of Rozanov’s inner thighs looks incredibly lickable.
Shane turns his head, closes his eyes, and presses his lips against it. Soft hairs tickle his chin. Rozanov smells warm and yeasty, soapy, good. The muscle beneath that velvety skin tautens as Rozanov draws in a breath.
Lifting Rozanov’s cock, Shane wraps his fingers around and gently pulls the foreskin down, exposing the head. God, it’s so interesting; so different. Shane’s seen them in the locker room like this, of course, loads of times, but he’s never gotten to touch before. Never been allowed to feel it. His own dick suddenly seems kind of simplistic. He runs his circled fingers up and down, working Rozanov gently, and then there’s a hand on his head, in his hair. Stroking.
“You are curious?” says Rozanov.
“I mean… kinda. Sure.”
“You like?”
“Yeah,” says Shane, simple and honest; and then before he can think too hard about it he sticks out his tongue and licks.
It tastes of almost nothing. Same as licking the back of his own hand. The taste isn’t the thing that’s wonderful. It’s more about the texture, the silky skin and the blood-hard flesh beneath, and the warm smell of it here in Rozanov’s groin, and the incredibly sensual humming sound that Rozanov makes. Instantly and utterly, Shane wants more. Much more. He licks and suckles, his eyes closed, mapping the contours and curves of Rozanov’s cockhead with his lips and tongue and remembering with a supersaturated clarity how this had felt the other night. He opens wider and lowers his head, taking Rozanov further as saliva spurts greedily under his tongue.
His own erection is pressing into the bed and his hips are moving without planning or volition, grinding down as he bobs his head and sucks avidly, delighted by the heft of it in his mouth. He does this for some time, and it is glorious, until he gets over-enthusiastic and makes himself gag.
“Sorry,” he blurts, pulling back for a second.
“No, no. Is good, is so good. Hey, Hollander… you want to try something different?”
Shane looks up. He is already trying something different, thank you very much. Is he fucking it up? “Like what?”
“Here, come up here,” says Rozanov, patting the bed beside him.
“Was it bad?”
“No, I tell you this. Is good. Come.”
Face hot, Shane does as he’s told; as he does, Rozanov’s reorienting himself, turning around topsy-turvy on the bed until he’s lying on his side with his face level with Shane’s cock. He pats Shane’s hip, encouraging him to roll onto his side the same, and then licks a broad, wet stripe along Shane’s length.
Shane mimics him, and Rozanov grins.
“Da. Yes. Like that. Like this.”
Yes. Yes, perfect, brilliant. Everything that Rozanov does, Shane echoes, and his pulse is insanely fast, blood racketing around his body with frantic delight as he simultaneously pushes into Ilya Rozanov’s hot, beautiful mouth and takes him deep. Every sense is stimulated at once, and apparently a couple of new senses he hadn’t been aware of until now.
It’s a heady mix of building pleasure, both physical and mental—Rozanov wants to do this. He wants it. They’re telling each other it’s a stupid superstitious joke, but that’s bullshit, right? They want to do this. They want to touch and taste and grind against each other.
Rozanov’s got one knee bent up and Shane threads his arm around, clutching at Rozanov’s extraordinarily perfect ass. His other hand ventures up over the contracting muscles of Rozanov’s belly, and beyond, up to his chest, squeezing and delighted. He rubs his thumb over a taut nipple and Rozanov hums, the sound vibrating against Shane’s cock, buried in the heat of his throat. Jesus, it’s good, it’s so good. And now Shane knows that Rozanov would happily swallow his come, and he really wants to do the same in return, he’s greedy for it. He sucks harder, moves back and forth faster. Faster, and Rozanov speeds too.
A hand grabs his, lacing their fingers together.
They’re sucking each other off, and they’re holding hands while they do it. Lightheaded and astonished, Shane makes a squeaking sound and Rozanov groans his approval, and it’s a beautiful Möbius strip of reflecting pleasure, building and swirling, round and round and higher and higher. Shane digs his fingers into the meaty muscle of Rozanov’s buttock, crushingly hard, and shoves his cock in deep and desperate as he feels the onrushing swell of climax; and then the wave breaks, crashing and frothing, shining pulses of physical bliss taking hold of him. He stops breathing, quivering and taut, and then Rozanov’s cock twitches and spurts in Shane’s mouth. It’s warm and alkaline. Shane mewls and swallows and swallows. Swallows again, as Rozanov makes an animalistic groaning howl of a noise that’s the hottest thing Shane has ever heard in his life.
He releases the held breath and flops onto his back, panting. His lips feel swollen and hot, his cock suddenly chilly now it's left the furnace of Rozanov’s mouth.
“Wow,” he mumbles, his brain still offline.
The bed shakes as Rozanov moves up, collapsing onto the pillows beside Shane.
“Felt very… lucky,” he says, and Shane huffs out a laugh.
“For sure. Like… twice the luck. That’s just maths.”
“And tomorrow, when we win, we will know it is thanks to us.”
“Statistics, right, like Rivers said.”
“We should keep records. Make sure it is working.”
“For sure. A spreadsheet where we we can, like, monitor results.”
“Yes. Definitely a Shane Holl-an-der job,” says Ilya, grinning as he slaps Shane affectionately on the belly in time with the syllables.
*
They beat Dallas, 4-2.
They fly to Tennessee, and blow each other in the shower in Shane’s hotel room. It's both spectacular, and sensible. It would be risky not to.
They beat Nashville, 2-0, reinforcing the hypothesis yet again. Both goals are scored during the power play when LeClaire puts them both in, Ilya on wing to Shane’s centre, one goal each.
They fly home to Boston.
Shane creates a spreadsheet, and shares it with Ilya. He puts a pivot table over the top of the list of games, dates, and “lucky interventions”, and it’s showing a pretty solid correlation rate, because he included backdated data from the day he was traded.
It’s science, right?
But damn, Shane Hollander feels pretty fucking lucky.