Blazing ice

Ilya stood by the window, admiring the enormous, sparkling fountain. Las Vegas at night sparkled like a Christmas tree. He’d returned to his room half an hour ago, taken off his jacket, slipped off his shoes, unbuttoned a couple of buttons on his shirt, and poured himself a vodka. The door slid open quietly, then the automatic lock clicked. Ilya smiled and turned around. Shane Hollander stood in his room, peering shyly from under his eyebrows. “I got your message,” he said. “Congratulations on your victory,” Ilya raised his glass and took a sip. “Thanks,” Shane nodded. “So? What did you want to give me?” Ilya smiled crookedly. How trusting. “Yes, I wanted to, but rather to take than to give,” he put the glass on the table and smoothly, like a predator, approached Shane. He stopped opposite her. The air between them vibrated with suspense and desire. The room was lit by a dim bedside lamp, its light falling on Hollander’s face. His pale skin had taken on a honey hue, and his eyes shimmered with golden highlights. “I didn’t see you at the afterparty,” Shane said. “Mmm,” Ilya muttered quietly, taking off his jacket. “Um,” Shane looked downright nervous as he watched Rozanov begin to unbutton his shirt. “I didn’t see it at the presentation either.” “Uh-huh,” Ilya muttered and threw his shirt on the floor, then pressed his lips to Hollander’s neck, who responded with a quiet moan. Ilya ran his broad palm over his smooth chest, pinching the pea-sized nipples between his fingers, twisting and pulling until he heard a long sigh. He pushed Shane toward the bed, forcing him to sit up. He took a step back and, under Shane’s rapt gaze, began to undress like a stripper. He leisurely pulled out his shirt, running his hands over his chest, over his sculpted abs. Shane didn’t move, his eyes wide as he followed his movements, seemingly not even breathing. Ilya tugged at the zipper, and the weight of his pants slid down. He stepped forward and kicked them aside. Still staring, he touched his penis, straining against the fabric of his black boxers, and stroked it lightly. Shane took a deep, ragged breath, his fingers crumpling the bedspread. Ilya ran his hand over his abs, flexing the muscles in bold relief. “Wow,” Shane breathed, “is this a gift for me to celebrate the award?” “Like?” “Of course, but something will have to be done about it,” he waved his hand at his groin. “We have plenty of time today,” Ilya said in a low voice, tugging at his underwear. His cock caught in the elastic, pulling down. Rozanov chuckled contentedly, watching Shane tense up, his eyes lighting up in anticipation. His cock slipped out and hit his stomach with a wet slap. Ilya smiled dirty as he pulled his briefs down. Shane watched, his eyes fixed on Ilya, as he slowly moved his fist up and down his cock. Rozanov touched the head of his cock to his mouth, gently stroking his lips, smearing salty drops of pre-cum. Shane parted his lips and squeezed his cock, sucking gently, his eyes nearly rolling back in pleasure. Rozanov exhaled loudly from above. “Fuck… " Ilya grabbed Shane’s hair and, after pushing a few times, pulled his cock out of his sweet mouth. “Enough,” he said, pushing Hollander onto the bed, forcing him to lie down. He unbuttoned his pants and pulled them down along with his underwear. Shane’s cock sprang out like a spring. “He’s so glad to see me,” Ilya grinned, sucking greedily on the head, making Hollander arch his back. He ran his tongue along the frenulum, released it, and blew on the head, then ran his lips from the base to the tip, and finally sucked in the balls, making Shane literally whine. “Come on, come on,” Ilya laughed. “I don’t want you to cum too quickly.” He stood up and leaned over Shane. “This is torture…” Hollander breathed out. “This is such sweet torture,” Ilya purred. “Turn over.” Shane’s face twitched for a moment, but then he nodded slightly and rose to all fours. Ilya climbed onto the bed and, glancing at the firm, white cheeks, couldn’t resist biting his left buttock. “What the fuck!” Shane hissed, followed by a loud, drawn-out exhale. “Oh, God… This… ah…” Ilya touched his hole with his tongue, ran it from the balls to the tailbone, returned back, and circled the tight ring. “I took a shower before coming to my place,” he remarked. “You wanted this…” “Shut up and carry on,” Shane groaned. “Don’t worry, I’ll continue. " And Ilya touched his hole with his tongue again. He licked wetly, making lewd sounds, rolling Shane’s balls in his palm. The raw moans were music to his ears. Finally, he managed to slip the tip of his tongue in, and Hollander literally jumped up on the bed, arching his back, exposing his ass even more. His knees began to slide apart, and Shane fell chest-first onto the bed. “Turn over,” Ilya said. “I want to see your face.” Shane rolled over with difficulty, spreading his arms and legs wide. He was so relaxed, open, and soft, like clay under the master’s skillful hands. Rozanov lay down on his side next to him and gently grasped his penis, stroking it from bottom to top. “Please,” Shane breathed out, bending his knees and spreading them apart. “Please what?” Ilya purred and bit Shane’s earlobe. “I don’t know…” “Touch you here?” He slid his fingers under her balls and circled the pulsating ring of muscle. “Yes,” Shane breathed out and thrust his hips up. Ilya easily inserted two fingers into the relaxed hole. “Do you know how this happens?” he asked, breathing hotly into Shane’s ear. “Mmm,” Hollander drawled. “Yeah, right. You did that before, didn’t you, with… the coach’s son?” “He was one of them,” Ilya felt the prostate and pressed. “Holy shit!” Shane howled. “Do you like it?” Rozanov asked slyly, as if he hadn’t seen Hollander literally smeared across the bed. How precum flowed incessantly from his penis. How he trembled, and beads of sweat trickled down his neck. “Yes…” Shane breathed out through dry lips. “You haven’t done this with girls? " " What? No…” Ilya was momentarily confused and froze, his fingers still in the stranger’s ass. Anything could happen to this sweet boy… “Have you had sex before?” Ilya asked suspiciously. “Yeah, right!” Shane’s eyes widened and he looked at Rozanov with indignation. “Do you really think I haven’t had sex?” Rozanov shrugged. “I’ve had a lot of sex, Rozanov. A lot.” “Excellent, Mr. Lots of Sex,” Ilya chuckled and added a third finger. It wasn’t that he doubted it, but from what he’d seen, Shane had very little sex. Very little. Which made it all the sweeter to corrupt this innocent Canadian boy. “I can’t… ah!” Shane breathed out. “Stop!” Ilya froze, seeing how Hollander clutched the sheets with his fingers and closed his eyes, clearly trying to restrain himself from cumming. “Quiet,” Rozanov gently pulled out his fingers and squeezed Shane by the base of his penis. Shane licked his dry lips and looked at Rozanov with a look completely drunk with arousal. Ilya leaned down and captured his lips with his own. They kissed hungrily, their tongues wrestling and their teeth clashing. “Please,” Shane breathed out, unable to bear it any longer. Ilya reached into the nightstand, pulled out the lube and condoms he’d prepared while waiting for Shane. In three seconds, he tore open the packet and rolled the condom over his penis. He sat between Hollander’s spread thighs and, lifting his knees onto his shoulders, placed the head of his cock against the open entrance. Shane’s breathing quickened and he nodded slightly, signaling he was ready. Rozanov thrust, the relaxed muscles allowing him to pass easily, but he still moved slowly, pushing the walls apart. The heat and pressure gripping his cock nearly made him come. Before he reached the apex, he slowly pulled back, then forward again to the middle, carefully watching Shane’s facial expressions. Hollander, throwing his head back, quietly moaned with each thrust, his nipples sharpened, beads of sweat collecting between his tense abs. He was so beautiful, so sexy, that one could come from the sight alone. But Ilya was going to drive him crazy. He changed the angle of penetration and thrust forward hard, hitting his prostate. Shane groaned loudly. “Oh God! Yes! Fuck, keep doing this! " “As you say. " Grabbing Hollander’s hips, Ilya began to thrust into the pliant hole, which adjusted to his cock better and better with each thrust. Shane bucked his hips, sobbing and cursing, the bed beneath them creaking and slamming against the wall. With a quiet growl, Rozanov withdrew all the way, until the head almost popped out, only to then slam all the way in, until his balls slapped against Hollander’s ass. Ilya memorized this scene, sealed it in his memory. When would they be in bed together again? Who knew. But now he would take everything Shane gave him. “Fuck, yes, yes!” Shane howled, grabbing his cock and starting to jerk off. “Yes, come on! Finish!” Ilya ordered, feeling Hollander’s hole throb. Shane arched, and a powerful stream of semen shot across his stomach, chest, and even a few drops landed on his chin. Rozanov was blown away. After a couple of deep thrusts, he came so hard that a white light flashed before his eyes and his ears popped. He froze on his knees, experiencing a powerful orgasm. Catching his breath, he leaned down and began licking the cum off Shane’s body with his tongue. He ran his tongue over his spasming abs, circled his nipples, and moved up to his chin, licking the last drops. He kissed him softly and lingeringly, and Shane barely moved his tongue as he responded. His breathing slowed, and his eyes closed sleepily. Ilya got out of bed, tied the condom, and threw it in the trash. He quickly rinsed off in the shower and, without even wrapping his thighs, fetched a towel to dry Shane off. He didn’t want to leave him for long. He sat down carefully next to her, pulled the blanket up, and covered himself and Hollander. The soft breathing and warmth of his body strangely calmed Ilya. He took a pack of cigarettes from the nightstand and lit one. He blew a long stream of smoke toward the ceiling. For some reason, after the mind-blowing sex, his heart sank with longing. He didn’t want to leave… Wearily, he leaned his head against the headboard and closed his eyes. “Are you still upset you didn’t win the prize?” Shane’s quiet voice seemed deafening. “The prize could have gone to any of us.” “But you got it,” Ilya straightened up and took another drag. “Then… what’s wrong?” Shane pulled himself up and sat down next to her. “Was it bad? I thought…” Ilya couldn’t help but smile: “What do you think? Was it all bad?” he asked, looking at Shane, who blushed at his questions and the fresh memories. “That was fucking awesome,” he replied. Ilya shook his head contentedly, but Shane frowned again. And Rozanov gave in: “I’m leaving for Russia. In three days,” he said, taking a drag and turning away, exhaling the smoke. “Um, that’s good, right?” Shane asked, confused. “Yes, okay,” Ilya responded sadly, putting out his cigarette in the ashtray, leaned back and closed his eyes. “I have to go,” Hollander said. “My parents probably lost me.” “Yes, and it’s unlikely that they’ll look for you in my bed,” Ilya responded. “Go to hell! " Shane stood up and began to dress, Ilya watching him sideways. A renewed sense of melancholy coursed through his veins. After putting on his shoes, Shane paused, hesitating by the door. No, he can’t let him go so easily. What if this is the last time, and he doesn’t want to regret anything. Ilya jerked the blanket aside and, standing up naked, approached Hollander. Shane froze, lifting his head, looking him in the eyes. Ilya leaned in, and their lips met. They kissed slowly, as if savoring each other, but with each flick of their tongues, the kiss grew more and more frantic. Ilya wrapped his arms around Hollander, placing his hands on his backside and squeezing his buttocks, pulling him toward his groin. Shane moaned into his mouth. “See you next season,” Ilya whispered. Hollander, crazy from the kiss, just nodded and licked his lips, smiling his damn cute smile. *** Moscow greeted him with hellish heat. Although after Vegas, no heat could frighten him. But here everything was different. The air, the people, the cars. It turned out he had already managed to unlearn the endless traffic jams, the gloomy faces, and the constant tension that hung in the air like the hum of a transformer box. “Ira! Ira!” the father shouted from the hall. “I’m coming,” Polina shouted to him from the kitchen. She peered around the corner and looked Ilya over with an unreadable gaze. Something flashed in her eyes that he didn’t like at all. He closed his eyes, mentally preparing himself for total annihilation. He went into his room, dropped his bag, and looked around. Little had changed here, and it seemed familiar things should evoke a sense of comfort and home. But he wanted to smash everything. Rip up the posters of Ovi and Kharlamov, smash the trophy shelf, rip the clusters of medals from their hooks. Throw all the trophies out the window. Grigory looked into the room. “You’ve arrived,” his father stated, as if Ilya had just returned from morning training and not gone away to another country for a year. “Yes. I’m back. " Everything seemed alien. As if a line had been drawn in the past, dividing his life before the NHL and after. And what had come before no longer belonged to him. The past became distant, like an echo. Even in his own bed, it was as if someone else was sleeping. That evening, Andrei arrived with his wife and child. And from his look, Ilya understood what they wanted from him. They sat down to dinner, but the food was too much to swallow. A burning desire for a drink was burning their nerves. They all played roles, plastering on fake smiles. Only his father, as always, started his old refrain: that Ilya was lazy, disorganized, that he didn’t try hard enough and, as a result, would achieve nothing. Ilya listened silently, as usual, listlessly picking at his cutlet with his fork. Polina remained silent and looked at him as if he were out of place in her father’s four-room apartment. His presence was perceived as a threat. “Do you understand me?” the menacing voice sounded like a blow. “Yes, father. I understand you,” he answered humbly. The only way to escape reality is sex and hockey. He spent his mornings running and going to the gym, and in the evenings he’d go to the club, picking up anyone who would agree to have sex with him in the bathroom. And so it went, day after day. Day after day. And only when he closed his eyes did he see Shane’s magnificent body spread out on the sheets, his freckles, the curves of his hips, his parted, moist, glistening lips—a thin thread stretching across the oceans to the other shore, giving him hope that this damn summer would pass and they would meet again. “I need the money,” Andrey said when Ilya returned from his run. He caught Ilya in a dark corridor and brazenly blocked the passage. “Why the fuck? " “I’m out of money and I need to pay the bills. Life in Moscow is expensive, in case you’ve forgotten.” Ilya exhaled slowly and noisily, clenching his fists tightly, not to hit, but to calm himself. They’d fought often before, and Andrey was every bit as strong as Ilya. If he lost his temper now, it would all end in a terrible fistfight. And besides, his father would be on his case again: Andrey has a family, Andrey has a small child, Andrey doesn’t earn as much as you do, you have to help support the family. “How much?” Ilya asked quietly. Andrey grinned with contempt and triumph. The desire to smash his face in became simply unbearable. Andrey’s wife, Marina, emerged from the room, holding two-year-old Alisa in her arms. The little girl was clapping her hands and laughing. Ilya looked at Marina, whose eyes were filled with a look of utter weariness and doom. She had likely overheard their conversation and understood exactly why Andrey needed the money. Ilya began to shake. A wave of nausea began to rise from his stomach, a wave of resigned helplessness, a wave of brazen, unpunished meanness, a wave of quiet childish laughter that made the entire scene ugly and absurd, bringing it to a critical point. He hated his family. He understood that they were ordinary, down-to-earth people living their ordinary lives, but he was shaken by the fact that they had no aspirations, no ambitions. Being around them made him feel like he was being sucked into this hopeless swamp. He literally suffocated within the gray walls, under the indifferent gazes of people who, for some, considered him an ATM, and for others, never quite good enough. He was like a cornered animal, biting at the iron bars of his cage. He was running again. Running away from them. From himself. From the guilt. Running to a place where he found peace, where everything was clear and simple. Where his body operated automatically, and his mind issued clear commands. Perhaps the ice rink was his home. The place where he’d spent half his life. Familiar walls, studied down to the smallest crack, dark nooks, the hum of ventilation, and the smell of coffee in the lobby. Native and familiar, more familiar than the rooms in his father’s house. He changed and skated out onto the ice where the singles were practicing. After scattering pucks, he sent one into the net with a powerful shot. The shot was powerful, with a distinctive pop. Ilya exhaled with satisfaction, and the tension of the last few hours loosened the noose around his neck. “Hey! What people!” a guy walked across the arena towards him, wearing sneakers. Ilya squinted, not recognizing. “Sasha? " “I recognized you right away,” he winked. “Have you been back for a long time?” " A couple of weeks ago. " “Great. I need to take care of some things now, but are you free this evening? " “There’s a minute for you. " “You definitely won’t get rid of me in a minute,” Alexander chuckled and took out his phone. “Dictate your number.” Having entered the number, Sasha made a call: “We’ll write,” he winked and walked back across the ice. Ilya felt strange seeing him, but pleased. Sashka had always been brazen, cheeky, and quick, which might have been why they’d crossed the line so easily. Neither of them cared about what had happened. They’d both tried it, and they’d both liked it. He spent more than five hours on the ice and went to the shower when his legs began to ache unbearably from fatigue. Then he checked his phone and found a message from Sasha with the name of the club and the meeting time. Ilya sat down at the bar, and the bartender immediately poured him a blue cocktail and winked. No one recognized him; to everyone, he was just a handsome guy. Someone’s hand brushed his shoulder, and as soon as Ilya turned around, hot lips pressed against his cheek. Sasha stood there in a sheer T-shirt and ripped black jeans. “Hey, handsome, what are you doing tonight? " “Sex, vodka and rock and roll,” Ilya smiled. “What a great set,” Sashka nodded to the side. “Come on, let’s move to a more secluded place where I can cuddle you.” They moved to VIP tables, surrounded by a mirrored wall, and immediately ordered a bottle of whiskey. “Well, tell me, how is it there? " Ilya didn’t really want to talk, but word after word, glass after glass, the tension of the last few weeks drained from his exhausted body. Sasha listened attentively, asking questions; his interest was genuine, and then he leaned in. Rozanov, closing his eyes, breathed softly against his lips. “It seems the time for talking is over,” said Alexander, taking Ilya by the hand and leading him, drunk, out of the club. The taxi quickly took them to a small apartment in a residential area. As soon as he stepped through the door, Sasha pounced on Ilya with kisses, sending his shirt flying to the floor, along with his black tank top, and his shoes scattered in disarray. Without turning on the light, they went into the bedroom, where Sasha dropped Ilya onto his back and, kissing his way down, unbuttoned his jeans. He swallowed his cock in one breath, causing Rozanov to groan loudly, unable to contain himself, and thrust his hips involuntarily upward. Sasha’s hands glided over the smooth, flawless skin, scratching, stroking, squeezing. His tongue literally wrapped around his penis, pressing on the bulging vein. “Fuck…” Ilya arched his back, crumpling the blanket with his fingers. But he wasn’t allowed to finish. Sasha stood up, pulled down his pants, and lay on top of Ilya, pinning him with his hips. He moved smoothly, sliding his cock against Rozanov’s, and kissed his vulnerable neck. “How do you want it?” he whispered, biting her earlobe. “I want to fuck you,” Ilya exhaled with a groan. “Hard.” “Come on, show me how hard,” Sasha laughed in a low, seductive voice and ran his tongue from her neck to her chin. “For now, all you have to do is moan like a bitch underneath me.” Rozanov, with a quiet growl, pushed Sasha onto his back and hovered over her, his eyes flashing, darkened with excitement: “You’ll finish your fucking job now. " “So where’s your vaunted dick?” Sasha laughed, greedily squeezing Ilya’s buttocks. He abruptly elbowed him in the chest, throwing him back. Ilya plopped down on his butt, flailing his arm, but reflexively caught a flashing ankle. They began wrestling on the wide bed, trying to dominate each other. They grabbed sensitive spots with their hands, slid bare skin against skin, provocative moans escaping their lips, making their balls tighten—with every movement, the fight escalated into outright porn. At some point, Ilya found himself holding lube and a condom, and after that, all Sasha could do was moan and wiggle her ass. They lay relaxed and lazy on the bed while their bodies cooled. Sasha traced patterns with his fingers on Ilya’s thigh, who, as usual, bought it, blowing smoke up at the other man’s ceiling. “I could get drunk today, but I have to go to work tomorrow,” Sasha sighed. “Tomorrow is Saturday,” Rozanov was surprised. “My busiest days are the weekends,” Sasha explained with a smile, catching a puzzled look in his eyes. “I work as a coach, and tomorrow I have training with a group of thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds. It’s the worst age group; they’re always being mean and picking on me,” he rolled his eyes. “What about hockey? " “When your dad is a coach, it feels different. I like hockey, but I don’t want to play it. I’ve heard him praise talented players too often, holding them up as examples for me. At some point, I got tired of fighting perfect shadows.” It was painful for Ilya to hear this. Hockey meant everything to him, and the very thought of giving up playing was unthinkable, like stopping breathing. “Have you contacted him yet?” Sasha asked. “He’ll be incredibly happy to see you, like he’s his own son.” " My father is more than enough for me. " Sasha looked intently at Rozanov: “Still putting pressure on you? " “It’s business as usual,” he sighed. “So, you like being a coach better?” Sasha sat up and stretched, cracking his joints: “Yes, definitely,” he said with a smile. “Especially the little six-year-olds—they’re just little stumps with eyes and a hockey stick in their hands. I tell them to skate out of the circle on their left foot, and guess how many of them listened?” he asked indignantly, and then immediately replied, “Three. I tell them, wrong foot! Wrong foot! And that happens about three hundred times during practice.” And suddenly he slapped Ilya on the thigh: “Listen! Why don’t you come to our practice tomorrow as a special guest? Let the kids see what NHL stars look like! You have nothing better to do anyway,” Sasha winked. The morning began with the rich smell of coffee and scrambled eggs. Ilya stirred in bed, throwing the pillow off his head and untangling his feet from the rumpled blanket. Bright light flooded the bright room, a pleasant cool breeze wafted through the open window, and his body felt light and rested. He quickly rinsed himself off in the shower, brushed his teeth with someone else’s toothbrush, and went out into the kitchen wearing just a towel; Sasha was just setting out the plates on the table. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he smiled. Now, in the morning light, he looked like a boy, with light brown hair, huge blue eyes, and delicate features. He was lithe and light, and in his presence everything seemed to vibrate with unbridled energy. “Good,” Ilya yawned, sitting down at the table and reaching for a huge mug of coffee. “We have thirty minutes to get ready and then we’re leaving,” Sasha said. “I’ll give you my clothes.” “Mmm,” Ilya drawled, watching Sasha businesslike as he used a fork to cut off a piece of fried egg, dipped it in ketchup and mayonnaise, and popped it into his mouth, all without taking his eyes off his smartphone. His brow furrowed and then relaxed as he scrolled through his feed. “I’m still waiting for them to write to me that someone was poisoned, got sick, went to the village, twisted an ankle, or overslept,” he muttered. “You could become a figure skater,” Ilya said thoughtfully. “So that my father would be completely disappointed in me?” Alexander answered with a laugh, looking up from his phone. “You know the famous saying: 'Real men play hockey.' He’s already tearing the last hairs off his bald head because I didn’t live up to his expectations.” Rozanov shook his head with a smile. He liked the kind of Sasha who could easily dismiss and shrug, without making a tragedy out of life. Once again, the familiar arena, the hum of children’s and adults' voices, the sound of skates on the ice, the smell of artificial cold and air conditioners. “Quiet! Line up!” Alexander shouted, shouting over the cacophony of boys' voices. “We have a special guest today…” “It’s Ilya Rozanov!” someone shouted from the line. Ilya raised his eyebrows respectfully; they already knew him here. “Did they kick you out of the NHL?” came the question from the front of the line. “I’m on vacation,” Ilya grinned, realizing these boys wouldn’t be surprised by a goal into an empty net. They looked at him warily, but with a hint of curiosity, a desire to test his limits. “You lost to Hollander”, he won the rookie of the year award! “What a shame,” Rozanov drawled, his lips twisting into a smile. “I was really upset.” “Is it worth it?” a tall, thin boy suddenly asked in a serious tone, skating a little ahead. Ilya frowned, not quite understanding the question, and the boy continued: “Play in the NHL?” “They have strong opponents,” Rozanov replied, “it’s interesting to play with them.” Many nodded their heads respectfully. “And you, Alexander Vasilyevich, why don’t you play in the NHL? Are you too weak? " “Danilevsky,” Sasha drawled, “there’s someone who loves to play, and someone who teaches how to play. I teach.” “So, you mean you can’t play?” the cheeky kid pressed. Ilya took a closer look at him: a direct gaze, pursed lips, a strong, trained body—guys like that usually grow up to be good athletes. “You think I can’t beat Rozanov?” Sasha asked with a grin. Ilya turned to him and raised his eyebrows: Are you serious? To beat me? “What, you think not?” Sasha caught his gaze and narrowed his eyes. “Let’s see.” " Cool! " The boys tapped their sticks on the ice encouragingly. “Rozanov will crush him! " " That’s for sure! " Ilya leaned forward to take the faceoff opposite Sasha. The oldest boy in the group stood up as the referee, holding the puck with a trembling hand. “Will my victory tarnish your authority?” Ilya whispered. And Sasha’s lips spread into a devilish smile. That was a fucking big mistake! Rozanov forgot how fast Alexander could be. The puck flashed past, and Sasha, with lightning speed, scooped it up, swerved, and raced toward the goal. Ilya roared and charged. Adrenaline burned through his nerves in a second. Rozanov extended his stick to intercept the puck, but Sasha made a killermove and ended up behind him. The boys' cheers echoed through the arena dome. Before Ilya could blink, Sasha sent the puck powerfully into the net, right between his legs. “What was that you said about authority?” he asked, lifting his chin. “Again. Now you know what to expect.” Rozanov tightened his grip on the stick and leaned over the ice again. Now he was extremely focused and collected. The puck dropped to the ice. He won the faceoff and managed to dribble for just a few seconds before the puck was knocked out. Sasha wielded the stick masterfully, pulling off such feints that it was hard to see. In a clear mockery, he turned to Ilya and skated backwards, juggling the puck in front of his face. Rozanov lunged forward, but Sasha, expecting just that, slipped under his hand, passed to the left, and on the turn, scored again. “Your mother,” Ilya breathed out, his eyes wide open and staring at him. " You’re so slow, your ass is dragging on the ice. " “Will you teach me? " “Okay, I’ll give you a couple of private lessons,” Alexander winked and rolled toward the boys, who were staring at him with their mouths open. “So…” he began menacingly, “anyone else want to say anything?” The rest of the training went smoothly, except for a couple of skirmishes between some particularly hot-tempered guys. “Danilevsky! Kuznetsov!” Sasha barked. “Penalties!” The guys exchanged angry glances, clearly promising each other to sort things out after training, and went their separate ways. " I see you have your favorites too. " “Danilevsky is like a copy of you,” Sasha exhaled, rolling his eyes, “just as impudent and annoying .” “And some good might come of it,” Ilya approved. “And the second one too.” While Sasha stood by the boards, scrolling through his phone, Ilya suddenly realized he’d been teaching a lesson alone for half an hour, demonstrating a complex puck trick. Everyone was listening, asking questions, interrupting, jumping up and down, trying to get his attention. “You’re doing pretty well,” Sasha praised and took a sip from the bottle when Ilya rolled up to him. “Did you like it?” “Yeah, that was fun!” Ilya smiled, wiping away the sweat with his glove. “I see you’re not working too hard today?” “The point is, if an NHL player shows better class than me,” he shrugged. And summer ceased to be a dull, unbearable time for Ilya. Sasha gave him private lessons and drove him so hard on the ice that by the end of the session, his lungs, scorched by exhaustion, were barely breathing. He even created a strength training program for the gym. “You’re a good coach,” Ilya noted. “What are you saying?” Sasha raised his eyebrows at him. They had sex, discussed hockey, sometimes coached the kids when they had time, and ran together in the park. “That Hollander is good,” Sasha said once as they rewatched the match in Montreal where Ilya lost. “No wonder people compare you two. He’s fast, his technique is similar to mine.” Rozanov sipped his beer, ignoring flashbacks of Shane in the Vegas hotel room. They were lounging on the couch in Sasha’s apartment, resting after grueling workouts. A couple of weeks remained until his return to Boston. He was counting down the days. " We are completely different. " “Of course, your ass is dragging on the ice, although you can be fast when you get your act together. And Hollander has a good eye.” “And also a skillful mouth,” Ilya chuckled quietly. Sasha pulled up his leg and slowly turned to Ilya, narrowing his eyes. “Did you sleep with him?” he asked point-blank. The beer went down the wrong way and Ilya started coughing. " You’re the same as always. If it says 'no, ' you’ll definitely try it,” Alexander chuckled. “And Hollander’s forehead is marked in big letters with 'don’t touch it, or I’ll hiss.'” “I didn’t touch it with my hands. " “I just poked him with my dick,” Sasha nodded respectfully. “And how was it?” " Do you want to discuss how I seduced an innocent Canadian boy? " " So you did seduce him after all. " “Yeah, fuck, he can seduce anyone he wants!” Ilya gave in and smiled. “You should have seen how he swallowed my dick.” “I watched it with pleasure,” laughed Sasha. He wanted to leave. To come back. He wanted to play hockey. And kiss soft lips that tasted like toothpaste and ginger ale. Coming soon.