Blazing ice

Ilya leaned over the ice for the faceoff. Shane Hollander stood across from him. His eyes blazed with a black fire. Ilya’s lips stretched with satisfaction. "Do you think they’ll burn your effigy today after the crushing defeat? " “Go to hell,” Hollander growled. Rozanov narrowed his eyes and exhaled slowly, concentrating with utmost intensity. He had decided to destroy Montreal in this game and was single-mindedly pursuing his goal. The score was 3-2 in Boston’s favor. But that wasn’t enough. He won the faceoff and, intercepting a pass, sprinted toward the opposing goal. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hollander gaining on him. Deftly avoiding a foul and a dirty tackle, Ilya feinted and, turning his body, sent the puck into the left corner of the net. The entire action took him fifteen seconds. Rozanov exhaled, and it seemed like a cloud of steam escaped his lips, his body was so ablaze with heat and adrenaline. He stared into Hollander’s angry face and smiled. The arena was filled with shouts and curses. Montreal really wanted to tear Rozanov apart that evening. But he’d soon shut them up. “Well?” Ilya roughly pinned Hollander to the side. “I’m ready to cry from despair.” “Get away from him!” Jay-Jay slammed between them, pushing Hollander behind him. His fist swung into Rozonov’s grinning face. But Ilya dodged: “And here comes daddy, who’s gone to protect his boy,” he drawled sarcastically. The Montreal defender’s face twisted with rage. “I’ll bury you in the fucking ice,” Jay-Jay growled, rushing at Ilya, but then the referees arrived and the two of them barely held him back, hanging on either side. *** He hated him! He really hated him! Stepping into the locker room, Hollander smashed his stick against the locker. He was shaking so hard his ears were popping, and Hayden Pike’s soothing words reached him like they were being muffled. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. They’d beaten him like a kid, like a damn junior playing his first real game. Hollander clenched his fists. He wanted blood. He wanted to smash that grinning face, wipe it off with his fist, beat it until Rozanov begged for mercy. He remembered that night in the hotel after filming. Now it seemed like it had happened in a dream. Searing shame and rage, resentment, and helplessness were tearing Shane to pieces. *** His first All-Star Game in America! Ilya couldn’t stop smiling. He swiped his key card and entered the luxurious Hilton suite. A huge flat-screen TV, panoramic windows overlooking the city—it even smelled of luxury and pomp. Had the sponsors been generous, or was this always the case? If so, he was absolutely loving it! He dropped his gym bag on the floor and plopped down on the enormous king-sized bed. And in this room, he’d finally be alone, not with a teammate; he could take advantage of the opportunity to lure someone into his bed. Hollander’s enraged face, his dark eyes, his pursed lips as he literally destroyed Montreal, flashed before his eyes. And then came the image from hotel room 1410. Shane, fucking Hollander, on his knees, sucking his dick. The two images merged into one hot fantasy. Ilya slowly drew in a breath. He’d flown in from Boston a couple of hours ago and had only just checked into his room, so he hadn’t seen Hollander yet. That evening, he’d have dinner with the players, and later, an informal party. Ilya was looking forward to it. For now, he should prepare thoroughly, but a hot shower came first. And then he’d choose his most luxurious suit. He found himself in his element, surrounded by hot guys, each looking like they’d stepped off the cover of a men’s magazine. There was talk of hockey, the Cup, and the playoffs, endless teasing and good-natured ribbing. Ilya finally met Scott Hunter, captain of the New York Admirals, and he read a lot in his eyes. If they’d been alone, instead of in a crowded room with reporters and players, Ilya would have definitely tried to knock him down. But his gaze, involuntarily or not, sought out one man with shiny black hair (his hands still remembered how soft they used to be), perfect pale skin, and those damn sexy freckles. Shane Hollander. He seemed determined to ignore Ilya’s presence with all his might. He didn’t glance in his direction once and kept to the opposite side of the room, which only further irritated Rozanov. He almost wanted to shout for everyone to hear: “Hey,"Hollander, do you still remember the taste of my dick?!” But he restrained himself, although the temptation was great. Rozanov was literally drawn to this mama’s boy, so perfect, so innocent—he just wanted to spoil him. He wanted to force him to his knees again, part his pink lips with his cock, grip the hair at the back of his head, and push down to his throat, to once again catch that indignant gaze from under his eyelashes. And watch as those black eyes clouded over with a haze of desire and lust. This sweet boy held that very spark that ignited Ilya like gunpowder. If he keeps thinking about Shane fucking Hollander, he’s going to go up in smoke. I had to distract myself with photographers and interviews. He responded boldly and provocatively. Yes, he’s almost scored fifty goals. What are you talking about? Hollander has scored three more. Well, it’s not over yet. “Who would you like to play on a team with? " “With Scott Hunter — he’s hot! " And yes, he also wanted to play againstHollander. He loved playing against him because Ilya had finally found his equal. Someone as obsessed with hockey as he was. Taunting Hollander on the ice was pure pleasure. Seeing his angry glare, hearing the curses from his sweet, innocent mouth—it added a special flavor to the game. When the official part ended, everyone, loosening their ties and removing their jackets, moved to the hotel bar. If Superskills hadn’t been on the following morning, Ilya would have knocked back a couple of glasses of vodka. But he had to primly sip the sweet-and-sour cocktail with an umbrella. Scott Hunter turned out to be an incredibly modest guy, a little reserved and, for some reason, lonely. The conversation turned to girls, and the topics became less innocent. Scott hid behind a glass of non-alcoholic beer, and Ilya glanced around the bar. In the dim lighting and the vaguely defined crowd, it was difficult to spot anyone in particular. But Rozanov intuitively realized that Hollander wasn’t there. Most likely, he’d gone to bed, like a good boy. One cocktail led to another. Hunter retired to his room, wishing him luck for the next day. The others followed him. In the end, only the most resilient remained at the bar. Ilya absorbed the atmosphere of a rich life. Life in another world, where even the air was different. Free. Far from home and family, he finally exhaled. And the pressure that had been squeezing him since childhood released. He had made it. He had broken free. “Do you miss me?” a sexy voice sounded right next to my ear. Ilya turned his head. A gorgeous blonde with scarlet lips smiled tenderly and sat down on the next chair. “Maybe,” he answered and waved to the bartender, who immediately placed a glass in front of the girl. She wore a shiny, floor-length black dress, cut low to her hipbone. Rozanov could have sworn she wasn’t wearing panties. She smelled like an expensive whore. He smiled at her, but without promising anything. Not yet. He wasn’t drunk, rather pleasantly relaxed. A wonderful evening could end even better. The large bed in his room really did look too big for one. He wanted to start a conversation, but his English words wouldn’t form proper sentences. She placed her hand on his knee, squeezed it with her sharp nails, and gently moved it up his thigh. He considered asking how much she charged. But even for him, such a question sounded rude—after all, he considered himself a gentleman when it came to women. He caught her hand just above his groin and squeezed gently. He looked into her eyes, as if reading her soul, and leaned in, capturing her scarlet lips with his lips. She breathed into his mouth and tilted her head, giving in to the kiss. Soft, obedient, smelling like a rose. He could feel her lipstick smearing across his lips. Why isn’t she a he? What’s he doing? Sleeping soundly? Reading clever books? Fantasizing about how he’ll dominate tomorrow’s competition? What kind of pajamas is he wearing? Pink with blue unicorns, perhaps? That kiss tasted like toothpaste. Ilya was sure it was Shane’s first kiss with a man. He remembered the way Hollander pressed his lips together when he touched his mouth, then how they tentatively parted so he could deepen the kiss. How he watched his cock peek out from under the elastic of his underwear. Ilya had come in already aroused, so Hollander’s tentative, teasing tongue movements nearly made him come within two minutes. She was good. She skillfully caressed his tongue with her tongue. The hand on her hip came to life again and crept higher, purposefully toward his cock. But he intercepted her again and broke the kiss. “You’re magnificent,” Ilya said hoarsely. “But I have to get up early tomorrow.” She smiled broadly at him and shook her head slightly, admitting defeat: "It’s a pity.” He paid the bill and, throwing his jacket over one shoulder, headed for the elevator. As he rode up to his floor, he leaned against the wall and looked at his reflection in the mirrored door. His metallic blue suit perfectly complemented his pale skin and blond hair, his scarlet lipstick smeared across his lips, his shirt unbuttoned three buttons—Ilya looked like he’d been brutally fuckedin a dark corner. He smiled and closed his eyes. Arousal coursed through his body in a pleasant shiver. A sweet languor tugged at his groin. What if he knocked on Hollander’s door right now, walked into the room, grabbed him under the hips, sucked him, and then threw him on the bed and fucked him hard. That would be perfect. But he didn’t know which room Shane was staying in. *** This year, the league decided to combine North American players into one team and European players into another. Ilya had another reason to irritate Shane. But earlier that morning, he’d been told he was expected for an interview. He and Hollander. He pulled his baseball cap down over his forehead, closing his eyes, reddened from the previous night’s alcohol, and, without much thought, put on a black T-shirt that hugged his chest too tightly. That would probably be enough for the journalists and photographers. A barrage of boring questions rained down on him, half of which he didn’t understand, so he gave monosyllabic answers. He kept a sideways glance at Hollander, who tried to keep a straight face and, like an obedient boy, answered for both of them. Ilya inhaled discreetly, taking in the scent of cologne and fabric softener emanating from Shane. He leaned over the table, his elbow almost touching Hollander’s arm. An electric shock made the hairs on Rozanov’s arm stand on end. And he realized Shane felt the same. Hollander leaned back slightly, answering the stupid question with a clever flourish. But Ilya felt his wandering gaze on his back. A delicious tugging sensation tugged at his lower abdomen. Little did Hollander know that yesterday, returning to his room late at night, Ilya had masturbated slowly and long in the shower, imagining him, and came, splattering the beige tiled walls with sperm, breathing out the name of his enemy. When the interview ended, Ilya looked him in the eyes. “See you later." Shane returned his gaze and shook the outstretched hand. "Yes. Later." Rozanov realized he wouldn’t rest until he fucked Hollander. And he would fuck him until Shane screamed his name and whined with pleasure beneath him. To be honest, Ilya didn’t really understand the appeal of Superskills. It was a competition where the winner was the one who beat the opponent by a split second, when in reality, they were practically equal, but since he was getting paid for it, why not? The atmosphere was relaxed; everyone skated without helmets and didn’t take the competition seriously. Apparently, the players thought the same way as Ilya. There was no point in showing off when the results of the match depended on teamwork. He was matched against Hollander for accuracy. And judging by the referee’s serious expression, Shane was at least going to score in three seconds. Ilya went first. He skated out onto the ice, slowly stretched his neck, and leaned over, gripping his stick tightly. The whistle blew. Two pucks hit the target in the lower corners perfectly, the third missed by just a few centimeters, but found the net. Ilya mentally rolled his eyes, damn it. The fourth and fifth pucks flew right into the targets. Eight seconds. Ilya raised his arms in triumph and circled the ice. The crowd applauded contentedly, enjoying the show. “I’m sorry, Hollander,” Ilya said when Shane came out to replace him. “You think I can’t beat your time?” he asked smugly. Ilya’s hands itched. He wanted so badly to lift that beautiful face by the chin and kiss it. He grinned and lightly nudged Hollander’s shoulder as he passed. Who would have thought Shane would hit the target perfectly, without missing a single shot, in just six point seven seconds? He threw his arms up in the air, smiling his gorgeous, sweet smile, like a kid who’d just scored his first goal. Animal desire coursed through my veins like acid, rushing in a wave to my groin, where it twisted into a tight, heavy knot. That fucking Hollander was too careless to realize what a sweet target he was. Their gazes met. Shane apparently read the lust in Ilya’s pupils and lowered his eyes, blushing deeply. Ilya watched the speed race with a relaxed expression, skating lazily along the boards. Stopping at the blue line, he raised his stick to adjust the hockey tape on his blade. Hollander stood a few feet away, drinking from a bottle. “Great throw,” Ilya said, continuing to fiddle with his stick. “Thanks,” Shane muttered, covering his mouth with the bottle. "Are you planning to have some fun this evening?" “May be.” “We were going to go to a club to have fun and get drunk." “I don’t drink." “And you go to bed like a good boy at nine in the evening,” Ilya nodded and smiled, looking straight ahead. “Fuck you,” Hollander hissed like an angry cat. Ilya tilted his head to the side, catching Shane’s glance sideways, and winked. Now Hollander will definitely be going to the club. Ilya has issued a challenge, and Shane will never ignore it. *** The music penetrated every nerve, vibrated at his fingertips, and echoed in his heart like jagged beats. In one hand, he held his fifth or sixth cocktail, in the other, a smiling girl whose name he didn’t know. The red light of the dance floor created the effect of an underworld where the souls of sinners raged. He moved, guided by the music, surrendering himself with pleasure to the familiar rhythm. Both on the ice and in the club, he felt like a fish in water. Sweat poured down his back, cigarette smoke burned his breath, and the sweet alcohol made his head spin. Someone tugged at his T-shirt, and, yielding, he leaned over, helping them remove it. His black jeans barely hung on his hips, sliding impermissibly low down onto his buttocks. Someone’s hands caressed his back and abs. He felt his gaze. And it turned him on even more. Ilya showed off, writhing his entire body, flexing his muscles and moving erotically to the rhythm of sex. He was surrounded by heated, half-naked bodies: girls in short dresses and plunging necklines, guys in see-through T-shirts and very tight jeans. Their heat made his blood boil with an ancient, primal rhythm. Ilya bit his lip and, draining his glass in one gulp, moved across the room. He walked slowly, like an animal, giving his prey one last chance to escape danger. But Hollander continued to stand near the wall, hiding in the shadows from prying eyes. Rozanov stopped in front of him, breathing deeply and intermittently, as if he had run a couple of dozen kilometers. “Hello,” he said in Russian, his lips twisting into a wild smile. “You’re drunk,” Hollander replied, devouring his bare chest with his eyes. “ You’re so beautiful,” Ilya exhaled, licking his lips. “Speak English, I don’t understand you,” Hollander said. “I understand you perfectly,” he chuckled and leaned towards Shane’s face. But Hollander raised his hands, pressing them against Ilya’s chest: “They will see us! " But the touch was like an electric shock to him. Rozanov noticed Shane’s pupils dilate, his lips part, and the nimble tongue flicking between them. He carefully grabbed his wrist and slowly ran Shane’s hand down his chest, over his six-pack, and even lower, where he pressed his strong palm against his bulging fly, beneath which his hard, engorged member was already aching. “Do you still want him?” Ilya asked, switching to English. Shane let out a ragged breath, as if hypnotized, looking into Rozanov’s eyes. “You still want me,” is no longer a question, but a pure statement of fact. “Yes,” Shane groaned. Ilya pulled his hand away from his cock and, raising it to his lips, tenderly kissed his knuckles. He left no chance for resistance. “Let’s go,” he whispered under his breath and pulled Shane along with him. They went into the restroom, where a couple, a guy and a girl, were passionately making out at the sink. Rozanov pushed open the door of an empty stall and dragged Shane in. They stood facing each other in the cramped space, trembling slightly with excitement. The music continued to blare, vibrating off the walls. Ilya sat down on the toilet and reached for Hollander’s fly, buried his nose in the stretched fabric, and was pleased to hear a soft groan from above. He caught the metal tab in his teeth and pulled down, unzipping the zipper. Even now, Shane smelled of shower gel and laundry detergent. So clean. When Ilya was done with him, he would be splattered with cum from head to toe. He wrapped his lips around the head, pressing his lips together tightly. A dull thud sounded from above, and Ilya’s eyes shot upward. Hollander, throwing his head back, slammed the back of his head against the door with all his might. Ilya continued sucking, pulling his pants and underwear down to his knees. He savored the spicy taste and the tender flesh. His hands slid down Shane’s thighs, cupped his buttocks, squeezing them hard, then caressing them lightly. Shane moaned, leaning forward. He tangled his fingers in Ilya’s hair and gently guided his head, his other hand tracing the ridged muscles of his shoulders. Rozanov alternately swallowed his cock to the base and then released it, blowing perversely on the wet head, causing Shane to whine and curse. He wetly licked his balls, rolling them around on his tongue, while the fingers of his right hand slid between his firm buttocks. Shane flinched when an overly inquisitive finger touched his hole. “No… stop,” he breathed out, squeezing Ilya’s hair tightly. “I’ll be right back…” Ilya pulled away from the wet member polished with his saliva and, licking his swollen lips, looked up. “I want you,” Shane said unexpectedly, causing Ilya to almost growl. He rose, towering over Hollander with his entire height, practically pressing him against the flimsy door. He touched his lips, not kissing, but gently teasing. His hot tongue slid curiously between Shane’s lips, but immediately returned to Rozanov’s mouth. Hollander’s gaze grew heavy. Ilya had been waiting for this. Finally. Shane’s hand shot up, grabbed Ilya’s head roughly, and pulled him down. He pounced on him like a man hungry, biting, licking, thrusting his tongue between his teeth, licking the inside of his mouth. Ilya groaned, giving in to the kiss. With his other hand, Hollander yanked hard at the button of his jeans, ripping it off. His fly popped… “You’re not wearing any panties?!” Shane exclaimed, tearing his lips away from Ilya’s. “Are you crazy?!” “It’s all for you,” Ilya laughed. “You know how it turns me on when my dick rubs against the rough fabric of jeans.” “No, I don’t fucking know,” Shane replied admiringly, looking with hungry eyes at the picture that opened up. Rozanov stood before him half-naked. Only the chain with the cross glittered in the crimson light that spilled over his skin, highlighting the ridges of his muscles and the beads of sweat trickling down his neck. His penis peeked invitingly out of his unzipped fly. Rozanov himself was the embodiment of sex and desire. Shane swallowed the drool that had accumulated. His own penis was dripping with precum, so much so that drops fell onto the dirty, trampled floor. Ilya braced his hands on either side of Shane’s head and pressed his body against him. Hollander groaned, dropping his head helplessly onto Ilya’s shoulder. The scent of expensive perfume and genuine male sweat made his balls clench painfully. He slid his palms down his sides and gently stroked Rozanov’s buttocks. It seemed like they could just cum from the way they were pressed against each other, their cocks sliding between their bellies, leaking precum. “Turn around,” Ilya groaned, barely able to gather his melted brain together. A flicker of worry crossed Shane’s eyes. “Trust me,” Ilya asked, and Shane awkwardly turned to face the door. Ilya spat on his hand and smeared the saliva over his cock, then slid it between Hollander’s buttocks. “Fuck! Fuck…” Shane groaned as the head of his cock passed under his balls. Shane leaned his head back against Rozanov’s shoulder and closed his eyes, surrendering to the sensation. Ilya moved his hips, slapping his groin against her firm buttocks. The head of his cock nudged her tight ring, pressing hard, but then immediately sliding lower, under her balls. “Squeeze your legs,” he said, without even understanding what language he was speaking. But Shane obeyed, and Ilya’s member ended up clamped between his strong thighs. “Oh, fuck,” he moaned, inhaling the scent of her hair, his tongue gliding along the edge of her ear. Shane bucked his hips and sighed softly, clearly trying to contain himself. Rozanov felt that he was already on the edge, and, grabbing Shane’s member, he roughly moved his fist. “Finish,” he growled in Hollander’s ear. “Fuck… yes, yes,” Shane moaned loudly, splashing the door with thick sperm. Ilya squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled sharply, coming between Shane’s thighs. He buried his nose in the back of Shane’s neck, breathing greedily and resisting the urge to bite the back of his neck. To leave his mark on him, so everyone could see who it belonged to. Shane took a deep breath, leaning his head against the door and hanging on Rozanov’s arms. Thoughts were bouncing around in his head like pucks during warm-ups. Fuck, he’d done it again. And it was fucking amazing. Maybe even too amazing to repeat. “Alive?” Ilya asked, sitting down on the toilet to give Shane some space. " Almost.” Rozanov licked his lips, looking at Hollander’s figure. His sweatshirt was ridden up his back, his pants and briefs hung loosely at his knees, and his bare, tightly toned backside beckoned for a scarlet hickey. Why not. I just leaned down and grabbed the soft skin with my lips, sucking lightly, when Shane jumped up, turning sharply: " What the fuck are you doing?! " “Do you think anyone will be looking at your ass in the shower?” Ilya laughed. “What an asshole you are! " “You’ll say a mosquito bit you." Shane let out a resigned sigh, pulled up his pants and underwear, and buttoned himself up. He hesitated. Ilya smiled crookedly, watching him. “See you, Hollander." Shane glanced at him quickly, noting that Rozanov hadn’t buttoned his pants, his fallen member lying peacefully on his thigh. “Yeah. Yeah, see you around. Goodnight,” Shane muttered. If he didn’t leave now, it would all happen again. This same old thing would repeat itself, something he couldn’t name because he wanted to resist it and couldn’t. Not when Rozanov had burned into him with his eyes, seduced him with his flawless body, and kissed him so hard he could come just from that. *** The phone rang, Ilya glanced at the number and frowned. He accepted the call. “After training, come in and buy some bread,” my father’s voice sounded familiar in a commanding tone. “Okay,” he easily agreed and then asked: “Black?” “Yes." “How’s Mom?” Ilya asked. “Okay, I decided to make borscht today, as usual the whole apartment smelled of onions,” my father complained grumpily. Ilya felt his eyes begin to sting: “Tell mom that I love her." Father was silent for a long time, then a hoarse voice came over the phone: “I’ll pass." The connection was lost. Ilya slowly sank onto the bed in his empty Montreal hotel room. The phone slipped from his weakened fingers and landed on the floor with a dull thud. The call was like a brutal physical, the kind an opponent throws at you with all his might, usually face-first into the ice. He worried about his father. He hated his father. And these conflicting feelings were tearing him apart. He couldn’t help him in any way, couldn’t even be near him, though the sight of him was excruciating. He didn’t trust Andrey, who didn’t care about his father. Like Polina, he insisted that Grigory was fine. And again he asked for money. Again. Andrey hated Ilya for sleeping with his girlfriend - an old story. Because Ilya was earning huge amounts of money playing in the NHL. Andrey wanted the money and believed he had a right to it. Ilya thought about his mother. Did they have a chance at a happy family? Because now, more than ever, everything was falling apart at the seams. He was far from home and glad of it, but guilt weighed heavily on his heart. He exhaled, suppressing his feelings, and tried to pull away, remembering Shane trembling and whimpering in his arms two weeks ago. Even now, the memory was fresh and vivid. Admittedly, Hollander was driving him crazy. He wanted to fuck him. And, apparently, Shane wasn’t opposed to that. Ilya picked up his phone from the floor and scrolled through his news feed; they had a game tonight. He so longed to see Hollander again, to meet him face-to-face on the ice during a faceoff, to steal the puck from him and score. To see his irritation and anger. To see his sunny smile. *** Montreal’s Bell Centre arena was filled with the shouts and roar of thousands of voices. Of course, eternal rivals Boston and Montreal were meeting on the same ice, and add to that the rivalry between Hollander and Rozanov, and the stakes were simply astronomical. The first faceoff. Ilya was focused and excited. Shane’s eyes sparkled like black onyx behind the visor. “Well, hello, sweetie,” Rozanov winked. Hollander’s lips tightened, and his eyes grew even darker and more dangerous. Ilya should have focused more on the puck and not irritated Hollander because he lost the faceoff. It was a tough game. No matter how hard Rozanov tried, he couldn’t get close to Hollander, who, it seemed, the entire team had decided to protect from him. Someone kept flickering in front of his eyes, pushing him away with his back. Jay-Jay Montreal forward Bouziou apparently hadn’t forgotten the daddy refrain. Bouziou was literally breathing down Rozanov’s neck, slamming him into the boards with all his might whenever possible, preventing him from passing and scoring. “Well, what are you going to say now, Rozanov?” he exhaled, pressing down on Ilya. Two more Montreal players arrived and pounced on Rozanov, but his own teammates immediately rushed to his aid. A scuffle ensued, and before the referees could see, Jay-Jay elbowed Ilya in the face. “What, Hollander won’t let you, since you’re so angry?” Ilya chuckled. Bouaziou’s dark face twisted and darkened even more. They were separated in time, but Jay-Jay wasn’t given any penalty. Yes, Moneral fans adored Rozanov. Especially his blood on the ice. Towards the end of the game, Ilya was knocked down with a brutal body check, causing stars to appear before his eyes. He struggled to his feet, shaking his head like a dog, and suddenly caught Hollander’s eye. His worried and slightly guilty eyes pierced Rozanov. Boston lost. “Faggots,” Cliff Marlow, Rozanov’s best friend on the team, concluded pathetically. “What about you?” “It’s like the entire Montreal team fucked me, sticks and all,” Ilya replied, struggling to remove his soaking-wet jersey. His ribs were painfully aching, but it seemed like he hadn’t even cracked them. “We need a good Tough Guy so that situations like this don’t happen again,” the coach said, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. “Get some rest,” he said and left. Ilya didn’t consider himself weak and was pretty hard to knock down, but Bouaziou was huge and heavy. And really annoying. I’d love to break his leg in the next game. Rozanov undressed slowly, trying not to make any sudden movements, and stood for a long time under the warm shower. His cheekbone stung a little, but that was a minor issue. He deliberately fussed, patiently waiting for the players to go home. It took at least two hours for everyone to have their say on the game, swearing profusely, shower, and change. It was a faint hope. Ilya emerged from the locker room, his baseball cap pulled low and his jacket hood pulled up to avoid recognition. The arena seemed deserted and empty, and it was hard to tell that just a few hours ago, thousands of voices had been raging inside. After wandering through the corridors, he found a door with the Montreal Voyagers logo. Exhaling sharply, he turned the handle and entered the locker room. Shane Hollander looked up and stood up from the bench. For a second, Rozanov thought he was asleep. This couldn’t be. Had Hollander been waiting for him? All this time? And then something happened to them both. They lunged at each other simultaneously. Ilya’s baseball cap flew to the floor, Shane’s hands buried themselves in his damp curls. The kiss was insatiable, frantic, and insanely hungry. As if they’d been dying of thirst for a long time and now could finally drink from each other’s lips. “Fuck!” Shane breathed. “Wait, wait… we have to close this.” Hollander exhaled, catching his breath, and darted to the door, clicked the lock, and was immediately pinned by Ilya’s body. Rozanov’s hands slid under his warm sweater and stroked his sides with force, then lowered his hips and pulled him toward his groin. Shane groaned, feeling the tightness of his fly against his backside. You’re here! You’re here! You’ve been waiting for me! Ilya repeated to himself, kissing Hollander’s neck. He ran his fingers over his firm, toned abs again and, grabbing the hem of his sweater, pulled it up. Shane raised his arms. Ilya ran his wet tongue over the protruding bones of his spine, noticing the scattering of freckles in the bright light of the locker room. It looked incredibly cute. “Let’s get away from the door before they hear us,” Shane groaned. Ilya exhaled slowly, trying to regain his composure, and stepped back. He was glad, incredibly glad, that Shane was waiting for him. He even felt lighter, and the worry from the lost game and his father’s call was less pressing. Hollander turned to face him. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes wild, his lips moist and parted. He was shaking slightly, apparently unaware of what he was doing. He reached out and unzipped Rozanov’s jacket, sliding it off his shoulders and tossing it onto the floor next to his sweater. Then came the black T-shirt. They stood there, naked to the waist, staring into each other’s eyes, unable to believe this was all happening. Shane raised his hands and pushed Ilya back until his feet rested on the bench. Rozanov sat down, and Hollander climbed into his lap. They remained silent, playing a game only they understood. Ilya squeezed Hollander’s buttocks under the fabric of his jeans and raised his head, openly returning Shane’s crazed gaze. Their lips met in a wet, leisurely kiss. Shane rocked his hips, massaging Ilya’s engorged member. The luscious sounds and heavy breathing echoed off the tiled walls. The wild excitement of doing this in the Voyagers' locker room, where the team had only recently changed, sent a throbbing ache through his penis. This is a bad idea, a very, very bad idea. Ilya grabbed Shane and pushed him backward onto the bench, stood up, and pulled off his jeans and underwear in one jerk, leaving him in just his sneakers. He sat on Hollander’s chest, slowly stroking his cock. Shane licked his lips and opened his mouth slightly. Ilya slid the wet head of his cock over his lips and thrust into his hot depths. He slowly fucked Hollander’s mouth, barely restraining himself from slamming into him balls deep. Sweat poured down his back from the effort and the desire to cum right then. He held himself back, trying to prolong this sweet moment. Shane rolled his eyes, parting his deep, red lips, and twitched. Ilya turned his head and saw Hollander unzip his pants and begin jerking off. Rozanov bit his lip and thrust deeper into the tight little mouth, brushing the tip of his cock against the ribbed roof of his mouth. With one hand, Shane masturbated himself, while with the other, he kneaded Ilya’s toned ass. Muffled voices could be heard in the hallway, and someone tugged at the doorknob. Ilya stared fixedly into Shane’s eyes and, oblivious to the noise, rocked his hips. “Mmm,” Hollander moaned, arching his back as he came on his stomach. The vibration of his throat made Rozanov’s balls tighten. Slowly pulling his cock out of his mouth, causing a thin stream of saliva to trail from the head to his lips, he began to jerk off furiously. After a few strokes, he came, seeing stars for the umpteenth time today. Matte beads of semen splattered Shane’s face, landing on his lips, cheeks, eyelashes, and even his forehead. Hollander opened his mouth and licked up the drops. " Blyad’…” Ilya breathed out in Russian and leaned down to lick his cum off Shane’s face. He ran his tongue across his cheek, caught the drops from his eyelashes with his lips, licked his forehead, and finally kissed Shane. “ Blad,” Hollander repeated in Russian and laughed. Ilya finally got off him and sat down on the bench, openly admiring the fucked Shane. Hollander reached into his gym bag and pulled out a still-damp towel, wiping his face and then his own sperm from his stomach. “This is fucking crazy,” he concluded, throwing the towel back into his bag. “Not yet,” Rozanov glanced around the locker room and asked, “Where did you say Bouaziu’s locker is?” “Why?” Shane didn’t understand. “I want to cum on it.“ Hollander nudged Rozanov in the hip: “As captain, I forbid you to do this,” he said menacingly, frowning. “What, will everyone think it’s you?” Ilya winked and, standing up, began pulling on his pants and underwear. “I don’t have the same reputation as you,” Shane replied, tucking his cock in and buttoning his pants. “You’re a saint,” Rozanov chuckled, picking up Hollander’s sweater and his own jacket and T-shirt from the floor. Shane nodded gratefully as Ilya handed him the clothes. After hesitating for a second, Ilya asked. “Give me your phone number. " “For what? " “I’ll send you my dick pics,” Rozanov smiled. “What the hell do I need them for?” Shane frowned, but pulled his smartphone from the depths of his bag and handed it to Ilya, who entered his number and made a call. “You can print it out and hang it above your bed,” Ilya mocked. “Lily?” Shane asked in surprise when Ilya handed him back the phone. “What will you call me?” "Jane." “You’re an idiot,” Shane sighed, apparently resigned to the fact. Suddenly he carefully touched Rozanov’s cheekbone, where a bruise from Jay-Jay’s blow was forming. “It was dirty." “It’s hockey,” Ilya shrugged, trying to ignore the way his heart skipped a beat at the touch. *** The city turned out to be even more fantastical than he had imagined. Las Vegas sparkled with a billion lights and roared like a huge open-air club. Expensive cars filled with beautiful women revved the highways. Famous brand-name stores stood next to renowned Michelin- starred restaurants. The hotel he was staying at turned out to be more luxurious than any he’d ever stayed at. He peered into the minibar, checking out the drinks. And yes, his favorite vodka was there. He poured himself a half-stack and topped it off with Coke. He went out onto the balcony and sat on a chaise lounge, admiring the view of the fountain next to the Mirage Hotel. He didn’t particularly care about the Rookie of the Year award, but it would have been nice to win it and see Hollander’s frown. This season had been one hell of a crazy one. He’d fulfilled his promise to score fifty goals. He’d even exceeded it—scored sixty-seven, and only because Hollander had scored fifty-one, and Ilya couldn’t let that go. They’d ended up in an unspoken competition to see who could score more goals by the end of the season. It ended in a tie. But that competition had allowed both teams to reach the playoffs, something that hadn’t happened in years. Sportswriters compared their technique, the number of successful passes and goals, even their height and weight. Ilya still thought he was cooler than Hollander, who slept in unicorn pajamas. Seriously, Ilya drove a yellow Ferrari, wore leather jackets, and looked like a bad boy. Hollander himself. And that was the most reckless thing this season. Who would have thought it? Ilya took a long sip from his glass, and a pleasant warmth spread through his chest. Now he had Shane’s number, but they had never texted each other before. Although sometimes, sitting at the airport, waiting for another plane, he would type out a stupid message and immediately delete it. He didn’t want to think that he was more drawn to Shane than anyone else. It was just no-strings-attached sex, spiced with a sharp taste of danger. Rozanov stood on the balcony, looking out into the audience. The musicians finished playing, and a long-legged blonde in a dress as sparkling as glass took the stage. The winner was about to be announced. Hollander stood next to his parents, looking like a child at a New Year’s party, waiting for a present from Santa Claus. Shane was clearly nervous and bit his lips, causing them to become red and swollen. That slutty, sweet little mouth had once swallowed his dick to the core. Ilya didn’t win the award, but he was pleased to see the sunny smile on Hollander’s face. That was his style. The journalists and photographers were kicked out of the afterparty, and everyone finally took a breather. Strong alcohol flowed, club music boomed, and uninhibited laughter and raunchy toasts erupted. Rozanov greeted Scott Hunter, even coaxing him into a glass of bruderschaft. Ilya stared into his eyes, causing Hunter to blush and nearly choke on his whiskey. Rozanov drank with everyone and, lost among the others, secretly watched Hollander, who was nervously turning his head. Was he really looking for him? People approached Shane to congratulate him, pat him on the shoulder, and say a few words about how great he was — he smiled a sweet, proud smile and obediently nodded. Ilya finally came up with a plan. And he pulled out his phone.