by Rachel Reid
“Early,” Ilya said.
“Me too. Columbus.”
“Toronto.” When Ilya said it, he rolled the “r” slightly and pronounced the second “t.” Shane smiled.
Without warning, Ilya moved his hand until it was right next to Shane’s, and then he hooked their thumbs together. Shane’s first instinct was to pull away, but he resisted. Instead he closed his eyes, and tried not to hope for impossible things. He also resisted the urge to rest his head on Ilya’s shoulder.
“What room are you in?” Shane whispered.
“Twelve seventeen.”
“I’d like to talk. Somewhere private.”
Ilya pulled his thumb away. Shane wanted to grab it back.
Ilya stood and said, “See you soon,” before walking back toward the hotel.
Chapter Seventeen
Ilya stood in the middle of his hotel room. Did Shane actually want to talk to him? Was “talking” code for something else, like it always had been before? Had Shane felt the shift in their relationship that Ilya had, the last time they were together? If so, was he looking to break things off and run away...or lean into it? Or maybe he didn’t know what he wanted, because Ilya sure as fuck didn’t.
He also knew that what they both wanted probably didn’t matter anyway.
Ilya wished they could go for a walk or something—a moonlit stroll on the beach. He was tired of hotel rooms.
His phone buzzed. I’m here.
He opened the door immediately.
Shane slipped in. His clothes were rumpled and a little sandy from the beach. His hair had been tousled by the ocean breeze.
He crossed the room without speaking and sat on the end of the bed. He clasped his hands together and looked at the floor.
“Whoa,” Ilya said. “This looks serious.”
“It’s not... I mean...sort of. Just...shut up a second, all right?”
Ilya sat himself on the dresser, directly across from the end of the bed, and waited.
“It’s...” Shane grimaced. “It’s not just me, right?”
“Not just you?”
“I mean...you feel it too, don’t you?”
“Feel what?”
“God, fuck you. You know what I mean! The last time we were...together...it was...different.”
Ilya shrugged and looked away. He knew it was the wrong reaction, but he felt a horrifying swell of emotion that he couldn’t let Shane see.
“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about,” Shane said angrily. “This is hard enough without you being an asshole.”
Ilya turned back to him, his face carefully hiding everything he was feeling. “What do you want, Hollander?”
“I—” Shane didn’t seem to have any idea of what to say next.
“We get together, and we fuck. Is simple,” Ilya said.
“Simple,” Shane grumbled. “Right.”
Ilya shrugged again. “Is simple for me.”
“Bullshit.”
Ilya rolled his eyes. Why was Hollander saying any of this? Why now?
“I think I’m gay,” Shane blurted out.
Ilya looked at him, startled, for a moment. Then he laughed. “Oh yeah? What gives you that idea?”
Shane glared at him, which made Ilya laugh more.
“The last time my dick was in your mouth, I thought you might be a little gay,” Ilya teased.
“Fuck off. You’re not gay.”
“No,” Ilya said, serious again. “Not completely.”
“Well... I think I might be. Completely.”
Ilya studied him a moment, then said, “Okay. So you are gay. So what?”
“Well, it’s sort of a big deal! To me, at least. Sorry if I’m boring you!”
Ilya slid off the dresser and went to the mini fridge. He pulled out a can of Coke and a can of ginger ale. He handed the ginger ale to Shane as he sat beside him on the bed.
“Why are you telling me that you are gay?” Ilya asked quietly.
Shane laughed humorlessly. “Who else am I gonna tell?”
Ilya took a sip of his Coke. “You are not the only gay NHL player. Probably.”
“I know.”
“So?”
Shane sighed. “It’s not just...being gay,” he said, awkwardly, as if he was still getting used to the word. “It’s you. You and me. Being gay is one thing. Hooking up with your arch fucking rival is another.”
“That is why it is a secret.”
“I know that, but...” Shane ran a hand through his own hair in exasperation. “Last time we were together it was...nice,” he said quietly.
Ilya was silent a moment, then admitted, “It was.”
“It felt like we were...more.”
“We can’t be more, Hollander.”
Shane turned his head sharply to look at Ilya. “Would you want to be? If we could?”
“We can’t.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Ilya stood up and set his Coke can down hard on the dresser. “It doesn’t fucking matter!”
Shane flinched and fiddled with the can of ginger ale that he hadn’t even opened. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t like you,” he said finally.
“You don’t like me,” Ilya argued.
“I do. I...I maybe like you too much.”
Ilya’s heart clenched. “Don’t,” he groaned. “Don’t fucking do this, Hollander. I’m not...”
“Worth it?”
Ilya glared at him. “Gay. I’m not gay. And I can’t be...anything close to it, okay?”
Shane laughed. “Well, you’re doing a shitty job of that!”
“Not in public. I can’t... I would not be able to go home.”
“Your family?”
“Russia. I could not go home to Russia.”
Shane looked horrified. “What would happen to you?”
“I do not want to find out.”
He seemed to consider this. “Would your parents...help?”
Ilya shook his head and sat himself on the floor against the wall. “My father is a cop.”
“Oh,” said Shane. “Jesus.”
“My brother is a cop.”
“What about your mother?”
“Dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I was young,” Ilya said, waving a hand as if his mother’s death was of no consequence to him, which was far from the truth. “I have a stepmother. She is...very young for my father.” He snorted. “My mother was very young for my father.”
“Oh.”
Ilya exhaled slowly. “My father was not ever an easy man to live with. He is very...set in old ways. Very strict. My brother, Andrei, is much like him. But now...my father is sick.”
“Sick? Like...cancer?”
Ilya shook his head. “No. Alzheimer’s.”
“Oh. Shit. I’m sorry.”
Ilya nodded. There. Now someone knew.
“He must be proud of you, though? You’re a superstar!”
Ilya almost laughed at that. “He did not want me to leave. Wanted me to stay in Russia.”
Neither man said anything for a while.
“I love my country,” Ilya said. “But I could not stay there.”
“Would have made my life a lot easier,” Shane joked.
They both laughed. Shane shook his head and looked at the ceiling. And Ilya just...stared at him. At this oddly insecure superstar who was so beautiful and sweet and here.
“You look really fucking good,” Ilya said.
Shane stood and placed his ginger ale on the dresser next to Ilya’s abandoned Coke. He sank to the floor, straddling Ilya’s outstretched legs.
“Hey,” Shane said softly.
Ilya gave in and reached for him. As soon
as he had Shane in his arms, he was done for. He leaned forward and took his mouth. It felt different this time, as he wrapped his arms around Shane’s back and pulled him close against his body. Shane’s hands cradled Ilya’s face as he kissed him with the force of everything they had almost said out loud.
* * *
It was late and Shane knew he needed to go back to his own room, but he was in bed with Ilya. Not just in bed, but cuddled together, with Ilya gently stroking his hair. Shane was rolling Ilya’s crucifix between his thumb and his finger.
“Are you religious?” Shane asked. “Or do you just wear this?”
“I don’t go to church anymore.”
“But you believe in God?”
“Yes. I think so.”
Shane didn’t reply. He just considered this information.
“You think that is silly?” Ilya asked.
“No! No, I’m just surprised, I guess.”
Ilya laughed softly.
“What?” Shane asked.
“You don’t believe in God, but you believe if you put right skate on before left you will play a terrible game.”
Shane shook his head and smiled. “That’s different. That’s science.”
Ilya snorted and kissed the top of his head. “It was my mother’s.”
“Oh.” He stopped twirling the cross and rested it gently against Ilya’s chest. “Do you want to talk about...anything? Your family?”
“No,” Ilya said. “Not tonight.”
“You can, though, you know. Talk to me.”
For a moment, Ilya was very still. “Thank you,” he said.
Shane wondered if Ilya felt it too. The heaviness of the aftermath of their encounters. The impossibility of everything. Shane felt it every time. The whole point of their hookups was to provide release, but Shane only felt more tangled up each time.
“I should probably go,” Shane said.
Ilya didn’t reply, so Shane moved to get out of the bed. Ilya pulled him back, and Shane found himself on top of him, and then being kissed by him, and then he was under him.
“Stay,” Ilya said.
“Can’t.” But he loved that Ilya was asking.
“No one will even fucking notice. This weekend is chaos.”
“Too risky.”
Ilya shook his head. “When will I have you for as long as I want?”
Shane’s heart leapt. “I don’t know. As soon as possible?”
“Yes.” Ilya leaned in and kissed him. “After I win the Stanley Cup this year, we should go somewhere.”
Shane rolled his eyes. “You’re not winning that cup. And where on earth would we go?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere no one knows us.”
“What, like the moon?”
“No, like... Fiji.”
“Nope. All it takes is one Canadian tourist with an iPhone.”
“We’ll climb a mountain. Find a cave.”
Shane smiled sadly. They weren’t going anywhere together and they both knew it. “You’re going back to Russia this summer?”
“Yes.”
“Well then.”
“Where will you go?”
“To my cottage, mostly,” Shane said.
“Sounds nice.”
“It is. It’s my favorite place on earth.” Although this bed was providing some strong competition. He indulged in one last kiss, shifting so he covered Ilya’s body with his own as he drank him in.
“I have to go.” He brushed curls out of Ilya’s eyes and Ilya grabbed his wrist, then pulled Shane’s hand to his lips. He lightly kissed the tips of Shane’s fingers, and Shane’s breath caught.
“Do you?” Ilya asked. God, his voice was sexy when he was sleepy, all frayed and throaty. He pressed a kiss to Shane’s palm.
Shane closed his eyes, just to relieve one of his overstimulated senses. It would be so easy just to give in...
“Yeah,” he said. “I do.” With a lot of effort, he left the bed and gathered his clothing from the floor. Sand spilled out of the cuffs of his pants, on the hotel carpet, as he dressed. Ilya stayed on the bed, possibly watching him. Shane couldn’t bring himself to look at him, afraid that he’d end up back in his arms if he so much as glanced in his direction.
When he was at the door, he finally allowed himself to look back at Ilya. He was sitting up, the white bedsheet covering his bent knees. He was chewing his lip, as if considering whether or not to say something. There was a long, tense silence between them, and then Ilya said, “Goodnight. Shane.”
A jolt of pleasure zipped through Shane’s body every time Ilya called him by his first name. “Goodnight, Ilya.”
He checked to make sure the hallway was empty, then slipped out of Ilya’s room. Because the hall was empty, no one saw the smile that nearly split Shane’s face in half.
Chapter Eighteen
February 2017—Montreal
Two weeks after All-Star weekend, Shane received a text from “Lily.”
Can you believe that shit with Zullo?
Frank Zullo was a defenseman for the New York Admirals who was known to be a hot mess. He had gotten arrested the previous night for bar fighting or something, and now he was off the team.
Shane: Yeah. It’s wild. I can’t believe they put him on waivers.
Lily: I fucking hate that guy.
Shane: Always seemed like an asshole, yeah.
He could recall a few times when Zullo had called him a “cocksucker” or a “fag” or some other nice thing.
Lily: Fuck him. Scott Hunter must be happy.
Shane: Oh yeah. You could tell he always hated him.
Lily: One less homophobe in league.
Shane: Yeah, like one million to go, though.
He was in the middle of making his post-run smoothie. He turned on the blender and watched his phone for the next text.
This was new. He wondered why they hadn’t thought to do this before: talk to each other about hockey, even if it was mostly gossip. In the past they had only texted each other to discreetly arrange their hookups.
He wondered what had inspired Ilya to engage him this time.
Lily: Where are you? Home?
Shane: Yeah. Just got back from a run.
Lily: Nice. All sweaty? [:p]
Shane laughed. About to take a shower.
Lily: We should Skype while you do that. Video phone.
Shane: My phone would get wet.
Lily: Why have we never Skyped before?
Shane was surprised by this. You’d want to?
Lily: Maybe. Would you?
He assumed Ilya was talking about, like, phone sex. Or video sex. Or whatever. Shane had never done anything like that with anyone before. But it was a possibility for them. If neither of them saved the call, it would be safe, right?
Shane changed the subject. Nice goal last night.
Lily: Yeah, well. You know.
Then,
Lily: I have to tell you this story Hammersmith told us last night...
They texted back and forth for most of an hour. By the end of it, Shane was stretched out on his couch, his thumbs flying over his phone’s keyboard, and frequently laughing into the empty room. He eventually reminded Ilya that he really did need to take a shower. He was surprised at how hard it was to end their conversation.
He had the embarrassing urge to write Wish you were here or something. He resisted. Instead he wrote, Later, and punctuated it with the emoji of a smiley face wearing sunglasses. Ilya signed off with the emoji of a kissy face.
Boston
Ilya had been texting Shane one-handed.
He hadn’t told Shane that he had fucked up his elbow during the game last night. It had just got caught a weird way against the boards, and now it hurt to straighten it.
He had been ordered to rest, and he was bored. He told himself boredom was the only reason he had texted Shane.
Because of his injury, and the fact that it was, like, nine in the morning, he had been mostly kidding when he had suggested phone sex. But he wondered if Shane would actually do it someday. He couldn’t imagine...
Or, maybe he could imagine. Because suddenly he was. Quite vividly.
He could just see it. Shane with his determined little face, pretending not to be terrified. Where would he be? On his bed? On his actual bed? The one that Ilya had never shared because he had never been to Shane’s real home?
Ilya closed his eyes and sank into the pillows on his own bed.
What was Shane’s room like? Boring, probably. White walls. Probably a framed photo of his parents on his nightstand. Ilya quickly changed it to a framed photo of himself. An autographed one.
Shane probably had houseplants. His bedroom probably had a lot of natural light. There was probably a small bookshelf with some dull motivational books and some sports biographies. His bedsheets were probably blue.
He probably wore, like, full pajamas to bed. The kind with buttons.
But maybe he didn’t always button them up. Maybe he just lounged in bed with his pajama shirt open and the pants riding a little low. His bedside lamp would be on so he could read his boring book.
And then, when he got tired of reading, he would put the book down neatly on his nightstand, then yawn and stretch himself out. The shirt would fall open a little more.
And maybe Shane’s eyes would close, and he would let his hand travel lazily down his chest and over his abs. He’d brush it over his thighs and sigh as the bulge in his pajama pants grew.
Ilya was not doing a good job of resting.
Stupid elbow injury. Why did it have to be his right one?
This Skype thing needed to happen. He would coax some dirty talk out of that pretty little mouth of Shane’s. He would force Shane out of his comfort zone. He could make it a challenge. Shane couldn’t resist a challenge.
He gripped himself awkwardly with his left hand and gave himself a slow stroke.
He wanted a whole day with Shane. A weekend. A week. He wanted to be somewhere that no one could possibly interrupt them. Maybe that would be all he would need. Just the opportunity to get Shane Hollander out of his system. He needed to drink his fill and walk away.
