Chapter Text
The air in the Centaurs’ boardroom smelled like expensive espresso and corporate desperation. Shane Hollander sat at the head of the mahogany table, his hands folded with a threatening precision.
He was wearing his good suit—dark navy, tailored down to the millimeter, and exactly what they expected the captain of the Ottawa Centaurs to wear. It was a suit designed to make people trust him. It was a suit designed for a man who didn't quite exist anymore.
"The data is clear, Shane," Sarah, the head of PR, said while tapping a stylus against a tablet. “The fans think you're—well, a bit of a robot. Your engagement is stagnant. Meanwhile, we have rookies posting 'Get Ready With Me' videos and getting five times the traction. We need you to be more accessible to the public."
Shane felt a twitch in his jaw. The word accessible felt like a slur. "I’ve given more than ten years of my life to being a role model. I’ve never missed a gala. I’ve never had a scandal."
"And that’s really the issue here," Sarah sighed. "It’s boring. People don't want a statue anymore, Shane. They want something they can relate to.”
Shane stretched his neck, feeling the tight muscles pull under his skin. Something, not someone.
Behind Sarah, a TV monitor played a loop of a Vegas rookie flipping off a goalie and laughing about it while wearing a faux-fur coat. The comments were a scrolling sea of ICONIC and HES SO BRATTY.
“We’ve drafted a script for a 'Centaurs at Home' series," Sarah continued. "We’d like you to film yourself baking something. Maybe a bake-with-me sourdough starter tutorial? It would be a very family-centric snippet, make you feel like an approachable dad. We think the audience would really enjoy it.”
Approachable dad. God give him strength. Shane was twenty-nine, the best center in the world, and they wanted him to bake bread to prove he wasn't a machine and give the world dad-vibes. Ilya would get such a fucking kick out of this, he might actually never hear the end of it.
Something in Shane’s chest—the part of him that had been polished and repressed since he was sixteen—finally began to break off piece by piece. This meeting it seemed, would be the perfect excuse to tip him over the edge. Sourdough.
Straightening his back and splaying his fingers out on the table, Shane inhaled through his nose and replied, "That won’t be happening."
Sarah paused, eyes lifting from the papers in front of her to dead-eye Shane. "Excuse me?"
"I’m not doing the sourdough," Shane said, standing up slowly from the table. "You want me to show some more personality? Fine. But I’ll be doing it my way."
"But Shane, the sponsors—"
"The sponsors are lucky I wear their logos, Sarah," Shane interrupted her, his voice dropping into a register that was dangerously calm.
He took a breath and channeled every ounce of Ilya’s natural arrogance that had surely rubbed off on him after so many years.
“I’m the best player this league has seen in a generation. If people find me 'boring' it’s because that’s what you have made me. From now on, tell the social media team to keep the cameras away from me unless they want to be told to fuck off."
Without giving anyone a chance to respond, he stood from the desk, turned on his heel and headed for the door. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he walked out of the room full of people and into the hallway. He let his jacket hang open and shoved his hands into the pockets.
He didn’t head towards the car park, instead he walked out the entrance of the arena and started down the street. His mind swirled and processed their conversation, but the longer he thought of their comments, the angrier it made him. Fucking sourdough and approachable dad. Give him a break.
He found himself almost three blocks away on a street full of high end shops by the time his mind had stopped reeling. Shops that he always browsed online but never went in person. Standing outside a boutique he usually avoided for being too loud, he knew they had what he wanted.
Fuck it.
Shane walked inside, quickly wandering through the shop and doing a stock take. This was good. This he could work with. He pointed at a pair of narrow, black-out sunglasses and a sheer, structured shirt along with various other items.
The shop assistant made light work of following him around the shop, grabbing items in sizes he called out and ringing them up at the till.
"I’ll take the lot and wear the sunglasses out," Shane told the clerk, pulling out his card to pay.
"Mr. Hollander? We have a back exit—"
"I don't need a back exit," Shane said, sliding the glasses on. The world turned dark and sharp under the sleek narrow sunglasses. He felt invincible.
Walking out of the shop, he pulled out his phone and opened the team group chat.
Shane Hollander: The meeting was a waste of time. If anyone asks me about sourdough tomorrow, I’m reporting you for harassment.
A stream of read notifications popped up on his phone, followed by names typing.
Luca Haas: No sourdough, got it. Everything ok, Hollzy?
Wyatt Hayes: What’s up your ass, Hollander?
Ilya: But you love sourdough, Shane.
Smiling at the last message received, Shane caught his reflection as he passed a storefront. He looked sharp and expensive in his new glasses. He looked like he’d just stepped off a runway in hell. He pulled up his messages with his husband next.
Shane: Can you come pick me up? Leaving my car at the arena.
Shane: And bring your wallet. We’re going shopping x
Ilya: Hollander? Are you drunk?
Ilya: Also, what did sourdough do to hurt you.
Shane: I'm tired of being everyone’s Golden Boy, Ilya. I’ll explain in the car.
Ilya: ITS FINALLY HAPPENING
Shane: Don’t be an ass. See you in 10.
* * *
Two hours later, Shane’s navy suit was draped over a chair in their penthouse like a shed skin.
Shane stood in front of the full-length mirror wearing nothing but boxers and his new wraparound sunglasses. Ilya was leaning against the doorframe, already dressed in a sheer black button-down and black slacks. He was eating grapes and watching Shane with a heavy, predatory heat.
"I can't do it anymore, Ilya," Shane said. "I feel like I’m putting on a costume for a play I’ve begun to close."
"So don't wear it," Ilya shrugged, his eyes trailing over Shane’s muscular frame. "The NHL is full of men in bad ties talking about giving 110 percent,” He paused to roll his eyes, hands gesturing wildly, “You are the best player in the league. You are married to me. You are allowed to be interesting."
Shane reached for the ribbed white tank top. It was short, probably just grazing his hip bones. He threw it on and stepped into a pair of oversized, washed-out black cargo pants that sat low on his waist. He then reached for the oversized beat-up leather racing jacket he’d stolen from Ilya’s closet years ago. His guilty pleasure.
He ran a hand through his hair with sea-salt spray until it was artfully disheveled. He looked like a 4:00 AM rave survivor who happened to have a 100-mph slap shot.
"How do I look?" Shane asked, sliding the shades down his nose to look at Ilya.
Ilya walked over to him, his thumb catching the edge of Shane’s tank top and pulling him flush against his chest. "You look like trouble. You look like you’re about to make every approachable dad in Canada very, very angry.”
Shane rolled his eyes dramatically as Ilya pressed a dirty kiss to his lips, licking into his mouth and wrapping his arms around him tight. Shane pressed his body in close, arching his back towards Ilya and shoving his fingers through his hair.
“I love it, Hollander." He purred, voice deep and seductive.
Shane snapped his gum, leaning up to press a quick, possessive kiss to Ilya’s jaw. "Good. Because I love it too."
* * *
The limo ride to the gala was quiet, but the air was thick with Shane’s new, prickly energy. Usually, he’d be rehearsing his speech, his mind and body nervous for the crowd waiting in anticipation. But tonight, he sat in the back of the car scrolling through his Instagram and posting the raunchy photo he took with his husband before they left.
It was the two of them in front of the mirror, Ilya draped over one of his shoulders and pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his neck. Ilya was in his sultry sheer black shirt and dress pants, while Shane was dressed in the little tank top and oversized jacket. He couldn’t deny how attractive they looked together. They looked hot.
Pulling the photo up on his page, he adjusted the lighting on the photo and typed out the caption ‘Get Ready With Us’ before posting. It was a cheap shot at the marketing team, but it was a hell of a lot better than sourdough.
As the car pulled up to the red carpet at the Place des Arts, the flashes were already blinding. The PR team was lined up, clipboards in hand, and waiting for their star players. The Centaurs would all be at the gala, along with some league officials, sponsors and some other notable public figures.
Ilya stepped out of the car first, basking in the boos and cheers that followed him everywhere. Even after all these years in the MLH, the public really loved to hate Ilya, but he relished in it. He turned around outside the car, bending slightly to peek in at Shane and drop a wink at his husband before offering a hand out.
When Shane stepped out, the noise didn't just stop—it glitched. The sound of camera shutters silenced as everyone on the carpet stood and watched.
The photographers hesitated. The PR lead, Sarah, actually dropped her tablet. Shane Hollander—the man who usually wore a three-piece suit to buy groceries—was standing there in a crop-top-adjacent tank, baggy pants, oversized vintage racing jacket, and shades, looking like he was about to headline a festival rather than attend a charity dinner.
"Shane!" Sarah hissed, rushing forward as they hit the first line of cameras. "Where is the suit? What is this!?"
Shane didn't stop. He didn't even look at her. He just kept walking, his stride confident and loose, his hand firmly tucked into the small of Ilya’s back. He felt bulletproof.
"It’s the new era of Shane Hollander," Shane said over his shoulder, his voice carrying just enough for the nearest microphone to catch it. "The suit was boring, Sarah."
Ilya leaned into Shane’s ear, his voice a low, delighted rumble. "Look at their faces, Hollander. We haven't even reached the bar yet and you’ve already started a riot."
"I'm just getting started," Shane replied, flashing a sharp, bratty grin at a stunned camera crew. "Let's go give them something to actually talk about."
The Ottawa Centaurs’ annual charity gala was usually Shane’s domain. He was the king of the polite nod and the firm handshake. But tonight, as Ilya stood by the bar, looking bored out of his mind waiting for his husband to emerge from the other room, he thought that Shane might actually have finally lost his mind.
When Shane finally walked back into the main room, the air seemed to thin. He looked like a fucking movie star. His dark hair tousled and messed up on his head, oversized jacket framing his muscular frame and those cunty little glasses.
He was a vision.
Ilya’s eyes flared with an immediate, intense appreciation from afar, licking his lips in anticipation. He pushed off the bar and prowled over, circling Shane like a shark. The confidence and authenticity radiating off his husband was enamoring. "I have never been more attracted to you than I am right now, sweetheart."
"Good," Shane said, his voice lower and more confident after settling into the event. He reached out and grabbed Ilya’s shirt, pulling him in close and completely ignoring the cameras flashing around them. "Because I’m not doing the 'Yes, sir, no, sir' thing tonight."
"Is that right?" Ilya grinned, his inner menace absolutely singing. "The good boy is dead?"
"Buried," Shane muttered, popping a piece of gum. "I’m tired of being boring, Ilya. From now on, I’m here to play hockey. That’s it."
Ilya let out a sharp, delighted laugh, throwing an arm around Shane’s shoulders and tucking him close. He looked at the stunned crowd of hockey executives and donors with a look of pure triumph. "You heard him! My husband is officially too cool for all of you."
The head table was a sea of black ties and stiff collars as they made their way to their seats. In the middle of the table sat Ilya, looking like a dark prince, and Shane, who looked like he had accidentally wandered in from a nightclub.
The Centaurs’ President, Monsieur Lemaire, was mid-sentence, droning on about the rich history of the franchise, when the attention finally shifted to Shane.
He wasn't listening. He was slumped low in his velvet chair, his leather jacket half-slipping off his shoulders, revealing the stark white of his tank top and a strip of skin over his bicep. He held a martini glass by the rim, swirling the olive around with a look of deep, fashionable detachment.
"Hollander," Lemaire whispered harshly, leaning over. "The cameras are on you. Take off the glasses and sit up."
Shane didn't even turn his head. He just adjusted the shades so they sat more firmly on the bridge of his nose. "I have a headache. The lighting in here is very aggressive."
Ilya snorted into his drink, his shoulders shaking with delight. "He is right, Lemaire. It is very bright. Very corporate. It does nothing for his bone structure."
"You two are a disgrace," Lemaire hissed, though his eyes were wide with panic because the live stream was currently peaking in viewership just to see what Shane would do next.
He turned back to Ilya, ignoring the fuming executive. "Ilya, tell me again what you said about the defenseman’s shoes?"
"They were square-toed, my love," Ilya purred, reaching out to brazenly run a hand through Shane’s messy hair right there in front of the cameras. "An actual crime."
"Disgusting," Shane agreed, popping an olive into his mouth and leaning his head onto Ilya’s shoulder.
When it was finally time for Shane to stand on stage and give out his Captain’s Remarks, the room went dead silent. The PR team was sweating. The donors were confused.
Shane stood from his seat and strolled to the podium with the swagger of a man who knew he was the most interesting thing in a 100-mile radius.
He tapped the microphone. Thump. Thump.
"Uh, hey everybody," Shane said, his voice echoing. He didn't look at his notes. He didn't even look at the teleprompter. "This charity is great, thank you all for coming. There is a link in my bio for you to donate, so you should go do that."
He leaned in closer to the mic, the grin on his face pure and unadulterated, "And I hope to see you all at the game. I hear it’s going to be a riot."
He turned and walked straight past the podium and back off stage, grabbing Ilya’s hand and tugging him along as he passed the table. The room took on a stunned silence. The Centaurs' were bursting their asses laughing when they passed, standing from their chairs to clap him on the back and whisper quiet praise in delight.
They didn't wait for the applause and they didn't wait for dessert. Ilya and Shane just walked out the side exit, glancing at each other before bursting out in stomach aching laughter, leaving a room full of stunned socialites and a PR department in total meltdown.
* * *
The following evening, the double doors to the arena’s underbelly hissed open, and immediately, the staccato click of cameras began. It was a familiar ritual, but tonight, the man stepping through the threshold had broken the script.
Shane didn't wear a single piece of tailored wool or team branded gear. Instead, he floated down the concrete hallway in a black silk, robe-style wrap shirt that was belted loosely at his waist. Underneath, he wore a simple, structured black tee and pair of black, wide-legged trousers that swished with a lazy, arrogant rhythm against his boots. The whole look was fluid, expensive, and completely devoid of athletic intent.
And, of course, the shades. Dark, narrow, and aggressively unnecessary indoors.
He didn't give the usual polite nod to the photographers. He didn't offer a thumbs-up to the team’s social media manager. He walked straight through the crowds, his posture relaxed and entirely unbothered, carrying his garment bag over his shoulder like it was a prop.
"Shane! Looking a bit different today!" one of the regular beat photographers called out, a hint of confusion in his voice as he kept clicking. "Is there a theme here?"
Shane didn't stop. He didn't even slow down. Turning his head slightly and looking at the man over the rim of his sunglasses with an expression one of mild pity.
"The theme is 'I'm Comfortable and I Have Taste', Mark," Shane said, his voice smooth and entirely untroubled, but carrying a new, dismissive weight. "The suits were getting redundant. It’s okay to be a little bit bored by the routine. I know I am."
He caught sight of Ilya further down the hall, leaning against a pillar in his usual, somewhat disheveled grey suit. Ilya was watching him, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face as he took in the silk and the wide-legged trousers.
"Hollander," Ilya murmured, his eyes tracking the way the silk moved. "You look like you are lost on your way to a fashion show."
"And you look like you need a steam press, Ilya," Shane replied, not stopping but brushing past him. As he passed, Shane let his hand trail briefly across Ilya’s arm—a fleeting, public display of affection that sent a murmur through the photographers.
"You are going to get such a fine for this, you know," Ilya called after him, his amusement bubbling over.
"Tell them to send the bill to the penthouse," Shane called back without looking, his hips swaying with that deliberate, taunting confidence. "I’ll pay it in cash."
He disappeared into the locker room, leaving a stunned silence and a dozens of frantic photographers behind him. He hadn't raised his voice, he hadn't broken a single rule, and he hadn’t been mean—but Shane had decided that from now on, the hallway was his territory, and he was the only star worth watching.
The game against Boston was nothing short of an absolute bloodbath of high-intensity checking and tight defensive structures. It was definitely a show. Normally, Shane Hollander was the surgeon of the ice—precise, quiet, and clinical with all movements.
Tonight, he was a spectacle.
The puck was glued to his blade as he crossed the blue line. Instead of making the simple, high-percentage pass to the winger, Shane pulled up. He came to a screeching stop, right in front of the Raiders’ veteran defenseman.
Shane stood there for a heartbeat, chest slightly heaving but his posture was relaxed, his chin tilted up as if he were waiting for a bus. The defenseman lunged, and with a flick of his wrists so casual it looked like he was swatting a fly, Shane tucked the puck through the man’s legs.
"You’re lunging," Shane remarked as he breezed past him, his voice audible even over the roar of the crowd. "It’s a bit desperate, don't you think?"
He didn't wait for a response before skating deep into the zone, drawing two more defenders toward him. He knew exactly where Ilya was—charging toward the back post like a heat-seeking missile. Shane could have shot. He had the angle. But he wanted the drama.
He waited until the very last second, spinning 360 degrees on his skates to blind-side the goalie with a no-look pass that landed perfectly on Ilya’s tape.
Clap. The red light flared.
Ilya let out a roar, sliding on one knee toward the corner, but Shane didn't join the frantic celebration. He glided toward Ilya with a cool, effortless smirk plastered across his face. He reached out and gave Ilya a brief, firm pat on the helmet.
"Nice finish, Rozanov," Shane said, his eyes bright with a confidence that felt electric. "I made it easy for you."
"You are being a brat, Hollander," Ilya laughed breathlessly as they skated back toward the center circle.
The Raiders’ captain, Marchand, was already there and waiting, his face a mask of irritation. "You think you're hot stuff, don't you, Hollander? You're playing like a show-off. Keep that head up."
Shane lined up for the face-off, leaning over his stick with a grace that was entirely too polished for a hockey rink. He looked up at Marchand, his expression one of mild, polite pity.
"I don't need to keep my head up to know where you are, Brad," Shane said, his voice smooth and untroubled. "I can smell the desperation from here. And honestly? The 'tough guy' act is getting a little tired. It’s very 2015. Maybe try a new hobby? I hear pickleball is big for people in your demographic."
The ref dropped the puck. Shane won it cleanly—backwards, between his own legs and straight to his defenseman—and then winked at Marchand as he skated away.
He was feeding his teammates the puck on silver platters. He was the main character tonight, and he was making sure that every single person in the arena and at home knew that they were just there to watch him work.
As he headed to the bench for a change, he caught his reflection in the glass. He didn't look for a tactical flaw as he usually would, but he adjusted his visor and checked his ego, and sat down next to Ilya. He looked like he hadn't even broken a sweat.
Ilya's head was thrown back in delight, unable to keep his eyes off his husband. Shane felt a gloved hand squeeze his leg as Ilya pushed off the bench, skating towards the centre. He turned halfway and dropped a wink to Shane. Shane smiled wide and blew an over-dramatic kiss back.
The Centaurs’ won 4-2. After the game, the locker room was a humid hive of activity, but Shane was a bubble of cool air at the center of it. He was draped in his stall, his jersey discarded on the floor beside him—a move that would have caused his former self to break out in hives. He was wearing his narrow, dark shades, leaning his head back against the wood with an air of supreme boredom.
The media scrum had formed a semi-circle around him, digital recorders thrust forward like offerings to a cold god.
"Shane, let's talk about the second period," a reporter started, her voice echoing in the tiled room. "You were playing with a level of—let's call it flair. Some people are saying you’re being a bit flashy at the expense of the team system. Any response?"
Shane didn't shift his posture as he let out a slow, deliberate exhale that was dangerously close to a sigh.
"Flashy is a word people use when they can’t keep up," Shane said, his voice smooth and entirely devoid of its usual rehearsed diplomatic edge. "I’m not playing against the system. I am the system. If the puck is on my stick, it’s exactly where it’s supposed to be. If that looks like flair to you, maybe you should watch more film."
"The league is looking into a fine for your pre-game attire," another journalist chimed in, leaning forward. "Does that weigh on you at all? Your pristine reputation is taking a hit."
Shane actually chuckled, a low, melodic sound that made a few people in the front row look at each other. He turned his head slightly toward Ilya, who was sitting in the next stall over, unlacing his skates and watching Shane with a look of suppressed, electric amusement.
"Reputations are for people who don't have enough talent to back up their actual personality," Shane said, his tone softening just a fraction as his eyes caught Ilya’s. He wasn't being mean, he was just fed up. "I’ve spent a decade being the boy everyone wanted me to be. It was exhausting. And frankly? It was a little bit basic. If the league wants to fine me for having better taste than their marketing department, they can fine me all they want."
Ilya let out a sharp, appreciative snort. "He is very expensive now," Ilya added, throwing a towel at Shane’s shoulder. Usually, Shane would have scolded him for the mess. Instead, Shane caught the towel with one hand, draped it over his knee, and gave Ilya a look that could have been interpreted as a wink.
"See?" Shane said, turning back to the reporters. "Even Rozanov knows. I’m just giving the fans what they actually want—someone worth talking about. Now, if you’re done asking about my clothes and my 'attitude,' I’d like to go home. I’ve had a very long day and Ilya is my chauffeur tonight."
He stood up, the movement fluid and arrogant, and walked away before the next question could even leave someone's mouth. He didn't look back to see if they were offended, he didn't really care. But he knew that for the first time in his life, the walk to the car was going to feel like a victory lap.
The exit was a gauntlet of paparazzi, cameras flashing and microphones being shoved in their faces. Ilya tried to shield him. "Head down, Shane."
"Why should I?” Shane said, gently pulling free from Ilya’s grip. He slid his blackout shades on, adjusted his jacket, and stepped right into the flashes.
He didn't answer a single question. He walked to the SUV like it was a runway, chin tilted to catch the light. When a reporter thrust a mic a bit too close to him, he pushed it away with one manicured finger.
Inside the car, the silence was heavy.
"You think because you stopped being nice to everyone else that you are the boss of me now too?" Ilya growled, leaning across the console.
Shane hooked his fingers into Ilya’s shirt, pulling him in close until their lips brushed. "I’ve always been the boss, Rozanov." He purred back.
Ilya grinned, slamming the car into gear. "I'm going to regret this, yes?"
Shane laughed him off.
They arrived home at light speed, Ilya’s hand hovering high on his leg the whole ride gently squeezing and massaging. Teasing. Little did Ilya know, before they left the locker room, Shane had ducked into the private bathroom and popped one of his plugs inside him.
He stepped through the front door, the persistent ache in his core a sharp reminder of where exactly he wanted this night to go. The plug had been buried deep inside him for hours at this rate, its wide base rubbing against his prostate with every stride. The sweat from the rink still dampened Shane’s compression shirt, and the rush of hiding his secret during the locker room interviews had his cock leaking in his pants.
Ilya stood behind him, a dark shadow against the neon-lit glass. He watched the way Shane’s chest rose and fell, the way he was still vibrating with the energy from the game.
"Take the glasses off, Shane," Ilya said, his voice a low, gravelly command. "The cameras aren't here."
Shane didn't turn around. He tilted his head and smiled, watching Ilya’s reflection in the glass. "Maybe I like them. Maybe I like the way they make everything look like a movie.”
Ilya smiled, his reflection turning as he shifted to press against Shane’s back, pressing kisses up his neck. Shane continued, “You’re just mad because you can’t see exactly how much I want you to fuck me right now."
Ilya’s breath caught, but he didn't argue. He stepped forward, closing the distance until his chest was flush against Shane’s back. He reached up with his large, rough hands sliding over Shane’s throat before hooking two fingers over the bridge of the shades. He pulled them off slowly, tossing them onto the velvet sofa without looking.
"There," Ilya whispered, his breath hot against the shell of Shane’s ear. "Now I can see those beautiful eyes."
Shane spun around in his arms, his hands immediately finding the front of Ilya’s shirt and bunching the fabric. He looked up at Ilya with equal parts exhaustion and triumphant.
"I’m the most talked-about person in the world tonight, Ilya," Shane breathed, his voice a sharp, electric thread. He could feel Ilya’s erection pressing against his thigh. “Everyone is trying to figure out if I’ve lost my mind or if I’ve finally found it."
"I don't care about everyone," Ilya growled, his grip tightening on Shane’s waist, pulling him up so Shane had to stand on his toes. "I care that you’ve been acting like a king all night. You think you’re so untouchable?"
"I am untouchable-" Shane snapped, a sultry smirk playing on his lips.
Ilya didn't let him finish. He crashed his mouth down onto Shane’s, effectively silencing the bratty remark. It wasn't polite or careful or meant for anyone else’s eyes. It was desperate and bruising.
Shane let out a low, muffled sound—halfway between a gasp and a moan—and opened his mouth, his tongue tangling with Ilya’s in a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm. He wasn't the captain right now, he was just a man who had spent ten years holding his breath and was finally letting it all out at once.
He pushed Ilya back toward the window, his fingers digging into his hair, pulling at the roots with a demand that was pure need. He wanted everything.
He wanted the friction of Ilya’s stubble against his skin, the weight of Ilya’s hands, the way Ilya groaned into his mouth like he was being dismantled.
Ilya broke the kiss for a split second, just long enough to trail his lips down to the sensitive dip of Shane’s neck, and biting down just hard enough to leave a mark that no amount of concealer would hide tomorrow.
"You’re going to be a nightmare to deal with in the morning," Ilya muttered against his skin.
"I'm a nightmare now," Shane whispered, his eyes blown wide and dark as he pulled Ilya back up for another kiss, his smile sharp and victorious against Ilya’s lips. "And you are so into it. Admit it."
"I'm obsessed," Ilya admitted, the words disappearing into the heat of their mouths. "Now shut up and keep doing that."
The transition from the window to the velvet sofa was less of a walk and more of a choreographed collapse as their lips collided again.
Shane allowed himself to be maneuvered backwards towards the sofa, catching on the edge of the rug as Ilya backed him across the room. Shane’s fingers stayed locked in Ilya’s hair, refusing to let go, dragging Ilya’s head down whenever he tried to pull back for air.
When the back of Shane’s knees hit the edge of the sofa, he landed against the deep emerald velvet with a grace that was entirely too practiced, his arms flying back and his jacket finally sliding off his shoulders to pool on the floor like discarded armour. The plug shifted inside him and he let out a groan, curling his toes at the spike of pleasure that rushed through him.
Ilya didn’t give him a second to breathe. He was over him instantly, one knee pinning Shane’s thigh to the cushion, his hands bracing on either side of Shane’s head.
"Careful," Shane panted, his chest heaving under the thin compression shirt. He looked up at Ilya, his eyes wide and bright with a challenge, a stray lock of hair falling over his forehead. "This velvet is custom. And I'm actually quite expensive to replace if you break me, too."
Ilya let out a rough, dark laugh, his eyes scanning Shane’s face with a hunger that made everything else feel like a distant, dusty memory. "You think I’m going to break you? I’m the only one who knows how to put you back together when you’ve finished screaming at the world, Hollander."
"Then stop talking," Shane whispered, reaching up to hook his fingers into the collar of Ilya’s shirt, pulling him down with a sharp, impatient yank.
He didn't wait for Ilya to respond. Shane arched his back, meeting Ilya’s mouth halfway. The kiss was deeper now, slower but somehow more violent, a collision of teeth and heat. Shane’s hands moved restlessly, sliding under Ilya’s shirt to feel the hard, familiar planes of his back, his nails scratching lightly against the skin.
Ilya’s hand migrated from the sofa to Shane’s waist, his fingers digging into the soft skin just above the low-slung waistband of his pants. He squeezed, a bruising, possessive grip that made Shane let out a sharp, jagged moan against his lips. His hips were like lead on Shane’s, pinning him with a force unmatched.
Shane broke the kiss, his head falling back against the cushions as Ilya’s mouth moved to the line of his jaw, then his throat.
Ilya paused, lifting his head just enough to look Shane in the eye. An emotion flashed across Ilya’s face, too fast for Shane to fully register and then the only thing that mattered was the friction of velvet and skin, and the fact that Shane Hollander had finally found a version of himself that was too loud to be ignored.
Shane's mind wandered, an itch building under his skin. He wasn't in the mood to play the usual game tonight, where Ilya called the shots and Shane melted into it. No, tonight he felt like pushing buttons, testing limits.
Placing a hand on Ilya’s chest and gently guiding him off, Shane swung a leg over Ilya's lap, straddling him without invitation, settling his weight so he felt the plug shift. A rough exhale slipped out as he ground down hard. Ilya's hands slid to Shane’s waist, fingers dipping under his shirt to graze skin. He ground his hips down once, twice, feeling the heat building between them.
“Shane," Ilya whispered, his voice thick with a terrifying amount of devotion.
They’d barely started—lips crashing together again in a deep kiss, tongues tangling as his fingers dug into Shane’s hips—but the heat was building fast. Ilya pulled him closer, his erection pressing up through his jeans against the plug's pressure point.
Shane broke the kiss, breathing hard, and captured his mouth, slower this time, sucking on his lower lip while his hands fisted his shirt. Ilya’s touch grew bolder, one hand sliding down to squeeze his ass, nudging the toy deeper and drawing another filthy groan from his throat.
'I want to show you something,” Shane whispered against his lips, nipping at the spot just below his ear.
Ilya's eyes widened, a spark of intrigue flashing as he pulled back slightly. 'What did you do?'
Shane didn't spell it out. Still perched on Ilya’s lap, he rocked forward, keeping him pinned against the sofa, then reached back and hooked his fingers into the waistband of his pants. He tugged them down just enough to expose the top of his ass, the black base of the plug clearly visible between his cheeks. Leaning in for another kiss to distract his husband, Shane ground down hard, letting him feel the firmness of the plastic against his leg.
Ilya broke away with a gasp, almost choking on his own spit, staring over Shane's shoulder.
"No fucking way, Shane," he rasped, voice laced with shock and desperate need. His fingers traced the edge of the base, sending a jolt through Shane that made his core clench around the toy. He watched as a faint blush crept up Ilya’s neck, lightly dusting his cheeks. Shane was going to faint at the sight of it. Ilya also looked like he might faint.
“You've had this in during the whole game?”
“After,” he confirmed, pushing back into his hand. The twist of his touch made the plug grind against his prostate, sending sparks racing up his spine.
Shane was craving control. Ilya's breath hitched beneath him, his cock throbbing under Shane’s legs as he gripped the base firmer. His eyes had grown feral, an almost violent edge taking over.
“Show me,” he breathed.
Shane slid off his lap just long enough to shove his pants and jockstrap down, kicking them away. The plug stayed seated, its weight pulling as he bent over slightly, spreading his cheeks to display it fully. Ilya sat up, eyes locked on the sight before him, and reached out to circle the flared end with his thumb.
“Fuck, you're gripping it so tight,” he said, voice rough and thick. His English was starting to slip. Shane felt him tug it out an inch before sliding it back in with a slick push. He couldn't control the moan that fell from his mouth, his cock leaking pre-cum onto Ilya’s stomach as he climbed back on top, straddling him with wide legs.
Shane laughed, low and defiant, yanking at Ilya's collar to expose his neck, sucking a mark there hard enough to bruise. The post-game interviews had ignited something feral in him, his bratty facade cracking into raw need as he rocked against Ilya's growing erection, the friction sending jolts through his core.
Shane's heart pounded as he pressed closer, grinding his hips down against the growing bulge in Ilya's pants.
“Fuck, you feel good,” Shane murmured against Ilya's mouth, nipping at his lip. His hands roamed, yanking Ilya's shirt up and over his head, exposing the chiseled chest dusted with dark hair. Shane's fingers traced the lines of muscle, pinching a nipple hard enough to make Ilya hiss.
He fumbled with Ilya's belt, the zipper rasping open as he freed Ilya's thick, aching cock, already hard and leaking pre-cum. Shane wrapped his hand around it, stroking firmly from base to head, thumb smearing the slickness over the sensitive gland.
Ilya's breath hitched, his hips bucking up into his touch. Shane grinned, emboldened, and dropped to his knees between Ilya's spread legs. He licked a stripe up the underside of the shaft, tasting the salty skin, before taking the head into his mouth. He sucked hard, hollowing his cheeks and bobbing down until his cock hit the back of his throat.
Ilya threaded fingers through Shane's hair, not guiding, just holding on as Shane set a relentless pace, slurping noisily, spit dripping down Ilya's balls.
“Oh God, Shane,” Ilya growled, his control slipping as pleasure coiled tight in his gut. But Shane pulled off with a wet pop, standing to strip his own jeans, his cock springing free, throbbing and untouched. He pushed Ilya to lay down fully on the couch.
“Get these off,” he ordered, yanking at Ilya’s jeans. Ilya complied quickly, shoving them down and entirely freeing his thick cock, already hard. Shane gripped the base of the plug again himself this time, working it in and out a few strokes while Ilya stroked himself, his free hand kneading at Shane’s thigh.
“Tell me you want it,” Shane demanded.
“Fuck, Hollander. I need you riding me,” he grovelled, his hips bucking up as his hands grabbed for Shane's ass.
He twisted the plug one last time, feeling his core loosen around it, then popped it free. His hole pulsed open, empty but ready. Reaching towards Ilya’s still leaking cock, he gathered as much precum on his fingers before looking him in the eye and reaching a hand behind. He watched in delight as Ilya’s eyes rolled back in his head as Shane opened himself up further with his arousal.
He kept Ilya pinned beneath his legs, watching his pained husband’s eyes roam over his body, catching on his fingers working in and out. With one hand steadying Ilya's shoulder, he maneuvered up his body to hover above his rigid cock.
In one swift move, Shane sank down on Ilya’s cock slowly, inch by inch, his ass clenching around the intrusion. The stretch burned, but it only fuelled him further, moaning wildly as he bottomed out. Reaching a hand up to Ilya’s mouth, he hooked two slick fingers inside, giving him something to occupy his mouth with. Ilya groaned, tongue swirling and biting down on his fingers, his hands clamping around Shane's hips.
Ilya’s head fell back against the couch, moans and curses spilling out as Shane picked up speed, skin slapping against his thighs. The earlier kissing and groping had them both primed, sweat beaded on Ilya’s chest as he leaned forward, biting his neck while grinding down hard.
“God, Shane, you're so tight,” he panted, trying to meet his rhythm, but Shane kept his hands locked on his shoulders, dominating the ride.
“Not tonight,” he growled, clenching around him. “You take it—let me fuck you.”
Ilya nodded enthusiastically and watched as Shane’s cock bounced against his stomach, pre-cum smearing between them. The build was intense, the plug's absence leaving him hypersensitive, feeling every slide of Ilya's cock hit deep inside.
He rode Ilya hard, hips snapping up and down, the couch creaking under them. Sweat slicked their skin, bodies slapping together in a filthy rhythm. Shane reached between them, jerking his own cock in time with his thrusts, pre-cum flying with each bounce. Ilya thrust up to meet him, hands finally gripping Shane's ass tight, but still yielding, letting Shane dictate the pace.
“Harder,” Shane demanded, and Ilya obliged. He pounded up into him, the angle hitting Shane's prostate dead-on, sending sparks of ecstasy coursing through his veins.
The room filled with their grunts and the obscene sounds of flesh on flesh. Shane's strokes grew erratic, his balls drawing tight.
“I'm gonna-,' he gasped, and with a final, deep grind, he found his release with Ilya buried deep inside—ropes of hot cum splattering across Ilya's chest, marking him as his own. The sight pushed Ilya over the edge instantly, bucking wildly and flooding Shane's core with his release, pulse after pulse filling him up until it leaked out where they were attached.
They collapsed together, panting, Shane still seated on Ilya's softening cock. He leaned down for a lazy kiss, tasting himself on Ilya's lips from earlier.
“That was-“ Ilya murmured, a satisfied rumble in his chest. Shane smirked, finally sliding off, Ilya's release trickling down his thigh. He stood to his full height, beckoning Ilya to follow him towards the bedroom.
“Come on, I have some ideas,” Shane smiled wide and strutted towards the other room.
* * *
The next morning, Shane’s face was everywhere. Beaming under the headline:
HOCKEY'S BRAT SUMMER.
Shane sat in bed, wearing Ilya’s shirt, drinking a coffee and reading through the paper, something he would never subject himself to. Ilya was wrapped around him, legs tangled together. He chuckled while reading the article, turning the page for Ilya to see.
He grabbed his phone and took a photo of the main page and headline - it was a photo of them both from the gala, Shane was pulling Ilya towards him by his shirt, a cheeky grin spread across his face. Ilya looked like he was one word away from falling to his knees before him, a filthy grin playing at his mouth and eyes focused low on Shane’s lips. Opening his Instagram, he pulled the photo up on his story and captioned it with a single neon-green heart. No apology. No explanation.
He was Shane fucking Hollander. And he was just getting started.