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As Ilya heads to the locker room, he’s buzzing with adrenaline, and it’s not solely because the Raiders just totally thrashed the ingeniously named Metropolis Metros and got through the first round of the 2017 playoffs. It’s also because Ilya’s going to get to talk about how great he is to the reporters waiting outside—one of whom is Ilya Rozanov’s very favorite member of the press.
Metropolis’s own Shane Hollander. Earnest, handsome in his dorky glasses, and truly dedicated to his job. He doesn’t ask trashy questions that are designed to make players upset and go viral. He cares about hockey, he knows the game like the back of his hand, and he wants to ask good questions, the right questions to help fans understand what just happened on the ice.
If Hollander stood up straight, he’d probably be at least as tall as Ilya. As it is, his posture, his glasses and his baggy suits make him fade into the background, hiding his beauty and his broad, strong shoulders.
To everyone but Ilya.
Because Ilya remembers Shane Hollander from his—their—days in juniors. Hollander was magic with a hockey stick in his hand. At one point, it was rumored he’d be the #1 pick in the 2009 draft.
But just before then, Hollander vanished—from the hockey world, at least. He attended Metropolis University instead, according to Wikipedia, and went into sports reporting, surfacing in 2014 at a Raiders vs. Metros game in Boston and nearly giving Ilya a heart attack.
Ilya noticed Shane Hollander when they were teens, wanted to play hockey against him, or with him. In 2017, Ilya still can’t keep his eyes off him.
And Ilya has noticed, too, that Hollander looks at Ilya more when Ilya’s shirtless and glistening after a game. Ilya’s really good at spotting men who look, men who want him.
Over the past three years, Ilya’s been getting bolder and bolder with his comments to Hollander. He can’t out himself in public, of course, but everyone knows that Ilya is a troll, a mischief-maker who winks at fans via the reporter’s lens. Ilya pretends that his flirtatious remarks are for the Daily Planet’s readers, but they’re not. They’re for Shane Hollander.
Ilya strips off his top layers, adjusts the cross around his neck, tousles his hair a little with his fingers. He knows he’s sexy this way, gleaming and disarrayed like he would be after fucking. It’s time to see whether Ilya can get Hollander to come back to his hotel room in downtown Metropolis. All Ilya needs to do is whisper a room number and the hotel name to Hollander.
That’s why it really sucks when Ilya leaves the locker room and walks into scenes of barely bridled panic. The rink is way emptier than it should be; seems like everyone rushed out, leaving only a few staff members talking in hushed voices on cell phones. The reporters that are gathered, waiting for Ilya, have grave expressions. And worst of all, Hollander isn’t among them.
One of them shoves a mic in his face and says, “Ilya, are you aware of—”
“No. What’s going on? Don’t tell me this is villain shit again.” Games in Gotham are always a pain in the ass—-last time the Raiders played there, the Joker shut down the power grid right before the third period—but Superman usually has Metropolis under control.
One of the reporters starts reading off his phone. “Uh, an all-powerful entity from another dimension has requested champions to fight in his arena. And he’s asking for the best guys from each sport, including, uh . . . you, as the top player in the MLH.”
“Ah,” Ilya says. A lot of cameras are pointed at his face right now; he’s starting to sweat cold, rather than the hot sweat of victory. “Well, this is flattering, but I am not interested. I only fight for the Raiders and Russia.” He tries to give the reporter his usual suave wink. “I will go—” Ilya begins, turning back to the locker room.
The roof of the rink cracks open like it’s an egg, and an incomprehensibly huge hand comes and grabs Ilya around the waist—just picks him up like he weighs nothing at all. Ilya’s zooming up through the air way, way, faster than he ever has on a rollercoaster—he’s about to puke—
“Stop!”
The hand stops moving, thank God. Ilya opens his eyes—Jesus Christ he’s high up, oh fuck—but there, floating in mid-air not far from him, is a familiar shape in bright blue and red.
Superman. Ilya will never call him boring again.
The huge hand is terrifyingly tight around Ilya’s body, pinning his hands to his sides, leaving him utterly helpless. While Superman talks in fast, incomprehensible English with the giant humanoid who’s holding Ilya about—something, zones or dimensions—-Ilya focuses on trying not to vomit or pass out. That would be so fucking embarrassing.
Superman’s stunning physique, even in that stupid costume of his, is not a bad distraction. But what’s even more appealing than Superman’s tall, muscular body is the determined tone of his voice, even as Superman faces an entity vastly larger than himself. “You’re not going to take him,” Superman says, unwavering. This, at least, Ilya understands.
“Then you take him,” the entity says—Ilya’s body registers the terror before his mind does—and Ilya is being thrown through the air—
And caught. Ilya comes to a stop in the warm, muscular arms of Superman. He hasn’t been carried by another human being since he got drunk as a rookie, and even then, he was thrown over Marley’s shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
“Are you okay?” Superman asks, cradling Ilya to his firm pecs.
Ilya’s eyes are prickling, but not from fear. It’s the care in Superman’s voice that’s hitting Ilya like a hard check. “Yes, fine,” Ilya says. Then he tries again and manages to say it in English this time.
They’re slowly floating down to the ground into the bright russet palette of Metropolis in autumn. While Gotham somehow manages to be gray year-round, Metropolis is the opposite: always colorful and pretty, no matter the season. Kind of like its red-and-blue-clad hero.
Ilya is gently set on his feet on a path just outside the rink. “You should probably get to shelter,” Superman says. Ilya’s never seen his face up close before; not many people have. He’s gorgeous, with a handsome jaw, determined brows, sincere dark eyes and sweet freckles over the bridge of his nose. He kind of reminds Ilya of . . . something. Something that’s on the tip of Ilya’s tongue, that he can’t quite remember. Weird.
The next instant, Superman’s soaring off into the sky again, trading blows with the alien(?!) giant like a fighter jet harrying Godzilla. Ilya’s left alone, freezing and shirtless, looking up into the expanse overhead for a few seconds before his common sense takes over and he runs away down the nearest street to watch from a safe distance.
Superman wins in the end, of course. As the alien giant resentfully opens a, a fucking rip in reality or something and steps through, Ilya calls Sveta. She’s the one person who he’s sure will have worried about him completely for his own sake, not at all because of the money he earns or his importance to the team as a star center.
“Oh fuck, Ilyusha! Is that you?”
“Yes, yes, I’m alive.” And half-naked and crouching behind a car while a passerby stares at him, but whatever. “Superman saved me,” Ilya says.
Sveta swears again in relief. “You’ll never call him boring again,” she says, tearful.
Ilya’s cheeks are wet now too. In the last ten minutes, he went from hoping to score with Hollander, to being abducted, to almost dying, to being fine again.
Of course, the Hollander plan is fucked now. Maybe Hollander was never at the rink today in the first place. But Ilya won’t give up. He’d die before he said this to Sveta or anyone else, but he’d choose the awkward charm of Shane Hollander, combined with the memory of Hollander’s beautiful hands as a hockey player, over the hunky looks of Superman every time.
Not that Ilya has a chance with Superman, of course. But with Hollander . . . he just might.