Chapter Nine
December 2013—36,000 feet over Pennsylvania Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Ilya could hear Ryan Price’s foot drumming against the floor, even with an empty seat between them. Even though Ilya was wearing headphones, and watching a very loud Fast and Furious movie.
Ilya glanced over. Price’s knee was bouncing, jostling the paperback novel he was balancing, open and upside down, on his thigh. Price was gripping both armrests and his eyes were closed. He looked bad.
And he was definitely going to drop that book on the floor. And then he would lose his place.
Ilya sighed, hit pause on the movie, and removed his headphones. He didn’t know Price very well. No one did; he had only joined the team at the start of this season. He was a gigantic defenseman, but his real position on the ice was enforcer. His job was to make sure no one interfered with the more talented players. Ilya could take care of himself, but playing with guys like Price meant he didn’t have to.
Ilya talked shit on the ice, got under other guys’ skin, and then Ryan Price had to take their punches. Pretty sweet deal for Ilya.
“Price,” he said. “Your book.”
No response.
“Price,” Ilya said again. Still nothing, so Ilya reached out and poked his arm. “You okay?”
Price’s eyes flew open and he jumped a little, causing his book to tumble to the floor. Ilya watched it fall in dismay. He had failed.
“Sorry,” Price said. “Was I tapping my foot?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry,” Price said again. “Just, um, nervous flier. Sometimes.”
“Ah.” Ilya bent and retrieved the book. He glanced at the cover before handing it back. Anne of Green Gables. Wasn’t that a children’s book for girls or something? “You lost your place.”
Price gave a thin smile. “It’s okay. I’ve read it before. It’s kind of just…
I bring it on planes as kind of a comfort thing.”
Ilya could not figure this guy out. He was even taller than Ilya, and much bulkier, with shoulder-length red hair and a beard that made him look like a biker gang member. He could knock a guy out with one punch.
Some of the toughest opponents in the league were scared to face Price in a fight.
“Is it the red hair?” Ilya asked. He didn’t understand Price, but he could at least try to help him calm down. “Anne of Green Gables?”
Price stared at him like he had no idea what he was talking about, and then he laughed. It was quiet and uneasy, but it was still a laugh. “Yeah, maybe.”
This was, Ilya was pretty sure, Price’s fourth NHL season, but he had played for three different teams already. He was quiet in the dressing room, scary on the ice, and clearly a nervous wreck on planes, so Ilya imagined he didn’t make friends easily.
“Are you like this every flight?” Ilya asked. He couldn’t imagine what that would be like. Price was definitely in the wrong line of work if he hated flying.
Price shook his head. “Not every flight. I mean, yes, I’m always nervous, but not always this bad.” His cheeks flushed, as if he hadn’t meant to even admit that he was more terrified than usual. They were en route to Montreal from Raleigh, North Carolina, which wasn’t a particularly long flight, but it had been a turbulent takeoff. Maybe that had been the difference. Ilya didn’t really want to talk about it, and he figured Price didn’t want to either.
So he gestured toward his iPad. “Fast Five. Have you seen it?”
“Yeah. I think so. Is that the one with the bank safe chase scene?”
“Yes. Is the best one.” Ilya flipped down the table for the unoccupied seat between them, and moved his iPad onto it. He only had the one set of headphones, but he always had subtitles on. It helped to improve his English.
He handed Price the headphones, figuring he could use a fully immersive distraction.
“Oh, uh…” Price ran a hand through his bushy hair.
“Is okay. I will tell you if pilot says we are crashing.”
The joke was a risk, but it paid off. Price snorted and took the headphones. “Thanks.”
They watched the movie, Price listening and Ilya reading, and Price’s leg remained still for the rest of the flight. He even asked the flight attendant for a Coke, which had to be a good sign.
When Ilya got tired of reading movie dialogue, he stared out the window into blackness. He had, in truth, been trying to distract himself with the movie, because heading to Montreal always put him on edge. It wasn’t nerves, it was…something else. Anticipation, maybe. He didn’t want to say excitement.
They would play tomorrow night, their second game of the season.
Montreal had been in Boston for their season opener in October. Boston had won in overtime, and Hollander had been in a terrible mood when he’d shown up at the room Ilya had booked in the hotel down the street from where Montreal was staying.
Ilya liked it when Hollander was angry. He liked it when Hollander took out his frustrations on Ilya’s body. He liked him cursing him as he fucked Ilya’s mouth.
These were the kinds of thoughts that Ilya had been trying to distract himself from with the Fast and the Furious movie. Because thinking about this fucked-up thing with Hollander made him feel pretty disgusted with himself. It also made him uncomfortably aroused, which only made him
feel more disgusted with himself.
Yeah. Super fucking healthy.
“Roz, you awake?”
Ilya glanced up so see Cliff Marlow’s face peeking over the seat in front of him. Cliff was a year younger than him, a bit of an idiot, and probably
Ilya’s best friend.
“No,” Ilya deadpanned.
“I’ve been talking to this chick in Montreal. We’ve been sending each other messages on Instagram for a couple of weeks. She’s hot as fuck.
Check it out.” He thrust his phone into Ilya’s face. There was, indeed, a hot
woman on the screen.
“Good job,” Ilya said.
“So she wants to meet up after the game tomorrow night. She’s hot for hockey players, and she said she could bring her friend. You want in?”
Oh, no thanks. I will be busy fucking Shane Hollander in a hotel room.
“We have a curfew tomorrow night. Early flight the next morning, yes?”
Ilya reminded him.
“Yeah, I know, but…” Cliff looked wistfully at his phone. “I gotta see her. Maybe I can just…no. You know what, Ilya? I’m gonna be completely honest here: I’m probably going to break curfew. It’s not like I’ll miss the bus to the airport.”
Ilya rolled his eyes. “I am assistant captain, shithead. Do not tell me
about your plan to break curfew.”
“I thought that ‘A’ was for asshole.”
“Funny.”
“So, no to going out with me tomorrow night?”
“No. But have fun.”
“I remember when you used to be fun, Roz.”
“I am fucking fun.” Gonna have a solid hour of fun before I’m back in time for curfew.
Cliff nodded at Price, who was watching the movie intently and didn’t seem to notice him at all. Cliff’s face was a question mark, and Ilya had no idea what the question was. So Cliff, being an asshole, held a hand to the side of his face to block it from Price’s view, and mouthed Weird guy, right?
Ilya shrugged. Maybe Ryan Price was weird, or maybe he just wasn’t exactly what people were expecting him to be. Ilya was certainly in no position to fault someone for that.
The following evening—Montreal
“I’m telling you right now,” J.J. said, “if fucking Rozanov starts shit with you tonight, I’m taking him out.”
Shane pulled his shoulder pads over his head and began securing them in place. “If you go for Rozanov, Ryan Price is gonna go after you.”
“Fuck Price. I’ll send that dumb motherfucker crying back to wherever
the fuck he’s from.”
“Nova Scotia, I think.”
“I’m just saying—” J.J. pointed his shin guard at Shane, for emphasis “—Rozanov gives you trouble, I’m ending him. Price or no Price.”
Shane politely ignored the fear that J.J. was trying not to show. J.J. was one of the biggest players in the league and could handle himself in a fight, but Ryan Price was a fucking terror.
Price was just one of the things that made these games against Boston extra tense. Montreal was a city that buzzed with excitement about their hockey team all winter—you could feel the electricity in the air every home game day. And whenever Boston was in town, Shane felt like the city was pulled as tight as he was. Every cell in his body sparked with the need to get on the ice and face Rozanov. And when the games were over, he pulsed with a different kind of need.
A loud bark of laughter interrupted Shane’s thoughts. Hayden thrust his phone in his face. “Hey, look at what the fans are doing outside.”
It was a video, posted to Twitter, of a group of people outside the arena burning what appeared to be an effigy of Ilya Rozanov.
“Well, that’s a bit much,” Shane said.
J.J. grabbed the phone. “Ha! This is happening now?”
“A few minutes ago,” Hayden said.
“Beautiful. Love it.”
Hayden took his phone back and studied the screen. “They didn’t make the dummy ugly enough.”
Sure, Hayden. “They’ve probably burned effigies of me in Boston,”
Shane said.
“Oh yeah! They totally have. Here, let me go to YouTube…”
“Yeah, no. I actually am trying to focus on winning a hockey game right now. No YouTube, please.”
The team’s PR manager, Marcel, came into the dressing room, and Shane sighed.
“Shane,” Marcel said. “NBC wants to talk to you. You good?”
“Sure. I’ll be out in a sec.”
The broadcasters always wanted to talk to Shane before the games, especially before games against Boston. He tried to think of a new and exciting way of answering the question, “What does Montreal have to do to win tonight?” as he made his way to the hallway outside the dressing room.
“Last question, Shane: What does Montreal have to do to win tonight?”
Shane put on his best “thinking” face, to give the impression that he certainly hadn’t expected this question. “Get the puck to the net, take
shots, stay out of the penalty box…” Score more goals than the other team before the game ends. “We’re in good shape tonight, everyone is healthy, so I think we’re definitely going to make it tough for Boston.”
“Thank you, Shane, and good luck tonight.”
“Thanks, Chris.”
Shane tried not to begrudge these interviews. Whenever he had to do one, which was often, he would think of the kids who were watching. He used to love seeing his favorite stars interviewed on television before and after the games.
Back in the dressing room, he picked up his phone to send a quick text to his parents. He messaged them before every game.
He saw that he had a message waiting for him, and it wasn’t from his parents.
Lily: How many times can you come in one hour?
What. The. Fuck.
This was dirty fucking pool, even for Rozanov. They didn’t text each other before the games. Especially not about shit like that.
He definitely wasn’t going to write back. And he definitely wasn’t getting hard in his jock strap.
Fuck. He was hard. And now he was writing back.
Ilya nearly choked when he saw Hollander’s reply.
Jane: I dunno. Twice, maybe?
So fucking pure! So honest and sweet.
Ilya: You are very bad at sexting.
Jane: Who taught you that word?
Ilya: Your mom.
Okay, that was pretty stupid. But Hollander loved his mom and that probably would bother him.
Jane: Stop. I’ll text you after the game.
A few seconds went by.
Jane: If you’re lucky.
Ilya snorted. Hollander was probably so proud of himself for that dig.
Ilya: Are you hard right now?
No answer. Ah well. Ilya knew he was crossing a line with these texts, but it was just so damn fun to tease Hollander. He could just picture him now, in the Montreal dressing room, blushing as he shoved his phone into a bag or something so no one would see it.
He hoped Hollander was still mad about it later, when they met in a hotel room.
Ilya frowned at the abandoned-looking three-story building the cabdriver had delivered him to. He checked the address again, and confirmed that it was the same as what Hollander had texted him. The fuck?
Hollander’s only instruction had been for Ilya to go around the back of the building, text him, and wait at the door. So Ilya did that, trying not to think about being murdered in a dark empty lot behind a creepy building.
If he believed Hollander had a diabolical bone in his body, Ilya would suspect he was about to be pranked.
The back door opened a minute after Ilya sent the text, and all it revealed was Hollander, who glanced nervously around as if he was expecting a S.W.A.T. team to descend on them.
“Get in here,” he said. Ilya stepped past him, into a dimly lit stairwell, and Hollander locked the door behind them.
“What is this place?” Ilya asked.
Instead of answering, Hollander pushed him hard with both hands.
“Fuck you for texting me before the game, you asshole!”
Ilya grinned. “You were hard, weren’t you? For how long? The whole game?”
Hollander glared at him, then said, “Follow me.”
He led them up way too many stairs, to the top floor, and then used a key to unlock another door. It opened to reveal a large loft apartment, only partially finished, from the looks of it. The walls looked like they had been freshly plastered, and hadn’t been painted yet. There was a ladder leaning against one wall, and an open box of tools beside it. The kitchen area had a brand-new countertop and cupboards, but no appliances.
“Is this your place?” Ilya had never been to Hollander’s home. It had always been hotel rooms before. The idea excited him.
“No. I mean, I don’t live here. But, yes, I own it.”
“You will move here?”
“No. It’s just an investment, or whatever. And I thought it could be a safe place to…meet.”
Hollander was damn cute when he was embarrassed.
“Did you buy a building so we would have somewhere to fuck, Hollander?”
Ilya assumed he was trying to look stern, but the flush of his cheeks was ruining the effect. “No. It’s an investment. I’m having it renovated and then I’ll sell the condos. And I already have a tenant lined up for the
commercial space on the main floor.”
“Wow. Businessman.”
Hollander folded his arms. It did not make him look any more intimidating. “Enough questions. We’re not here to talk.”
“Yes. Where do you want me? On that ladder? On the pile of wood over
there?”
“In here, idiot.”
Hollander crossed the room and opened yet another door. This one led to…
…a fully finished bedroom. Like, a really nice one.
“I, uh, I kinda made the bedroom the priority. And the bathroom. So we could—”
But Ilya didn’t let Hollander finish his sentence. He gripped Hollander’s arms and pushed him back against the closest wall and kissed him.
Hollander had bought them a fucking building.
Ilya had been sure, all summer, that this would be the year Hollander would call it off. But he had thought the same thing last summer too, after their rookie seasons had ended with Hollander shoving Ilya away after they’d kissed on a Las Vegas rooftop. But when their teams had met for the first time that second season, Ilya had texted him a hotel room number and Hollander showed up twenty minutes later.
“You were smoking,” Hollander complained now, as he broke away
from their kiss.
“Only one.”
“You aren’t supposed to be smoking.”
“You aren’t supposed to be talking.” Ilya pushed Hollander’s chest and knocked him flat onto his back on the bed. Ilya took a moment to gaze down at him—at his flushed cheeks and mussed hair, and at the strip of exposed skin where his T-shirt had ridden up. Then Ilya pounced.
They kissed in their usual combative style for a while—Hollander rolling them to pin Ilya down and attack his mouth, before Ilya would flip them and regain control. Shirts came off, then pants, then socks and underwear.
“An hour,” Ilya murmured. He was on top now, biting and licking his way along Hollander’s collarbone. “Then I have to go.”
“Then hurry the fuck up.”
Ilya smiled against Hollander’s skin. He was such a little brat. Ilya raised himself up and straddled Shane’s waist, making sure to squeeze just a little too hard with his thighs. He took his own dick in his hand and stroked it slowly, thoughtfully. “You want this, Hollander?”
And, oh god, Ilya could see the war going on in Hollander’s head. He could see how much he wanted to tell Ilya to fuck off and die, but more than that, he could see the way Hollander’s tongue poked out to moisten his lower lip.
“Starving for it, yes, Hollander?” Ilya slid forward, positioning his body closer to Hollander’s face. To his mouth. Hollander’s chest was heaving beneath him, and he glared up at Ilya with dark, intense eyes. “Is okay,”
Ilya said soothingly. He tapped the head of his cock against Hollander’s
lips. “You can. Take it.”
“I hate you.”
“Yes. I know. Show me.”
“Fuck,” Hollander whispered, seemingly to himself. Then he parted his lips, and licked the moisture off Ilya’s slit.
Ilya’s hand shot out and gripped the headboard. It seemed like a nice headboard, sturdy. He expected he’d find out exactly how sturdy soon enough.
Hollander teased the head of Ilya’s dick for a maddeningly long time, but, damn, what a show. Ilya watched Hollander’s eyes flutter closed as he sucked the head into his mouth. His tongue rolled around it, flicking the underside of Ilya’s dick and then dipping into the slit. It was so fucking good, and not nearly enough.
Hollander growled, seemingly as frustrated with the angle as Ilya was, and pushed him down to the mattress before taking Ilya’s cock into his mouth again. This time Hollander made a meal of Ilya’s dick, his head bobbing in a quick rhythm that Ilya was not going to be able to endure for very long. Not if he also wanted to fuck Hollander in their allotted hour of time.
But Hollander wasn’t letting up. He tugged at Ilya’s balls with just the right amount of pressure, and Ilya could feel Hollander’s erection sliding along his thigh.
“Hollander…” he warned. He was flying way too high, too fast.
Hollander moaned, or maybe he’d tried to form a word around Ilya’s dick, but all it did was cause vibrations that Ilya really didn’t need right now.
“Fuck. Fuck. You have to stop. If you want me to fuck you…”
Hollander ripped his mouth away from Ilya’s cock, but then he went very still. “Shit. Oh god. Fuck.”
Ilya felt wetness splash against his thigh. Hollander’s body jerked a couple of times, and then he buried his face in Ilya’s shoulder. “Fuck.”
“Hollander?”
“I’m sorry,” he groaned. “I can’t believe I just…you didn’t even touch me!”
And Ilya just…laughed. Because it was fucking funny.
“Don’t fucking laugh at me.”
“Been a while?” Ilya teased.
Hollander kept his forehead planted on Ilya’s shoulder, hiding his face completely. “Shut up.”
But Ilya laughed harder. He laughed until Hollander joined in, and then they were both holding each other and laughing until they were wiping tears from their eyes.
“You could win the fastest shot competition.”
Hollander punched him lightly in the chest. Ilya rolled to his side, dumping Hollander on the mattress beside him. “Is too bad. I wanted to fuck you. Do you still want?”
“I don’t think I can. I think I’m too fucking embarrassed to get it up
again.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“No. But can I…finish what I was doing?”
Ilya flopped onto his back again and folded his arms behind his head.
“Go for it.”
And Hollander did, but this time he was far less frantic and took his time. Ilya enjoyed every second of it.
Ilya would be lying if he said Hollander had the most talented mouth that had ever been wrapped around his dick. But he was so…eager to please. So determined to be good at this. For Ilya.
There was something very sweet about the way Hollander was sucking him off right now—like he wasn’t trying to just get it over with, even though Hollander had already had his own orgasm. He seemed to legitimately enjoy making Ilya feel good.
Ilya always did feel good with Hollander. He didn’t want to say it was better than it was with anyone else, but it was…different. And not only because Hollander was a man. Ilya hadn’t been with a man who wasn’t Hollander in…huh. Over a year. Almost two, maybe? But that wasn’t it.
Hollander glanced up at him, and Ilya smiled and stroked his hair. The clock was ticking, and Ilya really did need to leave, so he gently held Hollander’s head and guided him so he’d hit the rhythm Ilya needed and…there. Yes. Oh fuck…
“That’s good, Hollander. Just like that. Make me come.”
Hollander moaned and dug his fingers into Ilya’s thighs, keeping the pace with his mouth that Ilya had set. The familiar, exhilarating pressure of impending release gripped Ilya’s body—the high that he couldn’t stop chasing—and he squeezed his eyes shut.
“I’m going to come. Oh, fuck, Hollander.”
Hollander pulled off, replacing his mouth with his hand. “I want to see it.”
Seconds later, Ilya erupted. He cried out, much louder than usual, as a white-hot orgasm rocketed through his body.
“Holy shit, Hollander,” Ilya gasped when he was able to speak again.
“I’m dead. You killed me.”
Hollander was sitting up now, and staring at the mess on Ilya’s stomach.
“That was really hot.”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad we were in an empty building where no one could hear you.”
And then Ilya felt the rare and unwelcome sensation of his cheeks heating in embarrassment. He didn’t usually yell like that when he was coming.
He didn’t want to think about it, so he said, “I have to go.”
“All right.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were waiting at the bottom of the stairs for Ilya’s taxi to arrive.
“Is a nice building,” Ilya said, because he hated the silence. “You don’t want to live here?”
“No. But renovations might take a while, so I’ll probably be able to use it for…this. For a bit.” More silence, and then Hollander said, “You must be excited for the Olympics. In Russia.”
“Yes.” Ilya was excited. But thinking about the expectations of his home country, of his father, made his stomach hurt. And made him want a cigarette.
“Been dreaming of the Olympics my whole life,” Hollander said. “I
can’t wait.”
“For what? A bronze medal?”
“Fuck you.”
Ilya laughed. “Hey, remember when you shot your load for like no reason at all?”
Hollander rolled his eyes, but Ilya could tell he was trying not to laugh.
“Oh my god. Go to hell.”
“Amazing trick.”
“Your cab must be out there, right?”
Ilya put his hand on the door, but before he pushed it open, he leaned down and kissed Hollander quickly on the mouth.
“Goodnight, Hollander.”
“Goodnight.”
Ilya was grinning like an idiot for the entire cab ride back to his hotel.
