Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

His second MLH year isn’t as bad as the first. Not that the first was bad, exactly—it was the fucking MLH, it was a dream, it was everything. It’s just that so many things went wrong in year one. Second-place draft pick, a locker room full of guys he just couldn’t understand, so much fucking travel. He forgot his toothbrush on two separate roadies and fumed in two separate 7/11s, looking at the toothbrushes that probably all had the wrong bristle size and shape and rigidity. The first time he spent fully fifteen minutes looking at the toothbrushes before he picked one that seemed like it would be closest to the one he had at home—a fucking joke, his toothbrush at home was electric—and his mouth didn’t feel clean the whole time they were away. The second time it happened, four months later, he just gave up and picked the first toothbrush he saw. Ilya Rozanov probably didn’t give a shit what toothbrush he picked, and he was drafted first. Another thing that went wrong in year one: Shane’s thing with Rozanov.

Winning rookie of the year turns it around, even if Rozanov is an asshole about it. He parties with the guys afterward who all slap him on the back and congratulate him. Pike is nice to him too, doesn’t even seem mad that Shane is going to outshine all of them. Shane knows by now that you’re not supposed to say that kind of thing aloud. You’re supposed to say hockey is a team sport and every guy makes his contribution. And it’s true, sure. It doesn’t change the fact that if Shane puts his head down and concentrates, he’s going in the Hall of Fame, and no one’s going to remember Andropov in twenty years.

At the start of his second season, Theriault makes him Captain. Nobody fights him on it. Shane figures this is when things are finally going to go his way. He figures this is his chance to make Boston regret looking over him. He figures this is his chance to make the Metros a dynasty.

“C’quoi, ça?” Boiziau asks, nodding at the charm on his keychain. It’s August. Second practice of the pre-season.

Shane looks at the keychain. It’s a cute little acrylic picture of Snoopy playing hockey. His cousin bought it for him to congratulate him on being drafted to the MLH, and sent it from Japan via his mom when she went home for ojisan’s first death anniversary. He’d only dared to clip it onto his duffle bag this season. Last year he wasn’t giving anybody an excuse to think he wasn’t taking things seriously.

“My cousin got it for me,” he says, shoulders hunched up a little tight. So sue him. He doesn’t know Boiziau that well.

“Cute, capitaine,” Boiziau says, and Shane relaxes. “C’est toi? Snoopy Hollander?”

Shane flushes red. “Shut the fuck up,” he mutters, reaching for it.

“Hey, relax, I like it,” Boiziau says. “Tell your cousin, approuvé by the meilleur defenseman du league.”

“Très drôle,” Shane snorts, but he leaves the keychain anyway. Boiziau unpacks his bag casually, strips to his underwear in no time. Everybody else does the same. No one is looking at Shane or his keychain, except for Boiziau, who just wanted to be nice. Shane stares at the ground, swallows. Even after nine years in locker rooms he still hasn’t figured out the right way to look at other guys, but he’s starting to get the hang of it. He’s pretty sure it’ll become instinct for him eventually, if he keeps at it.

Practice runs okay. Shooting drills, running lines. Shane is supposed to have a “feel” for what’s happening on the ice. That’s what Theriault told him. “My job is to watch from the outside and to make sure we are running a tight ship,” Theriault had said in his practiced, near-accentless, dictionary-perfect English, when he told Shane he was going to make him Captain. Nothing like Boiziau, who Theriault, in a fit of cruel honesty after a management meeting, said was kind of a dumbass and barely comprehensible in French, let alone English. Shane hadn’t said anything in response to that, because Shane didn’t deal with stuff like that. Shane did hockey. If he did hockey well enough, Theriault probably wouldn’t gossip about him to other guys at other meetings. “Your job is to have a feel for what’s happening on the ice. We work together, and magic happens.”

Shane had nodded. He didn’t know what exactly Theriault meant by a “feel” for the ice. He knew plays and movements. Maybe he did kind of have a “sense” or a “feel” for the puck, or the sense of another team’s guy coming up on him, or an instinctive calculation of the distance between him and the goal. He didn’t know how to say that in words. But that was his job, so he went on the ice and ran drills and tried really hard to get a “feel” for it.

When Shane gets back in the locker room everyone is decent to him. They can tell their performance shaped up by the end of last season and no one can deny that Shane had something to do it. “Brutal run out there, Hollz,” says Laine. “Maybe one day we’ll catch up to golden boy over here.”

Everybody laughs. Shane doesn’t. It sure would be nice if someone could keep up. Pike wraps an arm around his shoulder—shirtless, both of them, sweat on sweat—and pulls him in tight for a second before releasing him. Shane twitches, but it was a nice thing to do, and he appreciates it. 

In the showers, Shane gets distracted. He’s usually so focused, especially in the showers. A bunch of naked guys soaping themselves up, Christ. Usually it’s Shane’s worst nightmare. They can all tell—it was awkward when he was in the junior leagues, he usually showered after everybody else was done, but that was a gay thing to do too—and then he took too long to get ready, so that was gay—and it was gay that he brought his own soap because the locker room soap dispensers were fucking nasty. So Shane usually keeps his head down and powers through the shower like if he just doesn’t think about it nobody will look at him and see his gross secret.

The thing is, everyone was nice today. Boiziau was nice about the keychain, and nobody made side comments about Shane showing off that even Shane could tell were passive aggressive, and Theriault even said he appreciated his feedback. So Shane lets himself relax. And he lets himself think about the thing that went wrong in year one, the thing burning a hole in his duffle bag. The texts from Rozanov.

“Jeez bud, you thinking of your slapshot or what?” Olsson laughs, and Shane blinks. He looks at Olsson, and then down at his own dick in sheer horror. He’s— hard.

Well, not exactly. He’s just, like, chubbing up a little, which, Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ. The mortification of it solves the problem right away, but Shane can’t fucking believe it. He let himself— in the fucking shower, too, when he’d just built up enough cred to bring his own soap in without anybody calling him a fag about it—

“Nah, I was thinking about your mom,” Shane throws back, half-assedly, and Olsson tosses back fuck off while the other guys laugh. Thank God Shane grew up in the golden age of your mom jokes. If he hadn’t had that one in his back pocket he’s not sure what the hell he would’ve said.

He speeds through the rest of his shower, skin still prickling with shame. He can’t believe it. All of that, for text messages. He should delete Rozanov’s number.

He looks at his phone. Three texts from Rozanov, asking for it. For him. For his asshole. Shane knows he’s blushing, but he can’t help it. He thumbs over the button to delete the messages, at least, but he can’t. He tries hard to make himself do it, or at least want to do it, but he just can’t help it.

The same month Hayden Pike becomes AC, Rozanov sends Shane a dick pic.

Shane stares at it, eyes burning. Hayden is out for a walk—calling Jackie, apparently, and maybe buying her jewelry or something. “I like to get her something from everywhere we go,” he says, which is fucking gay, but Shane doesn’t tell him that. They have a real friendship going on, the two of them. The point is that when they go to a city for the first time Hayden always takes two hours to go on a walk and call Jackie and then find her something nice. Shane takes note of that. It seems like the kind of thing girls like, which he should remember for when he gets a girlfriend. Hayden met Jackie in a bar last year and has been smitten ever since. Shane has high standards, which is why he hasn’t found his future wife at any of the dozens of Metros bar crawls he’s suffered through.

Unfortunately, instead of looking for a woman to spend the rest of his life with, Shane is here, wasting time looking at Rozanov’s cock. Jesus. His mouth waters a little bit. He’s so fucking gross. He grips the phone tighter, as if he can reach in and touch— touch Rozanov. Jesus Christ.

Shane’s not— he doesn’t know what constitutes a good dick pic. He’s never seen any except for Rozanov’s. He’s seen, like, dicks before, you can’t get through professional sports without seeing another dick, but he’s never seen a staged picture, nice lighting and angles the way Rozanov has it. It’s still a shitty pixelated phone camera picture, but it’s— his hand looks so big, knuckles just under his tight skin, thumb brushing the head— and even with the shitty pixels Shane can see that he’s wet, fuck, fuck, fuck—

what are you doing he types back, like an idiot. He shouldn’t be replying to this. He should be deleting the picture before someone sees him getting penis sexts, fuck, but he can’t— he can’t look away. That hand would be so big on him, so hot. Shane shifts on the bed. He can’t jerk off in here. Hayden told him to, almost, said he’d be two hours at least with a gross eyebrow waggle, but he can’t— he can’t have Rozanov in the same place as someone from his actual real life. That’s so fucked up.

His groin is heating up, his dick is twitching. Shane inhales, exhales. He doesn’t have to jerk off. He can just— he can just look. Jesus Christ. Rozanov texts back why, do u want to see ? and Shane holds his breath for the full twenty seconds it takes Rozanov to send another picture.

Oh, God. 

It’s— it’s a video. Probably the worst quality video Shane has ever seen including a 1986 USSR/USA game tape someone ripped and uploaded to YouTube, but it’s— oh god. Shane is harder than he’s ever been in his life. Rozanov is— touching himself, that big hand squeezing the shaft and then making a hole for him to thrust into. Shane looks up at the door, still locked, and turns the volume up a little bit as the video replays. He’s not saying anything, but the sounds— little noises, grunts, his heavy exhale every time he thrusts up, oh God—

Shane sprints to the bathroom and locks the door behind him. Two doors between him and the outside world should be enough, right? He looks at himself in the mirror. He looks fucking insane.

He thrusts his hand down his sweatpants and rubs himself, humps his own hand like a maniac, little noises coming out of him that he can’t control at all. hard yet ? Rozanov texts, and Shane laughs disbelievingly. He’s never been this hard in his fucking life, except for maybe the last time he saw Rozanov, at All-Stars. Rozanov continues, send me picture

Shane swallows. He got a video. It’s only fair. Rozanov’s the one willing to send pictures of himself to another guy, has no idea if Shane will keep his secret—although Shane’s the one who’s acting like a girl in the texts. It would be easy for Rozanov to say he’s texting a girl. There’s no fucking way Shane could play this off.

Still. Fair is fair. Shane sets up his phone so the screen is against the mirror, takes a test picture first to check that the camera catches a little of his stomach and his dick. It does. Now he’s nervous. He takes a video, just because he has no idea how to set a timer on his camera, touches himself. Forgets all about the camera once he starts feeling it, fuck. Christ it feels good. He’s so hard, so wet already, knows there’s a wet spot on his pants. He can see it in the mirror. He can see everything, his own face, red and sweaty, the way he’s breathing through his mouth, the desperation in him, he looks like a fucking animal— and his gaze stutters down to his hand, still in his sweatpants. He pulls his shirt up and bites it to keep it out of the way and to keep himself quiet, but he can’t escape the sound of his own muffled moans as he pushes his pants down and jerks himself until he comes, hard, all over the bathroom sink, hips twitching.

“Fuck,” Shane says, voice cracking. He picks up his phone, stops the video. His hands are shaking. He has to clean the sink, Jesus what the fuck is wrong with him.

He sits down right on the ground. He scrubs through the video. His face isn’t visible at all— hell, you can barely see anything, just the line of his hips and the wet spot in his pants, until he pushes them down. And at the end, when he picked the phone up, the video just shows the—oh Jesus—the come all over the bathroom sink. Nothing identifiable.

He blinks at it. Is he really going to send this?

probably you are scared Rozanov texts, and Shane fumes. He fucking— he did this, he did all of this, and Rozanov is calling him scared. too scared to send me picture, i will have to imagine, imagination probably better anyway

Fuck that. As if Shane’s supposed to believe that. Rozanov has been texting him every month since ASG asking to fuck him and he’s, what, bored already? What a fucking asshole. What an absolute fucking asshole. Shane sends the video and watches it load. It takes a full two minutes to send because the video is 45 seconds long, which is simultaneously humiliatingly long and humiliatingly short. Everything about this situation is humiliating, which pretty much tracks.

When the video is marked as sent, Shane stands up and looks at the mess. He has to change his pants. Hayden’s going to notice and make fun of him for it, but he can’t— he can’t wear these pants with a fucking wet spot anymore. Maybe he should take a shower. He usually showers right before bed, but maybe Hayden won’t notice the change in routine. Fat fucking chance.

Shane uses toilet paper to wipe off the worst of the mess in the sink and then gets a new wad of toilet paper to scrub it with soap. He breathes. He listens to see if Hayden is back, but he’s still out—it’s been barely an hour since he left—so Shane braves the room to get a change of clothes.

When he comes back to the bathroom, Rozanov has sent him six texts. No, seven. His phone is still buzzing.

fuck

i am so sorry jane please forgive me i was wrong

imagination is nothing . u so much better

so sexy so good

i make u this hard ? look so good

fuck i will cum

u sound so pretty when u cum

i will hear u in person soon yes ? bos@mtl in 1 week

Shane flushes. The idea that Rozanov—already famous in just two years for his circuit of girls in every city, not that Shane’s paying attention—acts like this from a shitty video of Shane embarrassing himself, well. It’s flattering, undeniably.

In a concession to insanity, Shane replies, Maybe.

Three minutes pass. Shane strips, gets goosebumps from the cold air. He watches his phone. Finally, Rozanov texts him, ok next week

Shane doesn’t reply to that. He shouldn’t even be entertaining an idea this bad. Now that he’s not so hard he’s creaming himself in under a minute, he can see how phenomenally stupid this whole thing is. One day he’s going to have a wife and she’s going to ask why he never dated during his first two years in the MLH and he’s going to have to lie or tell her that he was too busy sexting Ilya fucking Rozanov.

The morning after Shane gets fucked for the first time, he sits in his living room and he thinks about hockey.

Usually he doesn’t do this. Usually he wakes up and goes where he’s told because his mom manages his whole calendar and he doesn’t have to think about any of that. He keeps his focus on the ice, where it matters. Most days he goes to the rink, meets with the coaches, hits the gym, gets in some ice time, and then goes home. Maybe he has a phone call or a Skype meeting with a brand guy in the middle of all that. He doesn’t have to worry about that stuff because his mom has his Google calendar set up to send alerts to his phone.

But today he has nothing until his 1pm meeting with Theriault, so he thinks. 1pm is when they’ll pick a new alternate captain. Karlsson keeps pissing him off. He’s supposed to be better than this—and he is—but at this point the strain isn’t worth it. He can’t rely on Karlsson for shit. Karlsson goes behind his back and calls him a limp-wrist to his fucking goalie. It’s probably his fault, and he knows that’s what Theriault’s going to tell him, but at the end of the day Hollander’s the one selling out stadiums, so Hollander’s the one who gets to keep the C.

The day before Shane Hollander picks his alternate captain, he got fucked by Raiders captain Ilya Rozanov. He’s not sure what to make of it. It’s probably the sickest, most fucked up thing he can imagine. Here he is, pretending he’s got any right to decide who should lead the Metros with him to their first Cup in almost two decades—because Shane knows they’re winning a Cup under his captaincy—while he’s literally bending over for the captain of the team that’s been their rival since before Shane was born.

The thing is, he can’t really make himself feel bad about it. He tries really hard, digs deep for that nausea that always seems at the ready, but it just isn’t there. Maybe it’s the way Rozanov kissed him at the end, in the stairwell. The clean smell of him after his shower. The way— Christ. Shane shakes his head like he’s shaking water off. It won’t do any good to think about it.

But his skin feels it. That’s the truth. He feels it in the palm of his hands, the space where his neck meets his shoulders—he feels Rozanov, the heat of him, the way he was so gentle, the way it felt. God, the way it felt. Like nothing in the world, like everything. His mouth on Shane’s hole, which Shane didn’t really know was— like, he’d heard of it, but it wasn’t like anything else, wasn’t anything he expected. It didn’t feel possible. Fuck. His tongue, the sweet slide of his hands, the press of his fingers inside— and then his dick, pushing in so careful, the way Ilya—Rozanov—had asked is it okay, is it okay every five seconds as if there was any universe where it wasn’t okay. Which, if Shane was honest, was this universe. But still it was okay. Still it felt so fucking good.

He presses his palms against the table, flat, so hard he can see his fingertips turning white under the nails. He can’t get hard again. He came without a hand on him. Shit, he feels like he could do it again if he just thought about Rozanov hard enough, if he clenched and rubbed his hole against— against anything, against the fucking chair, if he rocked on the chair while thinking about Rozanov fucking him so hard sparks lit up every nerve inside him, Jesus—

Shane watches, almost dumbfounded, while his hand—as if it isn’t his, as if it’s someone else’s—reaches down and rubs. God, he can’t— but he does, he pushes his pants open and jerks off right there in his own fucking living room, eyes wide at his own need, biting his own lip as if there’s anyone who could hear him. He comes on the chair and over his own hand and he exhales, shocked.

Okay. At least he got it out of his system. At least he won’t be thinking about the Boston Raiders captain’s dick in his ass while he’s telling Theriault to pick Hayden as AC. It’ll be an exercise in humiliation. Hayden’s not bad, but he’s not great. He’s not as fast as Karlsson even if he’s a little better at making sure passes connect. He doesn’t have the same bird’s eye view of the rink that Shane and Karlsson have instinctively, the shared thing in them that makes them clash because Karlsson thinks Shane is a girl who won’t commit to brutal plays and Shane thinks Karlsson is an asshole who’d rather risk a major for high-sticking instead of just skating fast enough to steal the puck.

But Hayden listens, and Hayden knows how to feel out a group. The guys like Hayden, as far as Shane can tell. He’s kind of soft but no one really makes fun of him for it, not the way Shane can feel them all looking at him because they know he’s got something to hide. Hayden doesn’t give a shit that half the guys on their team laugh in his face when he says he’s calling an early night to call Jackie, because the next night the guys still invite him out again and rib him and listen when he says, so nice it doesn’t even sting, that maybe Beaulier and Berkes could run some extra turning drills at the next practice. That’s the kind of ease in the room Shane needs.

Theriault knows it too. That’s why he’ll say yes. He’ll look Shane right in the eyes and tell him Pike’s a good pick because he’s got the right vibe. And the way he’ll say it will tell Shane the truth, which is that it’s a failure of Shane’s leadership that they’re picking an alternate captain based on vibes and not hockey. Before the game yesterday Theriault had told him to look out for who was a good leader. He’d said, you have the hockey handled, Hollander, so find someone who can manage a room. The criticism landed like a whip. Rozanov made Shane forget all about it.

Chapter Text

Rozanov has a key by now, which seems kind of stupid, but Shane just doesn’t think about it. Under strict instructions to only use the alley entrance, Rozanov comes over when he plays in Montreal and that’s just that. Shane figures he’ll be watching TV or having a beer or something, but when Shane gets home Rozanov’s not in the living room. Shane finds him in the bedroom.

“Are you— oh fuck.” Shane blinks. His mouth is so fucking dry. He inhales and the breath just— stops. Christ.

Ilya Rozanov is wearing his jersey.

“What the fuck,” Shane exhales, looking at him. It’s almost obscene. This feels like the most perverted thing they’ve ever done, and last month Rozanov had held Shane down on his cock until he couldn’t breathe and then Shane came all over the floor just from the feel of it, being choked and held down like that. And Rozanov had made him lick it up.

“Good, yes?” Rozanov says, turning around. He’s wearing black briefs. Across his shoulders: HOLLANDER. And below that, even bigger: 24. Shane feels lightheaded. “I asked my friend to order for me. No one will know it is for me.”

“Uh huh,” Shane says. It’s great that Rozanov thought that far ahead. Shane can think about as far ahead as the bed, which is three feet away. Just past Rozanov, who’s turning back to face him, wearing Shane’s jersey. “Is it—” and Shane thinks about wearing the Raiders jersey, and even the thought of it is nauseating. “I mean. Are you okay with this?”

Rozanov raises an eyebrow. “You think I will wear jersey if it makes me feel bad?” He steps forward, into Shane’s space, that smell of him, the heat, and he says, “As you know I am always doing things to make me feel bad on purpose. Eat boring food, bed at nine every night, read only hockey books and no fun… oh, no, maybe this is you, Hollander.”

“Shut up,” Shane mutters, but he lets Rozanov kiss him anyway. “Jesus. This is insane.”

“I am wearing your jersey,” Rozanov murmurs, mouthing across Shane’s throat, “because I want you to think of me when you wear it. You are captain of Metros but you still let me fuck you, yes? And now you will remember it because I fuck you with your own number.”

Shane already thinks of Rozanov every second he’s on the ice, because Rozanov is his personal benchmark. But that’s a desperate thing to say, worse than begging for Rozanov’s cock. Instead of admitting any of that, Shane says, “I— I want to see it.”

Rozanov steps back, grinning like an asshole. Shane wants to bite him so hard he makes a space, a hole in Rozanov’s skin just for Shane. Is that crazy? “What do you want to see?” Rozanov pushes, and Shane swallows. He knows this game.

His fingers twitch along with his dick. It should take more than this to force him, but Rozanov’s smile is enough. And the promise of that jersey. “I want to see my name on you,” Shane grits out, and Rozanov’s smile widens, becomes something sincere that crinkles his eyes. Shane’s never seen that before. “I want to see my number.” 

Rozanov turns around and puts his hands on the bed and then—oh Jesus, and then—he kneels, ass up, forehead resting against his forearms. Shane almost starts fucking drooling. The jersey rides up, the 24 dipping into the small of Rozanov’s back, the stiff letters in HOLLANDER standing at attention. “Eat my ass,” he says.

“Yeah,” Shane says, even though he’s never done that before. But fuck, he wants to. “Yeah, okay.”

He sets his hand on Rozanov’s hip, pulls down the briefs to his thighs. Fuck. Fuck he looks so fucking good, all muscle, all the golden skin of him. He can’t resist the urge so he doesn’t—he bites him, at the place where his ass meets his thigh, the crease. Jesus. He’s gentle at first and then bites harder when Rozanov groans, rocking back into it, the smell of him, oh God— Shane sucks and worries at it and hopes he leaves a fucking bruise.

“Good job,” Roz says, voice low, rough, and Shane presses his forehead against his skin for a long, hard moment. “Now, give me— fuck, Hollander—” as Shane mouths over his asshole, for a second, breathing in the sweat of him, and then licks into it, feels the way his muscles relax, oh fuck, oh fuck—

Rozanov holds him there, reaches his hand back to cup Shane’s head as Shane licks and sucks and hopes he’s doing a good job because when Rozanov eats him out it feels like nothing else— and Rozanov grunts, a hard masculine sound and Shane gets so hard he can barely see. Jesus fuck. “Like that,” Rozanov says, and Shane presses his tongue in, holds his breath to shove his whole face in, and Rozanov says, “Fuuuck, Hollander, fuck, so good, just like that—”

Shane pulls back to breathe and looks at him. Fuck, he looks so good, wearing Shane’s number. Wearing Shane’s name. Breathing heavy under Shane’s jersey, like a goddamn puck bunny. Shane never got the appeal until now, all that power contained under Captain Shane Hollander’s grip.

“Get on the bed now,” Rozanov says, and Shane does, lying on his back in front of Rozanov and watching him carefully, steadily press two fingers into Shane to see if he’s ready. He’s fucking ready. The C on Rozanov’s chest is right over his heart, the Metros logo across his broad chest. He still looks small in it, though, because the jerseys are built for pads.

Rozanov presses his fingertips against Shane’s prostate and Shane clenches, whines, feels everything. Overwhelmed. Fuck it feels so good, crazy head rush, all the nerves spiking in him. And then Rozanov says, “Let me fuck you, Captain.”

“Oh fuck,” Shane says before he can think about it, all instinct, and he nods as Rozanov presses into him. Wearing his fucking jersey, his fucking colours. His fucking war banner. Shane looks at him and feels like for once in his fucking life, Rozanov might actually belong to him, even if just for one night. His cock is heavy and perfect inside of him, fills him up, and it feels, fuck, it feels so fucking good. He clenches and the feeling sharpens, Rozanov groans, and Shane finally tilts his head back and lets himself feel it.

Rozanov fucks him like that, hard and fast just the way Shane likes it, always likes it. The same way Rozanov flits in and out of Shane’s life like a ghost, totally separate from reality. Untethered, the way Shane feels right now, like nothing in the world exists except for this. Except for the feeling of Ilya Rozanov inside of him wearing Metros blue. It’s crazy to think that the Rozanov who terrorizes him on the ice is the same Rozanov who does this to him in bed, the same Rozanov who pushes him and hurts him and makes him better, always him, always the two of them. Christ Shane is so fucking hard.

“Look at you,” Rozanov hisses, and Shane opens his eyes and obeys, looks down at himself. His cock is bouncing, wet against his abdomen. “So hard. Are you going to come for me, Hollander?”

Shane blinks up at him. “You want me to—”

“Touch yourself,” Rozanov grits out, and Shane does, flinches away from how good it is. Fuck, he might come right now. Fuck. “Make yourself come,” Rozanov says, and Shane moans, stroking himself faster, fuck, fuck, “is it me or the jersey, ah, tell me, Hollander, will you come like this for any man wearing your number—”

“No,” Shane admits, all the truth fucked out of him, his body stretched and shivering through the pleasure of it, and as he comes he says, voice slurring over it, “just you, fuck, Rozanov, it’s just you, just—”

“Fuuck,” Rozanov moans, gaze hot, all over Shane. Through the wreckage of his own body Shane feels him come, hears the sounds punched out of his chest, fucking gorgeous. Rozanov presses in for one long moment and then crowds in, leans over Shane and kisses him. “Fucking hot,” Rozanov says into Shane’s mouth as the logo on his jersey roughs up Shane’s stomach, the size of him blocking out all the light.

“Yeah,” Shane says, kissing him back, finally reaching his hands up to touch him, to feel the jersey on him. Rozanov pulls out and Shane fists his hand in the jersey, holds tight and rolls them over so he can straddle Rozanov’s hips.

“Round two already?” Rozanov asks, smirking, hands behind his head. He looks like such a fucking douche.

“No,” Shane says, flushing. He gets up, but wishes he could’ve stayed just a minute or two longer. Just to look. The image is burned into his head anyway—Rozanov in his bed, curls everywhere, chest heaving under the Metros jersey, the sleeves hiked up to his elbows to reveal the small bones of his wrists, that smile—but he wishes he could’ve had another minute. Just one.

That’s not the kind of thing they do, though. Shane puts his underwear back on, winces from the sweat, but he doesn't want to put a new pair on if he’s going to shower later anyway. Rozanov comes up behind him and kisses his shoulder, too nice for what they are. “I’m going to shower,” he says, and Shane shivers. “If you want me to suck your cock, you should join me.”

Shane looks up, sees Rozanov pulling the jersey over his head, one sleek movement with his arms crossed that bunches his back muscles up into something that belongs in an art gallery. Jesus, yeah. Shane takes his briefs off, and follows him into the bathroom, spellbound.

Every time they lose two or more games in a row, Theriault calls Shane into his office to discuss it, right after the game while it’s still fresh.

It’s not exactly standard practice, but they’re not the only team who operates that way. There’s a few coaches in the western conference who go even harder, calling meetings with the captain and ACs after every loss. He’s pretty sure the Detroit head coach has the same approach as Theriault—one game is a disappointment, two games is a problem to be solved.

Being captain means that Shane answers for what happens on the ice. That’s part of the deal, and he knew it when he agreed, nineteen years old and ready to answer for twenty guys. Renaud could let in four goals and Koch could screw a pass that a fifteen year old would make, and that was their problem, but the fact that they had problems in the first place was Shane’s problem.

By the fourth season, Shane knows the drill when Theriault calls him in for their first two-loss streak. “There’s a gap in our offense,” Theriault says, flipping through diagrams. Shane nods attentively. Theriault always has good notes, even if sometimes he’s a prick about it. He has to assume it’s the same on every team, the weird power dynamic between the head coach and the captain. Theriault points out all the errors Shane missed on the ice, everything that contributed to a 5-2 loss against Toronto which was a political as well as an athletic embarrassment.

Every time Theriault has to step in, Shane feels a wave of shame. And he feels ashamed about the shame, because that’s the coach’s job. He never used to be a bitch about feedback, always listened and took it to heart when coaches told him what he could work on. The resentment only started when he became captain. Probably Shane has an ego the size of the CN tower. Theriault told him that once, when he’d snapped and said Theriault had no fucking clue what it was like on the ice. It had been an unkind thing for Shane to say, and untrue, too. He’d apologized right away, but Theriault hasn’t forgotten.

“I thought you had Pike for this,” Theriault says now. “Where is he? Koch is fucking up because he can’t get out of his head.”

“Pike’s working on it,” Shane says, because he is. Pike has been checking in with Koch and working on his plays with Wilson because Shane told him to figure it out, but they just haven’t been getting results fast enough. And the AC’s performance is also the captain’s problem.

“Is there a problem I should know about?” Theriault says. Shane feels like he’s said too much. He shouldn’t have mentioned Pike was working on it. He should’ve just thanked him for the note.

“No problem,” Shane says, because there isn’t one. Either Koch gets it together or he doesn’t.

“Okay,” Theriault says, dryly. Shane’s mouth twists before he can stop it. Theriault’s going to bring Pike up again if Koch fucks up their next game. Sometimes Shane wonders why Theriault doesn’t just ask Pike directly about Koch, or better yet call meetings with the three of them, but he’s the captain. It’s his responsibility.

Rozanov never seems to have problems as captain. Rozanov fist bumps his teammates and says I love you to them, which Shane could never ever in his life get away with. Rozanov once told Shane that he made the guys clean all the gym equipment and mop the mats as a team bonding exercise, and the guys had thanked him for it afterward, which was so unbelievable that Shane had just stared at him in shock. Rozanov’s guys love him, and he loves them, and it’s as simple and easy as that.

The meeting ends, finally. Boiziau is waiting for him in the locker room and walks Shane to his car even though Shane told him not to wait. “Good meeting, capitaine?”

Shane shrugs. “Yeah, it was all right. Just gotta get on Renaud.”

“I think tout le monde knows we have to get on Renaud,” Boiziau says, which makes Shane snort. “But Theriault respects you as captain?”

It’s such an unexpected question that it draws Shane up short. His third year as captain, fourth year in the league, and here JJ is, talking about respect. “What the fuck?” he asks, and then he turns to look at Boiziau, who looks back at him seriously. “Do you think he doesn’t respect me?”

Boiziau shrugs. “Un peu bizarre, meeting right after every game. It cannot wait until tomorrow?”

“You think he thinks I can’t handle it,” Shane says, turning it over. It’s plausible. It just seems crazy. Why do that—why make Shane captain in his second MLH season, nineteen years old, when the vets were pissed as all hell about it—if you didn’t think the kid could deliver? 

And anyway, Shane can deliver.

“He never asks Pike for extra meetings,” Boiziau says. And then, casually, he says, “And Pike is white.”

They’re in the garage. Shane keeps walking to his car, and Boiziau follows. “I don’t think about that stuff,” he says weakly, but he knows what Boiziau is getting at. Theriault thinks he’s too fucking soft for the game. Theriault thinks he needs a firm hand. Theriault thinks Hollander can’t keep the room.

“I know how he talks about me,” Boiziau says, and Shane stops in front of his car, keys in hand. He owes it to Boiziau to listen, at least. “You know too, right? Says I am too stupid to be AC, good for only defense. Don’t know anything about hockey except for how to skate. Makes fun of my English even though his last name is fucking Theriault. Am I crazy?”

“No,” Shane says, because he’s heard worse behind closed doors. “No, you’re not crazy.”

He should apologize. He absolutely owes it to JJ Boiziau to apologize. He never said a word when Theriault called Boiziau a dumbass, called him stupid. He swallows.

Before he can say it, Boiziau says, gently, “It’s just us, capitaine.”

Jesus Christ. Shane turns around and does his best to look him in the eyes, but his gaze slides down to his cheeks because he just can’t do it. “I owe you an apology, JJ,” Shane says quietly. “I never spoke up. Theriault said all that bullshit, and I never said anything. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Boiziau looks at him. Shane’s gaze slips, away from his face, down to his shoulders, and then to the car behind him. In full French, JJ says, “There was an interview in your first season. I watched it because it was in French. They asked you if you faced some of the same challenges as Serena Williams and Tiger Woods. You remember?”

“Yeah,” Shane croaks out, full of shame. What a thing. He hadn’t asked for it, hadn’t wanted it, but what a thing, that they’d asked that question to him and not Boiziau. “I remember.”

“No one asked me that,” Boiziau says, still French, “because it was too obvious, and I was not famous like you.”

Shane nods. He’s not sure what Boiziau is getting at, but he can listen, at least.

Boiziau continues, “Theriault couldn’t ignore you. He couldn’t make anyone else captain because you are the best fucking hockey player Montreal has ever seen. He can put you down and make you doubt yourself. But you’re the fucking captain.”

“Fuck,” Shane says, “thanks, JJ.”

In English, Boiziau says, “Next time he tells you I am too stupid for hockey, remind him of the North Carolina shutout.” 

That had been a work of art. It wasn’t even Renaud or Drapeau, who played his first game with Mitty out on IR like it was his only chance to prove himself, although they’d played good periods too. It was all Boiziau, running a defensive line so solid Raleigh’s team could barely see the net. They’d won, so there was no meeting with Theriault, and Shane had forgotten about it by the next time Theriault called him into his office.

“Fuck yes,” Shane says, like an oath. He gathers his courage and says, “Look, JJ. That Carolina game was something else. You’re a phenomenal player. Theriault can’t see it ‘cause he’s a fucking moron, but I know it. I’m gonna do more. I swear to you I’m gonna do more.”

“We’re on the same side, capitaine,” Boiziau says, and Shane understands that, because hockey is all about allegiance. “Send Pike for the meetings sometimes. He is alternate for a reason, non? Tell Theriault it’s for his development.”

Shane hadn’t even considered that. He delegates to Pike based on their strengths. Shane takes the technical stuff, Pike takes the personal stuff that becomes technical when guys can’t leave it off the ice. Sending Hayden into a Theriault meeting—it feels wrong, somehow, as if he isn’t ready, which is objectively nuts.

“Good idea,” Shane hears himself saying, and Boiziau pats him on the shoulder. And then, sincerely, he says, “Thank you, JJ. I really fucking mean it.”

“De rien, capitaine,” JJ says, easy again. Like nothing in the world bothers him, which Shane knows now isn’t true at all. And then he says, “Drive me to my car, this parking lot is way too big,” so Shane does.

The second Cup win is surreal. The first one was indescribable, but the second— back to back, two seasons, two years of pushing, of giving everything. He doesn’t feel hot or cold on the ice, sweat means nothing to him, his body is pure light, he’s air, he’s everything. Pike gets the Cup next, and then it goes to Boiziau because the three of them had a conversation about it two weeks ago after Pike chewed Theriault out for his bullshit and got the rest of the guys to all say something nice to Boiziau to make up for it.

Shane can see it in Boiziau’s face. None of it matters today. Today they won the Cup. Hayden kisses Jackie on the ice and buries his nose in the little twins’ faces, JJ kisses anyone he can get a hold of, and Shane watches it all, beaming, crying, outside of his body. He hugs his parents, feeling like a bright fucking comet in the night sky.

In the locker room Shane texts Rozanov, but the champagne and the execs are too close and he slips his phone away as the guys all take turns kissing him on the cheeks. Anything goes when you win two Cups. All he feels is a wash of joy through him like a waterfall. Probably it was like this for Rozanov when the Raiders won their Cup. Shane wouldn’t know. He wasn’t there.

In all the golden light of victory there’s one pinprick of loneliness, sharp and fast, gone the second it arrived, but undeniable. The truth is, he wishes Ilya was here.

Five days before the 2017 All-Star Games, JJ and Hayden take Shane out for drinks. It’s a lowkey place, more of a restaurant than a bar, and nobody says jack shit when he orders a ginger ale.

“So, bud,” Hayden says, halfway through his beer. “You doin’ all right?”

And JJ says, “We’re here for you, capitaine. Break ups are hard, non?”

Shane looks between them. Oh, fuck. This is an intervention.

“Shit, guys,” Shane says, laughing a little. “It’s fine. We just… weren’t compatible. We’re still friends, though. Rose is great.”

“Mais c’était Rose Landry,” JJ says, with the same longing in his voice that every man Shane has met has said her name with. Yeah, she’s famous, but this is— well. Probably this is more evidence that Shane really is gay. “What happened?”

Shane thinks about telling them the truth. Well, guys, it’s because I’m fucking gay. It’s because I need dick so bad I couldn’t get it up for Rose fucking Landry, when every guy on our team was drooling over her. Wasn’t it obvious? Couldn’t you tell I was just different, more different than you thought? Didn’t you notice?

He can’t tell them this truth. But, fuck, he owes them something. After almost ten years they’re his guys. He can admit that much. They’re his. And now that he knows himself, he thinks maybe one day Hayden and JJ could exist in the same world as Ilya Rozanov. Not now, not soon, but one day, maybe. If Shane’s lucky.

“Don’t tell me shit got serious with Boston Lily,” Hayden says, and JJ whips his head at Hayden, bug-eyed.

“Jesus, no,” Shane says, which isn’t even a lie. He hasn’t spoken to Rozanov since he left him. Fuck, he was such an asshole to him. “It’s not like that. Me and Rose just… didn’t work out.”

“Fuckin’ crazy,” JJ mutters, which is fair enough. It is fucking crazy. The whole thing, the fact that Shane is what he is, the fact that he’s what he is with Ilya fucking Rozanov, the fact that he got Hollywood superstar Rose Landry to take a second look at him and even that wasn’t enough to fix him. Because, like Rose said, it wasn’t fixable.

Well, she said there was nothing to fix, but that means the same thing. It can’t be changed because there’s nothing to change—there’s only what is. And it’s all the same thing, all the way down, down to the very heart of Shane’s career as a multimillionaire professional athlete: he’s in over his head. Shit got real with Rozanov without Shane noticing, exactly the same way shit got real with triple A’s and OHL and the MLH and becoming captain of the Montreal Metros.

“Well, we’re here for you, bud,” Hayden says. “If you’re looking, Jackie has a bunch of hot friends looking for a cute guy like you to settle down with.”

“No wonder everyone thinks you’re a little gay,” JJ laughs, “our capitaine isn’t cute, ‘e’s a fucking machine—”

“I’m just saying what women are telling me, you fucking asshole, how am I fucking gay if I have a wife and three fucking kids? You’re such a dumbass—”

“Jesus, boys, no need to fight, I’ve got enough time for both of you,” Shane laughs, feeling insane. Because it’s not a joke for Shane. One day he might really have two guys fighting for his attention. Because he’s gay. Jesus Christ, he’s fucking gay.

JJ tries, “Well, if you don’t want to meet white yoga moms, my friend knows this sexy hairdresser, kind of… alternative, eh? Maybe good for you, something different?”

“I’m just not ready yet,” Shane says, “but thanks, guys.”

So then JJ starts talking about his sister’s wedding, the way his whole family pretends they’re getting nosebleeds when he answers their phone calls in English, and Hayden jumps in with stories about his in-laws, and Shane thinks, one day. One day he’ll be able to tell them something true.

Chapter Text

Shane’s life as he knows it ends when the video comes out.

Hayden apologizes—can’t stop apologizing, actually, just radiates waves of shame and regret—but Shane can barely process it. Their first game day after Shane and Ilya are outed, Shane’s back is straight and his jaw is set, which is about all he’s conscious of as he walks into the locker room.

“Bending over for any other captains, or just Rozanov?” Drapeau mutters, but Shane doesn’t bother to reply. So their goalie has opinions about Shane and Ilya. So what. Shane is in love. His hands shake as he unzips his duffle bag. So fucking what.

“Show some fucking respect,” Hayden says, which is about the worst fucking thing anyone could say, because then everybody piles on Hayd. Someone asks if Jackie knows Hayden likes sucking cock or if that’s a secret between him, Hollzy, and Rozanov, and Hayden goes red. Someone else asks how long he’s been helping Shane cover up his affair with Rozanov—that’s the word Gagnon uses, affair, like Shane and Ilya fucked around in an office for a few weeks instead of falling in love for longer than Gagnon’s MLH career, fuck you Gagnon—and Hayden goes white with horror. Because, oh yeah, he didn’t cover it up.

It’s not his fault. Shane knows that. It’s not anybody’s fault except for Shane and Ilya for making out in Hayden’s ugly house, and whoever decided that hockey should be the last professional sport in world history to let gay men in. Shane is already wearing his Underarmor, because the thought of stripping down to bare skin on today of all days felt like testing fate. He can hold his own against one guy, probably even two, but a whole locker room isn’t anything he wants to take on.

Even if it’s his own locker room. Jesus, this is his fucking room.

Theriault walks in. The guys look up, at attention, Shane too. “We’ve all seen the video,” Theriault says evenly. He’s fucking furious. “This is still your game. Play to fucking win.”

“Yes, Coach,” some of the guys reply quietly, Shane included.

And Theriault looks at him, eyebrows raised. Fuck. Shane stands up. In front of twenty-one half-naked men he stands, and stares at the wall just past Comeau’s smirking face. JJ nudges him, and Shane exhales. “Coach is right,” he says, just as careful and in-line as Theriault. “We know what we’re doing. We’ve won three fucking Cups. The Metros are a goddamn dynasty. Don’t let any bullshit distract you from that. We’re playing to fucking win tonight.”

The rookies say fuck yeah and hell yes, Cap, loud enough that nobody really notices the vets staying quiet. Drapeau mutters, “Hard to do when the captain is the distraction,” but Shane pretends not to hear it, and Drapeau doesn’t push it.

He catches Comeau’s gaze accidentally. Comeau looks him up and down, one lightning flash of recognition, of diagnosis, that strikes Shane right to the fucking ground, and then turns his back on him. Just like that.

The humiliation burns behind his eyes. When he turns back to his bag, he catches sight of Theriault in the doorway and realizes he never left. Coach watched it, all of it. Watched Shane lose the room he worked ten fucking years to earn.

Theriault looks at Shane. And then, just like Comeau, he turns his back, and walks away.

Game 7—away, in Ottawa—is lethal. It almost kills Shane, it really fucking does.

The guys are mad. Boiling, actually, like a steam engine ready to go. Shane’s never seen them this bad. They’ve lost playoffs before, come this close, even, but this one is different. Of course it’s fucking different. They just lost to the goddamn Ottawa Centaurs, captained by Ilya Rozanov, the guy who’s been fucking Shane Hollander behind everyone’s back.

He knows what the headlines are going to say. ROZANOV PUTS HOLLANDER ON HIS BACK. HOLLANDER LETS ROZANOV GET LUCKY. HOLLANDER OPENS UP FOR ROZANOV. The closer they can get to outright sex terminology the better. There’s going to be some sports journalism Instagram post saying Shane Hollander bent over for Ilya Rozanov that’ll stay up for about ten minutes before some gay-aware PR person takes it down. Or maybe not. Not like the league is worried about getting accused of homophobia.

“We lost,” Shane says, firmly. “I get that. It fucking sucks. But we put up a good fucking fight, and we didn’t make it easy for them. I know we’re coming back stronger next year, because we’ve done it every fucking year. Let’s fucking go, boys.”

It’s probably his shittiest post-loss speech ever. Shane just wants to go home. He wants it to be over.

And then Comeau asks if he tripped on purpose.

Shane blinks at him. It’s almost unbelievable. To think that Shane—during game fucking seven of a playoff final, their fucking captain—would throw a game like that. He can’t even speak.

Hayden jumps in, and the fury washes over Shane like a bucket of ice water. Shane just watches it happen, stunned. He’s furious at Comeau for questioning his loyalty. At JJ too, a little, for letting that kind of comment slide without defending him, which is his whole fucking job as defense. But mostly he’s furious at himself for not expecting it. At the end of the day, Comeau is right. Hockey is a game of honour and loyalty. Hockey is about fighting for something bigger than yourself—fighting hard, to the teeth, to the bone, for your boys.

Shane doesn’t know when Ilya escaped out of that but he did. Like a tiger pacing around in a cage, Ilya pushed and prodded until the cage opened up like the opening roar of an arena at the start of a final game and suddenly he wasn’t the enemy and it wasn’t a betrayal because Ilya was something more than the Metros. Like knights from different kingdoms who found God together or something. Fuck, how could Comeau get it? Comeau goes through wives like skate laces. He wouldn’t get it. He couldn’t get it. Underneath all the fury and humiliation, Shane pities him. He really fucking does.

Comeau is saying, “What, are we not supposed to call a fag a fag anymore? What is he then, a housewife?” and Drapeau snorts, and Shane snaps.

“This is my fucking team,” he snarls, teeth grinding. Everybody shuts up, but nobody will look at him. “I built this team from jack shit. You assholes were jack fucking shit. Twenty years without a playoff win, and I brought home three fucking Cups. Three Cups for Montreal. You wanna piss it away because you’re a sore fucking loser? Fine. Be my fucking guest, asshole. I’m fucking done.”

Shane knows his eyes are watering, knows he’s gonna start crying any fucking second, and he has to leave before that happens. He throws shit in his bag and walks out. Pike can get his tape for him later. He’s fucking done.

When Shane makes it to his car, he presses his forehead to the steering wheel and breathes. Then he roars, five seconds of pure sound until he remembers he’s in a public garage. Jesus if a fan got a picture of him screaming in his car— but Shane looks around and he doesn’t see anyone. “Fuck,” he mutters, feeling like an idiot. He inhales, one deep breath, and exhales. Two more times. And then, finally, he says into the close and quiet air, “It’s fucking over,” turns the key, and drives home.

In Ilya’s house—their house now, probably—Shane goes through his normal post-game routine. He drinks a protein shake just to get some calories in him. He waits for that to settle and then pushes through a fifteen-minute yoga routine to get his breathing back in order. He sits on the couch and turns on ESPN, and watches the live footage of the Ottawa Centaurs’ Cup celebration.

He could go there. If he showed up there he’d be welcome, he thinks. Ilya’s said it often enough. But today, especially today, he’s still the Metros captain. So he just watches.

Around eleven he turns off the TV and replies to his parents’ text messages. Yes he’s fine. No he didn’t injure himself. Yes it was a good game. His mom asks how the guys are handling the loss and Shane just doesn’t reply to that. He walked out on them. Captain’s supposed to be the first one in and the last one out, but he walked out of that room before anybody else had a chance. He left them alone to pick up the pieces of their last playoff game, fucked all to hell.

Boiziau texts him t’es good capitaine? i know u did not trip, désolé i said nothing until after u left. good that half the team is still on ur side but don’t think about it until tomorrow. enjoy time w rozanov

He looks at it. It’s a kind message. And an apology. Boiziau is probably the only guy on the team he’s ever said sorry to or gotten a sorry from, even if Hayden’s the touchy-feely one. He doesn’t know what to make of that. He doesn’t know what to make of any of it.

Hayden texts, Rest up. You played a good game today cap. I’m coming over tomorrow for dinner.

Shane turns his phone off and exhales. So that’s it. That was his last game as a Montreal Metro. Maybe his last game as a captain, ever, because he knows if Ottawa takes him, Ilya is keeping that C. And with the joy in his face on the TV, the redemption and the vindication of it after all the grief and loneliness and all the articles about Ottawa wasting their cap space on a guy who wasn’t getting results, the grin creasing those beautiful cheeks and making those beautiful eyes into little suns, the way his arms crowd over Haas and Lapointe easy as anything, giving and grateful at the same time—Shane’s not sure he wants to take it from him.

If Ottawa takes him he’ll be a league-wide joke. They won’t retire his number in the rafters of the Bell Centre. They won’t make documentaries in ten years about his history-making career with the Metros, ascent after ascent from day one. They won’t flood the stands with his jersey during his last game, won’t thank him for his leadership. He played his last game as a Metro and nobody said shit to him. Theriault will never shake his hand and commend him for his contributions to the team. He’ll never be the guy everybody else can rely on, the guy who makes plays and implements them and pushes his men, his team, to be the best.

But he’ll play hockey. If Ottawa takes him, he can play hockey and come home to Ilya. It almost doesn’t feel real. Everything, the weight of it, the secret curdling in his stomach and the spotlight on his skating, his diet, his routine, his plays, his leadership— he doesn’t have to carry it. He just doesn’t have to carry it anymore. His new life stretches in front of him, suddenly seeming easier than anything he’s ever had before.

At midnight, Ilya stumbles into the house, drunk, but not even close to as fucked up as Shane was expecting. “Lyubimyy,” he says from the front door, delighted, and Shane smiles back. “I won the Cup.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, and he doesn’t even feel mad about it. He wishes it was him, but it’s impossible to argue with the sheer joy on Ilya’s face. “Fuck yeah, you did.”

“Come here.” So Shane does, leaps over the back of the couch while Ilya strides towards him and they meet in the middle, drunk and giddy, kissing like all the air in the world is inside each other. Shane pulls back and looks at him and then he’s on the fucking ground, kneeling, can’t help himself when he sees the way Ilya stands proud, crowned in glory. Oh fuck. 

“Baby,” Ilya murmurs, and Shane noses at his crotch, breathes in as Ilya’s dick twitches, once, twice, hardens against Shane’s cheek. God he needs to feel him inside right now. “Fuck— just— move, the yoga mat, get on the mat, your knees—” and Shane lets Ilya lead him with a hand on the back of his neck, crawls around the couch to the yoga mat he left out in front of the TV.

Ilya towers over him, breathing heavy, still sweating. He pushes his pants down with his underwear, steps out of them, and Shane takes his half-hard cock in his mouth. “Fuck, Shane,” Ilya exhales, sinking into it, and Shane moans, dizzy with it. He’s so fucking grateful he gets to do this. Is that a sick thing to think? “Fuck, your mouth— so fucking good, fuck, feels too good— fuck—”

Shane tries to agree but he can’t with the cock in his mouth, moans and struggles around the size of it, lets Ilya thrust into him as he gets harder, bigger, fucking Christ. Shane drools, tears leaking out of his eyes, and Ilya thumbs them away as gentle as anything, the softest and kindest thing Shane’s ever had in his life.

“Get on the couch,” Ilya commands, and Shane scrambles to obey, sits with his legs spread and watches as Ilya pulls his shirt over his head. Fully naked, and still in control. “Take your clothes off.”

So Shane stands up and takes his shirt off, his sweatpants, his briefs. Folds them all carefully, and sets them at the foot of the yoga mat. 

“Sit on the couch.”

Shane sits. Ilya kneels, pushes Shane’s thighs apart, and presses his tongue, his mouth up against his dick while Shane squirms.

“Tell me,” Ilya says.

“Huh?”

“Tell me what happened today,” Ilya says, fondling Shane’s cock, kissing the inside of his thighs. Shane is trembling, shaking just a little, already close. “Tell me what I won today.”

“Oh, fuck,” Shane breathes, looking down in wonder as Ilya swallows him down, his whole cock, feels the back of Ilya’s throat, oh Jesus Christ—  “The Cup,” Shane rasps, and Ilya moans encouragingly, sending shivers zinging through his skin. Fucking fuck. “You won the Cup today. Fuck you played so good, that last breakaway— oh, fuck, fuck, Ilya it’s too much it’s too—”

Ilya pulls back, says hungrily, “You can do it, keep going, puck bunny—”

“Jesus Christ,” Shane moans, helpless, as Ilya sucks him again, his tongue pressed against his skin, the tight wet heat of him, “fuck, oh God, I’m gonna—” Ilya slaps his thigh hard and then digs his nails into it and a sound comes out of Shane’s throat like a sob, something caught and strangled, and Shane tries, “The pass to Bood, you skated so— f—fuck— so fast, and that goal in the second period— oh fuck Ilya I can’t do this I can’t—” but Ilya looks up at him, meets his eyes, challenges him.

Shane swallows and says through the heat of it, the game flashing through his mind, the scrape of ice against his stick, “Your backhand in that second period goal, fucking disgusting, Rozanov, you were— nn— so fucking good, oh Jesus that feels so good— you skated like a fucking machine, you were a god, you’re a fucking god on the ice, you’re a god—I’m gonna—you’re God, fuck, Ilya, oh fuck I’m gonna come, please, I’m gonna—”

Shane comes into Ilya’s mouth, down his throat, so loud they can probably hear him in Montreal. Jesus. Ilya sucks him through the aftershocks and Shane shakes, moans, can’t help the whines that come out of his throat every two seconds, still feeling it.

Ilya leans back to wipe his mouth and Shane looks at him. The most beautiful man in the world, and all his. “You won the Cup,” he says when he gets enough air back in him, because he can’t think of anything else to say at all.

“Nothing is like it,” Ilya says, eyes hot on him, still hard. “There is nothing like winning the Cup.”

“No,” Shane says, because it’s true. “There’s nothing.”

Ilya looks at him, gaze heavy like a chain between them. Shane can’t look away. “But I had you both times, sweetheart,” Ilya murmurs, standing up in one motion, all ease like he hadn’t just played a playoff final game six hours ago. Shane’s breath, still stuttering in him, catches. Ilya is all power like this. He reaches for Shane’s cheek, cups his face, lets Shane lean into it. Bending down, Ilya says into Shane’s mouth, “I will never know a Cup without you.”

“Fuck,” Shane says, and he kisses him, tastes himself in Ilya’s mouth, sucks on his tongue and lets Ilya press him back into the couch, settle into his lap. “Fuck, I love you.”

“I love you too,” Ilya groans, biting at Shane’s throat while Shane looks at nothing, just feels it. Just feels him. “I need to fuck you, please, my prize, my Cup—”

“Yeah,” Shane says, all the truth splayed out of him, all the need, everything out in the open and unspooled, unmade. That’s what he is. Better than a captain, better than a player, better than a champion. He’s the prize. Ilya bites his chest, sucks so hard Shane knows the mark will be the size of his face, and Shane lets him, wants it, lets Ilya clutch him in the same fierce, defiant way Ilya raised the Cup on the ice before passing it to Bood. “Fuck, give me a mark— it’s yours, I’m yours, it’s all fucking yours—”

“Mine, my trophy,” Ilya snarls, and Shane lets him press him face down into the couch cushions, floats into it. “I love you,” Ilya murmurs, kisses his shoulders, “I love you, I love you, I love you—”

“Yeah,” Shane replies, “fuck, I love you too.” He’s so fucking happy he’s weightless, and he knows, he knows, this is exactly where he was born to be.