Chapter Eighteen
February 2017—Montreal Two weeks after All-Star weekend, Shane received a text from “Lily.”
Can you believe that shit with Zullo?
Frank Zullo was a defenseman for the New York Admirals who was known to be a hot mess. He had gotten arrested the previous night for bar fighting or something, and now he was off the team.
Shane: Yeah. It’s wild. I can’t believe they put him on waivers.
Lily: I fucking hate that guy.
Shane: Always seemed like an asshole, yeah.
He could recall a few times when Zullo had called him a “cocksucker” or a “fag” or some other nice thing.
Lily: Fuck him. Scott Hunter must be happy.
Shane: Oh yeah. You could tell he always hated him.
Lily: One less homophobe in league.
Shane: Yeah, like one million to go, though.
He was in the middle of making his post-run smoothie. He turned on the blender and watched his phone for the next text.
This was new. He wondered why they hadn’t thought to do this before: talk to each other about hockey, even if it was mostly gossip. In the past they had only texted each other to discreetly arrange their hookups.
He wondered what had inspired Ilya to engage him this time.
Lily: Where are you? Home?
Shane: Yeah. Just got back from a run.
Lily: Nice. All sweaty? [:p]
Shane laughed. About to take a shower.
Lily: We should Skype while you do that. Video phone.
Shane: My phone would get wet.
Lily: Why have we never Skyped before?
Shane was surprised by this. You’d want to?
Lily: Maybe. Would you?
He assumed Ilya was talking about, like, phone sex. Or video sex. Or whatever. Shane had never done anything like that with anyone before. But it was a possibility for them. If neither of them saved the call, it would be safe, right?
Shane changed the subject. Nice goal last night.
Lily: Yeah, well. You know.
Then,
Lily: I have to tell you this story Hammersmith told us last night…
They texted back and forth for most of an hour. By the end of it, Shane was stretched out on his couch, his thumbs flying over his phone’s keyboard, and frequently laughing into the empty room. He eventually reminded Ilya that he really did need to take a shower. He was surprised at how hard it was to end their conversation.
He had the embarrassing urge to write Wish you were here or something.
He resisted. Instead he wrote, Later, and punctuated it with the emoji of a smiley face wearing sunglasses. Ilya signed off with the emoji of a kissy face.
Boston
Ilya had been texting Shane one-handed.
He hadn’t told Shane that he had fucked up his elbow during the game last night. It had just got caught a weird way against the boards, and now it hurt to straighten it.
He had been ordered to rest, and he was bored. He told himself boredom was the only reason he had texted Shane.
Because of his injury, and the fact that it was, like, nine in the morning, he had been mostly kidding when he had suggested phone sex. But he wondered if Shane would actually do it someday. He couldn’t imagine…
Or, maybe he could imagine. Because suddenly he was. Quite vividly.
He could just see it. Shane with his determined little face, pretending not to be terrified. Where would he be? On his bed? On his actual bed?
The one that Ilya had never shared because he had never been to Shane’s real home?
Ilya closed his eyes and sank into the pillows on his own bed.
What was Shane’s room like? Boring, probably. White walls. Probably a framed photo of his parents on his nightstand. Ilya quickly changed it to a framed photo of himself. An autographed one.
Shane probably had houseplants. His bedroom probably had a lot of natural light. There was probably a small bookshelf with some dull motivational books and some sports biographies. His bedsheets were probably blue.
He probably wore, like, full pajamas to bed. The kind with buttons.
But maybe he didn’t always button them up. Maybe he just lounged in bed with his pajama shirt open and the pants riding a little low. His bedside lamp would be on so he could read his boring book.
And then, when he got tired of reading, he would put the book down neatly on his nightstand, then yawn and stretch himself out. The shirt would fall open a little more.
And maybe Shane’s eyes would close, and he would let his hand travel lazily down his chest and over his abs. He’d brush it over his thighs and sigh as the bulge in his pajama pants grew.
Ilya was not doing a good job of resting.
Stupid elbow injury. Why did it have to be his right one?
This Skype thing needed to happen. He would coax some dirty talk out of that pretty little mouth of Shane’s. He would force Shane out of his comfort zone. He could make it a challenge. Shane couldn’t resist a challenge.
He gripped himself awkwardly with his left hand and gave himself a slow stroke.
He wanted a whole day with Shane. A weekend. A week. He wanted to be somewhere that no one could possibly interrupt them. Maybe that would be all he would need. Just the opportunity to get Shane Hollander out of his system. He needed to drink his fill and walk away.
Because he would have to walk away. This thing was already getting too complicated.
March 2017—Boston
It was full speed ahead now.
Boston and Montreal were neck and neck for the top spot in their division, and the playoffs were only a month away.
Shane wanted a third championship ring as much as Ilya wanted a second one. Winning the Stanley Cup the past two seasons hadn’t lessened his drive at all. There was always a bigger goal to reach for.
The record for most Stanley Cup wins by a single player was eleven.
Shane knew that number might be a little lofty, since that record came from a time when there were far fewer teams in the league. But winning six would put him with some of the repeat champions of the ’90s, so that
was his secret goal.
No. His actual secret goal was seven.
Shane was focused. He had been playing very well all season and was leading the league in scoring by a narrow margin over Rozanov. He knew that must be bothering the shit out of Ilya.
Shane had been trying not to think about Rozanov too much. Usually that was their unspoken agreement this late into a season. They would fool
around whenever they were in the same city up until March or so, then they both focused on hating each other until next season.
Which was why Shane had been surprised to get a text from Ilya that morning.
Lily: What time do you fly out tomorrow?
Shane stared at his phone, dumbfounded. He certainly hadn’t expected to be seeing Ilya before or after the game tonight.
Shane: Early. Why?
No reply. Shane felt kind of bad about the “why.” That was needlessly bitchy. He knew why.
A few minutes later, Ilya wrote back. What are you doing now?
Now? Now was one o’clock in the afternoon on a game day. Against Boston.
Shane: Nothing. I’m in my hotel room.
He stopped himself from writing “why” again.
Lily: Come over?
Shane’s heart stopped. Come over? Come over? Now?
Shane: I can’t! Don’t be stupid.
Lily: Come over. Not for long. An hour?
Shane actually let out a surprised laugh.
Shane: No. Come on. We both know that’s a bad idea.
Lily: Everything we do is a bad idea. Come over.
When Shane didn’t reply, Ilya added, It will be worth it. I promise. 😉
Shane shook his head. There was no way he was going to go over there.
He could list a million reasons why he couldn’t go over there, and he ran them through his head as he grabbed his jacket and left the hotel room.
“I thought you were not coming,” Ilya said with an annoying little smirk.
“Yeah, well…”
Ilya’s smirk grew into a genuine, warm smile. Shane’s heart lurched.
And then they were kissing and pulling at clothing and stumbling toward the bedroom, not breaking contact.
They had to be quick. Shane not only needed to leave soon, he shouldn’t even have been there in the first place. Ilya pushed him down on the bed and went to work on him with his mouth.
Shane watched him as he licked and sucked his cock, and allowed himself a moment to wonder at Ilya’s desperate need for this before a game. Why was he so hungry for Shane that he had broken their sacred
rule?
God, he was good with his mouth.
Something is wrong with Ilya. The thought hit Shane suddenly.
He should ask him about it.
After.
For now, Shane reached a hand down and caressed Ilya’s face. He let his fingers drift into his soft hair. He played with it, gently, and Ilya looked up at him. His eyes were dark, but there was more than lust there. Shane nodded at him, and Ilya turned his gaze down and focused on getting Shane off.
Shane came quickly, and Ilya swallowed it all with an encouraging hum.
When he was done, he kissed his way up Shane’s body until he reached his mouth. Shane kissed him hungrily, and then he flipped them both over and slid down to return the favor.
In the wake of his own release, Shane could feel himself starting to panic. This was weird and bad and weird. They should a thousand percent not be doing this.
Which was, like, one percent more than the usual amount that they should not be fucking doing this!
Except Ilya was breathing Shane’s name—his first name—like a prayer and gazing at him like he was just as close as Shane was to saying something truly embarrassing and stupid and definite.
Shane dug his fingers into the hard muscle of Ilya’s thighs as he took his cock deeper into his mouth. If he kept his mouth busy, he wouldn’t be able to use it to ruin everything.
Ilya warned him, because he knew Shane didn’t always like to take it in his mouth. But this time Shane did want it, and he sucked harder until Ilya cried out in a mixture of Russian and English and came down Shane’s throat.
Shane flopped beside Ilya on the bed. Ilya started laughing.
“What?” Shane asked.
“Fuck.”
Shane didn’t reply, but he felt the same way.
“I have to go,” he said, after a quiet minute.
“Yes.”
Shane sat up, and moved to leave the bed, when he remembered. “Hey,
um. Are you…all right?”
“Hm?”
“Are you okay? I mean… I know we don’t really…talk. But if you need to—”
“I’m fine,” Ilya said. He said it calmly and easily. Shane didn’t buy it.
“Is it…is your dad…”
Ilya sighed heavily and scrubbed a hand over his face. “My father is
dying. But that is not the problem.”
“Oh.”
“It is Polina. My stepmother. She is…” He twisted his hand around in the
air, searching for the word.
“Sad?” Shane guessed.
Ilya laughed darkly. “No. She is…planning. For her future. My father
does not have any money left.”
“Oh.”
“She has been calling me.”
“Ah.” Shane understood now.
“She wants money. They all want money. My brother. My father before he…”
Shane reached over and took Ilya’s hand. “Will you give them any?”
“I already have. Plenty of it. They want more.” He laughed again. “They don’t give a shit about me or my career. They just know I make a lot of money.”
“I’m sorry.” Shane brushed a thumb over Ilya’s knuckles.
“The last time I talked to my father on the phone was a couple of weeks ago. He asked if I could pick up some bread on the way home.”
Shane didn’t know what to say. It was truly heartbreaking.
“The worst part is…” Ilya said quietly, “I like talking to him better. Like this. He was a real fucking asshole when he was…himself.”
“Are you going back to Russia this summer?”
Ilya shrugged. “Yes.”
“Do you…have to?”
“You should leave,” Ilya said abruptly. He didn’t sound annoyed or angry. Just tired, and maybe a little sad. He pulled his fingers away from
Shane’s.
“I know. But…”
“Go. I didn’t ask you to come over to talk.”
“Well…you can. If you ever want to. I mean, you can just call me. Or text. Or if we’re in the same city and you want to just talk instead of…”
Ilya cracked a crooked grin at that. “Instead of?”
“As well as?”
“I like that better.”
He leaned forward and kissed Shane. It was as soft and sweet a kiss as Shane had ever received from anyone.
“I apologize in advance for tonight,” Shane murmured. “We’re gonna
destroy you guys.”
“Dream on, Hollander.”
Ilya made sure that Boston won the game. Not a trouncing, but a respectable two-goal lead when the final siren rang to end the game. Ilya scored twice, Shane had scored once. Ilya’s favorite kind of game.
He had every intention of meeting up with Hollander tonight, even though they’d already stolen an hour together that afternoon. He still knew, in the back of his mind, that this thing with Shane needed to end. That it couldn’t be more than sex. But somehow it had just evolved on its own,
and suddenly he no longer worried about looking too eager. He could admit to himself that he wanted to see Shane as much as possible, and he found that he wasn’t worried about letting Shane know it anymore. For now, at least. The day would come when they would have to end it, but for now Ilya was happy to steal as many moments as possible.
He said goodnight to his remaining teammates, and left the arena. He was looking at his phone as he walked out of the players’ entrance, trying to decide what obnoxious jab he should text to Hollander, when the phone
started ringing.
It was his brother.
Ilya almost didn’t answer, but he could think of one reason why his brother might be calling that had nothing to do with money.
He answered.
Shane had been expecting a text from Ilya. He was sitting alone in his hotel room—Hayden had left to call his wife—trying not to let the mistakes of that night’s game haunt him.
He’s not going to text, he told himself. You already saw him today. Why would you see him again?
But he thought maybe Ilya felt the same way about their…well, not relationship, but…arrangement? That maybe Ilya liked spending time with Shane. That they weren’t just doing this because it was, in its own complicated way, convenient. Or dirty, or wrong, or irresistibly hot. That maybe Ilya’s stomach fluttered with excitement too, every time their teams were scheduled to meet. That maybe Ilya was also sometimes randomly struck by a memory of a teasing remark, or a smile, or of gentle fingers stroking his hair, and would have to hide his giddy little smile.
That maybe he watched Shane’s games and was secretly proud when Shane did well. Because that’s how Shane felt when Ilya had a good night.
Which was ridiculous.
Shane waited until midnight and Ilya still didn’t text him. He thought about being the one to make contact, but decided against it. Wanting to hook up with Ilya twice in one day was nuts. And it was way too late at night now anyway. They were flying to Detroit in the morning.
Shane lay awake for a while, staring into the darkness, wondering if it was that Ilya hadn’t wanted to see him again, or if maybe something had happened that had kept Ilya from texting.
He decided that he was making a big deal out of nothing, and eventually fell asleep.
