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The summer camps have been a massive success since they started, and are wildly popular with both the kids who have attended and their parents, but Shane feels strangely bad that they've kept them located in Ottawa and Montreal.
There's a whole country’s worth of kids who love hockey, after all.
They've been getting more volunteers for the camps too, which has been great, except that they don't always need so many NHL players, active or retired, to help out. And so Shane comes up with a new idea.
“A rotating city. A new one every summer. We’ll take the camp all the way across Canada, and we’ll be able to reach kids who wouldn't be able to come to us. We’ll still keep the Ottawa one, of course. Maybe Montreal, too, make sure that all our French-speaking players coach at that one. But, fuck, how many guys do we know who came up out of the middle of nowhere? They weren't even close enough to a major city to see pro games in person. I think we can do better, for those kids.”
Ilya’s grasp on Canadian geography and demographics is still limited to what he had to learn for his citizenship test, and what he knows from flying to the country’s major cities to play hockey, but that's it. So it's down to Shane to figure out where they might want to go. Mid-sized cities, where NHL players almost never step foot, but still have enough kids to fill all the camp slots.
Halifax. Charlottetown. St John’s. Fredericton. Kitchener. Thunder Bay. Winnipeg. Lethbridge. Victoria.
Regina.
Shane puts Regina at the top of the list. It's a niggling bit of sentimentality that won't let him go. His mom helps run the Irina Foundation, but he and Ilya still do a lot of the legwork for the Game Changers camps, so Shane looks up the local hockey association in Regina and sends an email.
He receives an effusive response two days later from the association’s president, who is clearly still in shock that Shane Hollander has asked about whether they might be able to lock down usage of the arena for a week.
Shane had been very specific in his request, after all. He wanted use of the Brandt Centre, where the local WHL team played, where Shane had laced up his skates and taken the ice against his husband for the very first time.
It takes a few months before the details get settled, but then they have a week scheduled for August where they will fly out to Saskatchewan. There'd been a lot of complaining from their friends about the location, but most of them had still agreed to help coach. Evan Dykstra, in particular, had been thrilled, having grown up in Manitoba.
“I would have begged my dad to go to something like this,” he tells Shane one day after practice. They’re stripping down in the room, the buzz of their teammates around them. Evan wriggles out from under his shoulder pads. “I would have given up my allowance for the entire summer and like, actually done my homework properly for the chance to attend a hockey camp with a bunch of Stanley Cup winners. Those kids are gonna flip the fuck out.”
Shane wonders if maybe they should pick two other cities a year, but at some point it’s going to eat into his time at the cottage with Ilya, and he’s selfish enough to want as much time in the sun and water with his husband as he can possibly get.
Ryan needs a bit of convincing to make the journey to Regina, since it's a much further drive from Toronto than it is to Ottawa, but Shane reminds him that they’ll need to move all the camp equipment somehow, and so Ryan gets a generous stipend for an extra week of travel, and he's given the responsibility of driving a trailer full of hockey gear 28 hours away.
Shane is going to have to figure out another solution when they finally decide to run camps in BC or Nova Scotia.
The camp books a bunch of hotel rooms for the coaches. It's convenient that the closest hotel to the arena is a familiar one. Shane and Ilya have arrived one day early, so that they can shake some hands and get the lay of the land before the rest of the coaches arrive.
Ilya gives him a knowing look when the cab stops in front of the Holiday Inn. “I see what you're doing, Hollander,” he says, and Shane lets the smile spread across his face. He might have been embarrassed about it, once upon a time, but the predatory look that Ilya is giving him from the far side of the cab’s back seat can only mean good things for him.
The hockey association’s president, James Ruppel, gives them a tour of the rink. The ads on the boards have changed, and the WHL home team has updated their logo, sitting differently than Shane remembers at centre ice. But the locker rooms feel eerily similar, like he's stepped back in time when he stands in front of all those stalls.
Shane sits on the bench, and remembers what it felt like to strap himself into his gear in this exact spot at age seventeen, with his entire career waiting to be unrolled in front of him. How he had wanted so much for himself, and yet somehow hadn’t known what he really wanted at all.
Ilya watches him from the doorway for a long, long while. Shane isn't sure what either of them are waiting for. Until finally, “Come, sweetheart. There's more to see.”
***
Shane is reviewing logistics with James when Ilya tips his head towards the nearest door and makes a small gesture with his hand near his mouth. Shane nods his recognition, and Ilya disappears through a door that clangs loudly when the crash bar is pressed. It only takes five more minutes to wrap up the last few details they need to cover, and then Shane steps out into the fresh air after his husband.
It had been December when they'd first met here in 2008. Cold enough in the Prairies to warrant a jacket and a hat, which had barely been enough to keep out the chill. Ilya’s hand had been cold when Shane had shaken it, both times. The sun had barely been shining, weak and mostly hidden behind grey clouds.
August in Regina is much better, a balmy 22 degrees and properly sunny. Shane is wearing his red Game Changers polo shirt and a matching cap. Ilya’s own camp hat is on backwards, which never fails to do funny things to Shane’s chest. His polo strains around the thickest part of his biceps, his chain always getting caught on one of the undone buttons at his throat.
Ilya has lit a cigarette and is slowly smoking it. He exhales away from Shane when he sees him come through the door.
“I’m not sure you're supposed to smoke here,” Shane says, and Ilya grins widely at him.
“Okay,” he says agreeably, and then takes another drag without moving. “What, no compliments on how much you like to watch me?” he adds with a leer.
“You know fucking well how much I like to watch you play,” Shane says. He's having the craziest déjà vu right now: his husband of three years leaned up against the wall so casually, a cigarette held between his fingers, his bright hat and shirt looking even brighter in the sunshine. And overlaid on him, a vision of a sullen teenager in blacks and grays, hunched against the winter wind, who only understood enough English to have a brief conversation with him, but knew enough to chirp him before Shane walked away.
Shane leans against the wall beside Ilya, not quite within touching distance. His husband watches him from the corner of his eye, takes one last drag and puts the cigarette out on the concrete. He picks it back up again, because he's heard Shane’s lecture on littering butts often enough that it's finally sunk in, even if the lecture on quitting smoking has yet to work its magic.
Shane slides a half-step closer, and Ilya mirrors him, until they're close enough to twine their fingers loosely together against this weird wall made up of a dozen metal doors, tucked in behind the arena. Shane breathes out, feeling his shoulders drop.
“Is a good thing I met you in winter and not summer,” Ilya says.
“Why's that?”
“Your freckles, they get so much darker in the summer, after you've been at the cottage. They were bad enough in 2008. I would have died if I had seen them so strong like this, the first time.”
Shane smiles at him, certain that his flush is obvious under those freckles Ilya loves so much. “And your hair is practically golden in this light,” he says. “I wouldn't have been able to keep my hands out of it.”
Normally Ilya brushes his teeth after smoking, and gargles mouthwash for good measure so that Shane doesn’t complain about the taste of him, but today Shane doesn't stop Ilya when he leans over to kiss him right there against the wall. It's tender and soft, the kind that exists only to express their love, not the kind that's a prelude to getting their dicks out. Ilya tastes smoky, but Shane has become acclimatized to it after all these years, and even though he kind of hates it, it still smells like home and unconditional love.
Ilya’s mouth works over his for a while, their lips sliding familiarly across each other. A teenage Shane had only briefly said hello and shared the compliment that had been bouncing around his head for all day, before he'd had to meet his parents to get going to dinner. This time, he has nowhere to be except right at this man’s side.
“How'd we let it come to this?” he murmurs against his husband’s mouth.
“We were young,” Ilya says lowly. “And I was obsessed with such a pretty face. Was lucky that you are a slow skater, so I could catch you.”
“Fuck off,” Shane says, but he's smiling when he leans in for one last kiss. “Go on, find a garbage can for that thing. We're done for the day here, and I have plans for you.”
They're holding hands when they push away from the wall together.
***
The room they're staying in isn't the same one that Shane had in 2008. That room had two double beds, one that his parents shared, and the other for him. This room has one king-sized bed dominating the space, which is essential for accommodating two broad hockey players.
Ilya does brush his teeth, and Shane watches him from the doorway as he scrubs his mouth clean. He reaches for his husband when he's done, and strips off the polo that's caught the smell of smoke as well, and tosses it onto the top of the dresser.
Ilya’s body isn't the same as it was, the first time he’d had it under his hands. Ilya at age 19 had been muscled, for sure, but he's gained extra mass and breadth since then, as well as scars from bad hits and surgeries over the years. But Ilya still gets hard when Shane looks up at him through his eyelashes, which is gratifying.
Ilya trails a hand down Shane’s body, then reaches to grip at his dick through his pants. “Wait,” Shane says, gasping. He pushes Ilya’s hand just hard enough to dislodge it from his groin. They’re still standing beside the bed.
“What is it?”
“I don’t, I haven't…” Shane says, and his face feels red and he's stammering like he's nervous, because he is. He and Ilya don't really do this. Role playing. He hadn’t been sure how to bring it up in advance, wasn't sure if he really wanted to, but that meant that Ilya needed to figure it out and fast, or Shane was going to lose his bravery to make it happen.
And thank god for his clever husband, because his eyes dilate and darken. “Is your first time with a man?” he asks lowly.
Shane nods once, his gaze absolutely trained on Ilya. “You?” he asks breathlessly. Fuck, he wishes that he'd been this turned on their first time, without all that overriding fear that he'd carried with him. The fear of getting caught, the fear of whether it would be any good. He knows now how good it will be, how good Ilya has always made it, for him.
“Mmm, no,” Ilya says, and kisses him again. “Are you nervous?”
He isn't, god, he isn't. His entire body feels like it's fizzling with potential energy. But he nods, playing along. Ilya presses his lips to his neck, and Shane tilts his head to give him space.
“I promise to be gentle with you.”
Ilya eases Shane out of his shirt and his pants, and folds them in the same way that Shane would do it himself. His cock is hard in his underwear, and it jumps when Ilya runs his hand over the bulge of him. “Fuck, Rozanov,” Shane says, the name slipping out of his mouth without thought. Ilya hasn't been ‘Rozanov’ in his bed for years, and yet, in this moment, he's undoubtedly Rozanov again. Guiding him carefully through this scary experience all over again, his hands sure against Shane’s body, his eyes watchful, his body controlled. It's nothing like the easy, playful way they fall into bed as husbands, where they know each other’s preferences and limits so well.
This Ilya Rozanov puts careful hands on his hips, and drags his underwear over the curve of his ass and past his knees and feet. He nudges Shane towards the bed, and follows him down when Shane lays back across the bedspread.
Shane cranes his neck so he can kiss Ilya again, and then rolls him to his back so he can suck his dick. He starts slow, then builds his tempo, nudging himself further down Ilya's cock until his nose is tickled by his husband’s pubic hair, coarse and light brown. He works his tongue under the head of Ilya's dick, across that sensitive spot he likes so much, and lets the weight of him fill his mouth. He glances up to see Ilya watching him with his lips slightly parted, his eyes hooded like he wants to shut them but can't bear to give up the view.
“Fuck, Hollander,” he says, and it's a jolt back to all those stolen nights when they pretended they weren't anything to each other. Shane sucks harder, works his tongue further down Ilya’s cock, lets the tears gather at the corner of his eyes.
Ilya pulls him off, and puts Shane onto his back. He's barely settled his head onto the pillow when Ilya sets his hands on the back of his thighs and pushes until Shane’s knees are practically level with his shoulders. His husband smirks up at him, then dips down to nestle himself underneath Shane’s balls, where he can lick across his hole. Shane groans and arches his back. It had been a revelation, that first time, having Ilya's hot, wet tongue flattened across his asshole. Ilya’s the only one who has ever done this for him, and it still makes fireworks rocket through his veins. There's nothing Shane can do but writhe on Ilya’s face while he eats him out. He lets his head loll as he sinks into the feeling of it. His dick is so fucking hard.
They have nowhere to be until the next morning, so Ilya spends ages down between his cheeks. No morning flight to catch, no excuses about why one of them can't stay longer. Shane’s dick is dripping when Ilya finally pulls away with a gasp, like he's hasn't been getting enough air. His face is damp with his own spit streaked across his mouth and cheeks and chin. Shane’s hole feels soft and loose, so relaxed even though the rest of him is tight with anticipation.
Ilya crawls up Shane’s body so he can kiss him again. They had talked once, after they became boyfriends but before they were engaged, about that mess of a night in Vegas, and Shane had been so humiliated to finally say out loud how he'd been desperate for Ilya’s mouth on his, and that the wild sex they’d shared without a single kiss had dragged him down for months, a lead weight in his chest that he hadn’t been able to shake. They aren't the same people they were then, but Ilya has never shorted him on kisses since they'd talked about it, always coming back for more, and Shane has always welcomed him with open arms and a greedy mouth.
They make out for a while longer, Ilya resting in the vee of Shane’s legs, thighs spread to accommodate Ilya’s hips. Their dicks rub together, and it’s so good but not nearly enough. Ilya pulls away from him just far enough so they can look at each other properly. “Do you still want?” he asks, and for a moment, Shane feels so young again, laying under this beautiful man who could have pinned him down and just fucked him, but instead checked in a half-dozen times the first time he’d penetrated Shane.
“I still want,” he breathes, eyes fixed on his husband’s.
“Good,” Ilya says, and kisses him again. “Relax, Hollander. You will like this, I think.”
Fuck, he knows he will.
Shane had left a bottle of lube sitting out on the bedside table, and Ilya reaches over to pop it open and drizzle some across his fingertips. It’s still cool when he touches it to Shane’s hole, but Shane has been thinking about this for, fuck, definitely days now, probably weeks. One of Ilya’s fingers slips easily into his body, and it’s nothing they haven’t done hundreds of times before, but it still makes Shane’s breath catch in his throat.
“We will go slow,” Ilya soothes. He eases his one finger in and out of Shane, gentle and steady. Shane doesn’t think that Ilya has gone this easy on him in literal years.
“More,” he begs, because it feels glorious but he’s so fucking impatient.
“Yes?” Ilya says, with the pressure of another digit right where Shane wants it.
“Yes, please,” and Shane moans when the second finger easily sinks in. Their first time having anal sex had been so good, a fucking revelation, but Shane thinks he hasn’t given Ilya enough credit for just how well he had smoothed over the rockiest parts of the act so that Shane could really enjoy it. Knowing what he knows now, about how fast they can get from fully clothed to dick-in-ass because they know each other’s preferences so well, this slow pace and his constant check-ins stand in stark contrast.
Ilya fingers him open and kisses him throughout, holding his weight on one elbow so he can do both at once. Shane rolls his hips to fuck back on his hand.
“Fuck me,” he gasps. He knows his eyes are wet and wide. Ilya stares back down at him, wonder on his face. “I want it, Rozanov.”
“Fuck,” Ilya mutters, and presses a series of kisses across Shane’s chest before he pulls back. Shane watches as he slicks himself up with lube. No condom; they use them occasionally, and they definitely used one the first time they had fucked, but Shane wants to feel as close to Ilya as possible. Wants his skin touching the inside of his body, wants his come to reach as far into him as it can go.
“Yes?” Ilya asks one last time. Shane drags his knees back again so Ilya can see his wet hole, relaxed and waiting. “Fuck, yes, Hollander.” Ilya puts one hand down by Shane’s head, and uses the other to line himself up.
The head of his dick slots itself into place in Shane’s hole. Ilya slowly rocks into him, slipping him a few more inches. Shane’s spine curves, his back arching off the bed. His head tips back, his throat exposed to the ceiling and Ilya’s mouth. His husband backs off just enough to give him another light thrust. “Oh, fuck,” Shane says. He sounds so far away to his own ears. “Oh, fuck me.”
“Patience,” Ilya croons at him. He strokes the inside of Shane’s thigh with his free hand. It sends lightning through his body. “Is good, yes?”
“So fucking good,” Shane moans. Ilya rocks forward again, and the last of him slips into place. “Oh, yes.”
Ilya drags his mouth down the line of Shane’s neck, then latches hard onto his collarbone. There’s nothing for Shane to do but lay there and let his husband fuck him, bruise him, spread his legs and his emotions wide open. He pants hard, the feeling of Ilya’s cock pushing in and pulling out all that he can focus on. He’s gripping Ilya’s sides, hanging on for the ride as Ilya starts to move faster, harder, deeper.
It's a confluence of all their first times. The first time they met, the first time they kissed, the first time they touched each other, the first time they fucked. The first time they said I love you, the first time they went without a condom. The first time that Shane knew that Ilya was it for him.
“Your dick feels so good.” Shane is running his mouth now, all keyed up and desperate for an orgasm. “I want it in me all the time. I fucking love it. I love it, I love you, I love you, Ilya, oh my god.”
And Ilya tilts his hips and fucks into him a little harder, and then Shane is gone gone gone, coming between them without either of them touching his dick. His come stripes up his stomach, and spreads to Ilya’s when his husband keeps moving. Shane reaches up to bury his hands in Ilya’s hair, the soft curls threaded between his fingers.
“Fuck me,” he begs. “Come in me.”
Ilya’s mouth is open and his gaze is burning hot as he hammers into Shane’s body, chasing his own orgasm. Shane knows that Ilya’s abs and ass and thighs are all flexing with the effort of it, and that it looks incredible and so fucking sexy, but all he wants to watch is Ilya’s face when it crumples into pleasure and he comes in Shane’s hole, their hips pressed hard together.
“Fuck,” Ilya gasps. He slips sideways, rolling onto his back on the bed, and out from the space between Shane’s legs. His chest heaves as he catches his breath. His fingers find Shane’s in the space between them. “I am so dead.”
Shane pets his hair and kisses him softly. “That can’t be right,” he says. “Because I feel so fucking alive, right now.”
They lay there together for a bit, despite the mess of come and lube spread across them. Shane had always hated this moment before, when he knew it was just a matter of time before one of them would roll to his feet and make his excuse to go. He basks in the warm comfort of being nestled in his husband’s armpit, pressed together from head to feet, for as long as he wants it.
“Come on, shower time,” Ilya says, and pats his ass encouragingly.
The hotel shower is nowhere near as good as the one they have at home in their master bath, the one with the dual showerheads and the conveniently placed ledge that Shane can hang onto when Ilya bends him over to eat him out while the water flows over them. The hotel shower, by contrast, has mediocre water pressure and not quite enough room for two hockey players to cram themselves in and still have enough elbow room to wash each other.
Ilya still manages to soap Shane up, scrubbing across his skin until he feels fresh again. They step out of the shower and dry themselves off, and Ilya watches while Shane rubs toner and moisturizer onto his face and neck,. Both of them are only wearing a towel around their hips. Shane can’t help but think about that night in Toronto, when Ilya had stood in front of him in a towel that was barely hanging on, his dick right at Shane’s eye level, and asked him for a hotel room number.
“So beautiful,” Ilya says when Shane meets his eyes in the mirror.
The bed is a mess, but they had fucked on top of the bedspread, so it’s not so bad when Shane tugs the covers back and slips between the sheets. Ilya joins him on the other side, and they find each other in the middle of the bed.
Shane’s lips are tender from all the kissing, but he still presses another one to Ilya’s shoulder, his chest, his jaw, his mouth.
“Maybe we should hold a camp in Nashville,” Ilya says into the quiet. “But only if Hunter will coach.”
“What? Why?”
“We could book him in the room next to us.” Ilya grins at Shane. “You’d let him hear us now, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”
“I would not,” Shane retorts, even as his heart beats faster.
“You would,” Ilya says smugly. “You’d let me finger you and suck you and fuck you so hard, and you’d love it all so much that Hunter would have to jerk off next door at the sound of you.”
“We’re not letting our friends listen to us fuck.”
“Not even Mr. Hunter, who you admire so much?” Ilya tsks. “Shame. I thought we were going on a tour of all our best spots.”
Shane lets himself imagine it for a moment. Booking hotel rooms across North America with Ilya and pretending to sneak into them like old times, and then fucking the way he’d wished he could get fucked back then.
“We’re not in Nashville,” he says breathlessly, “but the room next door is part of the block we booked.”
Ilya looks delighted. “And will you moan so prettily for me, my love, with Scott Hunter on the other side of the wall?”
Shane nods. “Always for you,” he says. “But he can listen, if he wants.”
They kiss until their bodies drift towards sleep. Shane closes his eyes and presses his forehead and hips to Ilya’s back, their fingers intertwined on Ilya’s stomach. He’ll wake his husband up in the morning with a blowjob, and ride him into the mattress while he looks down at Ilya’s gorgeous face, and then they’ll meet their friends and spend the week teaching a bunch of enthusiastic kids about hockey. Maybe he'll let Ilya fuck him hard one of those nights, let himself get loud enough to be overheard. But for now, he’s snug under the covers, nestled close to the man he married, who has taken him apart so carefully just like that very first time, and Shane has never been so grateful for an illicit cigarette and a handshake shared behind an arena in Regina so long ago.