Chapter Seven
February 2011—Montreal Fifty minutes on the treadmill and Shane still couldn’t get his brain to quiet down.
He had a very nice gym in his apartment, which was close to the Voyageurs’ practice rink in Brossard. Some younger players shared apartments or houses with other young teammates, but Shane preferred to live alone. He had been under intense focus since he was sixteen, and it had made him cling to whatever private moments he could steal. Also, he walked a dangerous line with his teammates as it was; his…status…in the hockey world had a tendency to make his teammates understandably jealous. He was sure any tension would only be made worse if he lived with any of them.
Shane was supposed to be focusing on the game that night against Toronto as he pushed his body on the treadmill. Instead, he kept thinking back to a certain Russian’s promise to come to Shane’s home and…
There were too many things to process. Ilya Rozanov had gotten him off in a hotel room. Again. Ilya Rozanov wanted to sneak out of his team’s hotel the next time they were in Montreal (next week!) and meet Shane at
his apartment so he could fuck him.
Ilya Rozanov wanted to fuck him.
Shane was both terrified and undeniably aroused by the idea.
Undeniably extremely aroused by the idea.
But that didn’t change the fact that it was a really, really bad idea.
Shane had accepted the fact that he was more than okay with having sexual encounters with a man. Fine. He had suspected that about himself for a while now, and maybe Rozanov was just the first man to see that in him, to offer him the chance to experiment a little. So maybe what Shane actually needed to do was find another man to fool around with.
But who the fuck was that going to be?
This was Montreal. He was Shane Hollander. If his career went the way he was planning, that situation was only going to get more impossible. He definitely didn’t want any rumors of his sexuality—whatever it was—
getting out there. The NHL liked to pretend it was inclusive now, but Shane knew what it was like on the ice, and in the dressing room. There had never been an openly queer NHL player, and homophobic slurs were thrown around enough that Shane couldn’t imagine that happening.
Whoever came out first was going to have to be brave as hell. It sure as shit wasn’t going to be Shane.
One thing he was certain of about Rozanov: he wasn’t going to tell anyone. He had as much to lose as Shane did.
As far as Shane could figure, he had three choices: Forget about fucking men entirely and just stick to women; Risk finding men, or even just a man, who could be discreet and…patient; Let whatever the fuck was happening with Rozanov keep happening and try not to think too much about it.
Obviously the first option was the most sensible. Certainly the safest.
Also the most unappealing.
Fuck.
Shane slowed the treadmill to a cool-down speed and grabbed his water bottle.
Yeah. No. Okay. He definitely had to end this nonsense with Rozanov.
He’d made it to the NHL and was at the very beginning of what he hoped would be a very impressive career. A giant fucking scandal probably wasn’t the best way to kick things off. And Shane couldn’t see a way that they could possibly keep this thing quiet if it continued.
Why was he even thinking about that? A long-term secret relationship with Ilya Rozanov? Was that what some part of his dumb brain was hoping for?
No. Definitely putting a stop to this. This was just Shane being…nineteen. He was nineteen and horny and oddly lonely, for a star athlete. Just because Rozanov was making himself available didn’t mean Shane had to accept.
Pleased with his decision, he stepped off the treadmill and headed to the chin-up bar. There would be nothing to it. Rozanov would text him to ask for his address, and Shane would write back no.
The next week—Montreal
Lily: I need your address.
Shane: No.
Shane smirked at his phone, very pleased with his prompt and clear reply to Rozanov’s text.
Lily: Fuck off. What is it?
Shane: None of your business.
Lily: Fine. Your loss.
Shane stopped smirking. He sat down hard on his couch and turned on his brand-new lamp. The Bears would roll into town the day after tomorrow. They would play later that evening, and then…
Shane chewed his lip, thinking. It’s not that he didn’t want to…see Rozanov. If he was being honest, he’d been obsessively thinking about it since the All-Star weekend. He just didn’t want his archrival coming to his home. That seemed like too big of a line to cross.
He wrote back. Could we meet somewhere else?
He felt a flush of embarrassment as he hit send. God, why couldn’t he just have left it where it was? He’d successfully rejected Rozanov. Why give the power right back to him?
Lily: Like where?
Shane: I don’t know!
Lily: Figure it out. Let me know.
Shane hated how relaxed Rozanov was about all of this. It wasn’t fucking fair. He almost wrote back Forget it, but instead just stood and
slipped his phone into his pocket.
He would figure it out.
Shane: 1822.
Lily: ?
Shane: Room number.
Lily: OK…where is the room?
Shane: Same hotel you’re in.
Lily: See you soon.
Shane sat on the end of his king-size hotel bed. Then he stood up. Then he sat back down again.
This was so fucking dumb. Why was he doing this? Booking a room in the same hotel as the entire Boston team (several floors above theirs, but still) so he could hook up with a man he didn’t even like? If they were caught it could be devastating to both of their careers.
At the very least, it would be very embarrassing.
Shane stood and went to the mirror. He checked his teeth and nudged a stray lock of hair back into place.
There was a sharp rap on his door. He spun around, startled by how loud it sounded, and quickly crossed the room to open it. “Jesus. You trying to get everyone’s attention?”
Rozanov slid into the room. His ball cap was pulled low over his eyes.
Shane closed and latched the door quickly behind him.
“You are nervous,” Rozanov said. It wasn’t a question.
“No,” Shane lied.
“Is just sex, Hollander,” Rozanov said.
“I know.”
Rozanov pulled the ball cap off and brown curls tumbled out, falling messily around his grinning face. He was wearing a charcoal-gray T-shirt with a small Nike logo on the chest and black track pants. Shane was wearing dark blue pants and a striped cashmere sweater and felt ridiculous.
“You look nice,” Rozanov said. His tone was flat like he was just stating a fact rather than offering a compliment. You look nice. It’s cold outside.
This hotel is big.
“Thanks,” Shane said, because he had to say something. “I feel overdressed.”
“Yes. We both are,” Rozanov said, and he pulled his T-shirt off over his head before bending to remove his high-top sneakers.
Shane’s eyes fixed on the way Rozanov’s gold cross dangled in the space between his knees and his chest; the thin chain glinted against the back of his neck.
When Rozanov stood again, Shane couldn’t remember why exactly this
was a bad idea.
“Come here,” Rozanov said.
“No. You come here.”
Rozanov grinned and shook his head, and stepped toward Shane.
Shane must have taken a step forward himself because they kind of crashed into each other. A second later, he was against the wall, and Rozanov was attacking his mouth. Shane shoved back against him, and was reminded that Montreal had won the game that night. Rozanov had to be at least a little pissed off about that, and Shane felt he might be taking it out on him. Shane had no problem with that. He sank his fingers into Rozanov’s biceps and hauled him closer. He wrapped his foot around Rozanov’s ankle, and Rozanov growled and, without warning, grabbed Shane’s thighs and hoisted him up the wall so that Shane had no choice but to wrap his legs around the taller man’s waist.
Which Shane should have been angry about, but instead he gasped and kissed Rozanov even more wildly.
“Could fuck you just like this,” Rozanov growled. “Against the fucking
wall. You would like that, yes?”
Would Shane like that? Probably.
“Not tonight,” Rozanov continued, moving his mouth close to Shane’s ear. “Tonight I will go easy on you.”
Shane wanted to tell him to fuck off, but Rozanov was kissing his throat, scraping his teeth over the sensitive skin, so instead he threw his head back against the wall like the eager slut he apparently was.
He felt Rozanov chuckle against his throat, and then Shane felt himself being pulled away from the wall and carried—carried!—to the bed like a
fucking child!
“Put me down, asshole!”
“Shhhh.”
“I can walk!”
Rozanov’s big hands gripped his ass as they crossed the room. Shane pushed back off Rozanov’s shoulders, and he could see that crooked smile
and those playful eyes.
“Put me down.”
Rozanov turned and dropped Shane on the bed. Shane glared up at him.
He was about to tell him off, but he got distracted by the tall, bare-chested, muscular form looming over him. Shane suddenly felt very small on the bed, which was ridiculous—he was five feet, ten inches and built of solid muscle himself. But Rozanov was gazing down at Shane, who was still fully clothed, like he was trying to decide where to take his first bite, and
Shane felt…vulnerable.
And he was kind of into it.
Rozanov slid his track pants down and off and stood at the end of the bed wearing only his black boxer briefs, his gold chain, and his stupid fucking bear tattoo. Shane’s eyes went right to the briefs, and the hard length that was trapped beneath. He also noted the way Rozanov’s enormous thighs burst out of the legs of the shorts, hard muscles jutting out from the straining fabric.
Rozanov leaned down and planted a knee firmly on the bed between Shane’s sprawled legs, dangerously close to his crotch. Shane looked up, wide-eyed, as Rozanov descended on him and captured his mouth again.
Two big hands landed on Shane’s chest, stroking him over his sweater.
“This is soft,” Rozanov murmured.
“It’s cashmere,” Shane said stupidly.
“Yes. Take it off.”
He did. Rozanov pulled up, keeping his knee firmly between Shane’s thighs, as he watched Shane strip down to his own briefs.
He lay there, waiting for Rozanov to cover him again, to press his weight down on him, but instead Rozanov lightly dragged his fingertips up one of Shane’s legs, tickling his skin and making every hair stand up. He drew a path up to where Shane’s skin disappeared into the leg of his briefs, and then paused. Shane felt like there was an electric current running through him. He could see his own cock twitching in his shorts, begging for attention. He bit his lip and waited.
Rozanov dipped his head and kissed Shane’s stomach. He did it over and over again, his lips almost as gentle and teasing as his fingertips had been.
Shane inhaled sharply. How was Rozanov so good at this?
Rozanov’s mouth found one of Shane’s nipples and bit it gently before licking it. Shane squirmed and Rozanov wrapped a hand most of the way around Shane’s thigh to hold him down. Shane once again marveled at how big his hands were.
When Rozanov returned his mouth to Shane’s, he finally moved his hand to palm Shane’s erection through his briefs. Shane made an embarrassing noise into Rozanov’s mouth.
“Did you bring everything?” Rozanov asked.
“Yes,” Shane said. He was pretty sure he had everything. Lube and
condoms, right?
“Good boy.”
“Fuck you.”
“Yes.”
His hand slid inside Shane’s shorts and pulled his erection out. Shane slipped a hand in between their bodies so he could rub his hand over the front of Rozanov’s shorts.
Rozanov kissed him hard and ground his crotch against Shane’s, holding himself up with one hand planted next to Shane’s head.
Shane moaned at the feel of Rozanov’s hips and pelvis rolling against
him.
He’s going to fuck me.
His whole body tensed up. Rozanov noticed.
“Relax,” he breathed against Shane’s ear. “You will like this.”
“Yeah,” Shane said, his voice strained. “Just…”
Rozanov pushed off him for a moment so he could quickly rid himself of his briefs. Shane did the same. When he returned his eyes to Rozanov, he was struck by how big his cock was. He’d seen it before, of course, and he knew it was a decent size, but looking at it now, with the idea that it was supposed to somehow fit inside of him…
He must have been wearing his anxiety all over his face. Rozanov laughed. “It will fit.”
Shane blushed furiously, which made Rozanov laugh more.
“Trust me. Where is the stuff?”
Shane, grateful for something to do other than stare at Rozanov’s cock in horror, reached over and opened the nightstand drawer. “I’ve got, um, lube. I ordered it online. It’s supposed to be the best for…this.”
“Ass fucking?”
Shane rolled his eyes. “You sweet talk all your sex partners like this?”
“I’m very charming.” He took the bottle from Shane and inspected it.
“I have condoms too,” Shane said. He pulled a strip of them out of the drawer.
Rozanov raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure that will be enough?”
“All right, look…”
Rozanov grinned that sexy goddamned lopsided grin and Shane laughed too. He watched as Rozanov poured a good amount of lube on his fingers, then wrapped those fingers around Shane’s cock.
“Oof,” Shane huffed. “It’s cold! You coulda warmed it up a bit!”
“Shhh. Relax.”
Shane had something smart to say back to him, but it dissolved on his tongue as Rozanov rubbed his thumb over Shane’s slit.
They both watched as Rozanov teased the slit until he drew out a bead of liquid. He smeared it over the head of Shane’s cock, and Shane’s fingers grabbed at the bedding.
With his other hand, Rozanov gently rolled and tugged at Shane’s balls.
He was so confident, but so careful. The combination was making Shane
throb with need.
“Please,” he whispered.
“Please what?” Rozanov asked with a raised eyebrow.
“I don’t know,” Shane answered honestly.
“Please touch you…here?” Rozanov asked, his fingers trailing below Shane’s balls and over the smooth skin that led to…
“Yes,” Shane said. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back on the pillow.
“Do you know how this works, Hollander?”
Not really. “Yeah. Sure.” He opened one eye. “You’ve done this
before?”
“Yes.”
“With…the coach’s son?”
Rozanov shrugged. “Sure. He was one.”
“Oh.”
“Girls too, Hollander. You have not done this with a girl?”
Shane had never really wanted to do anything with a girl that was complicated. Or that would…make things take longer.
“No,” he said.
Rozanov stilled both of his hands. “You have had sex before, yes?” he
asked.
“Yes! God!”
“Okay.” Rozanov went back to stroking Shane’s cock and dancing his fingers closer to Shane’s opening.
“You really think I haven’t?” Shane was outraged.
Rozanov shrugged.
“I’ve had plenty of sex, Rozanov. Lots.”
“Fine.”
Shane didn’t like how amused Rozanov looked.
But he did like it when Rozanov poured more lube over his fingers and began to stroke them over Shane’s hole. He sucked in a breath and his whole body shuddered.
“Just relax, Mr. Lots-of-Sex,” Rozanov said. “I will make sure you are ready for me.”
Shane wanted to scowl at him, but in truth he was sort of charmed by the level of care Rozanov was showing. But Shane was still at least thirty- five percent terrified.
Rozanov kept gently brushing his fingers over Shane’s hole, while at the same time lazily stroking Shane’s cock. Together, it all felt wonderful.
Shane felt his body release a lot of the tension he had been holding, and he floated a bit on the good feelings that were coursing through him. It was so good, he could almost forget to be embarrassed about where Rozanov was
touching him.
“Good?” Rozanov asked.
“Mmm…” Shane sighed.
And then he felt the tip of Rozanov’s finger enter him, and he clenched in response.
“Sorry.” Shane winced, then took a breath.
He did know how this worked. He had done a little…experimenting. On himself. With the aforementioned dildo. But those times had been him alone. In private. This was…
“Is okay,” Rozanov said in a low, soothing rumble. “We will go slow,
yes?”
“Thank you,” Shane mumbled.
The other thing about the private dildo sessions was that Shane had been kind of…bad at it. At least, he had been pretty sure he had been doing something wrong. It hadn’t felt bad, necessarily. But it hadn’t been mind- blowing either.
Rozanov dipped his head and took Shane’s cock into his mouth. Shane felt himself relax; each stroke of Rozanov’s tongue making him forget to be nervous. He took slow, even breaths as Rozanov worked his finger in a
little deeper and then…
Oh.
Shane arched and gasped. “Holy shit!”
Rozanov pulled his mouth off him and smirked. “Good, yes?”
He rubbed his fingertip again over what had to be Shane’s prostate.
Shane had kind of nudged it himself before, when he had been alone, but Rozanov seemed to know exactly where it was and what to do with it.
Shane squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip. If he didn’t, he was going to do something embarrassing, like whimper. The combination of Rozanov’s mouth on his cock and his finger inside of him was like nothing he had ever felt before. And there was no way he was going to last long enough for Rozanov to fuck him if this continued.
“You gotta…fuck. Just…wait a minute,” Shane rasped out.
Rozanov stopped immediately. “Okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. Yeah…very okay. Too okay.”
“Ah.”
Rozanov used the break time as an opportunity to give his own erection a few lazy strokes. Shane watched him, and noticed again how absurdly large Rozanov’s dick looked.
“We do not have to,” Rozanov said, noticing Shane’s face.
“I want to,” Shane said quickly. Too quickly.
Rozanov nodded, and reached for the lube and the condoms. He got himself ready, and then returned his attention to Shane. Shane felt two fingers press against his opening before they slipped inside. There was less
burning this time.
“Stroke yourself,” Rozanov instructed.
Shane nodded and obeyed.
Rozanov let out a low noise that sounded like a growl. “Turn over,” he said.
Shane got on his hands and knees, because that’s how this worked, right? He was pretty sure. He had watched about forty seconds of gay porn, once, before he’d gotten embarrassed and closed his laptop. Now he wished he had endured a little longer, if only for research purposes.
He felt Rozanov’s hands grab his thighs, and he was hauled back until his knees were at the end of the bed. Rozanov put one foot on the mattress, next to Shane’s knee, and placed a hand firmly on Shane’s hip.
And then Shane could feel it; the much-too-large blunt head of Rozanov’s cock bumping against his hole. He clenched his eyes shut, and braced himself for pain.
When Rozanov pressed in, it was slow and careful, but Shane’s whole body trembled anyway. The pain was there, but not as sharp as Shane had been expecting. The pressure was the most overwhelming sensation. He felt impossibly full, and couldn’t imagine how Rozanov was supposed to move once he was all the way in. Shane was struck with the sudden, horrific thought that Rozanov would become stuck inside him. Oh Jesus, they would have to call 911 or something!
Shane forced himself to take a breath and pushed images of doctors trying to separate them while all of Rozanov’s teammates watched out of his mind.
“Okay?” Rozanov asked again. He ran a hand over Shane’s back, slow and soothing.
“Yeah,” Shane said. His voice sounded strained.
Rozanov pulled out a little then pushed back in, even deeper this time.
“Fuck,” Shane gasped. “Wow.”
Encouraged, Rozanov repeated the motion. And again.
Then Rozanov adjusted his hips a little and, on the next thrust, hit Shane’s prostate, sending a jolt of pleasure through him.
“God. Yes! Fuck. Keep doing that.”
“I will. Don’t fucking worry.”
Shane wasn’t feeling any pain now, and he wasn’t scared. He started to push back against Rozanov when he thrust into him, which Rozanov seemed to take as an invitation to go harder. His thrusts became faster, causing the bed to shake and Shane’s arms to tremble as he struggled to hold himself up. It was more than Shane had thought he’d be able to take, but he wanted it. He loved it.
Rozanov’s fingers were digging hard enough into Shane’s hips to leave marks. He was hauling Shane back against him as he pounded into him.
Shane lifted a hand up to his own mouth so he could bite his knuckles to keep from screaming out.
This, he realized, was why people were so wild about sex. He had never, ever felt like this with anyone before. And of course Ilya Rozanov, all of nineteen years old, fucked with the confidence and skill of, like, a sex god.
Shane chanced taking his hand out of his mouth so he could wrap it around his dick. He wished he had put a towel down or something—he was going to come all over this hotel bedding. He knew he was going to feel bad about that, but not enough to do anything about it now.
“Yeah. Come on, Hollander,” Rozanov growled. Rozanov, who did not care at all about the poor hotel maids.
“Fuck,” Shane gritted out. And he came so hard that most of it shot up and hit him in the chest. He was so dazed by his own orgasm that he almost didn’t register when Rozanov tensed and stilled behind him.
Rozanov grunted and came inside of Shane’s body. Into a condom, but still. Shane’s body had made that happen, and he couldn’t quite wrap his brain around that fact.
Then, to Shane’s dismay, Rozanov collapsed on top of him, crushing Shane and the mess all over his chest into the mostly clean bedding.
“Now the bed’s all dirty,” Shane complained before he could stop himself.
“What?” Rozanov said sleepily. “Shut up.”
Shane closed his eyes and enjoyed the weight of Rozanov on top of him.
Eventually, Rozanov rolled off and went to the bathroom to clean up.
Shane shifted carefully to his back, already feeling the pain that was going to make it hard to sit down tomorrow.
With Rozanov safely out of the room, Shane grinned stupidly at the ceiling. He was maybe happier than he should be that his most successful sexual experience to date was with Ilya Rozanov.
The smile faded as he wondered how in hell he was ever going to experience this again. Because he couldn’t keep letting Rozanov fuck him.
Obviously. And he wasn’t sure how to safely find other men to do it.
“Hit the showers, Hollander,” Rozanov said as he left the bathroom. “I will get dressed and leave.”
“Oh,” Shane said. Of course he was going to leave. What the fuck had Shane been expecting? He stood up. “Yeah. Okay. Well…”
Rozanov put one hand on Shane’s shoulder in a fairly condescending way. His lips were twitched up in an irritating little smile. “Was fun,” he
said.
“Yeah, um. Thanks, I guess.”
Rozanov nodded, then turned to pick up his scattered clothing. Shane went to the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
When Shane left the bathroom, freshly showered and wearing a towel, Rozanov was gone. There was no trace of the man, other than the messed up bedsheets. Shane grimaced at them, then pulled off the top sheet and dropped it on the floor. He imagined that hotel maids probably dealt with
worse shit than this all the time.
He’d leave a big tip.
He dropped the damp towel beside the soiled bedding and got himself dressed. He wasn’t going to spend the night here. He made sure he had removed everything he had brought into the room, then dropped a fifty- dollar bill on the dresser for the maid and left to go back to his apartment.
Alone.
