Chapter Text
As soon as Shane entered the penthouse, Ilya turned and walked toward the bedroom. He didn’t say a word to him.
“The fuck is this?” Shane asked as he entered, “You’re not speaking to me anymore? What, you just expect me to follow you like a dog in heat?”
“Come here,” Ilya commanded. As he tilted Shane’s head up and kissed him with hunger. Shane surrendered almost immediately, pushing his tongue deeper into the other man’s mouth and slipping his hands into the back of his pants.
Shane couldn’t think of a single reason why they needed to talk to each other anyway. Not when Ilya was sucking on his tongue and crawling his hands up Shane’s shirt to touch his chest.
The shirt came off, and Shane shoved Ilya at the edge of the bed so he was sitting at the end of it. With no hesitation, Shane fell to his knees and pulled Ilya’s sweatpants down. Ilya wasn’t wearing his underwear, and his cock was already making a leaking mess.
He wrapped his mouth around Rozanov’s cock, starting from the tip until he could feel it at the back of his throat. Salty taste immediately spreads in his taste bud, making Shane moan.
“Jesus, Hollander,” Ilya said. He placed a hand on Shane’s scalp. Fisting a bunch of hair harshly, “Couldn’t wait, could you?”
Shane closed his eyes. He should have felt embarrassed, yet he loved the feeling of Ilya growing harder against his tongue. He loved being submissive and, God help him, he especially loved doing it here, in Rozanov’s home. In his bedroom.
Their relationship was weird to begin with. Obviously. Shane knew that nothing about this was normal at all.
The fact that they were both men, two of the biggest hockey stars in the world, and for whatever reason, they both enjoyed sucking each other's dick. The other thing is that this was just a good fuck.
At least for Rozanov.
Ilya brushed a thumb over the stars of freckles spread perfectly on Shane’s cheek, just below his eyes.
“Stop,” Ilya said in a low voice. “Enough— Now”
Shane pulled off and waited like a deer staring at headlights.
“I’d like to look at you tonight, I think. You good on top?” Ilya asked.
“Sure,” Shane said casually, but deep inside the request made him nervous. Usually, Ilya would just take him from behind. Shane quickly pulled off the rest of his clothing. Ilya took a moment to raise his eyebrow at Shane’s rigid, untouched cock.
Making Shane blush. “Shut up,” he muttered.
Ilya grinned and scooted back on the bed, naked and sprawled out with his hands at the back of his head. Shane couldn’t help but grin back at him. Ilya slapped his own thighs to signal an invitation.
Shane braced himself with a hand flat on Ilya’s hard chest. Rozanov covered that hand with his own, squeezing it, which surprises Shane.
Ilya never took his eyes off Shane’s, except to watch when he started stroking himself. Shane saw the sticky gaze in his eyes and the way his mouth was hanging open as Shane rode him harder.
“блять,” Ilya grunted, and, without a warning, he grabbed Shane’s ankles and flipped them both over so he was on top, staring deeply at Shane as he held his legs up so high that both feet met the quilt as he thrust into him wildly. His crucifix chain dangled between them, scraping Shane’s chest.
Shane cried out with every thrust being sent in to him, begging for more, even though that was probably an impossible thing to ask for. Even though it was embarrassing to be this desperate for Ilya Rozanov.
When Shane’s orgasm hit him, it was hard and sudden. His cum streamed endlessly, splashing his chest and even up to his throat.
“Baby— you ok?” Rozanov panted, and Shane didn’t even have a chance to be shocked by the pet name before Ilya was coming too. Inside him.
Making Shane let’s out a broken “ah” sound
“Jesus, Hollander,” Ilya panted as he flopped to his back beside him. His hair had fallen out of its little ponytail and was clinging to his forehead in a damp swoop.
“Uhm, where is the bathroom? Do you want to shower?”
Ilya laughed through his nose after hearing a boring question from Shane. “Is behind that door, and yes. Give me a minute.”
They took turns getting cleaned up in the bathroom. When Shane walked back into the bedroom, he stood stupidly in the middle of the room, near his pile of clothes on the floor.
Drowning from thoughts that would surely haunt him.
He knew he’d be at least a little mortified and ashamed later when he thought about this, but at that moment, he was giddy.
“Are you hungry?” Rozanov asked behind his back.
Shane replied. “You want to order takeout, or—”
“Do you like tuna melts?”
“You want to make me a tuna melt?” Ilya shrugged.
“I’m making one for me. I can make two. Ginger ale is in the fridge.”
Ilya put his sweatpants back on, and this time grabbed a T-shirt from his dresser to throw on with them. Shane retrieved his own jeans and T-shirt from the floor and followed him into the kitchen
Shane looked at him oddly. Shane often abstained from alcohol because he didn’t want to do anything that might compromise his performance on the ice. Over the years, he had developed an affinity for ginger ale as a substitute for beer. But it wasn’t like he’d ever talked about that to Rozanov.
And yet Ilya knew.
It was a stupid thing to notice.
A stupid thing to care about.
But Shane found himself holding onto these small scraps of evidence like they meant something. The brand of ginger ale sitting in the fridge. The way Ilya remembered details Shane barely said out loud. Maybe it was nothing.
Maybe Ilya was simply observant. Jesus—Shane hated how badly he wanted it to mean more.
Ilya was setting canned tuna, a baguette, and cheese slices on the counter, as Shane leaned back against the fridge and watched him make the sandwich.
A scene that would forever burn in his memory.
Because Shane had shared beds with Ilya before, had felt him everywhere, had known the exact weight of his body against his own—but somehow, this was what stayed with him. This domestic thing that didn’t belong to what they were.
Or what they pretended they were.
Shane had learned early on what happened when he started confusing the two.
Ilya’s hands moved steadily, unbothered, like this was nothing. Like Shane wasn’t standing there watching him like he was something worth memorizing.
And that was the problem. Shane was starting to memorize everything.
"Ready in ten minutes," Ilya said.
Shane followed him into the living room and sat at the opposite end of the couch.
Not because he wanted the distance. Because he needed it.
Because every time Ilya did something soft like this, Shane felt something inside him shift dangerously, something he was never supposed to want.
Something more.
Whatever they were, it had never been defined and Shane had never dared to define it first.
Because to define it was to ask a question neither of them had dared to speak. Whatever existed between them belonged in the dark. Not in anything that could be named.
Still, Shane found himself watching Ilya like he was standing at the edge of something he could either step back from—or fall into completely.
“Yeah, it’s great. Thanks.”
Ilya looked pleased hearing it, and Shane felt that stupid, painful warmth in his chest. Whatever they were to each other, they weren’t boyfriends. He knew that. Every time he left first, following what seems to be logical.
Still
Shane’s throat tightened.
The words had been sitting inside him for too long, pressed behind his teeth, growing heavier with every game they played against each other, every touch they secretly done behind everybody's back, and every silence they suffered after the deed is done.
I like you......No.
I love—
Shane swallowed hard, staring at Ilya’s face, focusing on whatever is currently on his television as he sat on the couch.
The words rose in him like something he possibly couldn’t stop. He opened his mouth slightly. Then closed it again like a fish that is drowning from too much air.
His fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like he could physically hold himself back.