Blazing ice

How do you beat someone who’s by definition the best sniper? When his technique is classic, textbook-like? When he scores goals in six seconds? Ilya rewatched the Montreal-St. Louis game a couple of days ago, in which Shane Hollander, like a machine, scored four goals, cleanly and skillfully. Boring. So. Shane was leading in goals so far. But was that the main factor determining the season’s top scorer? Ilya thought not. In two days, they had their final home game against Montreal. Against Hollander. Ilya pressed the stop button, and the frame froze on Shane’s smiling face after scoring. He leaned back on the couch and, exhaling slowly, ran his hand over his penis, hidden in his black sweatpants. He hadn’t had sex in a few days, and now he was on edge with excitement and the upcoming game. This would be another interesting experience. He reached into his pants and gently squeezed his half-hard cock. His brown eyes behind the visor narrowed. The seconds passed. Ilya exhaled slowly. The puck flashed between the sticks. He won the faceoff. The game had begun. He pulled down his pants, revealing his now-hard cock, and groaned, squeezing the head hard. Sticks flashed past, the blue backs of his opponents. His heartbeat echoed dully in his ears, drowning out the background noise. A scuffle near the boards. One pushed the other, Price intervened, separating Viktor and Pike. Ilya glanced sideways at the heavily breathing Hollander. The whistle blew, and the referees sent the two to the penalty box. He slid his hand down his shaft, tugging at the skin. Shane caught his eye and smiled with the corners of his lips. Another faceoff. Ilya let the puck slip away. But who would have known it was intentional? He chased Hollander and slammed him hard into the boards, ducked his head, almost touching his exposed neck with his nose, and inhaled. Shane elbowed him away, but a look of panic flashed across his face. Ilya groaned and waved his hand furiously. Shane smiled on the screen, the sweet, childish smile of a good boy who had done everything right and now, of course, deserved praise. Ilya took possession of the puck and raced toward the opponent’s net. Pass. Defense. Attack. Hollander intercepted the puck, turned without slowing, and passed it across the zone. He pulled back his balls and pressed hard on the head with his thumb. A hot knot formed in his lower abdomen, and goosebumps ran across his skin. Price nearly took out Hollander on defense, but he knocked the puck away and passed it to Marlow, who then passed it to Ilya, who caught it and slammed it so hard his stick cracked in his hands. Goal! The stands roared. He raised his arm in triumph, just like Hollander had done against St. Louis, and winked. Ilya arched his back on the couch and bit his lip, holding back a groan. His thighs tensed, his hand moving even more furiously. Third period, a scramble near the Montreal goal. Pass. Shot at the goal. Missed. The puck sailed to the boards. Cliff picked it up, and Andrews knocked him down. Andrews was knocked down by Viktor, who passed it to Ilya. Hollander came out on the left and deflected the puck, which flew back into the boards. Ilya leaped forward, swung his stick mid-flight, and sent the puck into the net under the goalie’s elbow. Goal. 4:2 for Boston. A thick stream of air shot across his bare, tense abs. His ears popped, and a white haze spread before his vision. “Great goal!” Marlowe screamed, pumped with adrenaline. “Where did you learn to fly like that?” Holy shit. If he keeps remembering how he jerked off to Shane Hollander every time he played, they’d definitely win Stanley Cup by the end of the season. Ilya texted the address and waited for Shane, unsure whether he’d show up. The clock was just after midnight. His head was in chaos. Boston had won, Shane had lost, and what’s more, that insane goal had now become a meme all over the internet. Ilya even saved it on his phone to rewatch on winter nights. There was a hesitant knock on the door. Ilya opened it and let Hollander in, who stood confusedly in the doorway and looked around. “Is this… your apartment?” “Yeah,” Ilya chuckled. “Take off your clothes. Want a beer?” “No, yeah,” Shane exhaled and tossed his jacket on a chair, following Rozanov into the kitchen. “Just a little.” Ilya peered around the refrigerator door and raised an eyebrow. “I promise I won’t get you drunk,” he said, opening a can and handing it to Shane. “How did the game go?” Shane pursed his lips and looked skeptically at Rozanov. “What do you think?” “I liked it,” Ilya also got himself a beer and took a sip. “Great game, wasn’t I good?” “It’s always easier to win at home,” Shane muttered, looking around again. “Did you… buy this apartment?” “No, I’m renting,” Ilya shrugged. “My entry-level contract ends this year anyway.” “You’re not going to renew it?” Shane asked, alarmed. “It’s not just me,” Ilya chuckled, setting the beer can on the table and slowly advancing on Hollander, whose face was a mixture of emotions like a cocktail. Rozanov stopped when he reached his outstretched hand holding the beer can. Shane looked up at him. And Ilya watched, feeling a growing, nerve-racking tremor in his body. The adrenaline still echoed in his blood from the match. He took the can from Shane’s hands and set it on the table without looking. Hollander looked at him, his lips parted, breathing heavily. Ilya tugged at his T-shirt, and Shane leaned forward easily, stretching his arms up. Then Ilya dropped to his knees and began tugging at his jeans. His eyes darted into Hollander’s, and he rubbed his face against the stretched fly. Grabbing him by the belt, he pulled down his pants and underwear, tossing them aside onto his T-shirt. Shane’s penis burst forth and pointed directly at Rozanov. Shane Hollander stood naked in the kitchen of Ilya’s rented apartment, illuminated only by dim spotlights that outlined his physique like a Greek god. Ilya, kneeling, softly kissed Shane’s thigh, running his hands from his knees to his buttocks, squeezing and stroking. Shane was breathing heavily and trembling under his hands, biting his lower lip. Ilya blew softly on his leaking cock, and Shane’s hips trembled, but Rozanov held him by the buttocks, preventing him from retreating. He stuck out his tongue and circled the head, and muffled curses came from above. Rozanov pressed his forehead to Shane’s pubic hair, burying his nose in the hair and inhaling the clean scent of body and musk. “Stop torturing me,” Hollander groaned, running his hands through Rozanov’s hair. “Just a little longer,” Ilya breathed, rubbing his face against his groin. He cupped the soft skin of his balls with his lips and pulled. Shane’s hand gripped the hair at the back of his head painfully. Ilya rose and touched Hollander’s lips with his own. He kissed him tenderly, playfully grazing his teeth first on his lower lip, then on his upper lip. Shane grabbed the hem of his shirt and tugged, hinting that he needed to take it off. But Ilya chuckled, not breaking the kiss, and pushed Shane back, forcing him to lean back and rest his buttocks on the kitchen counter. Hollander looked back. “I’m going to fuck you right here on this table,” Ilya whispered, grinding his hips into Shane’s. “So I can remember how sweetly you moaned beneath me over breakfast.” “You’re crazy,” Shane said, his eyes blazing with excitement. “Yes,” Ilya whispered into his mouth. He gently turned Shane around and pressed down on his back, forcing his chest onto the counter. He used his foot to spread his thighs, and Hollander arched his back, thrusting his buttocks forward. The muscles in his back tensed. Ilya ran an open palm from his sacrum to his neck, gripped the hair at the back of his neck, and tugged. Shane groaned, lifting his head. “I’ve got a delicious meal today,” Ilya said. “And I intend to savor it to the very last drop.” Rozanov lay on top of Shane, pressing him into the table. He buried his nose in the hair at the back of his head, and gently rocked his hips, sliding his cock, hidden by his sweatpants, between his buttocks. “Come on,” Hollander croaked impatiently, thrusting his hips back. Ilya straightened up and pulled a packet of lube from his pocket. He tore it open with his teeth, squeezed some onto his fingers, and slid it to his throbbing hole. He stroked his back with one hand, stretching him with the other, adding finger after finger. Shane moaned openly and thrust, begging for more. Dark circles danced before Ilya’s eyes with arousal. When three fingers fit comfortably, Ilya pulled them out and, grabbing Shane’s right leg, propped it up on the table with his knee, giving himself more access. Hollander shifted, getting comfortable. Ilya pulled his pants off and, unrolling the condom, touched the head to his entrance. Shane groaned and arched. Ilya entered easily and paused, giving himself a few seconds' respite so as not to cum right away. Then he began thrusting so hard the table legs creaked on the floor. Ilya was still dressed, and Shane lay on the table in just his white socks. And it was incredibly arousing. Ilya pulled out, and Shane groaned: “No, no, come back.” “Right now,” Ilya chuckled, grabbing Shane’s leg and deftly turning him around to face him, his back on the table. He pulled his knees over his shoulders and thrust into Shane again. Shane bit his lip and threw his head back. He reached for his cock, but Ilya intercepted it, lifting his arms above his head and gripping his wrist. “No,” he croaked, thrusting his hips. “Come without your hands.” “I want to,” Shane moaned, looking wildly at Rozanov. “Let go.” “You can do it,” Ilya whispered, leaning down and kissing the hysterically throbbing vein in Shane’s neck. “You’re so beautiful, so sweet and depraved, lying on my table and moaning.” Shane closed his eyes and groaned. “I jerked off to you when I was watching the game against St. Louis.” “I’d like to fuck you in the shower,” Shane trembled, tensing his shackled hands and wrapping his legs tighter around Ilya, “while your whole team was changing after the match. We’d fuck, and they wouldn’t even know how depraved you could be under me.” Shane came with a low, drawn-out groan, spilling all over his stomach. Ilya released his wrists, grabbed him by the waist, and thrust roughly under the table skip. He devoured Shane with his eyes—his cum-drenched, wet, sweat-slicked body, his scarlet, bitten lips, the black hair clinging to his forehead, his sharp, erect nipples, and the eyes that, with the veil of fading orgasm, also devoured him. He came, freezing deep in the hot depths, his fingers digging hard into the hard muscles of his thighs, hoping that tomorrow there would be traces of his hands there. He leaned over, and Hollander. He hugged him, holding him close. They kissed, eagerly exploring each other’s mouths. Shane let out a tired sigh, threw his head back, and spread his arms wide. Ilya admired him, but knew that in a couple more minutes, Hollander would simply fall asleep on his desk. He removed the condom, tossed it in the trash, and, grabbing Shane under the hips, lifted him up. “What are you doing?” Hollander asked, alarmed, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s neck and his legs around his hips. “We’re going to take a shower.” He crossed the dark hall and, turning on the light, entered the brightly lit bathroom. Fully clothed, he stepped into the spacious shower and turned on the faucet. A tropical downpour descended on them. Ilya carefully set Shane down and finally pulled off his already water-soaked T-shirt and pants. Shane watched him, leaning his back against the blue tiles, and as soon as Ilya threw his wet clothes on the floor, he reached out and kissed him. Ilya squeezed shower gel into his hand and ran it over the smooth skin of Shane’s back, gently massaging and washing away the sweat. The air smelled of fruit. He moved his hands lower down his back and squeezed his firm buttocks, sliding between them and gently massaging his relaxed entrance. Shane’s breathing quickened and he dropped his head limply onto Ilya’s shoulder. “I can’t take it anymore,” he breathed out hoarsely. “It’s been a hard day, you’re tired,” Ilya whispered. “I have to go,” Shane said, not hiding his regret. “Just a little longer,” Ilya begged. Just a little longer, let me hold you in my arms. To savor you. It’s not enough. This time, stolen from me, is not enough. I’d torment you for days, drink you until the very day, every drop, so that neither of us could move. Satiate ourselves. When they got out of the shower, Ilya threw a large towel over Shane’s shoulders and began drying him like a child. He couldn’t stop smiling as he watched Shane’s eyes close of their own accord. “Come on,” he whispered, leading Shane by the hand into his bedroom. “Huh?” Hollander groaned sleepily and obediently lay down on the bed. Ilya smiled slyly, turned off the bathroom light, plunging the apartment into darkness, and carefully lay down next to him, covering them both with a blanket. After the flight, the intense, frantic game, and the wild sex, it was no wonder Hollander was passing out. He was probably used to going to bed at ten PM and waking up at six AM. Ilya listened to his even breathing and felt someone else’s presence in his bed. He was no longer used to such luxury. The last time he slept like this was with Sasha, but that had been a long time ago, and everything felt different. Ilya was awakened by a commotion. He opened his eyes, but the room was still dark. “Fuck, where are they?” Shane swore quietly, clearly trying to find something. “Damn…” Ilya lay motionless, feigning sleep. He heard rustling, soft footsteps, the click of the lock, and the door slammed shut. Silence fell. In the morning, Ilya found Shane’s underwear under a chair. Quite a trophy. February. All-Star Game. Toronto. After a three-hour flight, Ilya spent another five hours slogging through traffic from the airport to the city by taxi. The winter in Toronto this year was brutal, reminiscent of Moscow. Blizzards, snowstorms, and snow that seemed to fly out of the ground. They decided to hold the All-Star Game in Canada, the city of hockey’s glory. The show promised to be quite spectacular. As expected, he missed the friendly meeting with the players at the bar the night before the Game. All that was left was to drop his bag, order a late dinner, and go to bed—he had to do an interview with Hollander the next morning. Again. Ilya grabbed a can of beer from the minibar and sat down in a chair, admiring the evening snowstorm outside the window. This season, he’d been literally working his butt off to rack up as many points as possible in assists and goals; he was currently ahead of Shane. He twisted his wrist, assessing the pain. In a recent game, he’d crashed into the glass and pulled his arm. It would be good to take the strain off my wrist for a couple of days. “You’re both on your entry-level contracts this year,” the journalist began. “It’s worth noting that you’ve shown incredible results! What are your plans going forward? Have you received offers from other clubs yet? Shane?” “I value the Montreal team; we’ve become like family now. I’d like to continue playing for the Voyagers and help them win the Stanley Cup.” “Are you planning on doing that this year?” the journalist asked cheekily. “That would be great,” Hollander replied evasively. “Ilya, do you plan on continuing to play for Boston?” “We’ll see,” Rozanov shrugged. “Which team would you like to play for?” the journalist persisted. “Any team that runs against Hollander,” Ilya grinned. “Last year, you were secretly competing for the most goals,” the girl asked. “This year, it looks like you’re competing against each other again?” “Every player works for the good of the team, and the more goals we score, the more likely we are to win the cup,” Hollander replied drily. “Ilya, what do you think?” Ilya smiled. “Mr. Hollander,” he drawled, “said well, but one doesn’t cancel the other out,” he winked. Everyone froze, and then the cameras flashed. “So far, you’re in the lead,” the girl answered with a sly smile. “That’s for now,” Shane said suddenly, leaning over the microphone. Camera flashes again. Ilya leaned back in his chair and glanced sideways at Hollander’s tense back. How he wanted to touch him, run his hand over his shoulder blades, and lean toward his ear to whisper: it doesn’t hurt to dream. And watch his lips purse with anger, his eyes darken, and the promise glittering in the depths of his pupils like a death sentence: I’ll fuck you, Rozanov. The city that has elevated hockey to a cult status lived up to the expectations of even the most rabid fans. It was a fucking noisy show with fireworks, music, smoke, and bagpipes. This year’s All-Star Game was played three-on-three, and who would have thought that Scott Hunter would be Ilya’s captain? “Glad you’re infuriating everyone with your toothy grin again,” Scott said by way of greeting, shaking Rozanov’s hand. “I’ve always wanted to skate with you,” Ilya grinned. The second team was captained by Shane Hollander. Ilya would have been more surprised if that hadn’t happened. Will Lee-David of the Florida Tigers was chosen as captain of the third team. Elias Lankinen of the Vancouver Delphi was the fourth. Instead of determining winners in each drill, all players competed in four of the eight disciplines. Ilya chose the speed, stickhandling, accuracy, and passing competitions. It would have been nice to participate in the hardest shot, but his wrist stubbornly refused. Passing turned out to be the easiest; Ilya could pass the ball behind his back with his left heel, eyes closed. He easily navigated an obstacle course with cones and other objects on the ice with his stick, and even performed a juggling trick with five pucks. Even though Sasha said his butt was dragging on the ice, Ilya still showed a good result, second only to Shane, of course, who, after breaking another record, looked at him and raised his nose to the ceiling so much that Rozanov couldn’t resist sticking his tongue out at him. In the next competition, Hollander was determined to break his own record and accurately knocked down the targets in the net in six point five seconds. Ilya skated onto the ice after him. The horn rang, but he wasn’t in a rush to accelerate and score. He skated slowly, about to toss the puck on his blade, but it suddenly flew under his skates, where he stepped on it and fell on his butt. Everyone laughed. Ilya stood up, dusted himself off, spread his arms, shook his head, looking reproachfully at the treacherous puck, and slashed his stick, sending it accurately into the top corner. He did this three more times, the puck somehow miraculously ending up behind him, then he dropped his stick, then slipped on his backswing. He made a clown of the competition, causing the entire Toronto Maple Leafs arena to laugh and give him a standing ovation. Ilya finished in two minutes and thirty-seven seconds, the worst time in the history of the All-Star Game. If Hollander could glare, Ilya would already be a floating pile of ash on the growing ice. Rozanov skated past and winked at Shane, whose face was frozen in cold fury. “Any more and he’ll scratch your eyes out,” Hunter said quietly as Ilya skated up to him and stopped near the boards. “Everyone around here is so serious,” Rozanov replied, picking at the ice with his stick, “that I just want to get on their nerves.” “And you’re doing it really well.” The evening featured themed fan games, concerts, and photo shoots. Ilya donned his most luxurious suit, dark green with a white shirt, and happily signed autographs and took selfies with fans. Shane drifted through the hall like a thundercloud, ignoring Rozanov. A couple of photographers even tried to get them together for a photo, but Shane would say something abstruse and slink off in the opposite direction. By the end of the evening, his head was buzzing like a Zamboni pouring ice. Ilya returned to his room and plopped down on the bed. Tomorrow was a three-on-three game, fortunately, the match was played in a shortened format, ten-minute periods. He twisted his wrist again, feeling a nagging pain radiating through his fingers. He spared his hand and didn’t swing the stick with all his might, but he still had to tell the doctor. Later. Later. And now. Ilya pulled out his phone and smiled slyly in anticipation. He’d been patient all evening and behaved almost decently, no longer irritating Hollander. Time to make up for it. While he was showering, their order arrived. Ilya put on a black, sheer, shiny shirt with sashes and pants that were easy to remove. He sprayed perfume, fixed his hair, and, holding a bottle of champagne in his right hand and a huge bouquet of white flowers in his left, left the room. Climbing the stairs to the next floor, he cautiously peered around the corner, checking the perimeter. It would have been hard to explain if he’d met someone in the hallway where he was going, so handsome. He knocked on the door, which immediately swung open, and he was literally dragged inside by the lapels and pinned with his back against the wall. The door slammed shut. “What the hell?” Shane hissed. “This is for you,” Ilya thrust the bouquet in Hollander’s face. Shane froze and stared at the flowers in confusion. He carefully picked them up, looked up from under his eyebrows, and, swinging them, struck Ilya with them. Ilya slapped him in the face. He threw the bouquet on the floor and walked away from Rozanov, clenching his fists helplessly. “Are you trying to provoke me on purpose now? What kind of joke is this?” he growled, turning his back. What a pleasure it is to anger Shane. Rozanov removed the foil from the champagne bottle and popped the cork. Hollander turned at the sound. Ilya lifted the bottle, and the foaming liquid poured into his mouth, dripping down his chin, neck, and chest. His soaked, transparent shirt clung to his body. Ilya licked his lips, looking at Shane’s face. Anger, desire, fury, and admiration lit up his brown eyes like bright fireworks. “Excellent champagne,” Ilya smiled, licking his lips and looking at the label. “Crystal. Always wanted to try it.” Shane froze in the middle of the room. His chest heaved, and it seemed he couldn’t even move. Ilya approached slowly, never breaking eye contact, picked up the bottle again, and took a sip. Hollander stepped forward and licked the champagne from his neck with his tongue, then, as if coming to his senses, bit hard on his collarbone. Ilya hissed but didn’t push him away. When his teeth unclenched, he gently lifted Shane’s chin and, looking into his eyes, leaned in to kiss him. When the kiss ended, Shane braced his hands on Ilya’s chest and said sternly, his brow furrowed: “You’re not getting off topic. What the hell was going on at the competition?” “Mmm,” Ilya drawled and stepped forward, forcing Shane to retreat and flop down on the bed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “You botched the accuracy test on purpose,” Shane growled. “Oh, yeah?” Ilya put the bottle down. “I think I hit the target.” It looked like Hollander would simply tear Rozanov apart with his bare hands. Ilya didn’t think he’d get drunk from a few sips, but his head was spinning slightly, and his muscles were as relaxed as jelly. Maybe he was drunk from Shane. Rozanov pushed Hollander onto the bed, pinning his arms above his head. “Why are you mad?” he asked, leaning over Shane’s face. “You won, after all.” “That’s unfair. You gave in,” he muttered, offended. “Maybe,” Ilya smiled, leaning in and nuzzling Shane’s nose. “But I still won’t give you the top scorer award, so enjoy your All-Star Game win.” “You bitch,” Shane growled, trying to pull his hands from Rozanov’s grip. But Ilya crushed his lips to his, kissing him hard, dominating him with his will. He grabbed Shane’s wrists with one hand, sliding the other down his body and squeezing his already hard cock. Hollander groaned into his mouth and arched. “What’s wrong?” Ilya whispered in his ear. “Are you so angry that you’re aroused?” “You’re driving me crazy,” Shane breathed out helplessly, closing his eyes in absolute surrender. “I know,” Ilya smiled, releasing Hollander’s hands. “I did it on purpose.” When they had removed their clothes, Ilya ran his fingertips over the flawless, hairless white skin. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathed in Russian, leaning down to capture a pink nipple with his lips. Hollander trembled and bit his lip. “There’s still some champagne left; I need to finish it,” Ilya said, then asked, “Squeeze your thighs.” Shane frowned in confusion, but obediently brought his legs together and propped himself up on his elbows to get a better view of what Rozanov was up to. Ilya picked up the bottle from the floor and, with a sly smile, began pouring the alcohol directly onto Hollander’s groin. Shane shuddered and squeezed his thighs tighter, preventing any spillage. The champagne pooled in the cleavage around his erect penis, covering his balls and raising the hairs like seaweed. “Wow,” Ilya breathed. “That’s hot.” Shane’s penis twitched with excitement and oozed pre-cum. Ilya leaned down and touched the head with his tongue. Shane desperately squeezed his eyes shut. “Look, don’t close your eyes,” Ilya quietly urged, blowing on the head. Shane licked his lips and obeyed, looking blearily at Ilya, who leaned down and ran his lips from the head down the shaft. He took a sip from the cleavage and buried his lips in the balls, grasping the soft, tender skin and tugging. His thighs trembled for a moment, but then clenched again. “The champagne definitely tasted better,” Ilya concluded hoarsely. He sipped and licked the entire length of the shaft, covering his trembling thighs with kisses and jerking himself off. When he’d ordered a bottle of champagne, he’d never intended to perform such a performance. But it was so fucking sexy. Shane’s cock twitched, his abs contracted, outlining the six-pack and muscle, his nipples sharpened. Rozanov’s own cock was buzzing almost painfully. He grabbed Hollander’s legs with his hand, pinning them together, and began sucking hard on the head. “Oh, fuck…” Shane breathed. “Come for me,” Ilya whispered, bringing him to his climax with his fingers and mouth. Hollander groaned loudly, and jets of semen spurted into Rozanov’s palm. Whitish drops trickled down his cock, dissolving like pearls in the champagne. Ilya licked his fingers, then leaned over and drank the exquisite cocktail from Shane’s groin. He himself came after just a few strokes, splashing the bedspread beneath him. “That was…” Shane croaked. “Something.” Where are you from… “Improvisation,” Ilya laughed quietly, stretching out on the bed next to Shane. “Now I’m all sticky.” “It’s good that people invented showers.” Ilya took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. He, too, was clammy and thirsty, but he felt completely full and tipsy, like a cat on valerian. The bed next to him buckled, and there was a rustling sound. He watched as Shane picked up the bouquet of flowers and, straightening the crumpled petals, sat down on the bed with it. Hollander, burying his nose in the white roses, peonies, and lilies, inhaled the intoxicating scent of the flowers. He looked so sweet that Ilya’s heart skipped a beat. “Nobody ever gave me flowers,” Shane said quietly. “Thank you.” “White suits you,” Ilya replied, turning on his side to see him better. “Purity and innocence.” Hollander smiled and looked skeptically at Rozanov. “And it doesn’t matter what I do to you in hotel rooms,” Ilya chuckled. “You remain beautiful and pure.” Shane’s cheeks flushed slightly, and he sheepishly hid his face in the delicate petals. *** It’s a good thing everyone was allowed to rest and sleep this morning. Otherwise, Ilya, with his head pounding, would hardly have hit the puck. No, he won’t drink champagne anymore; pure vodka would be better—at least it doesn’t give him a headache. After lunch, he had more or less recovered and could listen to Scott Hunter’s instructions without wincing at the sound of his voice. “The only dangerous one is the rookie, Dallas Kent,” Scott said. “Brave, fast, arrogant. I hope we don’t get Florida in the draw.” Ilya exhaled heavily. He clearly remembered the game against Toronto in December, where Kent had been hurling insults and threats nonstop. If Price hadn’t been standing behind Ilya, Dallas would have definitely used physical force against him at every opportunity to knock him out of the game. They opened the first semifinal against a team coached by Elias Lankinen from the Vancouver Delphi. They won 6-5. In the second semifinal, Shane’s team played against Will Lee-David’s Florida Tigers. Ilya watched the heated battle with curiosity. Dallas and Hollander cut the ice to shreds with their skates, chasing the puck from goal to goal. The arena buzzed with support for Kent, banners and posters with his name flashed here and there — after all, Dallas played for Toronto. Shane won 4-3, but Rozanov could tell from his sour expression that he was dissatisfied with the game. The stands supported the winners, but only half-heartedly and out of politeness. In the final, Ilya watched Shane lean over the faceoff against Hunter and couldn’t help but wink. Whatever anyone said, Scott was good. He won the faceoff and set such a frantic pace that Ilya could barely cover him, tracking Shane’s moves and passing, creating excellent scoring opportunities. During the commercial break, Scott looked intently at Rozanov and said, “You’re not bad.” “Thanks, Daddy,” Ilya chuckled, remembering that Hunter was about five or six years older than him. They won. Rozanov even felt a little sorry for Hollander. *** Ilya winced as he donned a black tuxedo and bow tie. He disliked formal attire and reminded himself of a waiter or, worse, a funeral home worker. He would have given his soul to wear a metallic burgundy suit with a black shirt; he felt like a pimp on vacation. The awards ceremony took place in a luxurious hotel restaurant, with a buffet of foie gras and lobster, guest singers and sponsors seated in places of honor, and team owners literally stripping and throwing delicious morsels into their mouths. Shane Hollander, named the All-Star Game’s MVP, received a medal and one million dollars. Scott took the Best Team Award, and each player received two hundred thousand. Shane looked anywhere but at Rozanov. Ilya was quite satisfied. After the awards were presented and the speeches were made, the informal part began. Sipping mineral water with lemon and eating shrimp with mushrooms, he surveyed the room and assessed the attendees. Scott Hunter looked resplendent in a black suit, holding a glass of champagne, surrounded by several women with diamonds sparkling on their chests and ears. He smiled politely, his head bowed slightly, but his eyes were calm and cool. Dallas Kent flashed a Hollywood smile, surrounded, if Ilya understood correctly, by his parents (a tall and beautiful woman, like a model, and a distinguished man with the aura of a congressman), and by prim older men who patted him on the shoulder, clearly promising a bright future. Ilya noticed Yuna adjusting Shane’s bow tie. He could easily recognize Hollander’s mother and father, who seemed to always accompany their son to special events. They were obviously proud and supportive of him, and Shane wasn’t ashamed to show their love. The beloved child of beloved parents. Grigori never watched his matches, didn’t take him to practices, didn’t cheer for him in the stands. He didn’t really know the rules and had no idea that Ilya was the leading player on his team. What did his father think of him now? Did he even think about him? He really didn’t like it when Ilya moved to the NHL and practically called him a traitor to the motherland. “You need Here!” Grigory growled, emphasizing every word. But Ilya longed to be somewhere far away, preferably on the other side of the world. He wanted to earn his father’s praise and respect, but as the years went by, he realized more and more clearly that was impossible. Who knows, if he had followed in his father’s footsteps, like his brother, and become a soldier, Grigory would have paid more attention to him. The problem is, it was his mother who introduced him to hockey and gave him a purpose in life. Hockey is partly a memory of her—how she took him to Saturday practice at six, how she laced up his skates, and how after the game she took him to McDonald’s, where they ate huge burgers and Coke together. She listened attentively, smiling as he chattered passionately about his early successes, and stroked his hair. At that moment, in the bright, crowded hall, Ilya felt infinitely alone. “The circus has left, but the clown remains.” “Ilya was pulled out of his self-reflection by a brazen voice. Dallas Kent had quietly approached and looked Rozanov up and down. “So insecure that you decided to put on a sketch show? Pathetic.” “Did the one who’s never even won an award say that, or are you just loved for your pretty eyes?” A dull smile froze on Kent’s lips. Ilya recalled that Dallas had been drafted the year before last, and he was now about nineteen years old. A year or two apart, yet he had the arrogance of a teenager. “Get out of here before someone breaks your leg. There’s no place for people like you here.” “So, in the last game, you wanted to break my leg,” Ilya nodded, “and I thought you had a crush on me.” “Listen…” Dallas grinned, but Rozanov interrupted him, tiring of this stupid conversation. “Kid, why don’t you put me in my place when you win at least one Stanley Cup? Maybe then I’ll listen to you. And if you ask me very nicely, I’ll even give you a blow job.” Dallas looked at Rozanov in shock, his mouth hanging open. “Faggot,” he snapped and walked away. “Not far from the truth, baby,” Ilya said in Russian and headed to the buffet table for the tiny canapés, which only whetted his appetite rather than sated it. “What did Dallas want from you?” Scott asked, standing next to Rozanov and taking chocolate-covered strawberries from the tray. “He shared his opinion,” Rozanov shrugged. “Don’t pay any attention to him,” Hunter advised. “I know his parents are very wealthy and influential.” “I’m happy for him,” Ilya said indifferently. He was already desperately praying for the evening to be over, when he could return to his room and collapse into bed. And it would be nice to order a hearty dinner with meat and potatoes. Ilya glanced around for Hollander again and realized that tonight he would be spending the evening in the company of his parents, not choking on moans beneath him. Well, enough of all good things, otherwise he might get satiated and lose interest. Rozanov stepped out into the small winter garden and took out a cigarette. After lighting it, he took a satisfying drag and exhaled longingly. Through the huge panoramic windows, a stunning view of the city opened up, covered in snow and sparkling with lights, like something out of a fairy tale. A small pond with carp gurgled softly, and the air smelled of damp earth and flowers. Ilya took another drag and, leaning against the wall, closed his eyes. “Beautiful view,” came the voice, though Russian, with a distinct American accent. Ilya opened his eyes in surprise and met the gaze of a distinguished-looking man in his forties. His intelligent face, gray eyes, graying temples but without a hint of baldness, his straight posture, and his strong body spoke of an athletic background. “Did the evening tire you?” “Yes,” Ilya answered bluntly. “I’d rather be somewhere on the ice.” “Would you like a cigarette?” Ilya silently pulled out a pack and held it out. The man took out a cigarette and raised an eyebrow expectantly. Rozanov grinned crookedly and pulled out a lighter. The man bowed his head and took a drag, his dark gaze never leaving Ilya. “Dmitry,” the man introduced himself, extending his hand. Rozanov returned the firm handshake. “I enjoyed your performance,” he said, blowing smoke to the side. “I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time.” “Let’s say I’ve mastered the clown trade,” Ilya chuckled. “We were watching you from the VIP box and decided to add a few humorous moments next year to lighten the mood.” Ilya shook his head. “You’ve only just started playing in the NHL, but you’ve already firmly established yourself in the league; many eyes are on you.” “And some are waiting for me to break my leg,” Ilya remarked, recalling Kent’s words. “No doubt about it. Hockey is a tough sport, and there are plenty of envious people here, sometimes even on your own team.” Dmitry took a deep drag and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, watching Rozanov sideways. “What’s your goal? Why do you play hockey?” “That’s all it takes. Money and fame.” “When you’re young, everything seems so accessible,” Dmitry remarked philosophically. “But as you get older, you realize that money and fame aren’t enough.” For some reason, Ilya thought of Shane. “Well,” Dmitry stubbed out his cigarette and looked Rozanov intently in the eyes, “I think we can end the small talk here and get to the main point.” Ilya smiled wryly, guessing what they were going to discuss next. Dmitry had tested the waters and was now laying his cards on the table. “It’s not my style, but still… I liked you, Ilya, and I wanted to offer you a personal sponsorship.” “Why?” “It’s nice to have someone standing behind you. Hockey is a business where huge sums of money are involved. Your name could be a good investment.” Ilya twirled his cigarette in his fingers, evaluating the offer. “What do you require of me?” “What can you offer yourself?” “What will you offer in return?” “I promise to act in your best interests.” “I agree.” Dmitry seemed completely surprised by such a quick and positive response. Ilya smiled with satisfaction and, extinguishing his cigarette on his tongue, asked: “Anything else?” “Hm,” Dmitry pulled out his phone. “Give me your number.” When Ilya’s phone pinged with a call back, he thought for a moment, then saved Dmitry’s number under the name “Daddy.” “Your humor is legendary,” Dmitry chuckled. “Humor saves when there’s no fame or money.” Dmitry looked seriously at Rozanov, as if looking deeper than his famous, cheeky smile. “I wasn’t mistaken about you after all,” he finally said.