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Shane walks into the lobby, sees the beige walls and the grey couch and the abstract art, and gets a bad feeling down in his gut. He should have said no. He should have torn up the business card and said thanks, but no thanks. He should leave.
He doesn’t leave.
He looks around. There’s no desk or receptionist waiting to help him, just a small waiting area, a closed door across from the couch, and harsh overhead lighting that’s already giving him a headache. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands and thinks about knocking on the door, but then thinks that maybe the person behind it is in a meeting and he doesn’t want to interrupt. That would just be impolite.
He sits down on the couch, which is surprisingly comfortable, and waits, because so far he’s batting a thousand when it comes to bad decisions today, so why not keep at it.
Earlier, he’d ordered a sugary, flavored coffee from the barista at the cafe because the music playing from the speakers was a little too loud and there was a line behind him waiting and there was a kid bouncing a rubber ball erratically, letting it bounce and hit the wall right next to his knee as he was trying to make a decision, so when the barista suggested the vanilla caramel macchiato he just nodded and tapped his card to pay as quickly as he could. He got two steps and two swallows out the door before throwing it in the trash as he walked away.
Prior to that, he’d decided walking to his appointment would be nice, since the sky was clear and the sun was shining and the late April temperatures were mild, so he’d taken off from his downtown condo on foot and got almost all the way to the cafe when his heel started sticking to the ground in a funny way. Gum. He had gum on the bottom of his shoe and the stir stick he’d grabbed at the counter of the cafe didn’t do anything to extricate it, so he was still walking funny.
He waits in the lobby, staring at the plant in the corner that he’s almost positive is fake. He stares for too long, his eyes drying up in their sockets, causing him to blink rapidly. He studies the plant and the abstract paintings on the walls that look like nothing but blobs of paint and he’s pretty sure Hayden’s kids have painted something similar. He looks away and down at his shoe and the piece of gum clinging on for dear life on the tread of his Reeboks and a knot forms in his stomach.
He tries to determine what it says about a person, good or bad, to have a fake plant in their office. The plant stares back at him judgmentally. He deserves it.
He’s a man who has had nothing but fake relationships his whole life. Not his friendships or relationships with his family– those are very much real and definitely important to him. But every romantic relationship he’s had with a partner has really been him hiding parts of himself. Trying to trick those around him by smiling the right way and holding hands and planning dates– a winery, a cat cafe, a botanical garden.
He’s been media trained, taught to keep his composure and to always say the right things. As a professional hockey player, whose face has been shoved in front of a lot of cameras and reporters who do nothing but try to catch you slipping, he had to. And so he used those same skills when dating, but nothing ever seemed to really work or pan out, and now he’s found himself at a matchmaker’s office, suggested to him by his friend’s wife, and he’s about to continue further down the path of dishonesty.
Only this time, he’s going to bring another person into it. They’ll be aiding and abetting in this scheme of his and they’ll never even know it.
After a string of bad dates with woman after woman– and after his dad asked yet again, “You haven’t met any nice girls in Montreal?” – he’s come to the conclusion that he needs professional help.
Not therapy. Not that kind of professional help.
Though, that probably wouldn’t hurt, if he’s being honest with himself (which he’s not).
No. He’s going to enlist the assistance of a relationship expert to help him find the perfect woman. Someone who can fit into his lifestyle. During the hockey season, he’s gone for weeks at a time on roadies, and when he’s home he’s not really home, but at the rink for practice, or to watch game tape, or to get physio, or to workout with his teammates at the gym.
And Shane is someone who likes– no, who needs order and routine in his life. He needs a woman who will understand that he’s particular about food and won’t judge him for his performance diet or his distaste for alcohol. His meal delivery service drops his meals off for the week every Sunday. That’s the same day he does his laundry– sheets and towels first, then his whites, then his darks. The cleaners come on Tuesdays, and he goes to dinner at the Pike’s every Wednesday, when he and Hayden aren’t away for a game.
He likes his apartment tidy and everything has its place and he isn’t a fan of knick-knacks and brightly colored furniture or pillows. Well, actually, he might be a fan of some of that stuff, but he wouldn't really know because his interior designer picked everything for his place and he just signed the invoice.
The point is, though, that he needs to find a woman that maybe has her own friends and maybe has family that lives out of town that she’ll have to visit frequently. Someone who likes hockey, but that’s honestly not even a requirement. It would be nice if she wanted to sit in the suite with the other WAG’s during home games, but he’d be fine if she didn’t want to come to games at all. If she had a hobby, or liked solo-traveling, that could definitely work. Someone who wouldn’t mind going to a fancy event or gala every once in a while, and who was slightly extroverted, because it would really help if she’d carry the conversations and let him slip into the background, smiling and nodding when necessary, but not really having to talk too much.
He would need to bring her around to his parents’ house, he supposed, so he thought maybe it would be good if she liked puzzles or doing crosswords.
Basically, he just needed an easy-going woman who could slide seamlessly into his life as is, and who would be fine to entertain herself when he wasn’t around– which would be a lot. And he figures he could have a kid or two. He’s open to negotiation.
His knee is bouncing anxiously, so he presses his hand against his thigh, stopping it, and takes a deep breath in, holds it for five seconds, then exhales. He looks at his watch. It’s now 10:43. His appointment was for 10:30, and he was ten minutes early, but he’s told himself he’ll wait until 10:45 before he gets up and walks out.
The door opens. Damn.
Shane’s not an expressive man. He doesn’t talk a lot with his eyebrows, like some people do, and he has gotten good at keeping his composure (see above: media training), even when being asked incredibly intrusive questions during pressers, like– “What’s it like being an Asian man in a predominantly white sport?”
He has what Hayden likes to call a resting bitch face, but overall his emotions stay pretty well hidden. His dad teases it is his poker face. Shane shrugs because, well, it’s just his face.
So, he’s almost positive the person who walked out of the door across from the surprisingly comfortable couch couldn’t possibly have known what was going on inside his brain at that moment.
Shane first notices the oxfords on his feet, a rich mahogany color, and his eyes work their way up from there. The man is wearing navy trousers, perfectly tapered at the ankle. They are taut against what he can tell are very muscular thighs, and heat coils in Shane’s belly. The pants match a navy vest worn over a pale blue collared shirt, the top few buttons are unbuttoned revealing bronzed skin that’s just asking to be touched, and a gold chain with a crucifix around a thick neck. The sleeves of the man’s shirt are straining against bulging biceps and are rolled up to just below his elbows. His hands are in his pockets, but Shane can see the fine blonde hairs on his forearms, and he’s wearing a fancy watch with a brown leather band. His veins protrude along his arm and are like little trails that Shane’s eyes can’t help but follow up and up.
Shane’s breath hitches and he can feel the sweat forming along his brow as he thinks about his sneakers and jeans and the white fuzzy fleece zip-up he’s wearing. He should have worn something nicer, he supposes. He is asking this man to try and find him a quality woman, the least he could have done was shown up looking like a quality man.
The man clears his throat and Shane’s eyes shoot up, meeting the man’s for the first time. The navy blue suit brings out the blue in his eyes and they’re piercing. Shane swallows, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth.
“You must be Mr. Hollander,” the man says, presenting a hand for Shane to shake.
An accent– Russian, maybe? His voice is deep and rumbly and Shane’s heart flutters. He pauses a moment too long. Just long enough for the man’s eyebrow to twitch, arching up for the briefest of moments, then reaches out to shake his hand.
“Shane. Shane Hollander. You can call me Shane.”
“Shane. Nice to meet you. I’m Ilya Rozanov, but you can just call me Ilya. Come in, come in.”
He follows the man into his office and he can’t help– can’t help– but notice the way his trousers pull tightly at the seams around his round ass. He blinks and forces his eyes up. The man– Ilya– has dark blonde hair. He can tell it’s been brushed back, carefully combed along the sides above his ears, but it’s curly and there are tendrils escaping around the edges and down his nape. The curls on top are big and a bit unruly and Shane balls his fists at his sides so he won’t reach out and run his fingers through them.
Shane walks through the doorway and runs a hand through his own straight black hair instead, brushing it off his forehead and combing it back with his fingers. He’s always worn his hair short in the past, but he’s been growing it out lately and it feathers out like curtains around his face. He smoothes it back and hopes for the best.
As they walk, Shane takes a moment to really look at Ilya’s face as he rounds the corner behind the desk. Ilya’s jawline is sharp, and he has a mole on his cheek and some visible moles along his neck, and the most beautiful set of Cupid’s bow lips Shane has ever seen, and for the first time ever in his life he has to bite his tongue, or risk telling this man how beautiful he is.
“Sorry about the wait, I had a call with a client that went long. I don’t typically like to keep people waiting. I appreciate you staying.”
“Oh, uh, it’s no problem, really. I was just admiring your art.”
As he sits down, Ilya gestures at the chair across from his desk and Shane sits.
“Ah, yes, my art. I had someone pick it out for me. Looks like a five-year-old painted it, but I’m no artist, so what can I say, huh?” He smirks at him and Shane really hopes his face is doing the media trained thing and not the holy shit you’re fucking gorgeous thing as he crosses and uncrosses his legs in the chair. His knee starts to bounce and then he catches Ilya looking at it, so he presses his hand against his thigh, as casually as he can, and stops it. “You are nervous.” Ilya says it like a statement, not a question.
“What– no. I’m not nervous.”
He’s nervous.
“Is okay. Is your first time?”
“What?”
“Your first time with a matchmaker. Ah, sorry, relationship expert.” Ilya rolls his eyes and holds his fingers in the air making air quotes as he says it.
Shane just stares at him. Is he for real right now?
“Oh, well, yeah. I mean, I’ve dated before, obviously, I’m thirty years old. But, uh, I’ve never met with a relationship expert, no.”
Ilya’s leaning back in his chair, his elbows on the armrests, his fingers laced and resting on his stomach. His left leg is crossed at a ninety-degree angle over his other leg, his ankle resting against his knee, that damn mahogany shoe bouncing slowly to the rhythm of the music that Shane now realizes is playing from a little speaker on a shelf in the corner. Something Shane’s never heard before– melodic and not loud or overly stimulating. Peaceful.
Shane looks around. Sitting atop the desk is a laptop and a desk calendar, a small set of Russian nesting dolls– Russian accent must be right, then– a flowering succulent, a pen holder with a few pens, a manila folder with Shane’s picture paperclipped to the front, and a coffee mug that has what Shane is assuming is Cryillic writing.
In the corner is a small bookshelf loaded full of books that Shane can’t make out from where he’s sitting. Another plant– jury’s still out as to whether any of the plants in the office are real or fake– and a picture of a boy with familiar curls standing next to a woman, her arms wrapped around his shoulders from behind. The picture looks older, has a sepia tone to it, and it’s in a weathered, wooden frame. His mother, maybe?
Another grey couch sits against the wall behind where Shane is sitting, and a glass coffee table in front of it holds several magazines and some more books. A door to a bathroom is propped open to the right of the couch. Shane notices the lack of artwork in this room and a smile forms on his lips.
“What do you think?” Ilya asks.
“About what?”
“My office. A little…boring, yes? I haven’t decided if I want to buy more art or if I should let the kids down the street at park come in and draw all over the walls. Would be cheaper. Same artistic result.” He shrugs his shoulders.
Shane laughs and Ilya smiles. Shane thinks he might be able to see every tooth in his gorgeous mouth. It’s the biggest smile he’s ever seen and little wrinkles crinkle around his eyes. It’s a genuine smile and it makes Shane feel gooey inside. Fuck, that’s inconvenient.
“It’s nice. Your office is nice.” He nods as he says it.
“I’m glad you approve.” Ilya nods back and then uncrosses his leg and Shane definitely doesn’t notice the rippling muscles in Ilya’s forearms as he grabs the armrests, rolling his chair closer to the desk, and reaches for the folder.
“So, why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself.” He opens Shane’s file and then grabs a pen from the holder.
Shane tries to ignore the veins on Ilya’s hands and the direct eye contact from the man in front of him with the bluest eyes– or greenest, he can’t really tell, but they’re like oceans he wants to dive into. He trains his focus on the paper he sees in the folder. He can tell it’s a printout of the questions he’d filled out online. After being given the business card from his friend’s wife, he’d googled the name and found a website with a questionnaire that he’d filled out promptly after scheduling an appointment.
“I pretty much said everything in the questionnaire.” He gestures to the sheet and Ilya looks down at it and then back up, meeting Shane’s gaze again.
“Ah, yes. I can see you answered questions about your job, and what you’re looking for in an ideal partner, and what you consider to be a great first date with a woman.” He paused, rolling the pen between his fingers. “What isn’t in here is what you do for fun, your favorite place to go for vacation, what books you like to read on your couch on the weekends, your favorite dessert. That type of stuff. The little things that are not like robot answers. The things that make you human.”
“Uh, well, I answered the questions your website asked me, so…” Shane bristles a bit, feeling a bit perturbed at being judged. He’s not a robot.
“Ah yes, the website. Well, see, my aunt started this business many years ago and, well, I do things a bit differently.” Ilya closed the file and leaned back in his chair again.
Shane’s knee bounces. Ilya sees it. Shane’s hand presses against his thigh again.
“Have you had lunch?”
Shane nearly gets whiplash from the change of subject.
“Uh, what? Lunch?”
“Yes, lunch. Have you eaten?”
Shane looks at his watch. “It’s 11:00.”
“Perfect. The little place I like down the street just opened. We’ll walk.”
Ilya stands from his chair, grabs his keys and wallet from a drawer before walking towards the door, and Shane watches as Ilya adjusts his belt and messes with his shirt in the back, tucking it back in with his long fingers.
Shane gets up from his chair and follows, because, well, what else is he supposed to do?
Ilya stands at the front door, holding it open with his foot. “Flip the light off,” he says to Shane. He turns the light off and continues towards the door.
Ilya doesn’t move, so Shane angles sideways, his body squeezing through the doorframe, brushing against Ilya’s just barely as he exits. He does his best not to inhale as he moves past, but he fails miserably and his nose picks up a woodsy scent mixed with something sweet and soothing– lavender, maybe? Shane’s brain nearly short-circuits with this new information. Not only is Ilya some sort of Greek God in a three-piece suit with plump lips and a gravelly voice, but he also smells delicious, and Shane struggles to process all of this in the time it takes Ilya to lock up the front door.
They walk a few blocks and they don’t say much, but the silence is comfortable. Shane can feel his heel sticking funny still, though, and he’s trying his best not to let it slow him down. Ilya notices. Of course Ilya notices.
“Why are you walking funny?”
“Gum,” Shane says and keeps walking. He stops when he realizes Ilya has stopped. He turns and Ilya is just staring at him.
“What?” Ilya’s eyebrows are furrowed questioningly.
Shane lifts the bottom of his shoe, showing him the bottom where the gum is still fighting the good fight and refusing to let go.
Ilya stalks towards him, crouching a bit to get a better look. He stands, reaches into his pocket and pulls out some pocket change, a breath mint, and a folded receipt. He unfolds the receipt, pocketing the rest, then reaches out with one hand and grips Shane’s ankle, just below the hemline of his jeans. Shane’s hand grasps Ilya’s shoulder for the briefest second, for stability, and then he realizes what he’s doing and lets go. Ilya uses the receipt in his other hand to pry the gum from his shoe.
He releases Shane’s foot and walks towards a trash can, throws the receipt away, and starts walking again. Shane follows, his mouth agape and his heart rate elevated. He can still feel the heat of Ilya's fingers on his ankle, where he’s sure they left little scorch marks on his skin through his socks, and the memory of the muscled shoulder under Shane’s fingertips is probably going to be the last thing he thinks about before he falls asleep tonight. He’s so fucked.
They arrive at a restaurant called Nevski and Ilya holds the door open for him. The place has an eclectic, old-world feel to it, with chandeliers and string lights hanging haphazardly along the ceiling, the paint on the walls a deep red, and wooden tables with little table lamps strewn about. Shane notices immediately that it’s somewhat dim inside, which feels much better on his eyes than the office lighting they’d been in. A long bar stretches along one wall, and the back wall boasts a mural of snow-capped mountains.
A woman about his mother’s age greets them and Ilya speaks to her in Russian. She smiles and reaches out to pinch Ilya’s arm, both of them laughing quietly at whatever little joke they shared, and Shane can tell he knows her well. He must come here often. She leads them to a table near the back and Ilya holds his hand out to Shane.
“Sit, I will go wash hands. Gum.” He says and winks, then turns and walks down a hallway, disappearing into the men’s restroom.
Shane’s heart thumps in his chest. He fucking winked at him.
Shane looks over the menu, but his brain isn’t fully processing words at the moment, so he just sits there staring and wondering how the hell he wound up here.
Ilya appears again and he sits across from Shane. As he scoots his chair in, Ilya’s foot touches Shane’s and he doesn’t move it away. Shane doesn’t either, because he’s trying not to be rude and he doesn’t know exactly why it would be rude to move his foot away, but he feels like it would be, so he doesn’t.
They sit there and their feet are touching and Shane’s staring at the menu but not reading it.
A waitress comes and says hello and Ilya talks to her in that rumbly voice. He can tell Ilya knows this woman, too.
After a moment, she asks Shane, “What would you like to drink?”
“Ginger Ale, please.”
“And for you, the usual?” She asks Ilya. Okay, well, that answers that. He definitely comes here a lot.
He says something in Russian and the woman winks at him and he winks back at her and she walks off. So, he winks at everybody apparently. Something in Shane’s chest shifts. It should make him feel better, but it doesn’t.
“What’s good here?” He asks, back to staring at the menu.
“Everything is good. Do you have any allergies?”
“No, no allergies. But I eat pretty healthy in general. Fish, rice, lots of vegetables. Stuff like that.” He knows he sounds so boring, and normally he doesn’t care what people think, but right now, he cares what Ilya thinks. He just doesn’t really want to get into a conversation about macrobiotics right now.
Ilya just looks at him and says nothing. Shane can’t tell if he’s being judged or not.
The waitress comes back with a tray and deposits a small shot glass with a clear liquid in it, a beer bottle with writing that Shane can’t read, a soda glass with a lime, and a copper mug with a sprig of mint draped along the rim.
She and Ilya speak for a minute or two, she collects the menus from in front of them, and then walks away towards the kitchen.
“What’s this?”
“That is your ginger ale,” Ilya says, pointing at the soda glass with a lime. “And that is a Moscow Mule. Both are for you. That one has vodka and ginger beer and mint, as you can see. Try it. I think you will like it.”
Shane’s not so sure, but he takes a sip and it’s not bad. It’s good, actually. It fizzes on his tongue and he drinks a bit more, letting it warm his belly. Ilya smiles at him and he can’t help but smile back.
“Is that vodka?” Shane asks, nodding at the small shot glass.
“Yes, they have good Russian stuff here. I will wait for the zakuska, though.”
“Is that what you ordered for us to eat? Zakuska?” He thinks he pronounces it correctly.
“Da, yes. I ordered the Zakuski Extravaganza.” He laughs and Shane laughs with him. “Silly name, but they bring out lots of food for us to share and we eat and get fat and then go home and take naps.”
Ilya is grinning across the table and their feet are still touching and the drink is fizzing on Shane’s tongue and it occurs to him that he’s never once been on a date with a woman that has felt this comfortable or has been this…interesting. And he’s been on a lot of dates with women.
Fuck. This is not a date, he reminds himself.
He looks away from Ilya, finding the eye contact in that moment to be a bit too much. He looks around the restaurant and sees there are a few other tables of people, but the lunch rush doesn’t seem to have started just yet.
“You come here often, huh.” It’s a question, but he says it like a statement because it’s so obvious that Ilya is comfortable here.
“At least once a week, yes. I moved here from Russia about twelve years ago now, and I still miss the food badly. I was happy to find this place.”
“You moved here to work with your aunt?”
“Yes, mostly. My aunt needed help with her business. I filed papers and cleaned the office for the first year or so, and then answered the phone once my English improved. She had someone else working with her, so I was just the extra help, but then that lady quit a few years ago after she had her third child, and my aunt retired last year, so now it’s mine to run.”
“You like it? I mean, that’s what you want to do, like, as a career…forever?”
Ilya grins at him and says, “We can’t all be famous hockey players, can we?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s a good profession. I’m sure you’re really busy, especially in this dating climate, or whatever.”
“Dating climate?”
“Yeah, I’ve read some articles. Dating is not easy and, well, people seem to have lost the desire to date and get to know each other and really put in the effort. I’m sure that a relationship expert comes in handy and helps weed out a lot of the people who aren’t really serious about, you know, finding someone.”
Ilya’s eyes roam Shane’s face. They appear to be looking at his lips, then lift slightly and Shane thinks he’s looking at his freckles on his nose and cheeks, but he can’t be certain.
“And that is what you want? To find someone serious who will put in the effort? A…woman who wants to get to know you?”
Shane’s heart rate quickens and he prays Ilya can’t see his pulse beating rapidly at his neck.
“Well…yeah. I’ve had a lot of bad luck with dating and I’m trying to change that, I guess.”
The waitress is back with another tray, this time it’s loaded down with several plates of food, saving Shane from this line of questioning. She sets them on the table, then asks in English, “Would you like me to explain everything, or do you want to?”
Shane looks at Ilya and Ilya says something in Russian. She smiles and nods and then walks off, disappearing through the doors leading back to the kitchen.
“Okay, so,” Ilya rubs his hands together excitedly then points. “Here we have kotleti salmon fishcakes with pickles and dill sauce.” He points at another plate. “This one is pelmeni. They’re veal and mushroom dumplings with aioli and some dill. Over here we have ogoniok, which is spicy eggplant with a jalapeno sauce, and finally, stroganoff poutine.” He waves his hand over all the plates like he’s presenting them to royalty.
Shane’s eyes are wide as he takes in the piles of food that he knows they’ll never be able to finish. The smell is heavenly, though, and his mouth waters. Ilya reaches across and grabs Shane’s empty plate from in front of him and begins loading it with a little bit of everything.
He puts the sauces on the side, but explains the perfect way to eat each thing, then fills his own plate. Shane vows to himself that he will be human-like. He’s not a robot. He can eat something different just for today. It won’t kill him.
Shane tries everything, letting the flavors settle on his tongue, savoring each bite. It’s all delicious, and he finds himself closing his eyes multiple times, only to then remember where he is and who he is with. Every time he opens his eyes, though, Ilya’s eyes are on his, a small smile curving his perfect lips.
They eat and talk and it is…easy. Casual. Comfortable.
They talk about Shane and his hockey career and how it’s really all he’s known since the age of four when his parents bought him his first pair of skates. He tells Ilya about the picture hanging up on the wall of his cottage of him at that young age, holding onto his dad’s pant leg, smiling big for the camera. Ilya watches him talk and Shane thinks he sees a fond look in his eyes.
“What about you? Did you ever skate, or play hockey? I know the sport is huge in Russia.”
Ilya tells Shane about Moscow and about the hockey rink he used to skate at when he was a kid.
“Your parents took you there?” Shane asks, and he thinks he sees something flash in Ilya’s eyes. His expression changes, just briefly, but then it’s gone.
“Ah, my mother. She took me to skate, but–” he trails off and he looks down at his plate, stabbing a bite with his fork nonchalantly. “She died when I was twelve and I didn’t really do much skating after that.” His eyes come back up and meet Shane’s, and Shane thinks maybe he’s not so nonchalant after all.
Shane doesn’t say anything, just eats his food and listens. Ilya tells him about his friend Svetlana and her dad, a famous Russian hockey player that Shane’s heard of. He talks about his aunt– his mother’s sister, he explains– and about the business some more.
They talk about music they like and books they’ve read. Ilya laughs and teases Shane when he says most of the books he reads are about hockey. The books Ilya reads are varied, he tells him, but his favorite books are murder mystery novels. They talk about places they’ve visited. Ilya has been down to New York City a couple of times and really likes it there, but enjoys Montreal and the life he’s built here. He wants to travel more, though, he admits. Maybe to Italy where he can eat all the pasta and drink all the wine. Or Spain, where he can go running with the bulls or walk parts of the Camino de Santiago.
Shane loves listening to Ilya speak and a small part of him is jealous of Ilya’s adventurous spirit. Shane tells him about all the places he’s traveled to on road trips with his team, lamenting that it’s mostly hotels and airports he sees.
“But what about the summer? Do you go on vacation? A beach where you can lie on sand and drink fruity drinks with umbrellas and swim in the ocean?”
“I have a cottage by the lake not far from Ottawa, where I’m originally from. I have jet skis and a fire pit and it’s pretty private. I spend a few weeks there each summer, but I don’t really go on vacations other than that.”
Ilya moves his head from side to side, weighing it in his mind, then says, “That sounds nice.”
Their plates are empty now and they’ve made a dent in each shared plate of zakuski. It’s been a long time since Shane has eaten this much, or eaten this many different types of foods, if he’s being honest.
“We should probably be going, huh?” Shane says, as he looks around for the waitress, spotting her across the room. She notices and walks over.
“I’ll grab you a box so you can take these leftovers home, then I’ll grab you the bill.”
She’s gone again and Ilya’s watching him closely. Shane looks at the food, then picks up his mule and finishes it. His stomach is doing a weird thing and he knows it’s probably all the food he’s eaten, but it feels suspiciously like something else. Like he likes this man and wishes their lunch wasn’t over, but he knows he shouldn’t be thinking like that at all.
“Want to go for a walk?” Ilya asks and Shane’s heart skips a beat.
Their feet are still touching.
“I thought naps were what happened after stuffing ourselves?” Shane teases.
Ilya seems to consider this, tilting his head from side to side, then says, “We nap later.”
And then he winks. Again.
Shane can feel his face flushing hot and he hopes his ears aren’t turning pink.
They’re turning pink.
Shane looks at him, his brown eyes meeting Ilya’s ocean eyes, and nods. “Okay.”
The waitress is back and she leaves the bill on the edge of the table, and before Shane can reach for it, Ilya has already grabbed it. Shane tries to fight him on it, but he pulls it out of his reach.
“My treat,” he says. “Business write-off.” He shrugs and pulls out a card, handing it over to her before she walks away. “You will take the leftovers, yes?”
Shane packages up the bits of food off the different plates that they didn’t manage to finish and finds himself actually excited to eat them later for dinner. He thinks about his parents and how they’d probably really like this place and smiles.
Ilya catches him and smiles back, and then they’re just two men sitting at a table at lunchtime, their feet touching, smiling at each other.
They walk a few blocks around a corner towards a walking path near the Lachine Canal that Shane has jogged along countless times over the course of the past decade playing for Montreal. They have been silent since they left the restaurant, both lost in their thoughts and not feeling pressured to make conversation.
As they reach the edge of the water, they fall into a slightly slower pace together, the bag with the box of leftovers hanging off Shane’s wrist, bumping his knee every so often. He fidgets with it and Ilya reaches out for it.
“I don’t mind carrying it,” he says, and Shane doesn’t really know what to make of that, so he hands it over. Ilya wraps the straps of the bag around his hand loosely and they keep walking.
They sidestep slower walkers here and there, and occasionally move over a bit for someone on a bicycle, but mostly they just walk, their elbows brushing together from time to time.
They near a bridge and see a woman tossing crackers into the water, a raft of ducks quacking and accepting their treats as they paddle in circles near the bank.
Past the bridge, Ilya spots a bench near the edge and gestures toward it, so they sit down facing the water, a small gap left open on the seat between them. Ilya places the bag of food on the bench on the other side of him, though, and Shane wonders if he’s leaving that space between them empty on purpose. Like maybe he’ll want to slide over just a bit to close the gap and he won’t want anything in his way when he does it.
Ugh. Shane really shouldn’t be assuming anything when it comes to this man. He stares at the water and then looks up at the sky, the clouds big and puffy and moving lazily above them.
“Your season is over, yes?” Ilya asks.
“Oh, yeah. We made it to playoffs again this year, but our goalie was playing with bruised ribs and our left winger hurt his wrist in the last game, so it wasn’t our year.” Shane says plainly, shrugging.
“Ah, yes, I could tell he wasn’t shooting like normal.”
Shane looks over and sees Ilya watching a squirrel navigating a tree trunk.
“You watched? I mean, you watch hockey?” he asked.
“As you said, it’s a huge sport in Russia, and I have lived in Montreal for a long time. Hockey is unavoidable in this city.”
“I didn’t know you were a fan, or whatever.”
“Well, I don’t have your poster on my wall or anything,” he teases, and Shane definitely feels his ears burning. “But yes, I am a fan.”
“I meant a fan of the Metros, not me.” Shane’s stomach is doing that weird thing again and it’s still inconvenient and not at all good timing, but he doesn’t want it to stop.
“Well, I am a fan of both, Shane Hollander,” he says and smiles as he turns to look straight into Shane’s eyes and Shane’s glad they’re sitting down because that look might have brought him to his knees.
Shane is blushing, he just knows it, but he can’t help it. He dips his head and looks at his hands sitting on his thighs and tries to swallow normally, but his tongue feels thick in his mouth again.
“So, tell me more about what type of woman you are looking for,” Ilya says casually.
Shane blanches, then clears his throat. He’d nearly forgotten the whole reason he was sitting here with Ilya in the first place, but apparently Ilya hasn’t.
“Oh yeah, right. Well, um, I’m gone a lot on roadtrips during the season, so someone who doesn’t mind being apart for weeks at a time would be good, obviously. Someone who’s clean and tidy. Someone who doesn’t mind doing their own thing, ya know? Like, has hobbies and whatnot.” He shifts on the bench, leaning forward a bit, his hands coming down to grip the edge of the seat on each side of his thighs, his elbows locked and his shoulders near his ears. “During the off-season, I have time to spend with someone, but my life really is just a lot of hockey practice, hockey games, reviewing tape,” he glances over his shoulder slightly, then adds, “wash, rinse, and repeat.”
Ilya studies him closely and Shane can feel the weight of his gaze on him. He licks his lips and tries to think of anything else he could add, but that’s really it. If he could get away with being single forever, he’d probably choose that.
But he’s thirty now, and all of his teammates around his age have wives and kids, or at least serious girlfriends, and he hasn’t had anyone serious in his life…ever. Hayden and Jackie have tried to set him up with Jackie’s friends over the years and it just never works out. His parents still ask occasionally if he’s dating anyone special, and he knows they try not to look disappointed when he says he isn’t, but he sees it on their faces.
Ilya leans back, settling himself and turning his hips sideways just a bit so his knees are pointed towards Shane as he drapes his arm along the back of the bench. Shane knows he can’t actually feel the heat from Ilya’s arm just inches away from his back, but his brain is playing tricks on him anyway.
Another moment of silence and Shane looks over at Ilya, making full eye contact with him.
“What?” he asks, as Ilya just stares at him.
“I’m still waiting for you to tell me what type of woman you are looking for.”
“What do you mean, I just told you.” He looks away, focusing again on the sunlight and clouds reflecting off the rippling water.
“You say so many words, but I don’t hear anything about what type of woman you want to date. Do you want someone who is smart with a successful career, someone who is funny and will make you laugh when you are doing dishes together, or who is affectionate and will play footsies with you as you lie on the couch at night scrolling on your phones? Or maybe you would like someone who loves to read and you can talk about your boring hockey books and they will tell you about their smutty romance until you both fall asleep cuddled up in bed on weekends? Someone who values family and friendships, and who likes to host dinners where everyone comes together to eat and play board games.”
Shane’s heart might just explode in his chest, it’s racing so fast now. But not because he’s picturing any of those things with a woman. He’s not picturing cooking and then doing the dishes with a woman, or walking through a grocery store and feeling a hand on his back as a woman reaches across him to grab her favorite cereal off the shelf, or small, womanly hands tracing along his abdomen as they lie in bed, snuggled together during winter nights when body heat is the only thing that will warm cold bones.
No, he’s not thinking about a woman at all.
He’s thinking about large hands and long fingers and veins that dance under the skin when they move along Shane’s body. He’s thinking about golden curls that are mussed up and that get tangled between Shane’s fingers when he runs his hand through them. He’s thinking about a wide smile that reaches from ear to ear, showing nothing but teeth, and bright ocean eyes that look at him and seem to really see him. He’s thinking about a perfect pair of pink lips that he wants to bite and taste so badly as he wraps his arms around broad, muscled shoulders. He’s thinking about a deep voice and a Russian accent and the woodsy smell that is so intoxicating he might faint.
He stands and walks towards the water, stopping just a few feet away. He doesn’t want to be rude and ignore the question, but he can’t sit there with Ilya’s eyes boring holes into his skull. With Ilya seeing him and reading his mind and knowing that Shane isn’t being completely honest.
“What is your favorite dessert?” Ilya asks.
“What?”
“I said earlier I wanted to know your favorite dessert. Let me guess,” he says, then hums as he thinks. “Not ice cream, too sweet and sugary for you probably. Maybe frozen yogurt, though? Do not tell me you are one of those people that eats a bowl of fruit and considers that dessert.”
Shane turns and looks at him, sitting on the bench so casually, not a care in the world, as Shane’s having a mini existential crisis just a few feet away.
“I like ice cream. I eat it sometimes at the cottage with my parents,” he says meekly.
“Wow, you are a really bad liar.”
“I’m not lying, I swear! Mint chocolate chip,” his voice is more confident now.
Ilya smiles, stands up, and walks slowly towards Shane with his hands in his pockets, like a lion stalking his prey.
“Come.” He leans towards Shane, his face just inches away from him now and Shane can feel his warm breath against his cheek. “You will prove it to me.” And then he walks off, grabbing the leftovers bag off the bench, and Shane watches him walk away, his eyes failing to look anywhere but at his ass in those tight trousers.
Shane follows. (Did we doubt he would?)
They walk back the way they came, but instead of turning left towards Ilya’s office, they turn right toward a little ice cream shop that Shane has probably passed a hundred times and never once noticed. Ilya holds the door open for him and he walks in.
They stand in line, waiting their turn, and Shane can feel Ilya’s body heat right behind him. His brain isn’t playing tricks this time, he’s just inches away from Shane and his body feels like a live wire. Ilya leans forward, his mouth near Shane’s ear as he speaks, his warm breath drags along Shane’s neck and goosebumps erupt on his skin.
“You said mint chocolate chip, yes? In a cone or a bowl?”
Shane’s breath is practically ragged as he replies, “Just one scoop in a bowl.”
Ilya tsks, and Shane’s eyes close, picturing the tongue in Ilya’s mouth against his teeth making that noise.
“Just one scoop, hm?”
Shane doesn’t reply and instead steps forward to place his order. He orders one scoop in a bowl and then turns toward Ilya expectantly, waiting for him to tell the girl behind the counter what he wants.
“My treat,” Shane says. Ilya looks at him and smiles, then steps forward and orders, turning his smile towards the girl.
“I’ll have a banana split, extra sprinkles and extra cherries, please.” Then to Shane, he says quietly, and with a quality to it that makes Shane’s face flush, “Thank you.”
Shane pays and they take their treats to go. They eat and walk and Shane absolutely does not close his eyes a little too long with each bite. He also does not sneak a peek over at Ilya every time his lips wrap around his spoon, or every time he hears him humming in ecstasy.
They make it back to Ilya’s office and Shane considers it an incredibly hard-fought victory that he managed to refrain from pinning Ilya up against a wall to lick his tongue into his mouth at some point along the way.
Back inside, they dispose of their trash and Ilya places the food bag on the table in front of the couch in his office, then walks over to a mini fridge tucked behind his desk and pulls out a couple of bottles of water. He hands one to Shane, their fingers brush together briefly, and they both stand there drinking for a moment.
Though the air was cool off the water, the lengthy walk and the hormones pumping through Shane’s blood have him feeling overly warm in his zip-up fleece. He unzips it, stripping it off to reveal a plain white t-shirt underneath. He then folds it and props it on the back of the chair he’d been sitting on earlier.
He catches Ilya watching him curiously, and he feels his face flush. One of Ilya’s hands comes up and hangs in the air between him, before he seemingly changes his mind and puts it back down, tucking it into his pocket.
There is some sort of a moment between them, though, and Shane can tell, but he’s not really sure what Ilya’s intention was exactly. Curiosity eats at him and he can’t help himself.
“What were you about to do just then?” he asks, his eyes wide and searching Ilyas for any sign that maybe he’s just as affected by Shane as he is of Ilya.
“Vesnushki,” he says, almost a whisper.
“What does that mean?” Shane asks, then swallows thickly, his pulse thrumming in his veins again.
Ilya pulls his hand out of his pocket again, reaching for Shane, but this time very, very slowly. His fingertips graze the skin along his cheekbone and drag over his nose. Shane’s mouth falls open and his breathing is ragged and he’s positive Ilya can hear his heart beating, it’s so loud in his own ears.
“Freckles,” Ilya says, reverently. Shane’s hand comes up and his fingers wrap around Ilya’s wrist, not to push his hand away, but to hold it in place. He holds his wrist and Shane can feel Ilya’s pulse under his fingertips and it feels like it’s racing just as fast as his. He holds his wrist, then he gives just the slightest tug. Just a small pull, drawing his hand even closer to his face, the warmth of Ilya’s palm radiating along his cheek.
There’s some sort of spell happening around him, or them, Shane can’t tell, but it’s causing his body to react in ways he’s unfamiliar with. The air is thick and his heart is racing and a shiver runs down his spine as heat builds in his belly and he can’t find the strength to move his feet. If he could, he probably would walk out the door. Wouldn’t he?
He would not.
If he could move his feet, he’d move closer to Ilya, his body like a magnet pulling closer. But he can’t move. Ilya, however, can, and he must feel the magnet because his body is closer than it was a moment ago, and Shane can feel the heat from Ilya’s breath mingling with his.
Their mouths are just inches away from each other and Ilya’s wrist is still in Shane’s hand and now Ilya’s fingers, that were tenderly stroking his freckles a moment ago, are now curving into the skin along his jawline.
The moment snaps and Shane blinks and then Ilya’s hand reaches, fingers spreading through the hair at his nape and pulling his head forward, Ilya’s lips crashing against Shane’s. They’re warm and soft and Shane’s tongue dips out of his mouth to touch and taste him. He feels Ilya’s lips part, inviting him in, and his tongue surges forward into Ilya’s mouth. He’d been thinking about this since the ice cream and the spoon and the humming. Hell, if he was being honest, he’s been thinking about this since Ilya first opened the door at 10:43 this morning and Shane’s eyes landed on the curve of his mouth as he spoke.
Ilya’s tongue is in his mouth now, sloppy and wet and hot, and his hands are gripping and cupping Shane’s face. Shane’s hands are clutching at the shirt and vest at Ilya’s waist, his fingers exploring, digging further until they are tucked under his waistband, and then he pulls and Ilya’s body is coming closer, their hips bumping and bodies slotting together. Shane wraps his arms around Ilya’s waist, hugging his body closer to him– he wants to be closer– and he can feel Ilya’s hard length rub against his and holy shit it feels so fucking good. A jolt of electricity hums through him now as they grind their hard cocks together through fabric. Too much fabric, his brain screams.
Ilya pulls back slightly, releasing Shane’s tongue that he had just been sucking on, and they pant into each other’s mouths.
“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya growls, his hands still gripping tightly to Shane’s head, not releasing him.
Shane’s eyes snap open and everything’s a little hazy, but there are Ilya’s beautiful, ocean eyes staring into his. Oh shit. Fuck.
He panics.
“Shit, I’m so sorry,” he says, as he releases the hold he has on Ilya’s waist and attempts to put some distance between them. Ilya’s brow furrows and his eyes search his face, but he can’t look at him now. His pulse is getting louder in his ears and his breathing is shallow. Ilya’s hands slip and slowly let go as Shane backs up, the back of his knees bumping into the coffee table. He turns, then walks around it and sits on the couch, his head in his hands. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. I’m sorry.”
Shane glances up quickly and Ilya stands there confused, his hands still hanging in the air where they’d just been holding Shane, but Shane can’t look at him. He buries his face in his hands again.
“Shane,” Ilya says, quietly, gingerly, like he’s talking to a spooked horse. Shane doesn’t move, he just drags breaths in, as deep as his lungs will let him, which isn’t very deep at all, and then out.
Ilya walks around the table and sits down, leaving a space between them, but close enough to reach out and rub a hand up and down Shane’s back, grounding him. Shane’s eyes are spotty from the pressure of his fingers digging into them, so he can’t see whatever face Ilya must be making. He’s probably looking at Shane like he’s crazy, but Shane can’t see it. He just focuses on the weight and heat of Ilya’s hand and the slow drag as it moves along his spine. He times his breathing to match it and his breathing evens out.
A deep voice cuts through the buzzing in his ears, “Was that your first time kissing a man?”
Shane tries not to flinch, but he does. He doesn’t recoil, but his body definitely reacts and he knows Ilya saw it.
He nods.
“You are good here, okay?” Ilya’s hand keeps the pace and Shane can breathe easier, but his brain is still spiraling a little bit. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Shane shakes his head no, but the urge to talk bubbles up and surprises him.
“I have never kissed a man before, but I’ve wanted to,” he says quietly. “I’ve known for a long time that I’m attracted to…to men. But my job makes things difficult and I kept it a secret for so long, it just never felt like, I dunno, a convenient time to tell people.” He moves his hands away from his eyes and lets them hang down between his legs, his elbows propped on his knees. He still can’t look at Ilya so he studies the ground beneath his sneakers. “Scott Hunter is gay, you know that? He came out a few years back now.”
“Hm, yes, I saw. Everyone saw.” Ilya says. He doesn’t stop rubbing Shane’s back, but he slows down considerably and he leans back against the couch cushions. “He and his husband seem very happy, although I’m surprised he hasn’t retired yet. He’s so old.”
“He’s not that old, Ilya,” a little laugh escapes his lips, “he’s only a few years older than me.” Shane smiles, his panic attack mostly dissipated now. Ilya’s hand pauses, but doesn’t move from his back. He feels its warmth against him and it almost feels like an extension of him somehow.
“So, you came here with intention of finding woman to…what? Date? Marry? Be your beard?”
Ilya has asked the million-dollar question, and if he’d been asked this question a few hours ago, he would have had an answer at the tip of his tongue. He’d have insisted no, that’s not true. Because he doesn’t dislike women, and of course he’s going to date and marry a woman, because that’s what is expected and he’s a good man and a perfect son and he always does what is expected of him. But now, his body feels drained and the truth feels stronger than any lie he can provide to cover up what is really happening in his heart.
“Yes, that is exactly what I came here for,” he says, and he exhales the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. His body slouches a bit, deeper into the couch, against the cushions and against Ilya’s hand that hasn’t moved from his back but is instead sliding around to his shoulder and pulling Shane closer. He leans back and into Ilya, his body fitting perfectly along his. Shane’s head rests on Ilya’s shoulder and Ilya’s hand slides up his neck and into his hair, stroking his head gently, scratching his scalp with his nails, and then Shane feels the press of Ilya’s lips against his temple and Shane’s eyes flutter closed, content.
He feels like crying. He’s spent so long ignoring feelings and pushing down emotions and lying to himself and others about what he truly wants, and now there’s a man that he’s known for a handful of hours, who truly sees him, who is soft with him, and who isn’t judging him for being exactly who he is.
“How did you know I’m…gay? Am I that obvious?” he asks, saying it out loud to someone for the first time.
“I guess I have, what is word…gaydar? I am bisexual, so I think mine works extra good.” Shane laughs and Ilya kisses his temple again and Shane melts a little inside. “I wasn’t sure at first, but then your foot didn’t move under the table at lunch and my heart was in my throat the whole time, waiting for you to pull away from me, and you didn’t. And then when we walked, my insides were on fire every time our elbows touched, and I saw the pink of your ears and you blushed. And then when I asked more questions about the type of woman you were looking for, you had panic attack and I thought you were going to jump into the river, which would have been very inconvenient because these are my favorite pair of shoes and I would not have had time to take them off before jumping in to save you.”
Shane snort-laughs, and then he says, “I know how to swim, asshole. I wouldn’t have drowned.”
Ilya laughs loudly and Shane smiles, lifting his head to look at him, because he needs to see that big toothy smile with his own eyes.
“And your face would turn the prettiest shade of pink, under your freckles, every time I said something that made you smile or laugh.” Ilya’s hands come up to cup Shane’s face again and Ilya pulls him closer, then pauses.
“Is this okay?” He’s asking permission and Shane nods, his eyes locked on Ilya’s lips. Ilya closes the distance. The kiss is sweet and tender, and the smallest moan escapes Shane’s lips, causing the grip on his face to tighten and his heart feels like it’s going to burst.
He crawls into Ilya’s lap before he even realizes what he’s doing. His legs straddle each side of Ilya’s hips and he tilts his hips forward, chasing any sort of friction he can find as his hands reach up and grab Ilya’s face, holding it in place against his. Their mouths are molded together, then lips part and tongues lick and they’re kissing, and Shane feels like he’s floating. He can feel his dick getting hard and then he feels it rubbing up against Ilya’s and he moans louder this time. Ilya groans against his mouth and his hands are on Shane’s chest, cupping his pecs then he lifts Shane’s shirt, pushing it up and his warm hands are on his pecs again, his thumbs dragging across Shane’s nipples, burning his skin, lighting fires that are spreading across his body. Shane drags his teeth against Ilya’s bottom lip then bites down gently and Ilya’s hips buck up as he grabs at Shane’s waist.
Ilya’s fingers are digging into his skin, pulling him closer, both their hips are moving now and it’s not lost on Shane that he’s practically humping him like a horny dog at this point, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. Ilya’s hands find Shane’s button at the waistband of his jeans and Shane nods his head, urging him on.
Ilya unbuttons his pants, yanking them down and Shane lifts his hips a bit, helping him to push them down. Ilya’s hand dips into his pants and he presses it against Shane’s hard and leaking cock.
“Fuck, you are so hard for me, Shane,” he says into Shane’s mouth as he hovers above him. Their foreheads are resting against each other now and Shane’s panting and his cock is aching. He reaches down and pulls Ilya’s hand away but only so he can guide it down beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs. He shoves Ilya’s hand into his underwear and the heat of Ilya’s fingertips against his cock makes his hips jolt up. Ilya wraps his fingers around it and he yanks his cock free, then he slides his hand and grips it tightly, twisting his wrist as he pulls up. Shane trembles as a shiver shoots up his spine.
“Oh my– fuck— that feels so good, Ilya.” Shane’s hands are scrambling to undo the buttons on Ilya’s vest and then the buttons on his shirt. “Why are you wearing so many layers?” he says tersely, as he works them open so he can find skin. His hands find what they’re searching for and he palms at Ilya’s chest and nipples, his fingers sliding into the hair along his chest and down the trail below his waistband.
Iya’s hand is working him, precome leaking steadily and providing a slickness that is making Shane unravel. Shane makes eye contact as he undoes Ilya’s belt and the button of his pants and Ilya nods, his mouth open and his breathing hitching as he licks his lips. He lifts his free hand and pulls Shane’s face towards his, their mouths slotting against each other again, messy and wet, lips sliding and tongues licking in and out. It’s wet and warm and Shane thinks about how he’s made it to thirty years old without ever being kissed like this before, but he’s so glad he’s being kissed now. He never wants it to stop.
He pulls the waistband of Ilya’s underwear down and frees his cock and holy fucking shit it’s huge and hot and red and Shane’s mouth goes dry looking at it. He wraps his hand around it and strokes and pulls and their hips are bucking wildly now as they tear each other apart. Ilya releases the hold he has on the hair at the base of Shane’s neck and he reaches down, pulling their cocks closer together until they’re touching.
Shane groans loudly, the sound bouncing around in the empty office, when Ilya wraps his large hand around both their cocks. They slide together, against each other, and Shane leaks over both of them, his cock throbbing and pulsing. Ilya rubs the precome around on his palm and keeps stroking, gripping, squeezing, pulling, and Shane’s body is shaking uncontrollably now, heat pooling in his belly and his breath shallow. He feels his balls tightening and his eyes are closed, his forehead pressed against Ilya’s. He tries to kiss him, his lips finding his temple and the mole on his cheek and his lips and the tip of his nose, and then white light flashes behind his eyes and he’s coming without warning.
Come spurts out of him, coating Ilya’s hand and landing in strips along Ilya’s tanned, toned stomach, and up on Shane’s stomach, too, and then Ilya is right behind him, his own release, hot and sticky. He moans into Shane’s mouth as he grips them both tightly.
They’re both panting, and Shane is shaking still, and Ilya’s hand is moving up and down, but slowly now. He finally stops and they just sit there, their softening cocks in Ilya’s hand, come on their stomachs and fingers, their lips against each other’s as they float down from the high.
Shane doesn’t know how long they sit there like that, his forehead resting against Ilya’s, but then he’s moving slightly underneath him, guiding Shane’s hips to the side so he can sit, and Shane pulls his leg from over his lap. Ilya gets up and disappears into the bathroom as Shane rests his head against the couch and closes his eyes. Shane hears the water turn on in the sink and can hear him cleaning himself off. He knows he needs to get up and go in there to clean up, but the couch is so comfy and he doesn’t know if his legs will work.
Ilya comes back with a wad of tissues and cleans Shane up for him gently and Shane’s heart is in his throat. He wants to reach out and pull him in for a kiss, but his arms are so heavy at his sides. Ilya disappears again to throw away the tissues, then is back and lowers himself down onto the couch next to Shane. He pulls him against his side and Shane leans over, his head fitting perfectly into the crook of Ilya’s neck.
Then he’s moving again, disrupting the position they were in and Ilya stands up, walks over to his desk and grabs the folder lying on top. It’s Shane’s folder, and Shane looks on with curiosity, wondering what he’s going to do with it. He really doesn’t think he has it in him to have another conversation about what types of women he’d like to date. Surely Ilya wouldn’t try to set him up with anyone now, would he? I mean, maybe if Ilya thought that was what he really wanted he would. He’d probably go through his files and find a nice librarian or school teacher, someone with a sweet face and disposition that would be good with kids and who wouldn’t mind all the lonely nights while Shane was gone. He’d probably do his best to find someone that would fit perfectly into Shane’s sham of a life, if that’s really what he thought he wanted.
Shane is nervous now. Is Ilya going to set him up on dates? Call him afterward to ask how they went?
Ilya brings the folder over to the couch and sits down. He opens the folder, scans the questionnaire one more time, then turns the papers in his hands and rips them in half down the middle. Shane watches on with wide eyes and a small smile and a heart that is definitely melting in his chest now.
Ilya turns to look at him, then places the torn up papers on the table and settles back against the cushions, pulling Shane against him against.
“We won’t be needing those, Hollander, will we?” he asks, and Shane shakes his head.
“Nope.” He rests his head on Ilya’s shoulder, then runs his fingers along the top of his thigh before resting his palm on Ilya’s leg.
They’re quiet for a moment, their breathing slowing, Shane’s eyes fluttering closed, then Shane asks, “You don’t take all your clients to lunch, do you?”
Ilya chuckles and Shane can feel Ilya’s body shake underneath him. “No, I definitely do not take all my clients to lunch. Just the pretty ones with beautiful freckles.” He kisses the top of Shane’s head and settles his head against Shane’s. They take a nap on his couch, wrapped up in each other’s arms, with the excitement of what’s to come hanging in the air.