Work Text:
“I’m sorry, this – I can’t...”
Ilya’s eyes searched Hollander’s dark, expressive ones for answers but he couldn’t get a read on them. What the fuck had just happened? He could see the rising panic in Hollander, the way he’d tensed up, not even managing to put his t-shirt back on, barely able to hold eye contact, and he knew that no matter what he said, no matter what he did in this moment, Hollander was leaving.
His brain scrambled for a moment, trying and failing to come up with anything, English or Russian. As the moment stretched on, his eyes trying to keep hold of Hollander’s by sheer will, he could only say one word.
“Hollander.” C’mon, don’t panic. Stay. Don’t go.
“I just, I can’t uh, I can’t do this.”
Ilya’s arm had involuntarily stretched out towards Hollander, palm half open, pleading. But he knew it was hopeless. Hollander was already moving towards the hall.
“Hollander.” Please don’t fucking do this to me.
“I’m sorry.”
And he was gone.
Ilya sat motionless on the couch for a long while, the sticky remains of his and Hollander’s cum drying on his sweatpants. He couldn’t move as he replayed the last ten minutes of Hollander’s visit in his head.
First, his father’s call. Then, Hollander next to him on the couch, in his arms.
Ilya’s head fell back as he remembered the fresh scent of Hollander’s hair as he’d placed a silent kiss on his head, the way Hollander’s dark hair had felt like silk when he ran his fingers through it.
He remembered Hollander’s light kisses trailing down his body and shivered, his breathing shallowing again as he remembered Hollander climbing onto his lap. He remembered their kisses, hungry, as always, like they could never get enough. Ilya remembered Hollander taking them both in his hand and the way they’d both gasped at the same time as their dicks touched. He remembered the sounds Hollander made, and Hollander asking him, “You gonna cum for me, Rozanov?” He remembered how he’d groaned out, “Fucking make me” in response, as Hollander moved against him, faster and faster and faster.
After they’d both cum, together, Ilya had wanted to just bask in the post-sex bliss, bask in the new feelings he was slowly allowing himself to feel, bask in everything Hollander – his face, his body, his smell, his touch, his voice. No holding back. Not this time. He’d wanted to kiss him again, to keep Hollander right there in his arms all day, and then all night.
But Hollander had pulled back and turned away from his kisses. And then he’d got up and left.
Ilya closed his eyes – an attempt to hold in the tear that slid out of the corner and disappeared into his hair.
The house felt so empty now. Cold too, even though sunlight poured through every floor-to-ceiling window. The light illuminated his body in a golden glow as he finally got up and walked down the hall to his bedroom ensuite, where he stripped off his sweatpants and got in the shower.
After showering he walked around the house, aimless, restless, until he settled for the kitchen just to find something to do. The plates from the tuna melt he’d made earlier were still in the sink, as well as the glasses they’d used. He put everything in the dishwasher and turned it on, wiped down the kitchen counters and opened the fridge to get a beer.
His kitchen was fully stocked for the first time ever. He was away for games so much he didn’t usually bother, living off takeout or a few groceries he’d pick up on the way home from practice.
But Hollander had come to his house for the first time.
And so, the pantry was stocked with brown rice, quinoa, whole-wheat pastas and breads, as well as a bunch of different types of beans, lentils, and chickpeas. The vegetable drawer in his fridge was filled with broccoli, kale, various seaweeds and other leafy greens. He’d bought tofu, sauerkraut, miso, various types of nuts. All shit that he’d read was good for a macrobiotic diet. Not to mention all the fucking ginger ale.
Ilya didn’t know what he was going to do with all of it now. He’d looked up a few recipes but there was no point trying one out now. He wasn’t hungry anyway.
After grabbing a beer, he slammed the fridge shut and went to the living room. When he sat on the couch he avoided his earlier spot as if it was radioactive, and turned the TV on just to have some background noise.
He really wanted to text Hollander.
He even picked up his phone and opened up the messages between him and ‘Jane’ before he came to his senses and put it back down on the sofa next to him.
He needed to think about something, anything else.
His father. Ah, yes, that was one thing guaranteed to get Hollander off his mind, at least for a little while. He thought about calling Alexei to check on how his father was doing, but he just didn’t have the energy to deal with his brother right now. However, the guilt Ilya felt sat in his stomach like a rock. Guilt over the fact that he couldn’t be there to care for their father in person – a fact that Alexei hung over his head like a guillotine, no matter how much money he sent. He decided to send Alexei a text instead. In Russian, he tapped out:
Is dad OK? Did he calm down?
Alexei replied: He’s sleeping.
OK good.
He was about to put the phone back down when he got another text from Alexei:
What the fuck did you say to him to set him off?
Ilya’s pulse spiked. He flexed his jaw in restraint as he responded, his hands beginning to shake so much it took an effort to type: What?
Alexei continued: I left him for five minutes to go to the corner store, then you call me telling me he’s freaking out. What did you say to him, you little shit? Did you start talking about Mom?
Ilya inhaled and exhaled deeply. He wasn’t going to take the bait. He didn’t have the fucking energy to take the bait. His energy had walked out the door with Hollander. He tossed the phone on the coffee table and grabbed the TV remote.
As expected, five minutes later Alexei was calling him. He ignored it and the phone buzzed nonstop for another five minutes until Alexei finally gave up calling and sent him a text:
Answer the phone, you fucking asshole!
Ilya ignored it.
Hours passed as he did nothing but sit on the couch, watching the TV but not really seeing anything. Eventually it was dark outside so he got up to go to bed.
In his room, the sheets on his bed were still a mess from when he’d fucked Hollander that afternoon, and, fuck, he realised Hollander’s white t-shirt and jeans still lay folded neatly on a chair in the corner.
His reasoning for giving Hollander his t-shirt and sweatpants to wear was so Hollander could have something comfortable to wear around the house. But if he was honest, Ilya just wanted an excuse to see Hollander wearing his clothes. It had looked so right, Hollander in his clothes, walking around his home, and then taking off his clothes...
“Jesus,” he muttered in Russian.
As he stripped the bedding, pulling off the pillowcases, he got another waft of Hollander’s hair, or whatever shampoo he used. Ilya held the pillowcase up to his face and closed his eyes as he inhaled. Then he put it to the side on top of Hollander’s clothes.
Later that night as he lay in bed, the pillowcase on his chest, he ran through the events of the day for the thousandth time. What the fuck had he done to make Hollander run away? He couldn’t lie, something about today with Hollander had felt different. Even the sex had felt different, and not in a bad way, definitely not in a bad way, but in a way that scared Ilya. He had tried to just let whatever was happening between him and Hollander happen. But maybe that was a mistake because he knew Hollander; he’d seen him freak out a few times over things that seemed minor to Ilya. Hollander had even had a panic attack once when they’d been together, and Ilya had soothed him by rubbing his back until he eventually calmed down. So, could his running away have been down to this… this feeling that something had changed between them? Did Hollander feel it too?
Ilya sighed. He turned over onto his stomach. The Hollander-scented pillowcase was now up on his pillow by his face and as he breathed it in he was finally able to fall asleep.
As he drifted off, he whispered, “Shane.”
*
The punch to Ilya’s gut left him winded.
And he nearly dropped Connors’ phone as he slowly scrolled through the article.
“No,” he breathed.
There were a lot of English words on the page and Ilya’s brain didn’t have the capacity to process it all at that moment. But he could read the headline: ‘Is Rose Landry Dating MLH Star Shane Hollander?’ and he could definitely see the pictures all over the article. They were of Hollander and Rose Landry, an actress, walking down some boring Canadian street holding hands. Hollander and Rose Landry coming out of some boring Canadian restaurant. Hollander and Rose Landry leaving his boring Canadian apartment. The same apartment Ilya had fucked and sucked him in numerous times.
Ilya handed back the phone to Connors, hoping he didn’t notice how his hand shook.
Marleau and Connors continued yapping about it, about how fucking lucky Hollander was to have bagged the Rose Landry, wondering how long they’d been going out, talking about the movies she’d been in.
It took Ilya every single ounce of strength and restraint he possessed to simply shrug a shoulder and say, “Who fucking cares who Hollander is fucking?” And he hoped his teammates hadn’t noticed the way his teeth were clenched as he said it.
Thank fuck they were in the gym.
Ilya threw himself into his workout routine, increasing the levels and weights on everything so that his veins bulged and sweat ran down his face.
As he pushed himself on the exercise bike, his head involuntarily jerked up to look at the TV screen in front of him when he heard the name Shane Hollander. He immediately regretted paying attention when it was followed by the name Rose Landry.
Again, pictures of the two of them were all over the screen as the TV hosts talked about how ‘hot’ a couple they were. They even showed a clip of Rose Landry at one of Hollander’s games wearing his jersey.
Ilya looked around for the remote, grabbed it and turned the TV off.
“Hey, I was watching that!”
He ignored Marleau, stopped pedalling and climbed off the bike as if someone was chasing him, stubbing his toe on one of the stabilizers in the process.
He swore in Russian as he limped away.
*
A couple of weeks passed with Hollander and Rose Landry every-fucking-where he looked.
Hollander, the pretty, perfect, hockey player dating Rose Landry, the pretty, perfect movie star. The press loved them, of course. Social media loved them.
It killed Ilya. Killed him. Dead.
He was jealous. Of course, he was jealous. He wasn’t so delusional that he couldn’t admit that to himself.
But his jealousy wasn’t just about the fact that Hollander was seeing and potentially fucking someone else. Sure, that made his insides feel like liquid whenever he thought about it, but it wasn’t the worst thing. Ilya had still been fucking other people only a short while ago himself. He couldn’t be mad at Hollander for that, especially knowing that they sometimes had to go months without seeing each other.
No, what really killed him was how open he could be with her.
Hollander didn’t have to hide with Rose Landry. He could claim her – even though he hadn’t actually officially done that – in public. They could be seen together and it was perfectly fine. It was something people wanted to see, a beautiful man and a beautiful woman together. They didn’t have to sneak around in hotel rooms. Rose Landry didn’t have to go into Hollander’s apartment through the back entrance.
And, yes, Ilya had found the sneaking around exciting at first, but recently he’d started growing tired of it. That’s why having Hollander at his house where they could be open, free, somewhat normal just one time had felt so fucking special. But then Hollander had ruined it by running away.
They were playing against the Metros today, a fact that usually excited Ilya because it meant that he was going to see Hollander, both during the game and after.
But it only filled him with anxious energy this time.
Ilya hadn’t texted Hollander since the day he’d ran away and Hollander hadn’t text him either. So, he figured they were done. Hollander had a girlfriend now, right? No need for hook-ups anymore.
On the ice, he body checked Hollander several times, even when he didn’t really need to do it to gain possession of the puck.
Before, body checking each other had been like foreplay for both of them; it gave them a way to touch each other in public, to press right up against each other without anyone giving it a second thought. Ilya loved to use it to tease Hollander, almost always checking him with his hips rather than his shoulders. He loved that he was the only one who noticed Hollander’s face get more flushed under his visor every time he did it.
Tonight was different though. Ilya still wanted to touch Hollander, that hadn’t changed, but the foreplay element had turned to frustration, and he did what he could to let out all of his frustration at Hollander during the game. He knew it wouldn’t be happening through sex.
He couldn’t look directly at Hollander. He couldn’t. If he looked into those eyes of his he’d fuck up his game. So, he ignored Hollander’s covert glances every time they were both on the bench, and turned his back to Hollander at the end of the game as the Raiders left the ice, which he knew would look like poor sportsmanship but whatever. Rozanov was known for being an asshole on the ice after all.
But Ilya’s game was fucked regardless. The Metros beat them. Not by much, but still. It was probably the worst Ilya had played in his life. Luckily, Hollander hadn’t played any better.
After the game, morale in the locker room was low, so no one questioned his foul mood. Hell, they were all in a foul mood.
Back at the hotel room he shared with Connors, Ilya stared into the bathroom mirror for a long while.
Hollander running out on him, then going on to date Rose Landry, the weeks of nothing from him, and then this disastrous game, where Hollander still managed to beat him. Not to mention all the shit with his father and brother back home that was always lurking in the forefront of his mind. All of it had culminated into a dark energy that Ilya needed to release before it continued to fester and eat at him from inside. He decided to do that in the only way he knew how.
“Fuck this shit.” Ilya stormed out of the bathroom. “I need to get laid, let’s go out.”
Connors was lying on his bed, reading the room service menu. Most of the team wanted to stay in tonight after that shitshow of a game. Especially as they were on the Metros’ turf. But Ilya couldn’t just sit in the room stewing all night. He needed a release.
“Where?” Connors asked.
“We’re in Montreal, we find a fucking club.”
Connors just stared at him.
“Tell people!” Ilya snapped.
“On it.”
Connors dropped the menu and picked up his phone.
*
As Ilya walked into the club, flanked by Connors and Marleau, – the only two teammates who’d agreed to go out with him last minute – the darkness of the club, everyone bathed in a red and blue light, the hazy atmosphere produced by the smoke machine, felt perfect. This was what he needed.
He made a beeline for the crowded bar and was expecting to wait to get served, but one of the bartenders immediately recognised them and came over.
“Drowning your sorrows after losing the game tonight?” she joked with a smile. “What can I get you, Raiders?”
Marleau immediately stepped up to the bar with a grin for the bartender. She was a pretty brunette with green eyes. “Hey,” he said. “Don’t get too cocky now. We’ll beat the Metros at the next game.”
She laughed. “Oh yeah?”
Connors also jumped in. “Fuck yeah.”
They both continued the flirty banter with the bartender while Ilya just stood there, disengaged. Normally, he would have joined in. In fact, he would have probably been the first to start flirting with the bartender. But he just wasn’t in the mood, even though flirting with someone was the whole fucking point of coming out tonight.
When Marleau and Connors got distracted by a group of girls, took their drinks and left him at the bar, Ilya attempted a smile at the bartender.
“Sorry about them,” he apologised for Marleau and Connors, even though she’d looked like she’d been enjoying it. “Can I have one more please?”
As Ilya stood leaning on the bar, waiting for his drink, he could feel eyes on him.
Glancing to his right, he caught the eye of a guy who was very obviously checking him out.
This wasn’t alarming to Ilya. Both girls and guys checked him out frequently. He was a well-known athlete, it was expected. With guys though, he usually just showed disinterest even he was interested.
Unless they were Hollander.
But he held eye contact with this guy, not because he was interested in him – the guy was decent looking, nice bone structure, good body from what he could see – but because he looked familiar. Where did he know him from?
As Ilya looked at him, trying to place him, the guy smiled and gave Ilya a one-fingered salute.
And then it clicked.
As realisation dawned on Ilya, he turned away from the bar to face the rest of the club.
The guy was an actor. Ilya knew he was an actor because, no matter how fucking painful it was, he hadn’t been able to help himself from skimming every article, watching every news segment, and hate-reading every Tweet he came across about Hollander and Rose Landry. And in a lot of these articles and news segments it mentioned how Hollander and Rose Landry had met. Rose Landry had been in Montreal filming a movie when she and Hollander had met in a restaurant... or something. Some of the articles also mentioned Rose Landry’s co-worker and friend who was filming in Montreal with her. It was this guy. Ilya didn’t even remember his name. But he knew that if this guy was here in this club then Rose Landry was probably here too.
And if Rose Landry was here…
Ilya’s eyes scanned the club, the flashing lights making everything seem to move in slow motion, until his eyes finally landed on Hollander.
He was with Rose Landry, of course.
He was dancing with her, her hands on his chest, under his white t-shirt – a white t-shirt similar to the one Ilya still had folded on a chair in his bedroom. They were talking and smiling at each other as they moved, and Rose Landry’s hands looked so comfortable touching him like that, like she’d done it many times before. Hollander looked so fucking pretty, as always, his straight dark hair falling over his brow as he gazed down at her.
Ilya took a deep breath as he felt another kick to the gut.
He turned back to the bar to wait for his drink but couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder at them, heart rate spiking when he saw Rose Landry reach up to push Hollander’s hair back.
He took his drink without another word to the bartender and turned around again to face them.
He chugged down half his beer in one gulp. Then, tore his eyes away from Hollander and pushed through the crowd towards Marleau and Connors who both already had a dancing partner.
Ilya smiled at the first woman who made eyes at him. A blonde. Attractive in a generic way.
He leaned down to whisper in her ear so she could hear him over the pounding bass of the music. “Hello.”
She smiled. “Hello, Ilya Rozanov.”
“Ah, I see I need no introduction.”
“Of course not, I’m a huge fan.”
“You are? And you’re in Montreal? Dangerous.”
“I’m originally from Boston. I’m here for work. It’s a shame you guys lost today.”
Ilya shrugged. “Eh. What’s that English saying? You win some, you lose some. The Metros got lucky today.”
As he talked he kept an eye out for Hollander. That’s how he noticed the moment Hollander spotted him.
Hollander was away from Rose Landry now. He was directly in Ilya’s line of sight, a drink in his hand as he stood there, staring.
Ilya met his eyes and it was impossible to look away.
So, he leaned over to the blonde’s ear, eyes still on Hollander as he whispered, “Can I kiss you?” She nodded, enthusiastic.
As Ilya pressed his mouth to hers he kept his eyes open. And continued to keep them open as he kissed her, eyes still locked on Hollander’s. Despite the distance between where they both stood, it felt like Hollander’s face was only inches away.
After a while, he stopped kissing her and turned her around so her ass was pressed against his crotch. They moved together to the song, and Hollander broke their eye contact first, melted into the crowd and reappeared back at Rose Landry’s side.
Ilya’s breathing was shallow but it wasn’t from the dancing. All he could think about as he danced with the blonde was the way he and Hollander had looked at each other. Hollander with his pretty fucking face with those freckles and those pink full lips, and that white t-shirt that clung to him in all the right places. As they danced and Ilya thought about Hollander, he felt himself getting hard. The blonde felt it too and pushed her ass back into him harder as she danced. She reached back and put her arm up around his neck and, Ilya, overwhelmed with lust – for Hollander – tightened his arms around her waist. He kissed her neck and jawline, eyes constantly darting across to Hollander. Their eyes locked every single time.
Eventually, he saw Hollander leaving, turning to give Ilya one last glance over his shoulder as he walked out of the club, hand in hand with Rose Landry.
After he’d gone, Ilya stopped dancing. The blonde turned to face him with a smile, eyelids low. Her hand reached down and cupped his hard dick and she squeezed. He sucked in air through his teeth, involuntarily leaning into her hand for a second before taking it off and kissing her neck to distract her from doing it again.
“You wanna continue this back at your place?” She whispered in his ear.
“I can’t, I’m sharing a room with my teammate.”
“OK. Well, I don’t make a habit of inviting guys back to my place but I can make an exception for Ilya Rozanov.”
Ilya looked at the blonde properly for the first time tonight. She had long, wavy hair, big blue eyes, a nice handful of tits, small waist, tight ass. She actually wasn’t as generic as he’d first assumed, and she seemed fun.
But she wasn’t Hollander.
Ilya felt guilty. He hadn’t even bothered to ask her name.
He made a regretful face. “Ah, sorry, I’ve got an early flight.”
“Oh.” She looked disappointed. “Well, do you wanna take my number? Maybe we could meet up next time you’re in Montreal.”
“Sure,” he replied, not meaning it. She put her number in his phone and kissed him on the cheek before going over to her friend at the bar.
Ilya just wanted to get the hell out of there now that Hollander had left. He texted Marleau and Connors to let them know he was leaving. Naturally, they thought he was going back to the hotel with someone.
Have fun, Roz, Connors replied. Don’t wait up. I’ll knock first if I get back early.
Ilya took a cab to the hotel, his dick still rock hard and throbbing as he thought about no one but Hollander, although he tried to avoid thinking about what Hollander was likely doing with Rose Landry right now.
He was so fucking jealous of Rose Landry and still hurt that Hollander had left that day, and pissed that he’d lost the game, and disappointed that Hollander hadn’t even bothered to text him, and so fucking horny for him it was starting to get painful.
Back at the hotel, he stripped off and jumped in the shower.
As the shower rained down on him and he soaped up, he put off touching his dick for as long as he could stand it because he knew he wasn’t going to last long.
“Fuck,” Ilya groaned, moving his hand up and down in angry strokes, a forearm pressed against the glass shower screen for support as he pumped faster and faster and faster.
He thought about Hollander’s hair, the way it smelled, the way it felt in his fingers. Hollander’s smooth skin in his hands when he grabbed his face to kiss him. Hollander’s eyes, always looking at him with that quiet intensity. Hollander’s mouth, his pretty fucking lips, and the way they felt when he kissed him, the way they felt wrapped around Ilya’s dick. He thought about Hollander’s body, the way his abs tensed when Ilya kissed him from his chest down to his dick, the way his hips bucked up when Ilya had his dick in his mouth. He thought about Hollander’s toned ass and the way he moaned when Ilya slammed into him from behind –
And he came. So hard he had to lean back against the tiles, his dick pulsing in his fist. As he came, Ilya could only cry out one word in between his groans.
“Shane.”