Archive of Our Own

"Ilya! Ilya, over here!"

A series of flashes light up the side of Ilya's face, ducked down with one arm stretched behind him, guiding his date of the night through the bulky and crowding cameras and bodies starting to close in. By some miracle, he doesn't lose his temper and manages to make it inside with only one annoyed glance at one of the cameras. It'll probably be posted on some media outlet in the next few hours with a headline about his distaste for anything that isn't vodka, sex, or a stupidly expensive sports car. Which—well, it's true to an extent, but he's more than just some partial true facts.

No one here knows he likes to dog-ear the pages of a paperback instead of using a bookmark because the name is funny. Dog-eared.

But of course that's not interesting to anyone, not as interesting as who he's sleeping with or what movie he's landed in his short but quickly skyrocketing acting career. (He heard somewhere that Christopher Nolan wants him for a project, and wouldn't that just be something? He's got to start asking them where they've heard this things, because he wants some false hope too.)

"Wow," his date—Thalia, he made sure to remember—says once the chaos has settled. She lets out a laugh that he mimics, knowing that yes, it's really a bit absurd when you're thrown into it all. "Is it always that hectic?"

Ilya shrugs, the corners of his mouth pulled down in thought before he shakes his head. "Is not so bad. You start to get used to it after a few times, so. Not terrible."

Thalia smiles slowly, sultry. Her lips are painted in a reddish plum lipstick that he watched her apply in the car. She tilts her head to the side, her black curls moving over her shoulder as she does so, looking at him with an expression he can read too well. She smooths her hands over the smooth material of his shirt tucked into fitted trousers—simple but expensive, the best type of wardrobe for after parties—and clutches at the fabric, pulling their bodies flush together when a mid August breeze rustles around them.

"So you're saying," she starts, her voice low and sweet, "that I'll get used to it, hm?"

"Maybe," Ilya answers, the empty promise hollow to her eager ears. "We will see."

She has to know that he rarely brings the same date twice. Typically, it's a business transaction. A model, influencer, lesser known singer or actor will get to be his arm candy for the night. If the vibes are right, they'll fuck anywhere except for Ilya's apartment, and maybe in the future their paths will cross for a fleeting moment before he's whisked away by the motions of the never ending light of stardom. He prefers it this way, it's easier, more convenient.

But she seems hopeful for something more, so he catches her mouth in a quick and wet kiss, ignoring the flash of cameras bleeding through the windows from outside, before draping his arm over her shoulder and guiding her toward the swelling music.

It's as interesting as an after party can get. Admittedly, Ilya had seen crazier parties thrown during his teen years in Moscow. Though, seeing people so openly snorting cocaine from bar-tops and being offered so openly to do the same (and accepting before deciding that no this wasn't fun) took a bit of getting used to.

The music is just loud enough to make out and drown out the many conversations being had all at once. There's so many small groups of people scattered around everywhere, engaged in boring discussions they've surely had a million times before with a drink in one hand and an uneaten snack in the other.

Ilya cranes his neck, searching for the open bar and maybe one of the waiters walking around with a tray. He spots the bar easily, already crowded with the most antisocial of the bunch, but is unable to find any of the snacks. He tries not to be disappointed but the pinching in his stomach is starting to get worse by the second and he knows it's only a matter of time before he comes not-fun.

Of course, it's then that a hand is perched on his neck and he's met with the familiar face of one of his costars from a short-film wrapped up about a year ago.

It takes him a moment to remember his name, but eventually he finds it, letting a beaming smile plaster onto his face. "Jack! Yes, wow, it is good to see you!" He introduces Thalia after some painful small talk about, quite literally, nothing.

"Oh shit," Jack says in realization, snapping his fingers. "I think we met last week—Yvonne's birthday party."

"Right! Yeah, I totally remember," Thalia laughs, taking over for long enough to let Ilya realize that his phone is vibrating in his pocket.

The caller ID makes him exhale in relief. "Sveta!" he answers gratefully, letting Russian slide onto his tongue naturally. "Are you here? I didn't see you—”

"Da," Svetlana clips from the other line. "I am currently staring at you being ignored by a beautiful girl. It's quite funny."

Ilya snaps his head around every which way in search for his dear and close friend that will surely get him a snack. "Where are you? I'll meet you there—”

"No need," Svetlana says simply. "I'll make my way to you. Sit tight and play nice."

"I always play nice," Ilya tries only to be cut off by the line disconnecting.

He's startled by a hand on his shoulder again, and he whips around to find Thalia smiling at him. "The Russian's really sexy. Are you from there or something?"

Ilya blinks at her. He's pretty sure they had this exact conversation in the car. "Only sometimes," he says instead of saying no fucking shit. It charms her enough to get a laugh, which he pats himself on the back for. "My friend is coming to find us," he tells her to keep her in the loop. "She is very nice, you will like her. Her name is—”

Thalia's gaze is lost over his shoulder, nodding at someone in the distance who is not him. "Yeah, sure. Hey, listen Jack wanted to introduce me to one of his friends," she says over him. "Come find me after you catch up with your friend, yeah? I want to hear more of your Russian."

Before he can reply she's kissing him on the mouth and winking before disappearing.

He can barely process what happened when Svetlana is suddenly standing in front of him, the corner of her mouth tilted up and an amused glinting her eyes.

"I see you have Thalia de Santiago for tonight," she says, handing him a glass of what could only be vodka. He accepts it gratefully, searching her hands for a snack and frowning when he finds nothing.

Ilya swallows down the shitty vodka to at least fill his stomach with something, grimacing as it slides down his throat. It's not even cold. "She is important?"

Svetlana stares at him blankly. "Her father owns that tequila brand—Suelto, I think it's called." When Ilya blinks back at her, she groans, head tilting back in annoyance. "Really, Ilya? You bring these people to these events and you know nothing about them!"

"It's called networking, Sveta," he tells her. He gestures toward the general direction Thalia walked in. "Look, she is doing it right now. Connections or whatever—it's important."

"Is that what sleeping around is called?" Svetlana mumbles against the rim of her glass, just loud enough for Ilya to hear the judgment in her tone. "Networking?"

Ilya can't help but laugh. "Really? That is where you are going with this?"

"So you're telling me you have no plans on seducing Thalia tonight?" Svetlana asks even though she seemingly already thinks (knows) she's right.

"No, no," Ilya says easily, shaking his head and looking at the bottom of the glass. "There is no 'seducing'. Not when she already wants me—”

"You're a fucking pig," Svetlana scolds, using the side of her fist to punch the center of his sternum, effectively knocking the wind out of him. "I cannot believe these girls want to sleep with you when you're like this."

"The boys too," Ilya winks, earning a loud gag from Svetlana that he ignores in favor of looking around for the bathroom and finding it easily. "I need to pee, hold my drink—”

"No, you deal with that yourself," Svetlana says.

Ilya knows better than to try and push it, so he walks to the bathroom, through the scattered groups of conversation with his drink in his hand, not finding it in himself to be embarrassed. He's seen people bring weirder things to the bathroom.

Only partially paying attention to his surrounds, Ilya shoulders into the swinging bathroom door with too much confidence. He isn't expecting someone else to be on the other end, and what results is the heavy crashing of two bodies and Ilya's drink spilling onto the poor, unlucky motherfucker.

"Ah, shit!" Ilya says at the same time the person says, "Oh, whoops."

"Jesus Christ," Ilya hisses, switching the empty glass to his dry hand to shake off the vodka dripping from the tips of his fingers. "What the fuck—"

The words die on his tongue just as quickly as they had been eager to leave.

Brown eyes stare back at him, holding a sickening amount of absolute remorse that cuts through Ilya's chest because, well. Those brown eyes belong to possibly the prettiest boy Ilya has ever seen in his life. Dark hair, freckles dusting the blushing skin beneath his eyes. A straight nose, full and rosy lips.

Ilya is close to bewitched, barely catching the words spoken from that pretty, pretty mouth: "I'm sorry, I didn't realize someone was coming in."

Ilya is shaking his head before he can even form words. "No—no. Is okay, I was in too much of a hurry." He pauses, looking down at the soaked patch in front of the guy's white dress-shirt tucked into black trousers. He almost smiles at the fact that it seems like he's trying hard to look like he belongs, but the humor is lost when he remembers there isn't anything to laugh about when he's already made a terrible impression. "Ah, fuck. You are all—ah. Here, let me…" He trails off, fully walking into the bathroom and setting the empty glass on the counter before yanking out several paper towels, handing them over, partially surprised the guy is still here.

"Thanks," the guy says, patting himself dry the best he can. Ilya watches him, leaning back against the sinks and crossing his arms in a way he knows makes his arms look nice. He's given the reaction he's looking for when the guy glances up, doing a double take before pressing his lips together and averting his gaze back down to his soiled shirt. "Um. Are… are you okay?"

"Me?" Ilya repeats, pointing at himself with his eyebrows shot up. The guy nods like he's the one that should be checking up on Ilya even though it really isn't his fault. "Yes, I am okay. There is no vodka on my nice shirt, so. I am doing better than you, definitely."

The guy laughs to himself, chin nearly tucked against his chest as he keeps carefully dabbing his shirt. "Yeah, for sure."

"So," Ilya starts. "I should probably get your name. So I can say I am sorry, yes?"

The guy smiles for a moment before taming it with his lips pressing together. "Yeah, um. I'm Shane. Shane Hollander."

"Shane Hollander," Ilya repeats, leaning forward slightly and lowering his voice, waiting until Shane looks at him again before speaking. "I am sorry for spilling shitty vodka on your nice shirt, Shane. Please forgive me."

"You're okay," Shane says, not meeting Ilya's eyes for several seconds. Finally, he glances up at Ilya again, his eyes moving quick from his face to his body. Ilya waits, knowing the recognition will come eventually.

Hey, aren't you that guy from that one movie? Yes, yes, Ilya would answer. It was my first big role.

I think I recognize you from somewhere… that gay TV show? Ah, yes. So much fun to film. Did you like it?

What he gets instead is a question he hasn't heard in a long time: "What's your name?"

Ilya nearly gapes. "You… you do not know my name?"

"You don't know mine?" Shane quips back easily, tossing the paper towels in the trash can. "It's almost like we're strangers."

"Wow, a smart ass," Ilya says, earning a laugh that he slots in his pocket, shoulders straightening in confidence. "Ilya Rozanov. That is my name."

"Ilya," Shane tries, the name doing its best to melt onto his tongue. He adds an extra syllable, but Ilya doesn't mind, not when he can lick it out of his mouth later. Catching Ilya completely off guard, Shane extends a hand out toward him. "Nice to meet you, Ilya."

Ilya can't help but smile, glancing down at the invitation and reaching out to shake Shane Hollander's hand. "Nice to meet you, Shane. Maybe you can come with me to the bar so I can get another drink and buy one for you too."

"Oh, um," Shane starts, scratching the back of his neck. "That's really nice, but I don't really drink. Sorry."

"Ah," Ilya nods. Usually not how these conversations tend to go, but that's alright. He knows how to maneuver his way around curve balls. "I still would not mind the company of a pretty boy."

Shane's eyes widen slightly, a faint blush starting to crawl from his cheeks to his ears. Ilya is half tempted to point it out. "I, um. I appreciate the invitation, but I'm here with my friend Rose and I really should get back to her before she thinks I got lost." He pauses, hesitating before giving Ilya a tight smile and stiff nod. "It was nice meeting you."

He's pushing out of the door before Ilya can say anything or try again. Part of him is in disbelief, standing in the bathroom for too long until he's forced to come back to his surroundings when a rambunctious pair of men storm into the bathroom and offer him a bump that he declines with a laugh that rings hollow.

By the time he finds Svetlana tangled up in a conversation about the red light therapy or something, he's only halfway processed the fact that he might have just fumbled a good lay.

"What happened to you?" Svetlana asks once they've weaseled their way out of the conversation, standing aside and away from the surrounding groups.

"Went to the bathroom," Ilya explains, vaguely gesturing at nothing in particular. Maybe his few failures that led him to this moment. "Met a pretty boy and he did not want to grab a drink with me."

"Ah, someone with standards," Svetlana nods, not hiding her amusement in the slightest. When Ilya simply looks at her without reaction, her face drops. "What, you don't like jokes anymore? I thought you were taking that Thalia girl home tonight anyway, so. What does it matter?"

"Eh," Ilya says flippantly. "She is nice, but—fuck, Sveta. You should have seen him. Freckles, the prettiest mouth. Thighs, ass. So much ass—"

Svetlana holds her hand up to cut him off, the corners of her mouth turning down in disgust. "I don't need to know all of that."

"It's important," Ilya insists, close to a tantrum. "And he just said bye and left and I don't even know where to look for him. What the fuck?"

There's a pause before Svetlana starts to laugh, her head thrown back and then her body hunching over as she holds onto her stomach. Tears shine at the edges of her eyes and Ilya stares at her with a look that he wishes could kill. When she finally composes herself, she dabs at the corner of her eyes with her middle finger, still giggling through her words. "Oh my god, Ilya. Are you throwing a fit because—because you didn't get your way?"

"No!" Ilya is quick to defend, barely stopping himself from whining and adding fuel to the fire of lies and false accusations. "Fuck off—no, I am not throwing a fit. I'm just—it's called disappointment, okay? I am a little disappointed. I knew he would be good in bed, I could tell. It's a missed opportunity for the two of us, and I almost feel sorry for him because he could have ended the night with a good orgasm but now he will not. So sad. Tragic."

Svetlana rolls her eyes and then finally starts being a decent friend. "What's his name? Maybe we can ask around and see if he left."

Good thing Ilya knows his name, because this seems like a great plan. A step in the right direction. "Oh, yes. His name is Shane Hollander." Instead of coming up with phase two of the plan, Svetlana's mouth drops open as she stares at Ilya. Ilya pauses, looking over one shoulder and then the other, trying to find the source of her shock. When he finds nothing interesting he asks, "What? Why are you making that face?"

"Ilya," she says carefully, holding onto his shoulder and leaning closer. "You are sure his name was Shane Hollander?"

Ilya furrows his eyebrows, nodding slowly. "Yes, I remember it. Shane Hollander, great ass and thighs and beautiful freckles. Very hard to forget. Why, is he important?"

"Shane Hollander," Svetlana starts, "captain of the Montreal Voyageurs. They call him 'Hockey's Golden Boy'."

"Okay, so?" Ilya pushes, wondering what the big fucking deal is. If anything he feels less shitty about the situation now. "So, he is straight and I hit on a straight stupid Canadian hockey player. What does it matter?"

"Oh, no. No, he's gay," Svetlana says, a smile starting to spread on her face. "He came out last year, actually. It was a whole thing in the hockey community—a lot of people already looked up to him before and then for him to be the first hockey player to come out, wow. Historical, let me tell you. He started a charity for youths in the LGBT community, has donated money to a lot of queer organization and businesses. Led his team to another cup, making it their third time winning. And, to top it all off," she leans forward and whispers, "he's the best fucking player in the league."

Ilya swallows, back to feeling very, very shitty about the situation. "You are telling me I let the sexiest and best NHL player walk away from me?"

"He is not a thing, Ilya," Svetlana scolds. "He is a person and he can walk away from whoever he wants to, dickhead."

"Okay, so what?" Ilya starts, almost desperate. "He has a boyfriend or something?"

"Nope. No relationships. Well, he dated Rose Landry before he came out, but I heard they're good friends now."

"Ah," Ilya notes, "he said she was the reason he was here tonight."

"Makes sense," Svetlana nods. "They're close. But no boyfriend, though I've heard he has a lot of men waiting in line for him to pull his head out of hockey and give dating a chance. Should we add you to the queue?"

"He probably still sleeps with people," Ilya points out, starting to look around in hopes of spotting the familiar face. "I need to find him."

Svetlana rolls her eyes and sips at her drink. "You do not even know if you're his type, durak."

"I am everyone's type."

"He has better things to do than sleep around with Hollywood's boy-toy," Svetlana tells him before shoving her empty glass into his chest. "Now go get me another drink before I start being mean."

Knowing better than to argue that she's technically already being mean, Ilya takes the glass and makes his way toward the bar, barely avoiding conversations people try to rope him into. He makes it by the skin of his teeth, sliding the glass onto the bar top and pointing out a decent vodka brand that he knows Svetlana will like instead.

When he's staring blankly at a bottle tequila on the wall branded Suelto, a voice to his left sounds. "Are you following me or something?"

Ilya snaps his head to the source of the sound, nearly dropping to his knees at the sight. Shane smiles at him before looking down and at the beer between his clasped hands. It takes a moment for Ilya to remember how to fucking speak English, but he manages well. "Not unless you want me to."

Shane chuckles, shaking his head. "That would be concerning."

"So," Ilya starts, sliding into the seat beside Shane, their knees nearly touching as he gets settled. "You are big hockey player, yes?"

"Looks like you did your research," Shane says before nodding slightly. "But, uh, yeah. I play for the Voyageurs in Montreal."

"And you are all the way here in Los Angeles," Ilya points out. "Why is that?"

"I promised my friend Rose that I'd be her plus one a while ago and I had a few days free," Shane explains, rubbing the back of neck bashfully. "I'll be flying back out to Montreal tomorrow morning. This, um. This usually isn't my type of scene, so it's been a weird night, hence the beer I don't normally drink."

Ilya can't help but bump their knees together, testing out the waters, delighted when Shane presses back. "Weird how?"

Shane turns in the stool, looking toward the crowd of actors and celebrities. "Well, for one there's a shit-ton of people here. I'm pretty sure I saw my dad's favorite actor, so that was definitely an experience." He turns to look at Ilya this time, tilting his chin toward him. "And getting vodka spilled on me by everyone's current favorite actor was weird, for sure."

Everyone's favorite actor. "Ah, so you did your research too?"

"Honestly, I really had no clue who you were in the bathroom," Shane explains with a small laugh. "I don't watch a lot of movies or TV, so I'm sort of behind on all the latest trends and celebrities. And it was actually Rose that told me who you were. Said you were on the newer side, but talented. She was surprised that we even had a conversation, which was interesting."

"Is that all she told you?" Ilya pushes carefully. He knows what other people think about him, and although he couldn't care less, it would be a shame if Shane let an outside opinion of him deter him from the best night of his life.

"No," Shane says, shaking his head slightly before dragging his gaze to Ilya. "But I like to make my own judgments."

Ilya hums, eyes flickering from Shane's eyes to his mouth, gravity working on his side as they slightly sway into each other. "What is your judgment so far, then?"

The corner of Shane's mouth tilts up slightly as he shrugs. "Verdict's still out."

Something in Ilya's chest flutters at the confidence falling from Shane's mouth. He laughs, straightening up and grabbing the glass the bartender sets in front of him. "I will make sure to be on my best behavior, then."

Quickly, luck is not on Ilya's side. It abandons him without warning, and before he knows it he has a body draped over his right side, the smell of coconut and vanilla perfume filling his senses and forcing his attention elsewhere. "Ilyaaa," Thalia slurs, licking at his jaw boldly. "Let's gooo—you said you were gonna fuck me, remember? I want that now, let's gooo—" she pauses, seemingly realizing that they are not alone, and looks right at Shane. "Who are you?"

Shane's eyes narrow, his mouth tightening for a moment before he gets up. "No one," he says coldly, glancing at Ilya one more time before averting his gaze to the floor. "Enjoy your night."

"Shane—no, wait!" Ilya calls, removing Thalia off of him as gently as he can even though her limbs seem never ending. Shane is fast, already disappearing between groups of people, either ignoring Ilya or not hearing him call out. Ilya sags, plopping back down on the stool and giving up. "Fuck," he mutters, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. Svetlana is going to lose her fucking mind.

"Are you okay?" Thalia asks, roughly petting his hair in a way that is probably supposed to be comforting. "You don't wanna fuck me?"

Ilya sighs. Getting a fucking boner would be a miracle right now. Not only that, but he doesn't do drunk hook-ups. "You should go home," Ilya says as gently as he can, helping her stand upright, relief flooding him when she doesn't try arguing, too drunk to keep trying to fuck. "I will call you a cab, okay?"

"Okaaay," she sighs. "He was reaaally pretty."

"Yes," Ilya mumbles, doing his best not to sound as annoyed as he is. "He was."

✮

Three weeks pass and Ilya has read every article that so much as mentions Shane Hollander's name.

He finds that Svetlana was (as usual) right about everything she said. He also finds that there is a lot more to learn about Shane Hollander. Born in the same year as Ilya—1991. He is from Ottawa, Ontario but moved to Montreal after he was drafted by the Voyageurs at seventeen years old. He has a cottage built in Ottawa where he spends his summer doing terrible yoga and eating very boring meals. And, above all, he is a great fucking hockey player.

In the middle of watching a Top 20 Plays of Shane Hollander's Career video on YouTube, Ilya is interrupted by a phone call. As much as he wants to decline it and toss his phone back onto the sofa, he knows better than to ignore a call from his manager slash publicist who already deals with so much as it is, stretched thin between this and that and some of Ilya's other bullshit. So he groans into the empty air around him and then has a better attitude when he answers.

"Wyatt!"

"You sound happy to hear from me," Wyatt says skeptically. "Everything good, Rozy?"

"Yes, I am just in a good mood," Ilya says, waving his hand around at nothing. "The sun is out, the birds sing—whatever. Why are you calling?"

"There's that attitude that I love," Wyatt jokes. "Anyway, the filming for Moscow Mule got pushed back to May—"

"Second time they pushed it back," Ilya points out even though he's somewhat relieved. It gives him more time to sculpt his body, and he'll admit he hasn't spent as much time at the gym as he should be.

"Yeah, there's some creative differences with the director and producer or something," Wyatt explains before tacking on, "allegedly. Let's see, what else do we have here… Oh! Commercial shoot for Nike this weekend, don't forget that. Luckily, they'll be filming in New York instead of LA so they don't have to worry about flying you out. There was one more thing… ah, right. There's a journalist reaching out for a statement regarding your relationship with Thalia de Santiago, are we confirming, denying, or doing the usual—"

"Ignore it," Ilya tells him.

"So the usual," Wyatt mumbles. The distant sound of rapid typing fills the line for a few seconds before Wyatt lets out a sigh. "I'll take it that it wasn't all that serious?"

Ilya rolls his eyes, dropping his head back in annoyance. "We didn't even fuck."

"That's a first."

"She was drunk and I was not in the mood," Ilya explains even though he knows he doesn't have to. "And we both got some publicity out of it, no?"

"Yeah I saw the pictures of you two making out, don't worry," Wyatt informs him. "Gross, but good for you I guess. Even though you're prematurely turning my hair grey."

"Aw," Ilya coos annoyingly. "Do I stress you out, Hayes?"

"Not only you but the billion girls and guys you have on your roster that constantly reach out to me for some word on you," Wyatt sighs. "Can't you, like, close your legs for a month or two? Or at least stop doing it publicly."

"Ah, but where is the fun in that?" Ilya tries, his attention sliding back to the television where twenty year old Shane Hollander scores a goal right as the buzzer sounds.

He can practically hear Wyatt perk up on the other side of the phone. "Are you watching hockey, man? What the hell, I love hockey! I could've totally gone pro—"

"So you have told me," Ilya reminds him, muting the TV and then pausing. "What do you know about Shane Hollander?"

"Best thing since Crosby," Wyatt replies without missing a beat. "Or Gretzky, depending on who you ask. Why? What the hell do you know about Shane Hollander?"

"Nothing," Ilya says carefully. "Is just… I ran into him three weeks ago, at after party. He was very nice. Very pretty—"

"Stay away from him!" Wyatt all but yells, startling Ilya into nearly dropping the phone. Wyatt clears his throat. "Sorry, that was harsh. What I meant to say was: stay away from him, please."

Ilya blinks, eyebrows creasing as he tries to find words other than what the fuck? "What, why? What did he do?"

"Nothing, he's perfect," Wyatt says easily. "Not one bad bone in his body. He's walking gold, Ilya, and he's very loved on and off the ice."

"So why do I have to stay away from him, then?"

"Because you're not touching him unless you plan on marrying that motherfucker and we both know that's not gonna happen," Wyatt tells him bluntly. "Seriously, don't try fucking sleeping with him, dude. I'm serious. The most serious I've ever been in my life. What if you're his bad luck charm and you fuck up his season? What if he likes you and you fuck him over and they don't make play-offs—agh. I don't even wanna think about it, man."

"Jesus Christ," Ilya mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose to keep himself from losing his mind. Why is it so difficult to even be interested in Shane fucking Hollander? "He is a big boy, I am sure he can make his own choices."

"For fuck's sake," Wyatt says carefully, "leave him alone unless you're willing to clear your roster overnight."

Ilya laughs out loud. "You would love that, wouldn't you?"

"You have no clue," Wyat sighs. "But, yeah, no. Don't even think about it, alright?"

It's too late because Ilya is already thinking about it. There's a story like this in the bible—something about a forbidden fruit, desiring something so much your teeth ache, all because you were told no, not this. You cannot have this.

Now, all Ilya does is want.

The moment the call is ended, Ilya goes straight to Instagram, finding Shane's profile within thirty seconds. He snorts at the username ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer and the fact that he posts once every six months it seems like. The posts closer together in date are usually sponsoring brands like Rolex and Calvin Klein. Ilya spends a good twenty minutes looking at the underwear photoshoot before finally deciding to do something about his semi-hard dick.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: you look familiar, have i seen you somewhere before?

That usually does the trick, Ilya thinks contentedly before settling back onto his sofa, letting the video auto-play onto Shane Hollander's Best Goals. He sticks his hand in the waistband of his pants, palm over his dick but not doing anything, simply resting. Just in case. His phone vibrates after several minutes and he hastily snatches it up only to find a new event added to his calendar by Wyatt.

Ilya presses his lips together, reopening Instagram and checking the message again, just in case it didn't go through. That isn't the case, though. It definitely went through. Not only that, but Shane has his read receipts on, so Ilya can see that he did read it about five minutes ago.

So, he tries again.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: haha is a joke. i remember you very much.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: how is your shirt doing? hopefully the vodka did not mess it up too badly :)

Ilya watches the Sent turn into Seen. He blinks, waiting for a reply to come.

The minutes turn into an hour and still, no reply. Not even a stupid reaction to the messages. Ilya presses his lips together, going back to Shane's profile, thumb hovering over the follow button for too long before he bites the bullet and finally clicks it. It immediately stands out against his own profile where he follows ten accounts, most of them being brand deals, the others consisting of Wyatt, Svetlana, and an old costar he was pretty fond of. The 11 looks out of place, but he doesn't mind it too much, hoping it'll get him a reply.

When the only notifications he gets for the rest of the night are Wyatt's text messages, Ilya turns his phone off.

Wyatt

Lol dude one of your update accounts just said you followed Shane Hollander on Instagram? What the heck haha.

Hey I just saw you actually followed Shane Hollander on Instagram??? Hahahahaha weird accident.

Ilya please. What are you doing.

Ilya answer me. I might cry I'm not even joking right now

HOLLZY WAS SUPPOSED TO WIN HIS FOURTH CUP THIS SEASON ILYA PLEASE

You piss me off dude I'm not even kidding.

ILYA

UNFOLLOW HIM I'M BEGGING

DON'T FUCKING MESSAGE HIM

Oh my god you already messaged him didn't you you fukcinh whore Is wear to god id they lose I'm going to tell every Montreal fan who to send bombs to

Please get back to me when it conveniences you. Best regards,your manager/publicist who only wants what's best for you, Wyatt Hayes.

✮

It has been almost two months since Ilya met Shane Hollander, three weeks since he followed him on Instagram, and two days since Ilya's last message to him. But above all, above the subtle humiliation and his shortcomings, Ilya perseveres and keeps trying. Of course not back to back, he doesn't want to look crazy. What he does want is for Shane to see him trying, to maybe give him a chance to explain the shit-show that went down right before Shane walked away from him.

For now, he keeps his optimism in his pocket, knowing there's no use in getting his hopes up or losing sleep over it, and starts the end of his night with the Voyageurs vs Blackhawks game that's on. From the looks of it, Montreal has it in the bag—3-1, and the seconds are only running out. Ilya catches the Hollander jersey easily the moment the game starts, and finds himself tracking every one of Shane's movements even when he's on the bench and can barely be seen by the cameras. He scores two of the three goals and at one point Ilya finds himself shooting up off his sofa, pumping a fist in the air like he's part of the team.

It's a humble moment to say the least. So humble he pulls up the one sided message thread on Instagram and adds another one to the collection:

IlyaRozanovOfficial: that was a nice goal

He doesn't think anything of it, not even when the game ends and Montreal wins. It only makes sense to send another one.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: congratulations, make sure you celebrate🍾

IlyaRozanovOfficial: i will take a shot for you just in case.

With that, Ilya goes to shower. When he gets out he checks his phone like a habit, about to reply to a message from Svetlana when he stops in his tracks.

Waiting for him is an Instagram notification from fifteen minutes ago, which is interesting considering he only has alerts on from the people he follows and most of those people have his phone number if they need to reach out to him.

Everyone except one person he hasn't stopped thinking about.

Low and behold, a message from ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer is waiting for him. Ilya refreshes the notification bar just in case he hallucinated this, but the notification sticks and he's forced to kick into action. Quickly, he wraps a towel around his waist, not bothering to fully dry off his body, droplets clinging onto his skin as he hurries to open the message.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: You really don't give up, do you?

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: And thank you. Big night for the team :)

IlyaRozanovOfficial: big night for you too

IlyaRozanovOfficial: and no. i am very persistent when i want something.

Ilya watches the Sent turn into Seen. The seconds after that feel like hours. He wouldn't be surprised if this is how it ended again. Then, a reply comes through.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: And what is it that you want?

Ilya's mouth falls open. Where does he even begin? He wants Shane ass up face down in his bed. He wants to take a shower with him after. He wants to kiss him until their mouths feel raw. Though, saying all this will surely bring him five steps backwards—he has to be careful, intricate with all his replies.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: whatever you want to give me.

A full minute passes.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: So you watched the game?

Ilya blinks at his screen, caught off guard by the subject change. There's no time to dwell on it, though, at the very least he's having a fucking conversation with Shane Hollander. He'll take what he can get even if it's crumbs he has to lick off the floor.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: yes the whole thing. didn't even fall asleep once

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Is hockey boring to you?

IlyaRozanovOfficial: i like boring things, do not worry.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Who were you rooting for?

IlyaRozanovOfficial: wow. lots of questions

IlyaRozanovOfficial: i was rooting for winning team. is a good thing it was you ;)

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Ha, lucky you.

Before Ilya can reply, another message is coming through, quicker than the last.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: How's your girlfriend?

Ah, Ilya thinks to himself. There it is.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: i do not have one

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Funny. That's not what I remember.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: ah so you DO remember me?

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Fuck off.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: noooo don't go please. i have waited so long to talk to you again

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: I'm sure you have other people that would answer your messages quicker.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: yes but they are not you

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: How many times have you used that line?

IlyaRozanovOfficial: only three

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Fuck you. Stop messaging me.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: is a joke!! please i just wanted to make you laugh. forgive me i will do anything

A minute passes, and then two. When Ilya is about to give up hope and lock his phone again, it vibrates in his hand.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: You said you'd take a shot for me didn't you?

IlyaRozanovOfficial: yes…?

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Well. Get to it.

There's a beat of stillness as Ilya rereads the message once, twice, thrice before fully comprehending it. Shane Hollander is asking—no, telling him—to make good on his promise. So, Ilya hurries to his kitchen, takes out a shot glass and fills it with some tequila. Each movement is clumsier than the last in his haste. He fumbles and spills it when he sees the follow up message:

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Send proof.

Jesus Christ. Ilya can definitely do that.

He props the phone up against the bottle, opening up the camera and prepping to take a video. And while he spends most of his time on camera, he isn't sure why this feels more… raw. Intimate. Like he's being stripped apart, which…

He looks down at his bare body, only covered by the towel hanging low on his waist, and contemplates putting on some shorts at the very least before deciding against it. There's no time—Shane is asking for something, and the very least Ilya can do is deliver.

He starts recording and flashes the camera a smile, picking up the shot glass, doing a little cheers motion toward the phone before tossing it back, the glass clinking against the marble counter when he sets it down and winks. "Congratulations Hollander and Montreal," he says.

He ends the video, crops the awkward pauses at the beginning, and then sends it.

The longest waiting game follows in the several minutes after the video is sent. Ilya double and triple checks that it goes through, staring at the space below where there should be a reply by now but is blank. Not for the first time, he feels a little disappointment. To distract himself, he cleans up the tequila bottle and glass, going as far as washing and drying it by hand and placing it back in the cupboard.

The reply comes thirty minutes later when he's lying in bed.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Did you just get out of the shower?

Ilya grins, wondering if he should do the same and wait to reply. Of course he decides against it immediately, knowing there's no guarantee Shane will answer by then.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: maybe. why do you ask?

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: I didn't know you were busy. I'm sorry. You could have waited to take the shot.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: you're okay. i didn't mind… you asked so nicely

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Thank you, by the way. I hope it was a good shot at least.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: was okay. would have been better if you were here ;)

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Oh I'm sure.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Gotta go. The boys and I are celebrating the win.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Have a good night, Ilya.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: have fun, Shane.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: don't do anything i would not do.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: I'm sure I'll manage.

If Ilya goes to sleep with a giddiness in his chest, he'll take it to his fucking grave.

✮

Two weeks later, Ilya is reading over a script sent to him by Wyatt. Some sort of psychological horror from an underground production studio. If things go right, he'll play the idiot boyfriend that dies in the middle of the movie, which is better than an idiot boyfriend who dies within the first five minutes. When his phone vibrates against his coffee table, he doesn't pay it any mind. Not until the third notification comes through.

He's more than surprised to find a notification from Shane's Instagram handle waiting to be regarded. When he opens it, he's met with a picture of what looks like the lobby of a hotel and a TV screen with Ilya taking up most of the pixels, aviator sunglasses on his face and a mustache that look him a few months to perfect.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: They're playing your movie at this hotel.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Imagine my surprise when I hear a Russian asshole talking behind me.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Thought you followed me here too.

Admittedly, Ilya laughs out loud at the messages. He knew Shane was clever, but clever and funny and sexy? This has to be the lottery everyone likes to talk about.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: that made me laugh haha

IlyaRozanovOfficial: good movie. The Deal, yes?

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: I don't know. Never seen it.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: wow you have never watched my movies hollander?

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: I told you I'm not good at keeping up with all that!

IlyaRozanovOfficial: i have been watching your games

IlyaRozanovOfficial: is not fair. maybe i should stop

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Eh. What's one less fan?

IlyaRozanovOfficial: wow i am going to tell everyone you're an asshole

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Like they'll believe you.

Ilya watches the three bubbles appear and reappear.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: What do you recommend?

Ilya raises an eyebrow at his phone, more than intrigued by Shane's question. He's asking for Ilya's recommendation instead of going on the internet and searching his movies from best to worse. Maybe it's like a test.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: a lot of things but you have to be more specific

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Smart ass. I meant from your movies. Which one would you recommend me watching?

IlyaRozanovOfficial: ahhh that is hard question. it depends on your taste, no? what do you like to watch?

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: I don't really know. I guess anything that's interesting? The one in the lobby looked pretty decent. What's that one about?

Again, Ilya knows he has access to Google, but instead he's choosing to coax an answer out of Ilya. He can't help but smile for a moment because, well. This means he wants to talk to Ilya.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: is about an american cop that has to work with russian asshole cop in the 1970s. thriller mostly, a little bit of mystery

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: So you pretty much play yourself?

IlyaRozanovOfficial: wow. how dare you call me a cop? worst insult ever

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Sorry lol.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer:What about Another Winter? Is that any good?

IlyaRozanovOfficial: ah you are going through my movies

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Just going through my options.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: So? Another Winter?

IlyaRozanovOfficial: romance movie, not like funny one but is more… sad? happy ending though. actress is very good

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Hm. I think I'll pass.

Then, without missing a beat:

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Goodnight.

Out loud, Ilya says, "What the fuck?"

✮

In-between new scripts, meetings, and a couple of commercial shoots, Ilya gets invited to the birthday party of a friend of a friend. There will be a lot of important people there so can't really say no to going. Not only that, but Svetlana gets an invitation because she's friends with another friend of a friend, and if he doesn't manage to make it, she'll surely skin him alive.

Of course, he was going to make it no matter what. It's the first time he's gone out in weeks and at this point he's going a little stir-crazy. So, when he gets a text from a girl who got his number from a friend asking if he has a date yet, Ilya responds within the minute. He finds her Instagram easily. She's pretty—black hair and freckles, if he is seeing correctly. He hasn't had sex in months, and he knows she's more than willing to end the night tangled together if the amount of hearts she sends back is any indication.

When the night comes, Ilya is photographed walking into the entrance with model Hailey Soh tucked beneath his arm. By the time the night is ending, there's hundreds of photos of the two of them circling social media. Caught in a kiss, Ilya whispering into her ear, her grasp on his bicep as they leave and hurry into a blacked out car and back to her apartment.

Ilya leaves her place at three in the morning and sleeps until noon the next day, woken up by a phone call by none other than Wyatt.

"No I am not dating her," Ilya explains blandly, words muffled into his pillow, eyes refusing to meet the bright room sure to give him a headache. "No I will not date her. No I will not make a statement."

"Don't know why I asked," Wyatt mumbles, typing away. "Also, I see you're still following Shane Hollander on Instagram, but he isn't following you back. Any statement on that?"

Ilya turns his face and cracks an eye open, glaring at his phone on the pillow beside him. "Who is asking?"

"Me," Wyatt tells him. "Don't tell me you're still trying—"

"He will give in eventually," Ilya says easily even if it barely sounds convincing even to himself. "I am playing, what is it called? Waiting Game?"

He isn't expecting for Wyatt to start laughing. "Oh my god—oh my god. He isn't giving in as easily as you thought he would, is he?"

"Is not that," Ilya grumbles, huffing when Wyatt only starts to laugh harder. "He is busy, I'm sure."

"Oh, I'm so sure," Wyatt teases, seemingly more than delighted with Ilya's struggle to secure a lover for the first time in his life. "Fuck, this is hilarious. You finally met someone with standards."

Ilya makes a face, something between offended and annoyed. "Why the fuck does everyone say that? I am a catch!"

"Has it ever occurred to you that maybe not everyone wants to be talked to like they're a hole?" Wyatt says bluntly, catching Ilya off guard.

"I—that is not how I…" Ilya trails off, embarrassment licking at his face, fiery and sudden. "Is that how I talk to people?"

"You make your intentions known," Wyatt starts, "which isn't a terrible thing, but, you know. Some people don't want a one and done situation."

To be fair, everyone Ilya has met has wanted exactly that. He doesn't know why he didn't stop to think that maybe Shane didn't fall into that category whatsoever. "Okay," he says, mostly to himself. "I will… I will do better. Thank you, Wyatt. You are the best."

"Wait, that doesn't mean you should keep pursuing him. Leave him alone, Ilya. I'm serious. Ilya—!"

Ilya hangs up, tossing onto his back and staring at the ceiling Maybe he's got to get used to losing sometimes.

✮

On a day off, Ilya takes himself shopping, in need of some new gym clothes and maybe a nice jacket or two to alternate between in the new year. He nearly laughs when he looks up from his phone, having finished choosing a song for his walk, and sees Shane Hollander staring at him.

Well, a picture of Shane Hollander. Plastered on a window, advertising a watch that is too expensive for normal people to buy. He looks good—handsome, well put together as he stares into the camera stoically. Ilya finds himself smiling, raising his phone to take a photo of it. He sends it without thinking twice.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: [Photo Attached] now who is following who?

He isn't expecting a reply whatsoever, which makes it ten times better an hour later when he gets to his apartment and sees that not only did Shane see the message, he's also in the middle of typing.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: You live in New York?

IlyaRozanovOfficial: yes, stalker.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: No. I just noticed the big I ❤️ New York sticker on the corner of the window.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: very observant.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Thought you would live in LA.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: too boring, new york is more fun.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: That makes sense.

The typing bubbles disappear and reappear. Ilya watches with a grin.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: So what are you up to now? Still walking around?

Fuck it. What does he have to lose? (A very hot, very nice hockey player. But you miss 100% of the shots you don't take, or whatever.)

IlyaRozanovOfficial: i am at home now, but i am still thinking of u right now…

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Oh, are you?

A spark flutters up Ilya's stomach and into his throat. He's taking the bait—he's taking the fucking bait.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: yes. of your pretty face your freckles everything. was nice to see it in person again even if it was just on the ad

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: How many times have you used that line?

IlyaRozanovOfficial: none. is the first time.

The grin on Ilya's face is wiped clean when Shane sends him a photo. More specifically, a screenshot of an article, the title reading: ILYA ROZANOV ONTO THE NEXT? EVERYTHING YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT MODEL HAILEY SOH!

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Really?

There is a lot of things Ilya could do. He could forget this even happened and roll his eyes at the fact that he doesn't have to explain himself whatsoever. He could also lie, take the bait himself and say that okay, maybe he's been on the streets still, but what does it matter? It's not like he's tied down or anything. He could exit out of the conversation altogether.

All very fair things to do if he had a back bone when it came to Shane Hollander.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: i swear is not like that

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Lol. Sure.

"No," Ilya says out loud, to the emptiness of his apartment. "No, no, no. Fuck this shit—"

He's typing out another message before he can stop himself.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: please shane let me explain

There never ends up being a reply. Ilya drops his head into his hands, wondering how it's possible to fuck things up this much.

✮

"I need your advice."

Svetlana's eyebrows shoot up as she looks at Ilya across the small table at a cafe between both their apartments. A subtle winter breeze blows one of her curls into her face that she gracefully pushes aside, more keen on staring at Ilya like he's grown another head. "Did you get a concussion? You always ask me to not give you advice."

"Yes, but that was me back then," Ilya says flippantly. "Now I am older. Wiser. And I need your help." Svetlana says nothing, giving him a very unimpressed look before gesturing lazily for him to continue. "How would someone go about, I don't know… Wooing hockey's golden boy?"

Svetlana's mouth parts with a huffed laugh. "You can't be serious, Ilya." When Ilya says nothing, she gasps, straightening up and slamming her hands on the table in excitement and amusement. "You're still trying to pick Shane Hollander up? Even after that whole Thalia de Santiago situation?"

"We have been talking on and off," Ilya explains, hoping that'll give him some points. For what, he doesn't know. He just wants to stop feeling like a fucking loser. "So, it's not like he does not want to talk to me, I know he does but, ah… I keep fucking up Sveta and I don't know how to not fuck up."

"Well would you look at that," Svetlana laughs, leaning back again. "Someone has finally made you beg for their attention."

"I'm not begging!" Ilya insists even though he knows that's not the truth. If Shane asked him to beg, Ilya isn't sure he'd be able to say no. What the fuck. "Fuck this shit—I just want to sleep with him, okay? That's it! Why does it have to be so fucking complicated?

Svetlana gives him a small smile. "Think about it, Ilya. You have never gone to lengths like this to just sleep with someone."

Ilya furrows his brows. "What are you trying to say?"

"I'm not trying to say anything," Svetlana shrugs. "Maybe you should think about why you're making it so complicated."

"Because he keeps ignoring me!" Ilya bursts. "One minute it's going good and the next he's fucking sending me a picture of a magazine article he found and then I hear nothing for weeks. It's confusing, I'm confused!"

"Oh my god," Svetlana mumbles, pressing her hands to her face. "You are so stupid. He's jealous, you fucking idiot. And he probably thinks that you're just trying to wet your dick, which you are! How the fuck are you supposed to woo him when you can't even get off the streets?"

Ilya blinks at her. He hadn't even considered the fact that jealousy could play a part in any of this. He's never been jealous, never had anyone he was with express any sort of jealousy when it came to his intimate life. Then again, why would they? Things were never serious enough. Is this… is this something serious? And if it is, why isn't he as terrified as he thought he would be when this moment inevitably came?

As if reading his mind, Svetlana sighs and reaches across the table to hold his hand. "Listen, Shane Hollander seems to know his worth. All you need to do is know it too."

Her words stick with Ilya for the rest of the day. At midnight, he sends a text to Wyatt before falling asleep.

Ilya

anything you see about me and another person can be denied instead of ignored. i do not want things to spin out of control.

Wyatt

?

Who are you and what have you done to my client?

On a serious note, consider it done.

✮

A few days later a statement is released, denying that Ilya Rozanov and Hailey Soh have any sort of relations. The two are good friends, "a representative" tells the outlet. Ilya doesn't push his luck, hoping that by some miracle Shane stumbles across an article or two about how Ilya is focusing on his career for the time being and is not, or has ever been, in a public relationship. It's not much but it's something, more than Ilya has ever shared, so it has to count for something. At least he hopes it does.

The reward comes on a Wednesday night, right after Ilya gets home from the gym and showers. His phone vibrates from the top of his bathroom counter, and Ilya has to do a double take.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Does your character die in The Deal?

Ilya's chest and stomach flash with a giddy heat that nearly knocks him over, his fingers working quick against the screen to reply.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: i think that is called a "spoiler"

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: You can't make an exception?

IlyaRozanovOfficial: finish the movie and you will see :)

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: What if I ask nicely?

A part of Ilya nearly blacks out, nearly dropping his phone. Is this flirting, or is it being nice? Fuck. He used to be able to tell the difference between these things, used to know exactly what to say. Now, it feels like walking a tightrope.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: then i might have to tell you…

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Okay.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Can you please tell me if your character dies in The Deal? I get sort of bummed if my favorite characters die suddenly.

As much as Ilya wants to tease him about the "favorite character", he knows better than to rush straight to flirting. He can have a normal, platonic conversation with Shane. Maybe that'll show more than any of those articles do.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: okay fine. you convinced me.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: he dies near the end. sacrifices himself for greater good, or at least that is what the script said.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Aw. That's terrible. I wanted him to live.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: You die in a lot of movies, don't you?

IlyaRozanovOfficial: you know. i did not notice it until you pointed it out…

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Lol. You're always Russian and dying.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: i think they call it "type casting"

IlyaRozanovOfficial: unbelievable. i will have to talk to my manager about this.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Lol sorry to be the bearer of bad news.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: is okay. someone is looking out for me at least.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: you play in montreal tomorrow?

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Yeah! It's nice to be home, even if it's only for a couple of nights.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: oh i bet.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: good luck, make sure you score 1000 goals.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: i will make sure to take another shot for you.

Ilya nervously watches the Sent turn into Seen, and as the typing bubbles come and go, like they're purposely trying to torture him. He thought he was doing decent up until this point, but maybe it just isn't meant to be.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Next time you're in Montreal let me know. I get free tickets and my parents are sort of sick of coming to games lol.

Scratch that. This is written in the fucking stars.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: i am free tomorrow. just so you know.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Oh shit, really? You don't have to, I know it's super last minute.

As much as he knows he'll get shit for it later, Ilya buys a plane ticket to Montreal. A one and a half hour flight that takes off at noon, giving him more than enough time to get ready in a hotel room and maybe buy a Hollander jersey while he's at it. He sends the screenshot of the confirmation to Shane.

IlyaRozanovOfficial: i would like my ticket now please :)

At the same time, he texts Wyatt: i will be in montreal tomorrow and thursday please do not ask me questions thank you. A notification and message from Shane pops up right after.

Shane Hollander has followed you.

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: You're insane…

ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: What's your number?

Ilya sends it over within the second, ignoring the message from Wyatt. He has more important things to tend to.

Wyatt

??? I think I'm allowed to ask a few actually???

Wait why the fuck does Shane Hollander follow you on Instagram now??

You motherfucker.

✮

The arena is cold and packed to the brim. A sea of red and blue surrounds Ilya as people make their way to their seats, the rumble of muted chatter heavy in the air

On his way in, Ilya stopped to take a few pictures with people who recognized him. He doesn't think about how it is sort of weird that he's suddenly in Montreal for a hockey game, that's mostly Wyatt's problem to sort out when it comes, if it ever comes. Though, he does get a slight thrill when he hears a group of girls whisper about the jersey he's wearing after they've taken a group photo with him. He's always been a bit selfish like that.

His seat is near the front, between the players benches, giving him a good view of the ice. As much as he does his best to remain cool and calm and collected, his leg won't stop bouncing, even when he puts his hand on top of his knee like that'll stop the motion. Not only that, but he's constantly checking his phone before the game starts just in case he gets something.

Though, he knows better than to reach out to Shane first, more than aware of hockey players and all the weird superstitions they carry around with them on game days. Also, a part of him doesn't want Wyatt to be right about Ilya being Shane's bad luck charm. He definitely wouldn't hear the end of that.

Eventually, the players pour out onto the ice. It takes no time for Ilya to spot Shane easily, the corner of his mouth tilting up in a smile despite himself. He watches as Shane glides to a stop, talking to one of his teammates and then fixing his eyes on the stands in the general direction of where where Ilya is sitting.

Then, his eyes land right on Ilya and he smiles, just barely, and waves shyly. Ilya waves back, raising his eyebrows and pinching the fabric of the Shane Hollander jersey he's wearing, showing it off and giving Shane a thumbs up. He can see the blush even from his seat and he wants to yank Shane off the ice and see what else makes him blush. But he pockets that thought aside—he's not here for that, he's here to support and watch Shane in action. Instead, he happily keeps his eyes on Shane doing his stretches, not even pretending to look away when Shane keeps glancing over at him.

Quickly, Ilya finds that Svetlana and Wyatt were right. Shane is a great hockey player, definitely up there with the best if the way he zooms through the ice and maneuvers the puck are any indication. He isn't expecting to be so invested in the game, but at one point ne gets checked into the boards and Ilya is booing along with the crowd, calling, "What the fuck!" because everyone else is doing it too.

He keeps an extra eye on Shane after that. It was a pretty hard hit. He wonders if Shane's ribs are gonna be bruised and if he'll have a chance to ask him about it after.

The first 18 minute intermission comes, and before Ilya knows it his face is plastered on the big screen above. And because he knows how to give the people what they want and put on a good show, Ilya beams up at the screen where his face is plastered with his name beneath. He stands, turning around to let the camera get a good look at the jersey, turning his head with a wink that he knows is seen.

"And it looks like we have actor Ilya Rozanov in the building wearing a Shane Hollander jersey! Isn't that something?"

The crowd's cheers settle after Ilya's sitting back down and the camera pans somewhere else to start the celebrity look alike bit that pulls the attention away from him.

Montreal wins—5-1—with the final goal scored by Shane. Within minutes of the final buzzer, everyone is on their feet set to leave. Ilya follows the crowd and eventually he's outside waiting for a ride when he gets a text.

Shane

Did you leave yet?

Ilya wipes his sweaty palm on his thigh before he replies.

Ilya

not yet

i'm at the front

Shane

Wait there, I can give you a ride.

It would be stupid to say no, so Ilya waits for a good ten minutes until a black Land Rover pulls up in front of him. He doesn't move until the window rolls down and sees that it's Shane driving. The click of the doors unlocking sound and Shane cocks his head, the only thing Ilya needs to kick him into motion.

The inside of the vehicle is admittedly nice, luxurious, more than the sports cars Ilya has driven recently. A joke hangs on the tip of his tongue only for it to be forgotten when he looks over and gets a proper look at Shane.

His hair is still damp, falling across his forehead in a charming but natural way. He's dressed in a white t-shirt beneath a jacket that does nothing to hide the muscles in his arms and chest. When he glances over at Ilya with a shy sort of smile, Ilya is reacquainted with his freckles and rosy lips. It's only then that the breath is punched from Ilya's lungs, hit with the sudden realization that it's been so long—months—since they've been in each other's space like this.

"Hi," he finds himself saying with a crooked smile.

"Hey," Shane says back, averting his gaze to his steering wheel where his fingers are tapping at the leather.

It seems like Ilya isn't the only one with nerves, which makes him feel better about his own shaking leg and sweaty palms. "You did not have to give me a ride," Ilya says even though he's exactly where he wants to be.

Shane shakes his head with a small laugh. "Yeah, well. It's the least I can do. You flew all the way out here just to watch the game."

"Was only an hour plane ride," Ilya shrugs nonchalantly. "And I wanted to see Shane Hollander in action."

Shane nods slowly, the seconds stretching until he speaks. "So, um. What did you think, then?"

"What did I think?" Ilya repeats, earning another nod. He presses his lips together, making a show of looking up in thought. "Hm. I think… I think there is a reason everyone keeps telling me you're amazing."

Shane raises his eyebrow, like of all the answers Ilya could have given, that was the one he expected the least. "Everyone, huh?"

"All my friends, yes," Ilya confirms.

"So," Shane starts, finally meeting Ilya's eyes properly. "you talk about me?"

"More than I probably should," Ilya admits despite himself. "Yes."

A beat of silence pulses between them as Shane's gaze dances over Ilya's features in thought. And then, after what seems like a lifetime, he asks: "Are you hungry?"

Ilya smiles, eyes flashing to Shane's mouth. "Starving."

✮

Shane takes them to a restaurant that is quiet, private. Ilya is impressed that there's no one waiting to take pictures, and when he voices this, Shane explains that he comes here a lot due to the rules they have set in place to make sure the patrons aren't disturbed when they're eating or leaving.

"I value my privacy," he says when they're seated and left with menus, picking at a frayed edge.

Ilya nods, not knowing what to say, if he should say anything at all. He could agree, but they both would know it's far from the truth. He could say that that's where he wants to be in life, but he doesn't even know how he'd get there in the first place. He settles for, "Smart choice."

The lighting around them is dim, amber in its warm hues, and intimate. Ilya glances around, very aware of how spaced out the seating is. There's almost no one seated in the space around them, nestled in the back of the restaurant and away from curious eyes and ears. It's weirdly comforting, and the more Ilya thinks about it, the more he starts to realize that this is probably what a date looks like.

"So," Ilya says after a minute. "What do you recommend?"

Shane starts to smile. "A lot of things, you have to be more specific."

It isn't until Shane lets out a small laugh that Ilya realizes his own words are being thrown back at him. "Wow. Shane Hollander is an asshole."

"Don't act surprised," Shane says, yet to stop grinning. "You probably knew that early on."

"Yet here I am."

Shane pauses before nodding. "Here you are."

Eventually, Shane recommends a salmon dish, something he says he swears by in the rare moments he allows himself to eat out. It intrigues Ilya, prompting him to ask what would call for celebrations that warrant eating out. For almost twenty minutes, Ilya listens onto every word spit-firing out of Shane's mouth about the importance of fueling your body, especially as an athlete. It's the most he's talked all at once and Ilya finds himself entranced by every confusing, scientific word that comes out of his mouth somehow correlating to hockey.

It's only when the waitress comes back with their food that Shane clamps his mouth shut. "Sorry. Didn't realize how much I was talking."

Ilya shakes his head, chin still propped up in his hand. "Don't be. I like listening to you. All the boring stuff becomes interesting."

"Wow," Shane says through a breathy laugh. "I don't know if I should be offended or not."

"I mean it as a compliment," Ilya assures him. "I have met a lot of boring people, and you are the most interesting one."

"Yeah, well, not all of us can be hot-shot actors," Shane says, a teasing lilt to his voice. They fall into a wave of silence as they take their first bites, and after a minute Shane covers his mouth with his hand to talk through the little food in his mouth. "Are you allowed to tell me what you're working on right now? Or is that confidential?

"Technically no," Ilya says, leaning in and lowering his voice. "But if you ask me something, I think is not really my fault if I answer since I have a hard time saying no to you."

Shane's smile wobbles, as if trying his best to tame it and failing in the end. "Oh do you?"

"Yes," Ilya urges. "So, you have to keep this secret."

"Well, my lips are sealed."

Ilya waits for a few seconds, unable to keep himself from appreciating Shane. "It is a movie called Moscow Mule, all I know is there is a lot of romance, a little bit of action, and that I have to make sure I am very much in shape. But it keeps getting pushed back because the director and producer are stupid and cannot agree or something. Allegedly."

Silence follows as Shane's eyes rake over Ilya's frame. "More in shape than you already are?"

"More muscle," Ilya explains, palming his chest and then his bicep as an example.

"That's um…" Shane clears his throat. "That's nice." Even in the limited lighting, Ilya can clearly see that he's blushing. Ilya is so, so fucked. He can't help but laugh. Shane stares at him, eyebrows creased. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," Ilya starts before shaking his head, knowing he has to at the very least ask. "Is just… I want to ask you something but I do not want you to get upset."

Shane shrugs carelessly. "Try me."

Ilya presses his lips together before gathering his words as carefully as he can. "Is this… is this a date?"

Instead of laughing or flipping the table like Ilya had imagined for a fleeting moment, Shane tilts his head to the side in thought. "Do you want it to be?"

"I think so," Ilya admits, surprising even himself. This might be his first date if he thinks about it hard enough.

Shane nods before letting out a heavy sigh. "Listen," he starts, a bit worrying if Ilya is being honest. "I'm not a, like, quick fuck type of person. I feel like you need to know that before we call this a date."

"Neither am I!" Ilya says before he can stop himself.

Of course, Shane knows better and fixes him with an unimpressed look. "Everything I’ve seen about you would beg to differ."

"They're all liars," he continues, the closest to desperate he's ever been. "Really, I am not as terrible as they say I am. Is all lies, I swear. "

"Are they?" Shane hums, leaning back in his seat. "Because it seems like you'll say anything just to get in my pants."

"I would," Ilya nods before stopping himself. "Wait—no! Not like that, I just mean—"

Shane lets out a humorless chuckle, smiling tightly to himself, nodding and getting up and grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. "Sorry. I'm—it's just. It doesn't seem like this is gonna work—"

"No, please—wait, Shane!" Ilya pleads, panic setting in when he realize for the second time since they've met, Shane is about to walk away. He drops to his knees on the floor, reaching out to grab Shane's hand in-between his own, grateful when Shane doesn't yank his hand away and instead stares at him like he's fucking insane. It's better than nothing. "Please, let me explain. Please."

Shane curses under his breath, glancing around before rolling his eyes. "Fine, just get up."

Ilya complies, plopping back into his seat and waiting until Shane sits back down before he continues. "I did not—I am not expressing myself right. What I meant was, I would say anything if it means making you look at me, yes? I do not know if that makes sense. I have had many… partners in my life, yes, but they were never serious. Always just quick fucks, like you said. But I know this isn't that, I don't want it to be that." He pauses, running a hand through his curls and mumbling a Russian curse, wishing he was better with his words. "I don't know how to do this, okay? That is what I am trying to say."

Shane stares at him from across the table. "What do you mean by 'this'?"

Ilya groans. "This. Like… ah, you know—"

Shane cuts him off quickly, sternly. "I want to hear you say it, Ilya."

Ilya's mouth goes dry. He tries his best to gather all the jumbled words in his throat. "Relationships, being with someone. Liking someone this much," he admits. "I'm trying, okay? You—you make me want to try, Shane.

The silence is terrifying. He can almost see all the gears in Shane's head turning, all the smoke threatening to spill from his ears. Finally, he says, "We take it at my pace."

Ilya blinks in surprise, nodding immediately. "Yes, of course. Whatever you want."

"And you stop talking to anyone that came before me."

Another blink. "Before you?"

"Hook ups, exes," Shane lists. "Whatever your relationship was with them, it's in the past if we're gonna try this."

"Done," Ilya says easily, without missing a beat.

Shane raises an eyebrow. "Done? Just like that?"

Ilya nods with a shrug. If that's what Shane wants, why wouldn't he say yes? "I will behave if you ask me to."

"Then this is me asking you to behave," Shane says. "And to be a good boy."

The words send a bolt of lightning right to Ilya's gut, knocking the wind out of him. He's hard within the second. He drops his head against the table. "Please," he starts, voice breaking. "Please let me kiss you."

Beneath the table, Shane's foot taps his. "Buy me dinner first and I might let you."

In less than five minutes, Ilya makes sure the bill is paid.

✮

Shane's home is too big for one person, but the perfect size to showcase not only his wealth but his place in the NHL. Ilya is partially amazed by the decorations and the architectural details, but it's all unimportant and forgotten the moment Shane shuts the front door and turns to face him.

He has his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels after they've taken their shoes off. "So. This is my home."

Ilya nearly cries but composed himself enough to sound at least a little stable. "Show it to me later."

"Why not now?" Shane asks even though he's taking steps towards Ilya, meeting him halfway.

"Because right now I want you so bad I might pass out."

They stop right in front of the other, bodies swaying into each other absentmindedly. Shane wets his lips, eyes flickering between Ilya's. "Well. I'm right here."

It's all the permission Ilya needs to close the space between them. Not all at once of course, he knows better than to rush a good thing, even if he hasn't gotten a chance to do that in his life. He has the chance to do that now, with possibly the only person that really matters. And he's right where he wants to be.

He gets into Shane's space, taking note of the way he inhales, breath fluttering as Ilya traces the tips of his fingers from the back of Shane's hand up to his wrist, arm, bicep, shoulder. His touch gets heavier when he reaches Shane's neck until finally he's holding Shane's face with the one hand and pulling him closer by the waist with the other.

Shane's eyes flicker from Ilya's eyes to his mouth and back, waiting so patiently. Ilya memorizes it for several seconds, lets himself drink in the sight of Shane from this close, the blush dusting his freckles, the dimmed lighting sprinkled in his deep eyes. Unreal in every sense of the word, and Ilya is taken back to an LA bathroom; bewitched, entranced. Already halfway gone before he could even put a name to a face.

He leans in just barely, enough for Shane to follow, swaying into his touch, bumping their foreheads together with a muted whimper stuck in his throat. Ilya isn't cruel, not to boys as pretty as Shane. So, he brushes his nose against Shane's before tilting his chin up, slotting their lips together, reveling in the way Shane's exhales flutters against his skin.

When Ilya deepens the kiss, Shane is already parting his lips, allowing Ilya's tongue to fit in his mouth, closing around it and sucking it carefully. It draws a hum out of Ilya as his gut turns in interest. He can't remember the last time he kissed someone and took his time, or had someone take their time with him. It's always quick, rushed. Nothing more than two people trying to get off and feel good for a fleeting moment.

But Shane is careful in every one of his movements. His hands slide over Ilya's shoulders, find their way into his curls, fingers threading through and bringing Ilya closer, closer, closer until there's hardly any space left between them. Almost as if they're fused into one, their bodies having no beginning or end.

Ilya frames Shane's face with both hands as he licks into his mouth, smiling against the kiss when Shane's grip in his hair gets tighter and his hips buck into Ilya's, both their erections straining against the fabric of their pants. Ilya doesn't acknowledge it, doesn't want to push his luck as he slides his tongue into Shane's mouth again. He could stay like this for hours if he was able to.

Shane, however, seems to have a different plan. He turns his face, huffing out a small laugh when Ilya noses at his cheek and starts to trail his mouth down his neck. "Would, um," he starts, breath hitching when Ilya nips at his pulse. "Would you want to see—um. See my room?"

Ilya pauses, lips dragging up Shane's throat, over his chin, and stopping just shy of his mouth as he meets Shane's glossy eyes. "Would you like to show me?"

Shane nods, the spitting image of an abused bobble head. Ilya can't bring himself to laugh, throat dry and aching at the thought of touching Shane beneath the layers of fabric.

Ilya follows close behind as Shane guides them further into the house, up the staircase and toward a room with double doors. It's decorated like something out of a interior design magazine. Blues, greys, some beige here and there. So utterly simple but luxurious that Ilya can't help but grin.

"Did you pay someone to decorate?"

Shane shrugs tightly, the only answer Ilya really needs, and explains himself anyway. "I mean, yeah. It's not like I spend a lot of time shopping and I wanted the place to look nice, so. My mom suggested an interior designer."

"It is nice," Ilya nods, tilting his chin toward the mountain of pillows against the headboard. "Is enough pillows?"

"Fuck off," Shane says but he's grinning, so much so Ilya can't help but mirror his expression. All giddiness and nerves, all want and need.

"It is a nice room," Ilya says eventually, making a show of looking around and up at the ceiling like there will be something interesting up there. "Is all you wanted to show me?"

Shane raises an eyebrow, gaze following Ilya across the room. "Is it all you wanted to see?"

Ilya juts his lower lip out in though, coming back around to bump shoulders with Shane, facing the opposite way, like he's heading for the door even though it's the last thing he wants. "I don't know. What are my choices?"

It's electrifying watching the gears in Shane's head switch. He rolls his neck slightly, enough to look Ilya in the eye, and glances down at his mouth. "You can leave," he starts, "or you can touch me."

Ilya's throat crackles as he swallows, skin trembling. "Touch you?"

Shane nods, holding Ilya's wrist, pulling his hand until it's beneath the hem of his shirt, palm to bare skin. "It's up to you."

"Fuck, Shane," Ilya whines, fingers curling into Shane's waist and pulling them flush to crash their mouths together.

Every one of Shane's touches is desperate, heavy and hot against Ilya's chest, arms, stomach—anything he can reach while he's kissed within an inch of his life. Ilya isn't expecting the sudden emptiness in the air and the thud of Shane's knees hitting the floor, his hands working quickly at yanking down Ilya's pants and underwear, offering some relief to his erection.

Before Ilya can insist that he doesn't have to, Shane is licking a stripe up the shaft, glancing up at Ilya from beneath his lashes and moaning like he's the one being gifted this fucking sight. Ilya's mouth drops open as a sound is punched from his lungs as he watches Shane fucking Hollander suck his dick like he's being rated on his performance.

"Oh my god," Ilya chokes out, raking his nails through Shane's hair, holding his head right there to keep himself from fucking into his mouth and ruin the already near perfect rhythm he's got built up. Knowing it's only a matter of time before he's finishing too early for his liking, Ilya hoists Shane up, clutching onto the fabric of his shirt and kissing him sloppily. Without breaking the kiss, he bends slightly, holding onto the back of Shane's thighs and picking him up to walk them toward the bed.

Shane gasps against his mouth, his tight grip in Ilya's hair only loosening when Ilya drops him onto the mattress. He follows Ilya in stripping himself of his clothes, both of them naked and flushed when Ilya brackets his arms on either side of Shane's head, dipping down to start kissing at Shane's bared throat and pulse, their cocks sliding against each other, pulling hitched breaths from the two of them.

When Ilya finally looks up, he sees Shane already staring at him. "This okay?" he asks to be sure, waiting even when Shane nods.

"I don't put out on the first date," Shane jokes, but Ilya can hear the edge of honesty.

"We only do what you are comfortable with," Ilya whispers, making sure Shane looks him in the eye when he says it. There's no rush, even if they're naked and rutting up against each other. He needs him to know this, so he says it again. "If you want to stop, we can stop."

"No, no," Shane says quickly, hands kneading at Ilya's biceps. "I—I want you to touch me. It's just… it's been a while."

Ilya nods, understanding. "I will make it good, then."

Shane swallows, his eyes glossy as he cranes his neck to meet Ilya in a soft kiss. "Thank you."

Ilya hushes him, palming his dick, soaking in the way Shane shudders beneath his touch. "Do not thank me until I am done with you."

"Fuck—yeah, yeah. Okay."

While it's not uncommon for Ilya to get to show off his skills as a… lover, it is rare that he feels like he has something to prove. And right now, it's like the performance of a lifetime. He has Shane Hollander, golden boy of hockey with a line of suitors who all probably have dreamed of this moment, right here, trembling beneath his touch. Sweat beading at his hairline, dripping down his temple as Ilya works his hard-on with a closed fist and precise motions, pressing his thumb just beneath the head, letting Shane fuck up into his fist to watch the way his sculpted abdomen trembles, especially when Ilya's tongue lolls out of his mouth and against the head.

Shane curses, something between fuck and Ilya before he's threading his fingers through Ilya's tousled hair and shoving him down. "Fuck. Make me come—make me come."

It's not a question, not even a request. It's a demand—he's telling Ilya what to do, what he wants, and making him do it before Ilya can even agree to. Typically, it's the other way around; Ilya telling his partners what he's going to do, how he's going to do it. With the tables turned, Ilya nearly black out, rutting against the mattress and choking around Shane with a moan as he complies. He swallows Shane down, jaw slack as he lets Shane fuck into his mouth, every one of his thrusts sloppier than the last as his hands hold Ilya's head in place, taking what he wants. Ilya isn't any better, fucking into the mattress, cock leaking against the sheets and drool dripping out the side of his mouth as he moans, embarrassingly close.

Luckily it's Shane that finishes first, spilling into Ilya's mouth with all his words jumbled: "Fuckfuckfuck—Ilya, oh my god—"

Ilya holds onto his thighs, keeping him there while he lets his own hips thrust against the bedding one more time, coming on the sheets, the mess sticking to his stomach. He catches his breath, nosing and kissing at Shane's inner thighs before making his way up and slotting their mouths together again, carefully petting at Shane's hair and side while they come down.

It doesn't take long for Shane to reach down to return the favor, the tips of his fingers touching the wetness just beneath Ilya's chest. His eyes widen, shooting up at Ilya. "Did you—?"

A blush burns on Ilya's face, even as attempts some nonchalance. "I was enjoying the view, yes."

Shane holds Ilya's face, gaze dancing across his features as a small and soft smile starts to take over. He lets out a small laugh, kissing Ilya carefully. "Do you usually do that?"

"No," Ilya answers honestly, turning his face to kiss at his palm. "First time. A lot of firsts tonight, no?"

Shane's thumb brushes across Ilya's cheek, his happiness yet to waver. A beautiful sight to behold. "I guess so."

✮

Trying it out.

That's what they're calling it for now. Not quite dating and not quite a relationship, but still something more. Something that is enough for Ilya to cling onto, everyone else from his past nothing more than a distant thought, because Shane is everything Ilya didn't know he wanted. The person of his dreams, even. He didn't even know he had a dream partner until Shane weaseled his way into Ilya's every day life, but a month of trying it out has made him realize things he never thought to think of before.

Like sending a man currently on the other side of the country a picture of a hockey puck plush a fan gave him on the street after excitedly telling Ilya she was a big hockey fan and was thrilled he was starting to enjoy it as well. It has shiny dark eyes that remind him so much of Shane he thanks the fan about twenty times before they part ways and he rushes home to share his new gift.

Ilya

[Photo Attached]

look what a fan gave to me

i will give it to you next time i see you <3

Shane <3

That's mean, Ilya.

It's a present for you, not me! Don't give it away.

Ilya

but it looks like you so much

he is your son…

Shane <3

Why don't you just keep him and name him Shane?

So you can have me around when you miss me.

Ilya

you are going to be the death of me

Shane <3

In a good way I hope?

Ilya

in the best way.

can you call?

Shane <3

Yeah, we just got to the hotel. Give me five.

Thirty minutes later and Ilya has his phone propped up on his water bottle on his nightstand, lying on his side with his head leaning on his palm and watching with a stupidly fond smile as Shane bustles around the bathroom of his hotel room with only a towel around his waist. As much as Ilya wants to tell him to drop it, he can see the tired edges of Shane's expression, the way he pauses for several seconds like his mind hasn't caught up with his body yet before he's grabbing his toothbrush.

By the time he's lying down on the hotel bed with his phone against several pillows, he's rubbing at his eyes, exhaustion clinging onto him.

"You should sleep," Ilya tells him even though it pains him a bit. It's been nice seeing his face, even if only for a handful of minutes.

"My brain is too awake," Shane mumbles. "I was gonna read for a bit but I don't know. I don't want to be boring. Maybe I'll put on one of your movies or something—"

"Why when you have the real thing right here?" Ilya points out, wagging his eyebrows when Shane shoots him a look that is probably supposed to be more annoyed than soft. "Also I have a book I have been avoiding reading for months. Maybe we can read together, yes?"

A wave of silence passes as Shane blinks. "You really want that?"

"Yes," Ilya says easily. "Your company is enough."

It seems to be enough of an answer for Shane who nods, reaching out of frame to grab a hardcover book with a blue title. Something about hockey if Ilya can make out the inverted words correctly. Then, he reaches for something else, coming back into frame with glasses on. Ilya stares for a good few minutes before snapping himself out of his trance, choosing to make good on his idea and actually open the Dostoevsky book he picked up almost a year ago and only made it ten pages in.

Ten pages later, he risks disrupting the silence in favor of acknowledging the sight. "Those glasses look very nice on you."

Shane glances up with a slanted smile. "Thought I saw you staring. You have a thing for glasses?"

"No," Ilya answers quickly. "I have a you thing."

It startles a laugh out of Shane, his head tilted back toward the ceiling as his shoulders shake. "God. You're ridiculous," he finally says, though the rosy tint to his cheeks says something different, something Ilya wants to sink his teeth into.

He decides to go back to his reading and give Shane some peace before he inevitably goes to sleep. Twenty minutes later, Shane is closing his book with a sigh and Ilya follows, folding the top corner of his page and earning a curious sound from him. "You don't have a bookmark?" Shane asks and Ilya blinks, only realizing what he's talking about when he points out the folded page.

"Ah," Ilya says, shrugging. "I think—it is stupid, maybe. They say folding page like this is 'dog-ear', no? I think the name is a little funny, so." He opens the book, making a show of folding the creased corner again. "I like to dog-ear my book."

Shane nods, like he understands Ilya's aimless thought process, and chuckles. "I never really stopped to think about that, but yeah. Yeah, it's a pretty funny thing to call it."

Ilya beams. "You think so?"

"Yeah," Shane nods, pausing before opening his book and carefully setting his bookmark aside. "I think I'll dog-ear my page tonight."

Everything in Ilya's being twists with an ache and fondness, the need to reach through the screen and pull Shane into his chest. Instead, he tries to tame the clumsy rhythm of his heart, though his tender smile gives him away. "Oh no," he deadpans through the fire kindling in his veins. "Do not let it kill you."

Shane gives him a gentle smile, holding up the book with the newly dog-eared page. "I think I'll be alright."

✮

For the first time since they started seeing each other, Shane has a game in New York. It's a whole thing for Ilya, something almost as important as a holiday, or at least that's how he sees it. He cleans his apartment for days before, excited to finally have Shane in his home, sharing the space and finally being in each other's company after a month and a half of the two of them being in different places and finding time in audio and video calls.

Ilya is at the game that night, sporting his Hollander jersey and sitting in a higher up section, only noticed by a few people who stop him to say hi and are polite when he declines taking photos. He knows Shane values his privacy, and with this being new to the both of them, he doesn't want to risk sharing this too quickly. He's fine with being in the shadows for a bit, admiring Shane on the ice from a distance.

When the game is over and Shane is ready to go, Ilya takes them back to his apartment, their hands clasped together over the center console as they navigate the tight streets. The moment they cross the threshold of Ilya's home, they're quick to fall into each other, greetings cut short by spit-slick mouths and reckless hand-jobs on Ilya's sofa while one of his movies plays (an accident, he swears). After, they eat a late dinner, take a long shower filled with lazy kissing, and fall asleep tucked against each other in Ilya's bed.

In the morning, Shane has to leave early to catch a flight to the next city. As much as Ilya understands that this is what he signed up for, he can't help the twinge of disappointment when Shane is getting ready to go, dressed in Ilya's shirt with a hickey peeking out from the collar.

"You are sure you have to go?" Ilya pouts, walking Shane to the door and stepping in front of him to block him from grabbing the handle. "You cannot stay for, I don't know, ten more days?"

"I fucking wish," Shane says, laughing when Ilya groans.

"You cannot leave when you are wearing my shirt," Ilya teases, stepping forward to draw him in by the waist. "Is not fair. Very cruel, very mean."

Shane raises an eyebrow, leaning back a little to look at him properly. "Would you rather I left without a shirt?"

"Absolutely not," Ilya says quickly, a sharp flare flashing in his chest at the thought of other people getting to see him like that. He shoves a hand beneath the shirt, palming at Shane's abdomen and chest, rubbing a thumb over his nipple and grinning when Shane's eyes flutter. "This is all for me, yes? No one else."

"Same goes for you," Shane says, voice growing quieter as the distance between their faces shortens. "All for me, right?"

Ilya is nodding before the sentence is even finished, eyes hooded as their lips brush against each other. It's Shane that closes the space, holding the back of Ilya's neck to kiss him deep and slow. Ilya loses himself in the warmth coating every part of him, in the way Shane's skin feels beneath his ceaseless touch. It isn't until Shane is pulling away that he remembers their time is limited. "No," he tries, chasing Shane's mouth. "Not yet—"

"I'm gonna be late," Shane tells him, but doesn't move away when Ilya kisses his jaw. "The guys are gonna kill me."

Giving him some mercy, Ilya kisses him one more time. "Okay," he sighs when they part, brushing his nose against Shane's. "Score some goals for me, yes?"

Shane smiles, tilting his head. "You're very needy."

"Yes, I need you," Ilya teases, groping his ass.

This time, Shane laughs head tilted back, the noise turning into a soft whimper when Ilya kisses at his neck again. "I really do have to go," he says, a little pained which soothes over Ilya's own wounds.

"Okay," Ilya sighs again, pressing their forehead together. "Call me later?" He can't believe what he's become. He can't believe how much he doesn't care about what he's become.

Shane nods. "As long as you answer."

As if Ilya would be stupid enough not to.

✮

For once, going out isn't as enticing as it used to be. Not that Ilya isn't grateful to even be able to attend a brand dinner, he's always grateful for these opportunities, but now he has better places to be. Better things to do. Like video calling with a pretty Canadian boy that's somewhere in America, lying in a hotel bed and sending Ilya a Have fun—and behave text that leaves him half hard for most of the night.

Ilya sort of has fun, as much fun as he can have when he wants to go home. But he does behave, that he is sure of. He has no date for the first time in a very long time—something so rare he can hear one of the bastards behind the flashing cameras comment on it, asking if his date will be joining him at some point in the night, to which Ilya simply smiles and shakes his head and says, "No, no date."

By the time he gets home in a rush after leaving early due to his previously scheduled call with Shane, the tabloids have heard all about his lonely night. Surprisingly, he isn't the one that notices.

"There's already a lot of pictures of you from tonight," Shane mentions randomly as Ilya gets comfy. His screen is paused, letting Ilya know he's probably scrolling through Instagram or Twitter.

"I thought you did not like social media," Ilya points out, already showered and ready to fall asleep on the phone.

Shane pops back into the call, his glasses perched on his nose and the dimmed light of the lamp beside him illuminating the side of his face, making every edge of him look soft. "I don't. But I wanted to make sure you were good."

Ilya swallows, palming himself through his briefs, shocked at how much this is doing it for him. "Was I?" he asks, voice lowering with want. "Was I good for you?"

"You were," Shane nods. Ilya can see the blush trailing up his neck, even in the low lighting. "You look good when you don't have someone next to you."

"I would look better with you next to me," Ilya says before he can stop himself.

Shane lets the silence settle, watches Ilya through the screen carefully. "Would you?"

"Yes," Ilya answers easily. "Is that something you would want?"

"Maybe," Shane finally answers, raising an eyebrow when Ilya swallows roughly. "Are you touching yourself?"

"No. Maybe," Ilya says, moving his hand back above the sheets. "Sorry—you… It was nice, what you said."

"That you look good without someone next to you?"

Ilya shakes his head. "No, no. Before that."

"Oh," Shane realizes, eyes widening slightly. "That you were good for me?"

Ilya's eyes flutter shut. He nods, just barely, still twitching in his briefs. "Da. Yes. no one has talked to me like this, so. I did not know I liked it this much."

"Huh," Shane mumbles. The sound of rustling sheets makes Ilya open his eyes, surprised to find Shane sitting back against the headboard. "Let me see." When Ilya short circuits, he repeats himself. "Touch yourself and let me see, Ilya. I thought you wanted to be good?"

Ilya shoots up, placing the phone on the nightstand and nodding. "Yes, yes. I do."

Putting on a show is something Ilya is good at. He was born to be watched under a careful eye, so when he starts stroking himself while Shane watches on the other side of the screen, it all already feels like second nature to him.

He spits in his palm, wetting the surface enough to give it a better slide when he goes to touch himself again. His head is tilted back against the headboard, legs spread and cock leaking as he works his fist slowly, refusing to speed up without Shane's word.

Though, it seems like Shane is caught up in the picture painted specifically for his viewing. He says nothing for several minutes, face close to the camera like he's memorizing every detail, too entranced in the rippling of Ilya's abdomen as he bucks up into his own fist, letting groans fall out of his mouth when a touch feels particularly good.

"Is good?" Ilya finds the voice to ask, lolling his head to the side to catch a glance at Shane.

Shane nods, nearly frantic. "Yeah. Yeah—really good. You're doing so good."

Ilya moans, eyes screwed shut as he squeezes the base, laughing lightly. "Fuck. I don't know why I like that so much."

"You like attention," Shane says easily, catching Ilya off guard. "You thrive off it, right? It's—it's fucking hot. Seeing you like this. You know you look good, you know you are good. You just don't hear it as often as you should, right?"

"No," Ilya breathes, restating his pace. "Usually it's me saying people are doing good for me. Never like this."

"They don't see you like I do," Shane says. "They've never seen you like this—behaving yourself."

Ilya chokes on his moan, thumbing at the precum beading at the tip and wetting the head enough to get better friction. "You make me want to be good, malysh."

"Fuck. You're amazing, so good, always so good," Shane babbles, touching himself too if the redness on his cheeks is any indication. "Oh, fuck. I'm close, Ilya—I'm close—”

Ilya comes into his fist, core trembling as he rides the waves of his orgasm and his chest is painted with ribbons of pearly white. In the muted distance he can hear Shane whine, high pitched and needy, right before going silent.

It's an awkward few minutes of the two of them cleaning up before getting back to the call. There's a beat of silence as they both pop back into frame, and then, laughter.

"Ah, fuck," Ilya manages to say through the tears brimming his eyes. "That was…”

"So fucking hot," Shane finishes for him through a chuckle. "I didn't think phone sex would do it for me."

"I usually do not like it," Ilya admits. "Always so awkward, but you… You are very good at a lot of things, aren't you?"

Shane beams with a subtle shrug. "You're starting to find out, I guess."

Ilya can't help but smile back, wanting to uncover every small, trivial thing hidden in the depths of Shane Hollander. He can't wait to spend all the time in the world doing it. "I guess so."

✮

As Svetlana would say in the privacy of one of their apartments: they hit the pentagon.

They hit Ilya's pentagon, actually. Fuck the towers, they hit Ilya's pentagon first and everything crumbles before he even has a chance to point and ask, Is that a fucking plane?

By they, Ilya means the fucking press. By pentagon Ilya means the budding flower of his and Shane's relationship. By plane Ilya means a fucking pregnancy scandal that comes out of thin air—suddenly, unexplainably, without any sort of truth to back it up.

He wakes up to his phone vibrating beneath his pillow, revealing thirty missed calls from Wyatt and a whole plethora of text messages from old friends and hook-ups. Ilya blinks, doing his best to gauge the surroundings of his apartment before answering his phone with a mumbled, "Huh?"

Then, Wyatt's panicked voice is directly in his eardrum. "Please don't tell me it's fucking true, Ilya. I'm begging—"

"True?" Ilya repeats, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. "What is true? What are you talking about?" There's a pause, the sound of Wyatt doing what sounds like breathing exercises, and then nothing again. "Hello? What the fuck are you freaking out about?"

"Ilya," Wyatt says slowly, almost too calm for the way he was acting only a second ago. "Have you been online at all?"

"No, you are the one that woke me up," Ilya tells him. He isn't sure he even wants to know what the fuck is going on. "What is the problem?"

"Okay," Wyatt says with a breath, like he's trying to convince himself that it's okay. "Okay, so. Um. Someone went to the press and they… well, she is claiming that she is three months pregnant with your child. And that she has a paternity test to prove it."

Ilya blinks at nothing, mouth falling open as he tries to gather words. Any of them would be useful right now, really, but his mind is failing him as he tries to piece this together. "What—what? Paternity test, how—how is this possible when I did not know about this? Wait—who is saying this?"

"Janet Whitaker. Influencer, her dad is the CEO of that smoothie place in LA—fuck I don't know what it's called, it doesn't matter. You went out with her—"

"Almost two years ago, June," Ilya says over him. People can say what they want about him, but his memory rarely serves him incorrectly. There's no fucking way he got her pregnant. "I have not seen her since then, I swear. We have not talked at all, I am sure I have a text thread to prove it, I can send it—"

"Whatever you got that proves your innocence," Wyatt nearly begs. "Please. And we can do our own paternity test because I don't know who the fuck she got hers from, but there's no way it's right."

"We did not even have sex," Ilya informs him, the memories of that night very vivid and painting a completely different story. "She gave me weak hand-job. Wasn't even good, took forever to come—"

"I don't need to know that," Wyatt interrupts. "But, man, am I sort of glad to hear that. Listen, sit tight and don't answer any texts, emails, or calls. I'll get this dealt with."

The moment Wyatt hangs up, Ilya's mind is taken over by a completely different thought. "Oh no," he says to himself, scrambling to open Shane's contact and dial his number.

The number you reached is not available.

"No, no, no," Ilya says out loud, stumbling off his bed and sending out one, two, three messages. They all bounce back, the usual blue of the outgoing messages now green. He tries Instagram only to find that Shane's profile seemingly does not exist anymore. One Google search tells him that this could be a sign that he's blocked. When he goes on Twitter, Shane's profile is presented to him with bold letters: This user has blocked you.

Ilya stares at the screen in disbelief, wondering if maybe this is a dream. When he tries calling again only to be met with the same fate, reality comes crashing down in all its ugly colors.

Fuck.

✮

Wyatt assures that the mess will be cleaned up before Ilya knows it, but Ilya knows much more than Wyatt thinks he does. For example, the paternity test results will take at least five days to come in, and while Ilya knows he is for sure not the father, he needs the public to know it for sure as well. As soon as possible.

Most of all, he needs Shane to know now.

But knowing Shane—his sweet, beautiful Shane—the chances of him even glancing at anything on social media right now are slim. Though, there's still a small shred of hope Ilya clings into. Maybe Shane is still keeping tabs on him, still hoping for a sign that Ilya didn't fuck things up. Ilya is willing to give him as many signs as he can.

For now, Ilya mopes in the best way he knows how.

Face down. In bed. Shirtless. Curtains drawn. Phone next to his head. One song blasting: Shot For Me. Mumbling the lyrics into his pillow until he sort of forgets what English is.

Good things only last for so long—at least that's what he's realized recently—and the song is cut off by the stubborn buzzing of his phone. He shouldn't really be surprised to see that it's Svetlana probably checking up on him. Because she's a great friend. He nearly smiles at that.

He answers with a rather pathetic, "Sveta. Hello."

She seems to have better things to regard than a greeting. "You know you've posted Shot For Me on your Instagram story at least four times in the last two days."

"Yes," Ilya mumbles into his pillow. That is the point. Maybe Shane will listen to the song. "Did you know Shane made me take a shot for him when we first started talking? It's true. And I have been appreciating the lyrics. When he says, 'Okay look I'm honest, girl I can't lie I miss you—'"

"Yes I know what the lyrics say," she says over him blandly. "You posted a picture of you shirtless that you can barely see because it's covered by—what the fuck does this say?You and the music were the only things that I commit to, I never cheated for the record back when I was with you—Ilya. What the hell."

"You missed the best part," Ilya groans, lifting his head for the first time in two hours. "He believed in everything but me—"

"Those are not the lyrics."

"They are in my heart."

He can practically hear her eyes rolling. "I'm assuming you fucked it up with Shane Hollander," she guesses rather bluntly. "And congrats on the baby on the way, how did you manage that?"

"It's not true!" Ilya booms, scrambling to sit up, hair tousled and face dented with the creases of his pillowcase. "The paternity test results are coming in soon and I never even slept with her—”

"Well," Svetlana says slowly, "it seems like he thinks it's true."

"I know," Ilya mumbles pathetically, dropping his face into his hands. "And he has blocked me on everything so I cannot even tell him. I think he has blocked Wyatt too because I stole his phone when he came to make sure I was not dead and his Instagram didn't load the page."

Svetlana hums and the sound of her tapping on her phone screen fills the momentary silence. "Let me see if I can get a hold of him."

Ilya perks up. "Why did I not think of that? Oh my god, thank you. You have no idea—”

"Ah. He has me blocked as well."

Ilya sighs, pressing his lips together. "Oh, my smart Shane."

"Gross."

"I don't know what to do," Ilya admits, hanging his head. He partially wonders if they still train pigeons to send messages. "He is out there sad and thinking that I am a fucking asshole that does not give a fuck about him. Oh god—he thinks I'm going to be a fucking father. This probably broke his heart—fuck. This is terrible, Sveta, what the fuck do I do?"

A beat of silence passes before Svetlana's voice comes back softer. "You really care about him a lot, don't you?"

Ilya sighs, heart newly sewed onto his sleeve, bleeding out and staining everything. "I have never felt this way about anyone. I didn't even know it was possible to want to be with someone this much and it's all fucked up now. I don't know what to do—”

"You get him back," Svetlana says simply, easily. As if Ilya hadn't thought of that before.

"What part of he blocked me on everything do you not understand?"

"You need to think, Ilya," she urges. "He has a game in Nashville today."

Ilya stares up at the ceiling, close to rolling his eyes at this useless information. "Okay? And?"

Somehow, Svetlana's patience is generous today. "And you have money and a flexible schedule, you idiot. Fly to him."

Fly to him? To Nashville? It seems too simple, too easy. Like it'll come back to bite him in the ass if he even thinks about going through with it. "What if he doesn't want to see me?"

"Ilya," Svetlana says gently. "Would it hurt to at least try?"

✮

Nashville is all things unfamiliar. Or maybe that's just Ilya's nerves clouding his judgment, making him feel like he sticks out like a sore thumb more than he actually does. Whatever it is, he feels out of place and like a fucking idiot as he takes his seat—one close to the ice thanks to Svetlana who found him the last minute tickets and paid for them as a gift for Ilya's troubles.

He isn't wearing the Hollander jersey he purchased all those months ago. He can't imagine Shane being happy that he's here let alone here and repping his jersey, especially after the cluster fuck that arose in the media. Instead, he's wearing a black sweatshirt and blue jeans, something simple enough to not look like an asshole. Ilya is sure his presence is simultaneously enough and too much—he'll let it speak for itself.

It quickly becomes evident as the game stats that Shane is most definitely off his game. If Ilya didn't notice, then he would have known eventually considering the announcers are constantly mentioning it as well. According to them, he was off his game for the last game as well, and as much as they're confused, they're hoping he can turn it around.

Ilya sinks into the seat, selfishly feeling somewhat responsible for the boorish performance of hockey's golden boy. If Wyatt's watching, he's most definitely going to kill Ilya when he gets back to New York. A small price to pay for a second chance, Ilya thinks vaguely as the first 18 minutes of the game pass, leading them straight into the intermission.

Before he knows it, his face is plastered on the jumbotron as one of the announcers notes that it seems like he's a big fan if he's going out of his way to see Montreal play. Ilya almost wants to laugh, but pushes it back in favor of shooting one of his charming smiles and waving around. He wonders if Shane would consider this as him being on his best behavior.

Speaking of Shane, if he had no clue Ilya was here at all, he definitely knows it now.

The confirmation comes in the last twenty minutes of the game, not when Shane seems to be playing better, scoring one of two goals, but when the buzzer sounds to end the game and Ilya looks up to find Shane just barely looking away from his general direction.

If that isn't confirmation enough, the text Ilya gets really cements it in.

Shane <3

Meet me near the locker rooms. You better fucking not have anyone with you.

They know to let you in.

As much as Ilya wants to pop a boner at Shane's attitude, he knows it's not coming from a place of flirtatiousness, but from a place of genuine anger. Disappointment, even. The last thing Ilya wanted to do was disappoint him and the heaviness in his stomach is only amplified as he does as he's told and meets Shane in the hallway.

Shane is already standing there, leaning back against the wall, wearing a dry-fit shit and what looks like compression pants, tight and fitted to his nicely sculpted legs. It's probably what he wears beneath his gear, meaning he rushed out to talk to Ilya, and he isn't sure whether or not that makes the knot in his stomach loosen or tighten.

The panic spills over quickly and Ilya is talking before he's even made it in front of Shane. "I did not cheat on you—"

"I know," Shane says bluntly, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows creased. He shrugs once. "We're not together."

"Do not remind me," Ilya mumbles miserably, dragging his hands over his face.

"What do you want, Ilya?" Shane bites out bluntly. He has yet to actually look at Ilya, his gaze dragging against the floor or the wall opposite, but never directly at Ilya who is starting to slowly die inside. Like Tinkerbell in a way, except he dies only if Shane Hollander is not looking at him.

"I want to be with you, Shane," Ilya tells him just as bluntly, taking a step forward.

Shane puts a hand out in front of him, keeping Ilya from moving closer. The corners of his mouth are turned down and the tension in his brows ripples the skin between. "Did you come to fuck with my head or something?" Ilya shakes his head, knowing he could make a joke about fucking and head but shoving it down because Shane's anger is starting to dissipate, replaced by the sagging of his shoulders and his eyes still refusing to acknowledge Ilya. He lets out a breath, rubbing a hand over his face in exhaustion. "Fuck. This… this isn't a conversation we should have here."

Ilya nods in agreement, not trusting himself to say anything else.

"1410," Shane says after some stretched seconds. "That's my hotel number. I'll send you the address and let you know when I get back."

"Okay," Ilya finally says with a nod, taking what he can get. It's better than a fuck you, than what he thought was going to happen which was Shane telling him to leave him the fuck alone. At least like this, there's a shred of hope.

When Ilya gets to the hotel, he smokes three cigarettes back to back waiting outside the until Shane texts him to come up. He feels physically sick on the elevator ride up the more he thinks about all the what ifs out there. The chances of Shane breaking it off are high—like Svetlana said: Shane is aware of his worth. He knows what he deserves, and if he decides it's not Ilya, that this is all too ridiculous, too much… Ilya isn't sure what he'll do.

Shane opens the door for him just barely, bee-lining to sit on the edge of the stiff mattress as Ilya carefully closes the door behind him. He takes a few steps into the area until he decides to stand, leaning against the desk offered, decorated with a note pad and single lamp offering some added light in the warmth of the room.

Ilya swallows around all the words heavy on his tongue, waiting for a sign to speak. When all Shane does is glance at him for all of two seconds, he takes it as a cue. "What have you heard?"

"What everyone else heard," Shane says, looking down at his hands clasped together between his legs. "Do you want me to say congratulations or something?"

"Is all lies," Ilya says desperately, unsure how else to put it. "I promise—"

"Really? Even with a fucking paternity test?"

"Yes! I mean, no—there is no paternity test, I never took one to begin with!" Ilya explains, near hysterical as he starts to pace. "And that girl—she—I have not seen her in years, malysh. I swear to you, I can show you my texts. Is the last time I talked to her, and we did not have sex, so it is impossible—" Ilya digs through his pocket, pulling out his phone and giving it to Shane. "Go through, please. Password is 1234."

Shane holds the phone in his hand, his lips pressed together, eyebrows furrowed as he turns the device over and over and over. "You should change your password. That isn't a very good one."

"I will have no password if that is what you want," Ilya tells him, gesturing toward the phone. "Please, Shane. I don't know what else to say—"

"I don't know either," Shane admits with a heavy breath, tossing the phone onto the mattress. "I'm just… confused, I think. Why hasn't your team made a statement?"

"We did our own paternity test," Ilya explains. "We are waiting for results to come in before a statement to deny everything is released. I was told to stay quiet and stay put until it all, em, blows up?"

"Blows over," Shane corrects, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and then disappearing just as quickly. "So you were told to stay put and you're in fucking Nashville?"

"I had to see you," Ilya says without missing a beat. This time, Shane looks up, looks right at him. "To explain. You did not give me a chance. I was blocked before I even knew what was happening."

Shane sighs, covering his face with his hands, words muffled. "God. I'm sorry, Ilya—"

"No, no," Ilya says quickly, finally closing the distance between them, dropping to his knees in front of Shane to get on the same eye-level as him. He runs his hands up Shane's arms in an attempt to sooth him. "You do not have to be sorry, okay? I understand, you were just looking out for yourself, no? How can I be mad at that? There is nothing wrong with wanting the best for yourself, Shane."

"I should have at least heard you out," Shane says, finally dropping his hands and meeting Ilya's gaze. "You're really not gonna be a dad, right?"

"Not unless you can get pregnant."

"Ilya."

"Sorry," Ilya says even though he sort of isn't sorry. If baby-trapping was an option, maybe he would have done it already. Maybe Shane would have done it already. Beautiful things would happen. "But, no. No baby for me. I am all yours, there is no one else for me."

Shane hums, hands coming up to cup Ilya's face, his thumb tracing the space beneath Ilya's eye before he leans in. Ilya is quick to meet him half way, parting his lips and teasing his tongue against the seam of Shane's lips. He opens up easily, letting Ilya lick into his mouth until they're both coming up for air. "I want you to fuck me."

He says it so quietly Ilya almost doesn't catch it. His dick hears it loud and clearly, though. "You what?"

"I want you to fuck me," Shane says loudly, more confident as he straightens up and tugs at Ilya's curls until his head is tilted back. "Better than you've fucked all the others."

Ilya's breath rattles in his throat. His mouth waters at the same time as he lets his head fall down, nuzzling at Shane's dick starting to harden beneath the shorts he's wearing. Finally, Ilya manages a clumsy nod and some words he can barely make out himself. Something like yes, yes I can do that.

Before Ilya can touch him any more, Shane is pushing his head away with a flat palm to his forehead. Ilya blinks at the sudden distance between his face and Shane's bulge, mouth hanging open as he looks up and finds Shane holding Ilya's phone in his hand again. "Unlock it."

Ilya compiles, hands flying up and nearly dropping the device in his haste. Once it's unlocked, he shows Shane. "Done."

Shane nods, eyes flickering between Ilya and the phone. "Go to your contacts." Of course, Ilya obliges, waiting on a baited breath for the next set of instructions. "Before you touch me," Shane starts, raking his fingers through Ilya's hair, smiling when Ilya keens at the touch, "you're gonna delete every contact of anyone you've ever slept with or were going to sleep with."

"And then you will let me touch you?" Ilya asks, desperation nipping at his skin.

Shane nods, petting his hair again. "Go ahead."

He doesn't have to be told twice.

It takes some time—maybe a few minutes, maybe twenty minutes—but between Shane telling him he's doing good, so good, and Ilya's need to live up to the praise, Ilya's phone is free of anyone that came before Shane. And Shane makes good on his promise, guiding Ilya's hand to his half-hard dick and pressing down.

"Thank you," he says, so genuine Ilya nearly cries.

His mouth travels down, open and wet against the skin of Shane's inner thighs that part further, inviting him in so generously. Ilya savors every tremble, every noise falling out of Shane's mouth as Ilya pulls his shorts and briefs off in one go, revealing his cock, flushed and leaking already even without much attention.

It would be greedy to dive in and take Shane in so quickly, and Shane had only one request, and Ilya doesn't think he could ever do anything as stupid as deny him of something. So, he takes his time. Places open mouthed kisses, gentle bites, to the inside of Shane's thighs that make him gasp, head falling back until Ilya is placing a hand on his stomach, pushing him to lie down.

The moment Shane's head meets the comforter, Ilya flattens his tongue, licking up from the shaft to the tip, making sure Shane meets his eyes right before he closes his lips around the head and swallows him whole. The moan that rips through the air from Shane's mouth is electrifying, burning Ilya down to his core as he holds Shane's hips down, keeping him still while he hollows his cheeks and takes him apart, every bob of his head slow and drawn out, savoring the salty taste on his tongue, the heaviness of Shane in his mouth.

Shane falls apart beneath him with both hand threading through Ilya's hair, keeping him there like he can't fathom the thought of him being except right here, between his thighs with drool starting to drip out the side of his mouth.

"Ilya," Shane breaths, eyes squeezed shut as he tilts his head back, cock throbbing against Ilya's tongue. "Fuck—fuck me. I got myself ready—"

Ilya stills, letting Shane's dick fall out of his mouth and ignoring the way his own erection is straining in his jeans. He blinks, moving his hands to knead at Shane's inner thighs. "You got yourself ready," he repeats, dropping down to lick at the space where his pelvis meets his leg, dragging his teeth up the sensitive skin. "How?"

He needs to hear it, needs to know what happened in this space before he arrived.

Shane adjusts himself to look at Ilya better, his upper body off the bed and balanced by his elbows and arms digging into the mattress. His black hair is disheveled, cheeks a dusty pink, and mouth swollen from his worrying teeth. "In the bathroom, before I told you to come," he admits, eyes fluttering when Ilya lets out a rather desperate exhale against his skin, nearly taken apart at the thought of Shane's eager optimism. "Fingered myself—thought of you."

Ilya's mouth falls open as his hand slides down Shane's thigh. Without breaking eye contact, Ilya presses two fingers against the perineum, breath stuttering when he realizes it's wet. He swallows shakily with a dry throat before his fingers dip into Shane with hardly any effort. All the air in his lungs evaporates as he fucks his fingers into Shane again, rewarded by the stretched moan sounding as Shane drops his head back. He can't help but buck forward, searching for any sort of friction to ease the aching of his leaking cock.

"You are—” Ilya starts, unable to help the way it turns into a breathy laugh. He drops his forehead against Shane's inner thigh, watching his fingers disappear inside for several seconds until he wills himself to find the mangled words on his tongue. "Fuck, Shane—"

He curves his fingers, teeth digging into the flesh of Shane's thigh, and revels in the gasp and curse, the way Shane arches up with a death grip still cemented in Ilya's hair. Then, Shane's hands are beckoning him up, his bare cock brushing against Ilya's straining against his jeans as they meet in a sloppy kiss, all tongues and spit as Ilya ruts against him, desperate for something, anything.

Shane turns his face, humming as Ilya works on licking up his neck, kissing at his pulse and jaw in an attempt to get closer, closer, closer—whatever he can pocket. He holds the back of Ilya's neck tightly, enough to pull him away and look him in the eye. "I'm gonna ride you," he says, hesitating slightly like he isn't sure whether or not he's telling Ilya or suggesting it.

Ilya would be stupid to argue. He nods dumbly, rendered into nothing but an aroused mass and dropping all of his autonomy. He lets Shane flip them, lets him scramble to rid Ilya of his jeans and briefs, tossed somewhere unknown and unseen. He watches with a whine caught in his throat as Shane only holds his cock long enough to slide a condom on, not even bothering to jerk him off or lick the tip or anything. Desperate—so desperate to have Ilya inside of him that every practiced motion is out the window as he lines Ilya up with himself, head falling back as he sinks down.

Ilya chokes on air, hands shooting out to clutch Shane's steady hips only to have them batted away, pushed up into the pillows and held there by Shane's strong grip. Every part of him is lit up in flames, entranced and dazed as Shane starts to ride him.

It's embarrassing—so fucking embarrassing—but Ilya nearly comes the moment Shane's bouncing molds into grinding, his cock bobbing every every buck of his hips. "Fuckfuckfuck," he chokes, writhing, wrists straining against Shane's hands as he tries to do something, anything, to slow Shane down. "Oh my god, Shane, I'm—”

"No you're not," Shane tells him, voice breaking off into a hitching gasp as he rolls his hips back, eyes fluttering shut. "Not until I do."

Ilya nods recklessly, eyebrows creasing in a mixture of concentration and pleasure as he wills himself not to spill into the condom, especially when Shane's rhythm starts to falter, hips bucking forward for a second too long until he picks it back up again, riding Ilya until he can't catch back up to the pace he set.

"Just like that," Shane gasps, hands bracing themselves against Ilya's chest. "Oh my god—fuck—I'm close, I'm close—”

Ilya takes the opportunity to give into his selfishness, flipping them over so that Shane is beneath and fucking into him feverishly, knowing it's the right choice when Shane's moans start to get higher, needier. He pulls Ilya in by the back of his neck, slotting their lips together, opening his mouth when Ilya licks into him and swallows the choked gasp that escapes when he starts to come.

Already so close to the edge, Ilya's orgasm crashes over him all at once, punching the air out of his lungs as he thrusts a few more times, each one more drawn out than the last until he can't bear the weight of himself anymore.

He flops beside Shane, reaching over to tuck him into his chest, holding his face as he presses kisses to any part of Shane's face that he can reach.

Shane nearly purrs, tilting his face into the affection before sighing, mouth tilting down slightly. Ilya nearly panics until, finally, Shane says something. "Now I'm all gross."

It pulls a barking laugh from Ilya's chest, flooded with relief. Yeah, he's never letting this man go again. "We should shower, yes?"

Shane nods, pressing a chaste kiss to Ilya's chest, and gets up, seemingly assuming Ilya will follow if the way he doesn't look back is any indication.

Bound by the leash of infatuation, Ilya follows.

✮

Ilya

i am in a relationship

will need you to make a statement or whatever when the paternity test comes back negative please my boyfriend said is very important that everyone knows i am only his and not dead beat father thank you love you

Wyatt

Relationship?

Boyfriend???

What do you mean by that?

And why are you in Nashville.

And why did Shane Hollander block me on Instagram. Is that your fault?

Wait he unblocked me now. What the hell is going on.

Ilya

i will tell him you said hello. maybe he will sign a puck for you if you're nice to me.

Wyatt

Oh my fucking god

I don't know whether to kiss you or punch you right now what the fuck

HE'S THE REASON YOURE NOT LOOSE ON THE STREETS ANYMORE??

Ilya

you should thank him.

svetlana says he turned hoe into housewife

Wyatt

I'll be damned. He really did.

Statement being released soon. Happy for you, man!

But if you fuck him over I'm taking his side.

Ilya

thank you

i would do the same

✮

Official Statement

With the recent events regarding Ilya Rozanov and his part in the pregnancy of a past and brief relationship, it is important to make the truth clear in every sense. A paternity test was completed and the results showed that Ilya Rozanov is not the father, nor has any involvement in the pregnancy of said past relationship since they parted ways in June of the previous year. Ilya wishes the best for the mother and her child and hopes that they find the support and peace needed during this delicate time in their lives.

With that, Ilya would like to make it clear that he is in a happy and committed relationship and has had no involvement with anyone else since. We ask that he is given his privacy as he focuses on his career and personal life.

✮

Montreal versus New York, fighting for a spot in the championships. Ilya knows enough to know that every little thing matters more than it did before, which is why he reluctantly listens to Wyatt and makes sure he doesn't see Shane the day before he's set to play. Of course, this is easier said than done considering it's, again, been too long since they occupied the same space. Ilya is starting to wonder if the universe gave him this beautiful boyfriend so often out of reach only to taunt him for his days running rampant and ravenous.

It takes everything in him not to beg Shane on his hands and knees (aka send him a picture of him begging) to come over, just for a little bit. Just enough to kiss and maybe do some hand stuff. But he is strong and a good friend, so he settles for lying on his sofa with a dopey smile plastered on his face as he reads Shane's messages.

Shane <3

I really can't come over? Even for a little?

Ilya

if you lose tonight Wyatt is going to kill me :(

Shane <3

Yeah but is he actually?

If he really wanted to he would have killed you already.

And he doesn't have to know that I stopped by…

Ilya

trust me he will know

i'm sorry i also do not want you to lose

Shane <3

Have some faith in me!

I'm a good enough player to beat out superstitions.

I've got 3 cups to prove it :)

Ilya

#hot #sexy #all mine

Shane <3

What's that

Ilya

nothing

what are you up to sweetheart

Shane <3

The hotel's heaters are down. They're getting them fixed but we don't know how long it'll be so I'm just laying in bed. It's too cold to do anything else.

Ilya

oh nooo :(

are you okay?

Shane <3

I'm fine! Just lonely and bored. And cold.

Ilya

i can help with entertainment

Shane <3

Please and thank you.

Ilya

:)

what are you wearing

Shane <3

Like three shirts and a sweater lol. It's so much colder than I thought it'd be!

Ilya

shane i am trying to sext. you are killing my boner

Shane <3

Oh. I'm sorry.

Ilya

is okay ❤️❤️❤️

Shane <3

Maybe you can warm me up.

I heard skin conducts body heat better than clothes, so we probably won't need those.

Ilya

ohmy gdo

Shane <3

??? Are you okay?

Ilya

comr

i sent yup uber

yuo**

udo**

Shane <3

You got it, baby.

Ilya

yo**hhhhbbbbbbnnnnn

Shane <3

❤️

Be there soon.

And if Wyatt blames him for the potential loss, Ilya can live with that.

(There is no loss.)

✮

In thirty seconds, Montreal will hoist the cup. More specifically, Shane Hollander will be hoisting the fucking cup in the midst of cheering and adoring fans spilling their gratitude and their praises for their captain.

The thought is almost enough to make Ilya hard. A horn blares, lights flash, and just like that, Montreal has their fourth cup, lead by Shane.

As much as Shane had insisted it would be okay for Ilya to share the moment with him, Ilya knew it would pull attention away where it was needed most, on the person who worked so hard to get to this moment. He knows this won't be the last time Shane reaps the benefits of all his time and dedication and talent, and he can't wait to be there time and time again to celebrate with him. Ilya isn't scared of the future when he knows it will be kind.

From beside him, Svetlana nudges him curiously. "Are you…?" she starts, raising a brow and cocking her head toward the ice where families of the players are starting to flood in.

Ilya smiles and shakes his head. "No, it is his moment." Though, he doesn't miss the kiss blown in his direction. He knows that's his.

Svetlana nudges his shoulder. "Some day though, right?"

"Of course," Ilya nods easily.

In his pocket, his phone vibrates rapidly.

Wyatt

FOURTH CUP??? LET'S GOOOO TELL HIM I SAID CONGRATS!!

Oh fuck. You know what this means?

You're his good luck charm what the hell.

You've gotta marry him now, dude.

Ilya

do not worry

i can do that

✮

"Are you excited?"

Ilya blinks, snapping his gaze away from the passing cars out the window and instead focusing on where Shane is sitting beside him, in the back of the heavily tinted SUV that picked them up from their hotel. He smiles, pulling their clasped hands to his mouth and kissing at Shane's knuckles, his skin sweetly tanned from their few days of leisure in the LA summer sun. "Excited?"

"It's been, what, like over a year since they finally gave you the script for Moscow Mule," Shane explains with a small shrug. Ilya lets himself appreciate how polished he looks like this—black hair styled with a nicely placed lock hanging over his forehead, an all black suit, the neckline plunged just enough to show the curve of his pecs but nothing more, a silver Rolex watch on his wrist (courtesy of all the photo shoots and commercials he does for them). "And we—you—finally get to see the finished product. Must be exciting."

Ilya grins, seeing right through him. "Ah, you are excited, yes? First movie premiere, first time going to fancy party after."

"Actually I've been to the after parties," Shane says, pausing to clarify, "with Rose."

"Wow," Ilya says blandly, halfheartedly trying to tug his hand away only for Shane to tighten his grip.

"Oh don't start," he says with a tilted smile. "We literally met at one of those parties, so you should be grateful!"

"Grateful that my boyfriend loves to remind me I am not his first actor lover—”

"Ilya, you know how I feel about that word—”

"—and that he has experienced life without me."

"I'm sure you'll be okay," Shane says, rolling his eyes before bumping their shoulders. "And you're one to talk. Should we bring up your fucking roster of dates—"

Ilya is quick to interrupt him with a kiss, long and slow enough to have Shane somewhat dazed by the time they part. Ilya isn't far behind either, losing his train of thought for a moment and placing one more chaste kiss to Shane's lips before gathering himself.

"Roster does not exist, has not existed for a long time, da? Plus," he adds, leaning closer to whisper, letting his words caress Shane's ear and reveling in the way he subtly shudders with a hitch in his breath, "Who is going to walk the carpet with me? Who is going to be in headlines tomorrow, hm? And in my bed tonight?"

"I wonder," Shane says back, voice low and teasing. He regards Ilya with a soft smile, gaze dancing across his features for a few seconds. "You never answered my question. Are you excited?"

There are many things to be excited about, Ilya thinks contentedly. Shane is here with him. In less than an hour, everyone will know where Ilya's heart and body ran off to for the last couple of years. They will know that Ilya, for the first time in his life, is in love, and with Shane fucking Hollander for that matter. He'll get to share this beautiful thing they built with the public after enjoying the peaceful bliss for long enough.

"Yes," he finally says after some time, bringing his hand up to hold Shane's face, to trace the pad of his thumb over the freckled skin. "Very excited."

"Me too," Shane admits with a small smile. The car slows, and out the tinted window a sea of fans and flashing cameras come into view. He squeezes Ilya's hand and laughs, just barely. "Jeez—I don't know why I'm so nervous now."

Ilya kisses his knuckles again, speaks into the skin like a prayer. "Is okay. I will be there, yes? Right next to you."

Shane nods, the nervous edges of his mouth smoothing out as he inhales. "Thank you. I love you."

"I love you," Ilya says back easily, a carefully crafted habit. A security guard taps on the window, letting them know that the door will be opened soon. "Ready?"

Shane nods and the door opens, plunging them into the sea of perception. A series of flashes light up the side of Ilya's face, chin held high as he steps out of the car, waving to fans before turning and holding a hand out. Shane reaches out, taking his hand and steps into the chaos with him, slotting himself into Ilya's side.

Ilya grins as the realization starts to set in around them.

"Ilya! Ilya over here—is that fucking Shane Hollander?"