Ice and Fire

The Boston Bears' first game of the season took against the Montreal Voyagers at the home arena, TD Garden in Boston. The team captains took center stage, preparing for the face-off. Since this year, Ilya Rozanov wore the “C” for the Bears, while his eternal rival Shane Hollander wore it for the Voyagers. “Hollander,” Rozanov said, rolling his “r” at the end. “Rozanov,” Hollander replied firmly. “Think you're going to win today?” “I intend to.” “Well, good luck, buddy.” “Asshole.” Boston won the first face-off, and thirty seconds later, Rozanov scored the first goal. The game ended with a score of 4:2 in favoure of the Boston Bears. The team practically carried Rozanov off the ice. Shane was incredibly disappointed in himself – the team didn't get a single goal from him today. He set in the locker room as the team gradually dispersed. They are staying in Boston tonight to fly to New York tomorrow morning, where they will play the Admirals the day after tomorrow. The coach has already given the team a stern talking-to about today's game, but Shane has a much more critical judge inside him – himself. He could have been faster, more accurate, and more aggressive, so why didn't he give it his all? Deep down, he knew that none of this was true, that he had done his best, but the perfectionist inside him only approved of unconditional victories... After taking a shower, he was getting dressed when his phone in the locker vibrated with a text message, and Shane took it out and opened the message box. Rozanov, of course! Lily: Country Yard Marriott Hotel, 275 Tremont Street, room 1724. Shane's hands were itching to type something harsh in response. After every loss with the Voyagers, he wanted to end their meetings so badly. It was so easy: to say “no”, delete “Lily” from the phone book, and just forget about Rozanov. While his head was preoccupied with heavy thoughts, unruly fingers typed the response on their own. Shane: I'll be there soon. Fuck. He made his way to the hotel wearing a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses covering half his face. He took the elevator up and, was looking around nervously, walked down the empty hallway to quietly knocked on the door number 1724. The lock clicked open. Behind the door, Ilya, wearing a bathrobe, was already celebrating his victory with a glass in his hand of something strong. After looking closely at Shane's face, Ilya quickly put the glass on the nearest nightstand. Shane looked over his shoulder once more to make sure no one was watching him, then strode confidently into the room, closed the door behind him. Disappointment in himself, emptiness, and the adrenaline rush of the game intertwined with anger at his rival, admiration for this man, and outright worship of his body. He felt a rush of hormones into his bloodstream – his skin heated up, his cock tensed, his lips began to tingle. He pushed Ilya against the wall, sucked on his lips, ready to tear his prey with his teeth if he started to resist. Ilya didn't resist – he was sensitive to his lover's mood and only moaned softly, responding to the hot, rough kiss. Ilya won on the ice today, so Shane was in charge in sex. Shane broke away from his plump lips and kneeled, wearing nothing under his robe, of course. Nothing prevented him from immediately taking Ilya's fully erect, hard cock into his mouth. Now, Shane doesn't want tenderness; it’s time to him do whatever he wants. Ilya had no objections; he runed his fingers through Shane's silky hair, not pressing on the back of his head or guiding him, caressing his temples, lowering his thumbs to his cheekbones, stroking the freckles that dot Shane's cheeks and nose so thickly. He rolled his eyes at particularly pleasant movements of the tongue and swore in Russian under his breath. Shane felt his thighs tensed under his hands and stops, rising from his knees. “Fuck, Hollander!” He always enjoyed giving Ilya blowjobs – controlling his pleasure, hearing his moans and curses. And even when they didn't have much time, he didn't like it to end too quickly. “To the bed,” Shane commanded, pulling off his shirt, boots, pants, socks, and underwear as he walked. Ilya's robe flied somewhere onto the floor as he landed on his back on the bed, Shane was leaning on top of him. They were both huge men, Ilya a little taller and heavier, but in their games, this is hardly noticeable – neither on the ice nor in bed. That's why it's so sweet to be in control. Shane took the lead, kissing the body sprawled beneath him, knowing full well that Ilya could always take the initiative – it was a rivalry, no less enjoyable than in hockey. And it was twice as enjoyable when Ilya gave in after a playful struggle. Running his fingers through Ilya's chestnut curls, already slightly damp with sweat, Shane understanded why they have been having these meetings for years – they were bound together by a thin thread of mutual sexual attraction and a thick rope of victories and defeats. Bed was just another aspect of their interaction, a very pleasant one, but not the main one – not for Shane, at least. “I'm on top,” he said, slightly out of breath. “Anything for you,” Ilya replied, pulling lubricant and a condom from under the pillow. And Shane mounted him like a skittish stallion. Bringing them both to frenzied heights, forcing his own orgasm to explode like stars and send a wave of fire through his nerves. Ilya screamed beneath him in an equally intense orgasm – there were no losers in this room today. Later, after showering and changing, Shane kissed him lightly on the lips as he leaved. “See you.” “In six weeks.” “Yes. In six weeks. Of course. Bye.”

***

Montreal and Boston met six weeks later. This time they played in Canada, at the Bell Centre, home arena of the Montreal Voyagers. Ilya loved playing against Shane almost as much as he loved fucking him. But moments like this on the ice – one-on-one – were his favorite. They stood facing each other, preparing for the face-off. “Great evening, Hollander.” “Fuck you,” Shane growled, knowing full well what's coming next. “I'm going to score on you a couple of times tonight. Maybe then you'll start crawling faster on the ice.” “Rozanov,” the referee warned him. “Shut up. Last warning.” And Hollander technically won the face-off to get to the goal in just forty seconds. Montreal won the game 5:4, and Rozanov tried to come back until the last second. Unfortunately, you can't win all your battles. Ilya took a taxi to the condominium that Shane bought specifically for their meetings. The whole fucking building. Darkness and emptiness. Not a buddy in sight – this area has only just begun to be developed, so housing here is relatively inexpensive. Shane Hollander, of course, calculated the rental, flipping, and investment risks, planned which apartments would be luxury class and which could be left as budget options. However, two years have passed since the purchase of the building, and he is in no hurry to renovate the rest of the apartments. Ilya has nothing to complain about – in a completely empty building, they could let themselves go without fear that their overly loud emotions will attract neighbors or, God forbid, the police. Shane met him downstairs and leaded to the elevator. They went up to the third floor, to the only residential apartment, which over the years has been converted into a full-fledged apartment. Shane won on the ice today, so Ilya took the lead in sex. As soon as the door closed behind them, Ilya pulled Shane against the wall and kissed him. “We don't have much time,” he muttered somewhere near the homeowner's neck. “Then hurry up!” Ilya laughed, grabbed Shane by the hand, and dragged him into the bedroom, undressing both of them as they went. No, he won't rush. First, he'll tease this picky asshole, and only then, if he behaves himself, will he give him what he wants. Although, who was he kidding... He'll give Hollander everything he needed. It has always been that way, ever since their first time. He lifted himself up, wrapping his fingers around his own cock, almost sitting on Shane's chest, teasing him, lightly touching of his perfect lips. “Do you want it?” Shane's eyes were deep black, his pupils filling his irises, he shook his head, denying the obvious, though his body spoke for itself – his cock was hard and oozing precum, his tongue automatically licked his lips, and his cheeks flush. “Say it, Hollander. And I'll give it to you.” Ilya loved pushing Shane out of his comfort zone; Shane hated talking about his desires, especially in sex. “Go on, say it.” “Hate you.” “I know. I'm waiting.” “Fuck off,” Hollander swore, already almost consumed by his inner hunger. He opened his mouth and sticked out his tongue, caressing the head. Ilya pulled away, Shane hadn't earned it yet. He closed his eyes and gave in. “Yes,” he finally broke down. “I want it.” “Good boy,” Ilya moaned as he enters the wet, hot mouth. Shane's eyes rolled back, the position wasn't conducive to deep throat, but he was fine with that. He sucked on the head, stroked the frenulum with his tongue, and runed his fingers along the entire length from the root to the tip. Every single time, every fucking time – Ilya is amazed by his enthusiasm – Shane is really good at blowjobs, and over the years they've been together, he could bring Ilya to orgasm very quickly, but he so obviously enjoys the process that Ilya sometimes even envies his own cock – Shane doesn't worship the rest of his body quite so fanatically. Feeling that he won't last long, Ilya took the “toy” away from Shane, going down, pushing his legs apart and taking him deep into his throat. Shane was very hard, about to cum, so Ilya didn't waste any time getting ready. One finger, then another, a condom on his burning cock, and now he was inside. Shane arched his back, always so responsive, accepting everything Ilya was willing to give him. Moans escaped him in a continuous stream, his fingers digging into his lover's shoulders as he pulls Ilya closer, kissing him passionately, wetly, and with complete abandon. Ilya's cross slid across both their chests as they kissed selflessly, and the slow thrusted very quickly turn into frantic ones. Ilya fucked Shane quickly, hard, with a pull, accelerating in seconds – orgasm was already looming on the periphery of his vision when he started jerking off Shane’s cock. “So good... Yes... Like that... More... I'm almost there, fuck!” “Yes. Come on, Hollander!” Both cried out as semen splashes onto Shane's stomach, spasms squeezed Ilya's cock inside him, and he came, with an indistinct: “Fuck!” They laid there heated, sweaty, flushed, and simply catching their breath, staring somewhere at the ceiling. “That was good, Rozanov.” “Yeah.” “I need to take a shower, I'm all sticky.” Ilya rolled his eyes – Hollanders had as much romance in them as an airplane schedule – that was, none whatsoever – only perfectionism, practicality, and dullness.

***

Everything changed after Shane's epic romance with movie star Rose Landry. Two celebrities: she from popular TV series, he from hockey, met for just a few weeks, but those weeks were difficult for both Rozanov and Hollander. For Shane, who has finally accepted and came to terms with his orientation. For Ilya, who felt that his lover's relationship with the actress could quite serious and that Shane may never return to him. Tampa Bay and the blessed All-Star Game of that year, when they were end up on the same team. A game where no one else was visible on the ice except them – Ilya felt such synchronicity, such harmony with someone for the first time, even though they have never played together in their lives. Shane was also happy, having scored four goals, his cheeks flushed, sweaty and disheveled, but Ilya didn't care. He just moved closer and kissed Shane on the cheek: because he wanted to, because he could, because his “Russian eccentricity” will get him away with it. Shane laughed and pushed him away, the other team members laughed, thinking that Rozanov was, as usual, trying to annoy Hollander. If only they knew... The evening slowly turned into night. Ilya kissed Shane, holding his face in his palms, slowly caressing his body with his fingertips, looking at him with reverence, worshipping him as if he were an ancient deity. His eyes burned with tenderness – Shane had noticed glimpses of it before – but now it is sharper, brighter, closer. They no longer hide their feelings; sex has simply grown into something more. Something they are not yet ready to name aloud. How wonderful it would be to be alone in the world together – to be together, sleep together, cook together, just talk. Even watch stupid comedies together! Together. But they only had this night, hours of happiness stolen from fate on the eve of long, long weeks apart.

***

They started exchanging messages. It was so strange they didn't do this earlier. They had known each other's phone numbers for six fucking years but never used them except to arrange meetings. Shane discussed sports gossip with Ilya, who told him another “funny” joke or story that happened to him the day before – Ilya was simply a magnet for curiosities. And the team – both teams, in fact – noticed that their captains have become calmer, more confident, and gentler. This was evident in small things – Ilya no longer snaped at his teammates for every deep breath they took, and Shane was more willing to participate in conversations in the locker room. Ilya had stopped constantly hanging out in bars looking for one-night stands, and Shane enjoyed visiting friends. Their closeness drew them deeper into each other – perfect moments of passion and fire together, and, in contrast, the cold, cruel reality where they had not only no future, but also no normal present. It was getting harder to part ways, their hearted yearning for the person they love most whom they couldn't even look at twice in public. They were still irreconcilable rivals on the ice, still passionate lovers off it. Such emotional swings were terribly exhausting – both felt that the situation was heating up – despite their strong feelings for each other, this relationship was hurting them both and the best solution would be to break up – when fucking Scott Hunter kissed his boyfriend right on the ice during the live broadcast of the Stanley Cup Final! Twenty thousand people and the entire NHL management in the stadium, as well as an online broadcast across the continent, did not stop this crazy New Yorker from coming out... Everything was still difficult. Shane's parents were unlikely to be happy for him when they find out. Masculine sports don’t accept “those who are different.” Teams won't understand if they find out about them. Coaches won't understand. Team owners won't understand. Sponsors won't understand. Commissioner Crowell won't be thrilled either. But at least they won't be the first – that's the only hope keeping them from break out – the hope that if Hunter made it, so they also can...