Blazing ice

Boston greeted him with the scent of autumn, spilling orange and red leaves across the city. Here and there, giant pumpkins and skeletons adorned the store windows; the city was slowly preparing for Halloween. A cool breeze caressed his face, ruffled strands of hair, and loosened his constricted lungs. Ilya licked his lips and smiled. A taxi brought him to a rented apartment overlooking a park. A couple of months of his absence had left dust on the furniture and a stale smell permeated the walls. He opened the window, letting in some fresh air, played his favorite music on his phone, and put on the kettle. Plopping down on the sofa, Ilya closed his eyes and let his body relax. He later contacted his manager, agent, and coach, letting them know he’d arrived. And then the harsh everyday life swept him into its whirlwind. “Did you hear?” Cliff Marlowe flew up to Ilya as soon as he stepped into the locker room. “We have a new tough guy. And you know who?” “Who?” “Damn Ryan Price! They say he’s a beast!” The door creaked behind them, and a tall, powerful man slowly entered the locker room. Everyone fell silent. Marlow let out a strangled wheeze. Ilya, on the other hand, eyed the new team member with interest. The first thing he noticed was his bright red hair and thick beard, reminiscent of warlike Vikings. His calm face, fixed gaze, and unhurried movements. “Welcome,” Ilya said, approaching first, extending his hand. “Ilya Rozanov.” “Ryan Price,” Ryan nodded cautiously and returned the handshake. “Um,” Cliff said, standing next to Ilya. “Welcome to the team.” And the atmosphere changed from tense to friendly. “I understand you ’re delivering today,” Rozanov winked at Price. “Okay,” Ryan’s thin lips were touched by a barely noticeable smile. They dropped into their favorite bar, ordered beer and snacks. Everyone was noisily discussing their summer, showing photos from European resorts, Asian beaches, and pictures of the gorgeous swimsuit-clad beauties they’d vacationed with. In just one season, Ilya had become friends with everyone, and now, clinking glasses and hugging, he felt like he’d come home. “Hey! Ryan!” Ilya called, handing him a bottle of beer. “How’s it going?” “Everything’s fine,” Price answered a little tensely. Rozanov saw how uncomfortable and strange Ryan felt being in such a wild group. He nodded, answered curtly, twirled his beer in his hands, and clearly wished he were somewhere else. “Don’t you like noisy parties?” “Not really,” Ryan shrugged his powerful shoulders. “I don’t know how to act.” “Relax and drink your beer,” Ilya winked at him. “No one will bite you here.” Ilya really wanted to support this stern and huge-looking man, who in reality turned out to be very shy and timid, and looked more like a teddy bear. Before the season began, they trained hard on home ice, breaking in their new lines and getting used to the newcomer. After training with Sasha, Rozanov was confident they would definitely win the Stanley Cup this season. The first game and season opener was in New York, and Ilya, more than ever, wanted to hit the ice and crush the opposition, silencing the entire stadium with disappointment in his favorite team. Ilya glanced at Jane’s name on his phone. They hadn’t texted each other all summer. What could he possibly text Shane anyway? Am I back? How are you? Thinking about me? Ilya grimaced. It was just sex, no need to cross the line. As soon as the plane took off, Ilya’s attention was drawn to Price, who was nervously tapping his foot. He looked pale and tense, his fingers gripping the armrests of his chair tightly, threatening to break them. “Don’t you like flying?” Price flinched and stopped tapping his foot. “Yes. Sometimes. Sorry.” “You chose the wrong profession,” Ilya chuckled. “Is this your third season? How did you fly before?” “Yes, the third one, it’s just… I’m always nervous, but not always this much,” he blushed, as if ashamed of his weakness. The plane was shaking a little, and there were frequent air pockets; Ilya could understand why Ryan was more nervous than usual. “Do you like action movies?” Ilya asked, trying to distract Price. “Militants?” “I’m watching Fast and Furious, come join me,” he handed him the headphones. Price looked at Ilya hesitantly, clearly not fully understanding his motives. “There’s a cool chase with a safe here,” Ilya tempted, nodding at his iPad. “Thank you,” Price replied quietly, taking the headphones. The rest of the flight went smoothly, Price no longer tapped his foot and even ordered himself a cola. Ilya adored New York, the cacophony of sounds, smells, and people—everything moved to the jagged rhythm of rap and jazz. In the fall, the city was especially vibrant with Broadway posters, the scent of breezes and fallen leaves, and the glitz of expensive restaurants. From their hotel window, the skyscrapers glittered in the night. He and Price were sharing a room. The match wasn’t until tomorrow, and they needed a good rest. A slight excitement from the upcoming game and a sleepy laziness coursed through his body, so much so that he didn’t even feel like going hunting. “I’m going to take a shower,” he said, wanting to wash off the dust and sweat after the long flight. He emerged wearing only a towel, not even properly drying himself, and plopped down on the bed, stretching his arms out. On the next bed, Price sighed quietly, then stood up abruptly and disappeared through the bathroom door. Interesting. Ilya picked up his phone to check an interview with Scott Hunter; they had a game against the Admirals tomorrow. It promised to be a heated match. But Ilya couldn’t help but listen to the sound of the water and chew his lip. He tugged at the knot of his towel, and the edge fell open, revealing his left thigh. He bent his right leg at the knee, striking a seductive pose. We’ll find out now. The door opened, and Price emerged, his hair damp and clad in a white bathrobe. The robe looked a little comical on his enormous frame, barely wrapping around his chest. Ilya pretended to be intently interested in his phone screen, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Ryan glance at him, lingering on his hip. Price sat down on the bed and also pulled out his phone, hunching his back slightly, clearly trying to appear smaller than he was. Ilya smiled, feeling the tension in the room spike. He put his smartphone down and glanced sideways at Price. It was a very bad idea to seduce a player on command. But the familiar heat was already starting to knot in my lower abdomen. He threw down the towel and stood. Ryan’s shoulders tensed, but he didn’t lift his head or turn his head. Ilya approached, standing literally right next to him, his groin directly in front of Ryan’s face. Price’s hand gripped the phone tightly, and the screen went black. Seconds ticked by. Then Price slowly raised his head, his gaze sliding over Rozanov’s body, and stopped only when he looked into his eyes. Ilya looked straight ahead, unsmiling, reading the full range of emotions from panic to desire in Price’s facial expressions. He raised his hands and gently touched Price’s shoulders, but he still flinched violently, as if struck. The phone fell from his hands and hit the floor with a dull thud. Ryan exhaled through his mouth and froze. Ilya hooked his thumbs under the collar of his robe and pulled it off his shoulders. He moved carefully, monitoring Ryan’s facial expressions for responses to his actions. The robe slid onto the bed, revealing powerful shoulders and a chest covered in thick hair. Ilya knelt down beside Ryan, bringing their faces level. Rozanov lightly stroked Price’s cheek, ruffled the hairs on his beard, then leaned over and kissed his neck under his ear. Ryan sighed loudly. Ilya ran his hand down his shoulders, down his strong biceps, until he found his clenched fists. He touched the tense knuckles, gently massaging, soothing, and the palms, like trusting birds, trembled and opened. He lifted them and placed them on his buttocks. Price’s gaze darkened. Ilya smiled and noticed Ryan’s penis peeking out from under his robe. He leaned down again and began kissing his neck and shoulders lightly. Price relaxed slightly and cupped Rozanov’s buttocks with his large palms. Ilya pushed him down onto the bed, then moved smoothly from his knees to his groin. He tugged at his belt and finally parted the hem of his robe, revealing an incredible body. “Tvoyu mat',” he breathed out in Russian and leaned down, catching the pointed nipple with his lips. He greedily stroked Ryan’s sides, trailing kisses down his chest, moving lower and lower. His tense abs trembled beneath his lips, spasming. He slid his tongue from his navel to his groin and smoothly sat down on the floor between his spread legs. “Stop,” Price said suddenly, his voice hoarse, rising up on his elbows and looking at Ilya with fear. “Don’t force yourself.” “Why?” asked Rozan, rubbing his cheek against the hard, dripping cock. “I…” Ryan paused and bit his lip. “Don’t like it?” Ilya raised his eyebrows and touched the scarlet head with his lips. “You can’t say that.” Ryan exhaled through clenched teeth and fell limply onto his back, throwing his head back. Ilya sucked his cock to the base. The thick shaft stretched his mouth, pressing a pleasant weight against his tongue, and the head pressed against the roof of his mouth. Ryan’s hips trembled under his hands; apparently, no one had pleased him in a long time. He squeezed his heavy balls, rolled them in his palms, and pulled. Ryan jerked upright, mercilessly crumpling the bedspread in his fists. He made no sound, only panted. Ilya so desperately wanted to hear his moans, but he knew the other players in the next room could hear. So, he had to give Price credit for his restraint. He licked the head, ran his tongue under the frenulum, and slid his lips down to the base, nuzzling his nose into the trimmed hair. It was surprising that Ryan had paid attention to this area. Taking the testicle into his mouth for the last time, he rose and lay on top of Price, stretching out with pleasure on the large, hot body. “How do you want it?” Ilya whispered in his ear, gently tracing the shell of his ear with his tongue. Ryan lay there, eyes closed, breathing heavily, as if he’d been skating for the entire match. His tongue slid between his lips, moistening the skin parched by his hot breath. “From below,” he breathed out barely audibly. “How lucky I am,” Ilya smiled, “I like it from above.” Ryan opened his eyes and looked at him, a gaze that burned Ilya. He leaned in and finally kissed Price. At first, their lips explored each other almost shyly, tasting each other and testing their softness. But with each passing second, the kiss deepened, and Rozanov’s tongue slid between Price’s teeth and intertwined with his. It was pleasant and strange to kiss through his beard, the prickly hairs tickling his chin. Ilya pulled back, peering into Ryan’s face. “Is everything okay?” he asked quietly. “Yes.” “Shall we continue?” “Yes.” Ilya smiled and, rubbing his face against Price’s beard like a cat, stood up. He went to his bag and pulled out condoms and lube. Looking at Ryan, who was relaxed and breathing heavily, Rozanov returned and lay down next to him. He ran his hand over his firm chest, ruffling the blond hairs, and rubbed his cock against his muscular thigh. “Turn around, but don’t kneel,” he said. Ryan licked his lips and, after a bit of fiddling, rolled over onto his stomach. Ilya sat on his buttocks and greedily surveyed his gorgeous, toned back, its rippling muscles. He ran his hands forcefully from his shoulders to his lower back, where the dimples of his sacrum stood out gracefully. Then he returned, this time using only his fingertips, sending shivers down Ryan’s spine and causing him to shift his hips on the bed. Rozanov leaned over and kissed the protruding vertebra in his neck. Moving slightly downward, he pressed his cock and slid it between his firm buttocks. After a few back-and-forth movements, he saw the tense back muscles relax slightly and his hips rise, as if inviting. Ilya squeezed some lubricant onto his fingers and touched the tight ring of muscle. Ryan shuddered, clenched slightly, but then relaxed. Rozanov teased the pliant hole, circling, pressing, stroking, begging for it to open. Ryan moaned softly into the pillow and bucked his hips impatiently. Ilya grinned and leaned down, kissing Ryan’s neck under his ear. He caught the lobe, sucked, and nipped lightly, continuing to circle his fingers around the opening. Price raised his head, and Ilya pressed his lips to his. They kissed slowly, languidly, almost lazily, biting each other’s lips and intertwining their tongues. Rozanov deftly inserted a finger, and Price moaned into his mouth. He liked the way Ryan reacted, the way he responded to his caresses, even though he tried to restrain himself. If they were alone, Ilya would have been able to make Ryan scream. He stroked the inside of the bud, and Ryan broke the kiss and buried his nose in the pillow, muffling a deep moan. He inserted a second finger, then a third. “Ready?” Ilya whispered. Ryan raised his head and looked at Rozanov with bleary eyes. He bit his lip, nodded, and spread his legs. Ilya pulled out his fingers and, rolling the condom over his penis, settled himself between Price’s thighs. Ryan arched his back, lifting his ass, and the sight made Rozanov’s penis twitch impatiently. He touched the head to the entrance, pressed but didn’t enter, slapping his cock against the throbbing hole so that the slapping sounds reverberated obscenely off the walls. He grabbed Price’s hips with his hands, caressed the protruding pelvic bones with his fingers, and pushed forward. His penis passed the resistance, and the head slid inside. Ryan exhaled with a groan, arching his back further. Ilya paused, giving him time to adjust, and took a breath to release the tension. As Price moved his buttocks impatiently, impaling himself on the cock, Rozanov released himself and pushed furiously all the way in, drawing quiet curses from Ryan’s lips. Ilya fucked her hard and sweeping, pounding into her gorgeous ass. Greedily caressing her sides, back, thighs, and hips, he couldn’t get enough of Price’s strong, powerful body. “It’s a sin to hide such a body,” he said in a low voice, digging his fingers into her buttocks and spreading them to go even deeper. He leaned down and ran his tongue along the hollow of his spine, licking away the beads of sweat that had formed. Without pulling out, he yanked Ryan onto his side and lifted one leg over his shoulder. In this position, he could see Price’s face and thrust even deeper into him. Ryan bit his lip, closed his eyes, and bucked his hips. His large cock bobbed with the thrusts, dripping onto the crumpled white blanket. He sighed softly as Ilya’s cock brushed against his prostate. Rozanov grabbed Price’s cock and, moving his hand, sped up his own. The bed beneath them began to creak softly. Ryan placed his hand on top, intertwining their fingers and squeezing harder. They came simultaneously. Ilya bit his lip and moaned loudly, stilling deep inside as Ryan spurted white, viscous streams onto the bed. Pulling out of his throbbing hole, Ilya collapsed next to him and reached for Price’s lips, catching his deep sighs. He gently ran his hands over his chest and shoulders, brushing stray strands of hair from his forehead. “How are you?” “Great,” Price exhaled deeply and rolled over onto his back. “Thanks, I needed that.” “Go ahead,” Rozanov winked and asked, “Are you gay?” “Yes,” Ryan answered barely audibly. “Are you… bi?” “Yes, I sleep with girls too. How long has it been since you were with someone?” “A long time ago,” Ryan hesitated. “I have a hard time communicating with people.” “Why?” Ilya asked, genuinely interested. “I…” Price licked his lips, “I don’t think anyone is attracted to me.” “Are you serious?” Rozanov asked, surprised, propping himself up on his elbow to look Ryan in the face. “With an ass like that?” Price snorted and shook his head. “I’m not like you. People are usually afraid of me.” “I’m not afraid of you,” Ilya answered simply. “You give yourself up well. And I think if you take me, I’ll like you.” Price blushed, and seeing this reaction, Rozanov threw his leg over and straddled Ryan’s hips, who immediately placed his palms on his ass. “Is this how you treat everyone?” Price asked, squeezing her firm buttocks. “Of course,” Ilya smiled, squeezing Price’s powerful chest in response. “It’s like an initiation into the team; every new recruit goes through me.” Ryan finally smiled a wide, open smile. “You don’t believe me? Why do you think they put us together?” Ilya winked. “You’re just an asshole,” Ryan said kindly. “Call me the God of Sex,” Rozanov replied and kissed Price. *** The season opening took place with bright lights, clouds of smoke, and loud music. Madison Square Garden buzzed like a wasp nest, and eighteen thousand voices echoed off the walls in a deafening wave. " Fuck,” Marlow breathed, looking out of the hallway into the arena. “Are we in the playoffs yet?” “This is New York, baby,” Victor Saint-Simon answered him. “And they’re clearly out for our blood,” Ryan Carmichael remarked. “Hey, Roz, do we have a chance to win today?” “We’ll beat them,” Ilya grinned. When Ilya skated onto the ice, he was greeted by roars and shouts. He saw posters of his estate and fan hearts with his photo. It was a damn delight. And, of course, he took the faceoff against Scott Hunter. “Are you ready to lose today?” Ilya asked, his lips curling into a grin. “Go fuck yourself, Rozanov,” Scott replied. After the summer, everyone was rested and on fire, just like the opposing team. They wanted to win, to start the season with a victory, as if it were a good omen. They changed lines every minute, conserving their energy for a hellishly tough game. Sticks flashed, the ice crunched under skates, snow dust flew everywhere, and the fans roared in a single chorus. Ilya could only hear his own breathing. A couple of times he slammed Hunter into the boards, battling him for the puck. There were dangerous moments with physical attacks, but Price, like a tanker, flew out from behind Rozanov and blew everyone away. Pass, pass, another pass, dodge, feint, pass. Shot! The goalie saves the puck. And again. Again. Attack. Defense. Attack! Goal!!! They celebrate the first goal, hugging, the stands roar with disappointment and pleasure. But everyone understands this is only the beginning. His lungs were burning, sweat was trickling down his neck, and his wet jersey was clinging to his back. Ilya sat on the bench, catching his breath. The scoreboard above the arena read 3-2 in Boston’s favor, but how long could it last? There were still fifteen minutes left in the third period, and anything could happen. Scott Hunter was on fire today. It was impossible to rile him up, so Ilya turned his attention to Frank Zullo, a wild forward known for his uncontrollable temper. He swiped the puck from him, slammed it into the boards, and rained down obscene taunts. Zullo swore back, clenched his fists, but Hunter kept him in line. “Rozanov!” the coach’s shout tore Ilya out of his thoughts. He jumped over the side and, riding out onto the ice, skated up to Price. “Do you know how to score?” he asked quietly. Ryan frowned but nodded. “They’ll all follow me,” Ilya whispered. “Stay close, I’ll pass the ball to you.” Ryan nodded again. Another faceoff. Ilya snatched the puck and flew toward the net. Four opponents rushed to cut him off, sticks and trips flashed, but Rozanov dodged, mentally thanking Sasha for the training. He feinted and sent the puck to Price. No one expected a shot from a defenseman, much less a tough guy, but Ryan slammed the puck with such force that it whistled over the goalie’s left shoulder. “Fucking bitch!” Zullo yelled. “Well done!” Ilya hugged the embarrassed but proud Price. The rest of the team members also rode up and piled on top of him. “Handsome! “You’re amazing! Unexpected! The score was 4-2. Ten minutes left. Another faceoff. Marlowe against Huff, and of course, Marlowe lost the puck. A scuffle ensued. The puck would fly to the net, then fly across the ice, where the goalie would send it back with a powerful slapshot. At some point, Frank Zullo got hold of the puck and, with a nasty grin, slashed it with his stick. Ilya first saw a white flash, and then the pain. He opened his eyes to find himself lying on the ice, blood pouring from his broken mouth. A whistle blew. The ice creaked nearby, skates flashed, and a heavy hand landed on his back. “Are you okay?” Scott asked worriedly, leaning over Rozanov. Ilya wanted to say everything was great, but the blood was already flowing like a river. He licked his jaw, and one of the top teeth easily fell off. He spat it out along with the blood and saliva. The referee’s whistle blows again. Ilya turned his head and saw Price grappling with Zullo. They were now battering each other with their bare hands, gloves and sticks scattered on the ice, but the referees hadn’t intervened yet, watching the brawl, waiting for someone to go down. A powerful left hook from Price knocked Zullo out. “Rose, are you alive?” Marlow rode up, followed by Saint-Simon. Everyone’s eyes were filled with horror and shock. Pressing his glove to his mouth, Ilya tried to sit up on his knees, but his head began to split and everything began to swim before his eyes. “Help him,” Scott said. Cliff and Victor grabbed Rozanov by the arms and dragged him toward the gate. A trail of scarlet drops of blood followed Ilya across the white ice. They led him down the hallway into the lobby and sat him down on a bench. A doctor immediately ran up, looked into his eyes with a flashlight to check for a concussion, and shoved a bottle of water into his hand. Ilya rinsed his mouth and spat the bloody water onto the floor. The whistle blew from the arena to resume the match. His head was pounding, and his face felt like it was swollen like a balloon. Fucking hell. Zullo. He’s the Admirals' top sniper for a reason. They gave Ilya a bag of ice, and he pressed the cold compress to his jaw and lowered his head. Blood was still dripping from his broken mouth, and a small puddle had already managed to spread under his skates. He tongued the hole and winced. Another dentist appointment. LeClair approached him. Ilya spat before answering: “Alive,” he smiled with broken lips. LeClaire smiled back. “Price is number one today. “I had my doubts about him, but I’m glad we managed to trade him,” the coach nodded. “Rest. That’s enough for today.” Ilya hobbled to the locker room before the post-game journalists flooded the lobby. He struggled to remove his blood-stained uniform and headed for the shower. Standing under the streams of hot water, he felt his body slowly relax from the long tension. He was certain his Boston Bears would win. Wrapping himself in a towel, he returned to the locker room and applied ice to his face again. He closed his eyes and waited; there were only a couple of minutes left in the period. In the locker room, there was no whistle from the referees, no roar from the stands, no familiar sound of a blade sliding across the ice. That sound always calmed him. “Ros! Ros!” Marlowe yelled, bursting into the locker room. “We won!” “Hunter did manage to score a goal, though, so the score is 4:3,” Victor said calmly, but his joyful smile gave him away. “Congratulations!” Ilya smiled. “He’s congratulating you!” Marlow chuckled. “You covered the ice in blood!” Everyone was swerving around that puddle, afraid they’d fall. “You’re something else!” Ryan Carmichael said. “They finally got your blood.” “A small price to pay for victory,” Rozanov winked. “Hey! While everyone’s here,” Rozanov stood up and pulled a shaggy brown hat shaped like a roaring bear’s head from his bag. “I think everyone will agree that Ryan Price was the most outstanding player today!” Ilya approached Ryan, who had a purple bruise growing on his cheekbone. “Excellent game,” said Ilya, holding out his hat. “Great game!” the boys shouted and clapped. “You did well,” Cliff patted Ryan on the shoulder. " Zullo will remember you for a long time.” Price, wet and flushed, smiled happily. He pushed back his sweaty hair and put on a hat that looked perfectly at home on his head. “Thank you,” he said quietly, “I haven’t enjoyed a game this much in a long time.” “You’ve made the right team. There’s bound to be more than enough fun here!” Victor replied. “Right, Roz?” Ilya looked Price in the eyes and winked, causing Ryan to blush and look away. They stumbled into the club, celebrating their first win of the season. Ilya, after a handful of painkillers, was sipping a cola barely diluted with vodka. His head was still ringing, and his face felt like it had been stung by wasps. He sat at a table while most of the guys were hanging out on the dance floor. Ryan sat next to him, sipping a beer, his eyes wandering thoughtfully around the room. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” Ilya asked. “My father taught me boxing,” Price replied. “Why hockey then?” “You’ll laugh,” Ryan shook his head, “but I don’t like hurting people.” “Yes, it probably sounds strange for a tough guy, but did you enjoy scoring? “That was great,” Ryan smiled, but looking at Ilya’s face, he quietly asked, “Did it hurt a lot?” “It doesn’t hurt any more than usual. The only thing that’s upsetting is that I’ll have to walk around looking so handsome for a couple of weeks,” he said, gesturing at his face. They left before everyone else, leaving the boys to party all night. The flight wasn’t until tomorrow evening, and with the coach’s blessing, everyone could sleep in until lunch. Ilya carefully lifted his upper lip, looking in the mirror. There was a bloody hole near his fang. Unless he smiled widely, it wasn’t even noticeable. Only his split lip, swelling on his cheek, and the growing black eye under his left eye were noticeable. He was grateful his nose hadn’t been broken. He applied the cold compress again, hoping the bruise wouldn’t turn a different color tomorrow. Ilya was lying on the bed, stupidly switching channels, while Ryan was splashing in the shower. The phone flashed a message: “Fuck, you’re in trouble!” Ilya laughed, Sasha as always. Ilya: “Did you watch the match?” Sashka: “Of course, the guys and I had a good laugh when you caught the puck with your teeth.” Ilya: “It was painful: (” Sashka: “You’re used to it :)” Sashka: “You pulled that trick off well, it was worth the effort.” Ilya: “Thank you.” He sincerely thanked Sasha for his help; only thanks to his support was Ilya able to survive this summer. The phone blinked again, and the smile on Ilya’s lips froze. Jane: “1135. Two floors up.” Could Hollander have made a mistake and sent the message to someone else? He couldn’t be here, could he? Ilya opened the Montreal schedule and let out a quiet sigh. Voyager played the next day against Rogers, New York’s second-ranked team. Shane was in New York. Here. “I’ll go look for ice!” Ilya shouted so Ryan could hear. He stepped out into the hallway, listening for sounds. The team members hadn’t returned yet. He opened the door to the stairs, dreading the elevator. His footsteps echoed loudly down the empty hallway. He stopped at the right door and tapped his fingertips, his heart pounding feverishly in his chest. The door opened instantly, as if Shane was standing behind it. Ilya quickly walked in. “Fuck,” Hollander breathed out, looking into his face. Rozanov held his breath for a moment. It seemed like only a couple of months had passed, but he felt as if he were just now seeing Shane for the first time. He’d almost forgotten his face. And now, standing in the hotel room, illuminated only by the bedside lamp, Ilya greedily absorbed his freckles, deep black eyes, straight nose, milky-white skin, and invitingly soft lips. Rozanov was so absorbed in his thoughts that he shuddered violently when Shane’s palm touched his swollen cheek. “I’m sorry,” Hollander said, frightened. “Did it hurt?” “No,” Ilya answered hoarsely. “Not really.” “I watched the broadcast. There was so much blood. “Were you worried?” Ilya asked slyly, tilting his head to the side. “No way,” Shane snorted, obviously with feigned bravado, but his eyes betrayed his tension. Ilya stepped forward, enveloping Shane in an embrace. They fit together like a puzzle, one piece to another. Shane rested his head on his shoulder, and Ilya slid his nose into his soft, silky hair, inhaling its scent. They stood like that for a few seconds, absorbing each other’s warmth. Then Ilya’s palms came to life, slid down to Shane’s buttocks, gently squeezing them, relishing their firmness and how perfectly they fit in his palm. Hollander inhaled sharply. Rozanov tugged at the elastic of his sweatpants and briefs and dove inside, already squeezing the smooth, hot skin of his buttocks. He parted the cheeks and slid toward the clenched ring of his entrance. Shane trembled in his embrace, and the hands that held Ilya froze like a vice. “Did you miss me?” Ilya asked evenly, his pants literally burning with excitement. “Yes,” Shane answered honestly. And Rozanov never ceased to be amazed at how frank Hollander was. “Why didn’t you write?” Ilya asked. “Why didn’t you send me your dick pics?” Shane feigned indignation, pulling back slightly and peering into Rozanov’s face. “Were you expecting this?” Ilya chuckled. “I’ll definitely send them now.” “Asshole,” Shane muttered. Ilya rested his forehead against his: “I’m sorry, I can’t even kiss you right now, let alone suck you. “What a waste,” Shane chuckled, grabbing Rozanov’s hands and pulling them out of his pants. “Let’s go.” He led Ilya to the bed like a child, pushing him, forcing him to sit on the edge. He pulled his T-shirt up, and Rozanov meekly raised his hands, helping him undress. Then his pants fell to the floor, revealing no underwear underneath, as usual. “You’re a pervert,” Hollander shook his head, kneeling down in front of Rozanov’s spread legs. “You’re talking.” Shane’s dark eyes flickered up at him and, without breaking his gaze, opened his mouth, swallowing the head of his cock. Ilya exhaled slowly. Hollander’s hands stroked his hips while his tongue traced patterns along his shaft. He pulled at his balls, nipped at the soft skin, caressed the frenulum. As much as Ilya wanted to savor the spectacle, he fell back helplessly onto the bed, resting his head against the back of his head. His hips, involuntarily, thrust into Shane’s sweet little mouth. He could have grabbed Hollander by the hair and pulled him roughly, set the pace and rhythm, thrust all the way to his throat, but he melted under the soft touch of his tongue. Ilya arched his back, moaning softly, and bit his lips to hold back the surging orgasm. “I’m close,” he breathed, warning Shane. Shane pressed his lips against the head and quickly moved his hand, bringing Rozanov to his peak. The orgasm washed over him like a warm blanket, the taste of blood lingering. He bit his lips too hard, tearing the barely healed wound. He breathed slowly, closing his eyes, and burned that moment into his memory. He heard the rustle of clothing, the bed beside him dipped, and then a pleasant weight settled on Ilya’s chest. He opened his eyes and saw Shane, naked, sliding his hand over his rock-hard cock, staring fixedly at his face. Ilya raised his hands and gripped Hollander’s buttocks, slid his fingers to his entrance, and began to play with the pliant hole again. Ilya ran his tongue over his bloodied lips and parted his mouth. Shane’s hand began moving wildly, his hips bucking involuntarily. Hollander braced his other hand next to Ilya’s head, leaning his cock toward Ilya’s mouth. There was something dangerously perverse about this game, which brought Rozanov’s cock to life again. It had been like this when Ilya had come into the Voyager locker room, when he had sat on Shane’s chest and fucked him in the mouth. Now they had switched places, and it felt and looked so much better—Hollander’s naked, perfect body appeared before Ilya’s eyes. They stared into each other’s eyes, the air between them vibrating with tension, thick as molasses. Ilya opened his mouth wider and stuck his tongue out slightly. Shane let out a ragged, drawn-out breath and, rolling his eyes, began to cum in Ilya’s mouth. A few drops landed on his split lip. Hollander, breathing heavily, lowered his ass onto Rozanov’s chest. He touched his fingertips to his splattered lip, mixing blood with semen, and slid his fingers into Ilya’s mouth. He gently pressed his tongue, making thrusting motions as if he were fucking. Ilya responded by sucking and swirling his tongue around his phalanges. His ears were ringing with excitement, with passion, with wild vulgarity. Ilya realized he wasn’t satisfied. Damn satisfied. He wanted to burst into Shane. Take him, fill him to the brim, pound him so hard that his hole wouldn’t close until their next meeting. And something must have registered in his farts, because Shane froze. Rozanov grabbed Hollander by the waist and pushed him face down onto the bed. Shane only managed to grunt inaudibly. “You asked for it,” Ilya growled and reached for the nightstand where the condoms and lubricant were lying. Well, of course, Shane was so scared for him that he just wanted to see him. Yeah, yeah. One doesn’t interfere with the other. Ilya stretched him easily and quickly, Shane’s massive entrance yielding easily to his fingers. Hollander moaned softly as he impaled himself. “Faster,” Shane groaned. “Are you asleep or something?” “Did my broken face turn you on so much?” Rozanov laughed, putting on a condom. “No, your mouth that won’t close… ah!” Hollander breathed as Ilya smoothly entered him all the way. He made a few movements, pulled Shane onto his lap, forcing him to sit, and hugged him from behind. Shane leaned his head back on his shoulder. “Did you think about me this summer?” Rozanov whispered in Hollander’s ear. “Did you imagine me in your fantasies?” “God, fuck, yes,” he breathed out in response, swinging smoothly on Ilya’s cock like a strung butterfly. Ilya rubbed his cheek against his. For some reason, this gesture felt more intimate than a kiss. But he couldn’t resist, and Rozanov gently touched his lips to her soft neck, leaving scarlet kisses on the skin. With one hand, he gripped Shane’s cock and moved in time with his slow, deliberate thrusts. Having each come once, they could now enjoy each other without rushing. Sweat poured between their bodies, and quiet moans filled the room. Shane intertwined their fingers on his stomach, and Ilya felt his cock move inside him through his abdominal muscles. He slid his nose into the soft hair at the back of his neck, played with Shane’s balls, circled the wet, sensitive head—and Hollander finally howled under his hands: “You’re annoying. I want more… harder…” Rozanov smiled and whispered in his ear: “Hold on tight.” He pulled almost all the way out, then thrust in with a loud, forceful slap. Hollander groaned loudly. Ilya pushed Shane down onto the bed, grabbed his hips, and began thrusting like a piston. The bed beneath them creaked mercilessly and slammed against the wall. Hollander thrust his hips, crumpled the sheets, and moaned, his mouth wide open. He came without even touching his cock. Ilya felt himself tighten and constrict from the clenched muscles. He thrust a few times, and a devastating orgasm washed over him as well. Ilya collapsed tiredly onto Shane’s back, crushing him with his body. They lay like that for several minutes, calming their breathing and their minds. “You’re heavy,” Hollander muttered. Ilya rolled over onto the bed, not very carefully. Shane, lying on his stomach, turned his head toward him, a drunken smile on his lips. Ilya pulled off the condom, tied it, and tossed it on the floor. “Don’t be a liar,” Shane said dully. “They will remove it.” They lay there, Rozanov on his back, Shane on his stomach, gazing into each other’s eyes. It seemed as if the rest of the world, hockey, and their rivalry didn’t exist outside the room. They were naked, and a gentle calm filled every cell of their bodies. Ilya’s eyes began to close; it was late, and after sex he always wanted to sleep. A warm hand rested weightlessly on his cheek. Rozanov forced himself to open his eyes. “It’s time for you to go.” Ilya heard sadness in Shane’s voice, and that barely perceptible note, like a thin needle, pierced his heart. He exhaled and smiled. “You know, you got the rookie award, and I didn’t get anything. I want to take home the NHL’s top scorer award this year.” Hollander’s gaze grew heavier. “The hell I’ll give her to you.” “Don’t be so greedy,” Ilya teased and stretched his whole body, getting the blood flowing. “Says the one who lost the superskills aim challenge. The trophy will be mine,” Hollander said, sitting down and looking seriously at Rozanov. “Then,” Ilya said in a low, sexy voice, “whoever wins makes a wish and the loser fulfills it.” “Even if I tell you to jump off the roof?” Shane chuckled. “That would be a really shitty wish, Hollander, when you can do whatever you want to me if you win.” It sounded like a control shot, Ilya saw in Shane’s dilated pupils the accepted challenge.