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Ilya hooks up with an up-and-coming singer for a couple months. He meets her in New York, stumbling into a show she’s playing at a bar after a game. He sticks around because he’s struck by her voice, clear and sweet and high, just her and her guitar alone on stage. There’s a plaintive quality to her music that normally wouldn’t appeal much to Ilya, but something about how much longing her lyrics have, the way her voice conveys yearning, feels right. He buys her a drink after her show and they end up making out in an alley for ages, but she won’t sleep with him, says she knows trouble when she sees it. She gives him her number, though, and Ilya is charmed by her refusal, a rare thing for anyone to do to him.

Hollander hasn’t texted him in nearly three months at that point. He left Ilya on read a week ago, not taking the bait on a dumb joke he’d sent just to get that rise out of Hollander. They won’t play against each other again this season unless they both make the playoffs, not a sure thing on either side.

The singer’s name is Gretchen, and she’s a tiny redhead. Ilya doesn’t have much of a type, physically, but he generally prefers taller women, finding the angle he has to bend over to kiss the short ones kind of stupid. She’s from rural Kentucky and has a twang he hadn’t realized existed outside of the movies. A week after the night they meet, she has a gig in Boston, and Ilya goes to the show, stands in the back, tries not to be noticeable (he’s opted for a beanie that completely covers his hair), and wonders what he’s doing, exactly. He hasn’t met with anyone a second time in months, maybe over a year now, except. Except.

After, she takes photos with fans by the merch table. As she’s packing up, nearly done, one drunk guy from the line circles back and gets handsy with her. Ilya simply steps forward, grabs the guy by the collar of his shirt, and throws him out the door of the bar. Then he dusts his hands, feeling a little like a cartoon character running a saloon.

Gretchen just looks up at him, not blinking, then grabs his hand and says, “My hotel is right around the corner.” They walk rapidly, Ilya carrying her guitar case. The sounds she makes when she comes are clear and sweet and high, just like when she sings.

It turned out she’s right on the precipice of blowing up when they meet. A couple weeks after the Boston show, one of her songs is used in the series finale of a hit Netflix show, and the tour she’d been trying to get together becomes real; she goes from playing bars on the East Coast to opening for big names all over the country. They don’t text often, not more than once every few days, and usually briefly. She likes to send him Spotify links to songs, mostly country or folk. He never likes any of them on first listen but ends up liking them more on repeat. She also sends him links to essays and articles on a range of subjects; those he doesn’t bother to read or pretend to. He sends her a few links to Russian songs; she doesn’t respond to those.

They see each other a couple more times – she has a show in Miami the same weekend he has a game there, he detours to New Orleans after a game in Houston, she stops by Boston for a night on her way back to New York. She does not want to hear anything about hockey, ever, and gets weirdly mad the time he has visible bruising on his ribs, like he’d gotten cross checked by the guy from Philly on purpose to piss her off.

The sex is great – she climbs him like a tree, she fucking loves their size difference (he fireman carries her to the bedroom once and rarely has a partner been more grateful), loves to be pushed up against a wall, her legs around his waist as he fucks her, not touching the ground. Nearly all of Ilya’s partners like his size, like how he crowds them and makes them feel delicate, but none as much as Gretchen. She really gets going on anything that highlights how big he is compared to her, and her enthusiasm works for Ilya. He likes how she makes him feel powerful.

She does not want to be photographed with him, or have their… whatever publicly known at all, which Ilya finds funny and kind of sweet, possibly a little insulting – she’s on the rise but he is unquestionably more famous, and if she’s trying to get her career going there are worse avenues for attention than to be seen with him. Ilya is used to that, to influencers and models and actresses and singers wanting, as much as they want to actually sleep with him, to be seen sleeping with him: being known as attractive enough for Ilya Rozanov is a status symbol. Sometimes he minds that, sometimes he doesn’t – depends on how hot she is, how good the sex is, if the Raiders are winning. How recently he’s seen Hollander.

But Gretchen doesn’t want that, wants to project a very specific persona she doesn’t think he makes sense with: “Kentucky farm girl poet philosopher,” as her Twitter bio says. She wears thousand dollar boots she purposely scuffs up and ends every single Instagram post with “love y’all, mean it 💘.” Her lyrics convey a whole history of bad decisions and broken hearts but she’s publicly coy about what any of it means and how much of it is real, and Ilya doesn’t actually know almost anything about her life (she doesn’t know anything about his, either). She purposely mentions a book in every interview, she tells him (he can’t tell if she’s actually read all the books she names). Ilya cares about his own image, but he’s a lot looser with it. She calls herself a “brand” once, and he instinctively recoils.

The fifth or sixth time he and Gretchen see each other, she says not to come to her gig, just meet her at her hotel after. When he knocks on her room door, she opens it quickly, grabbing his arm to pull him.

“Did anyone see you?” she asks. She sounds annoyed.

“Why, you have husband? Wanted by mob, maybe?” Ilya asks, smiling while working to get his sudden spike of anger under control. He doesn’t much enjoy being a secret, not like this, come to think of it. He is resolutely not allowing himself to think about other situations where he’s been dragged into a hotel room by someone who’d already worked themselves into a snit over opsec.

Gretchen rolls her eyes. “It’s a fair question, Ilya.” She says his name in her accent EEL-ee-yuh, not quite right but still cute.

“I think better question is why the secrecy.” Ilya suspects he is not about to get laid tonight, and finds that he’s surprisingly okay with that: he dislikes being secretly herded into a hotel room with someone who won’t be seen with him that much. He gets enough of that.

Gretchen really can’t explain why she’s so obsessed with the secrecy. Ilya is pretty sure she’s a little embarrassed by him, basically: thinks he’s stupid, but also thinks she has to protect him from knowing he’s too dumb for her. He thinks she’s not handling the sudden fame well, too obsessed with the image of herself she’s trying to craft. Dating, even just fucking, a dumb hockey player – bad English, not even from a cool country, a reputation for fighting on the ice – won’t cut it. She thinks he’s beneath her in some fundamental way, but also thinks her manners are too good to actually say that.

Normally things ending doesn’t really phase him, and he generally leaves women feeling like they had a fun interlude that reached a natural conclusion. Ilya likes knowing there are a lot of women out there fondly remembering him as the best they ever had. If they’re starting to actually piss him off, he usually ghosts; when he was younger, he liked the drama, liked fights and makeups and scenes, but mostly now it’s annoying and tiresome. He gets his fill of drama these days, and wants his hookups to be pleasant for all involved, simple.

But he’s mad enough that she’s made him a dirty secret – and mad at himself for accepting – that he snaps at her. “Good luck with tour,” he tells her, hand already on the doorknob. He can hear how pronounced his accent is right now. “Maybe next guy won’t be just dumb jock, you can find someone who can fuck you good and also pretend to care about your poetry.”

She throws a shoe at him as he leaves; it bounces off the door frame.

It’s the opening game of the season, and the Raiders are in Montreal. After the game, Hollander is letting him in the stupid alley door to his apartment. It’s October and it’s not even freezing yet, the kind of crisp fall day that actually, embarrassingly, kind of makes you feel alive. The Raiders won and Ilya had two goals and an assist, and Hollander just got one assist.

Hollander lets him in and they’re in his apartment, and Ilya is kissing him against the island in the kitchen, knowing the edge of the countertop must be digging into Hollander’s back. Ilya feels aggressive tonight, wants to make Hollander beg for it, wants to edge him until he’s a mess. Hollander is always up for that, always wants it hard and fast and fierce, wants Ilya to be in charge of him in a way Ilya finds too hot to look at head on.

Hollander moans, jerks his hips into Ilya’s like he can’t help it, and without really considering it, Ilya is picking him up, carrying him to the couch. Hollander is very close to Ilya’s size, barely smaller, but he doesn’t hesitate to put his legs around Ilya’s waist and let himself be carried. In fact, Hollander makes a little purring noise as Ilya adjusts his grip on the man’s ass. Ilya has carried him once or twice before and it’s always like this.

Ilya would never ever let Hollander see any strain from his weight, but he definitely has to concentrate to support him. The couch is only a few steps away but Ilya thinks it’s one of the sexiest things he’s seen Hollander do, loving being carried by Ilya.

When ESPN calls, asks him to pose for the Body Issue, of course Ilya says yes. He looks fucking great naked: why wouldn’t he want to let professionals come up with a cool concept to show that off?

ESPN has him riding a Zamboni on an empty rink. It’s going to look great. It’s a typical photoshoot, a million people milling around adjusting lights and looking at computers and standing by to touch up his makeup. There’s music blaring too, which is normal, and usually Ilya thrives in this kind of chaos, would be having a blast, but right now everything’s too loud and bright, discordant. After a minute he realizes why he’s tense: the music currently playing is Gretchen’s single off her new album, and he’s pretty sure the song is supposed to be about him.

Ilya has, he believes, a proportionally healthy ego. It’s not bragging if it’s true, after all. But he knows the joke about thinking this song is about you, and no one even knows he and Gretchen hooked up last year. He can’t confirm anything, but the song is everywhere right now, he can’t avoid hearing it. It’s called “The Ice King,” about guy who’s cold and mean. There’s a line about hell freezing over and skating on the ice. Part of the chorus goes I know trouble when I see it, something she’d said to him the night they met.

Ilya doesn’t think he’s crazy to believe a woman he slept with wrote a hit song about how he’s an asshole.

It is catchy, he can admit that.

Thankfully the playlist moves on, and he relaxes again. It ends up being an incredibly fun shoot, actually, and the initial pictures look incredible, Ilya driving a Zamboni with a giant grin, his long leg angled to preserve his modesty, or whatever (Ilya would have happily done full frontal, though he can picture the heart attack that would give his agent – or Gina, the long-suffering head of Comms for the Raiders, a woman who once told him he was directly responsible for her successfully negotiating her last raise after she showed the GM how many statements she’d had to write about him specifically).

He asks the editor if any other MLH players are posing this year.

“Nope, though we did try to get Shane Hollander too, but he had a scheduling conflict. Don’t worry,” the editor says, laughing, “we weren’t going to have you pose together. God, can you imagine?”

Ilya likes the ESPN shoot so much he ends up doing another nearly naked shoot a month later: for this one, he’s laying down on the floor in jeans unzipped and riding very low on his hips, his chest covered in red lipstick kisses (helpfully put on him by the gorgeous photo assistant, who he ends up going home with). Multiple pairs of women’s hands tug at his unbuttoned jacket. In the photo, Ilya looks delighted at his own good fortune.

The mag calls him “hockey’s #1 playboy” and he’s not mad about it, especially considering Cosmo just ranked him only the fifth hottest player in the MLH. Cosmo put Hollander number one, calling him “Canada’s Mr. Perfect.” Canada’s Mr. Perfect gave Ilya a blowjob so good he blacked out in a hotel shower three weeks ago, then Mr. Perfect came himself as Ilya jerked him off, leaning against the wall of that same shower, muttering gibberish about Ilya’s mouth and Ilya’s hands and fuck, you feel so good, it’s perfect you’re perfect – but hasn’t texted him back since.

It’s a Monday night and Ilya is browsing Shane Hollander’s social media.

He fucked up his ankle at practice that morning and has strict orders from the team doctor to take it easy: elevate, ice, stay the fuck home. Whether Ilya gets to travel to Winnipeg with the team in two days is dependent on how well he follows these instructions. So Ilya’s on his couch, bored with his rewatch of Olympus Has Fallen and scrolling. Hollander’s social media is even more boring than the man himself: just resharing posts from the team, brands he works with, charities he supports. So consciously on message it makes Ilya’s teeth hurt. (Last month the Raiders made him do another round of media training, not happy that, when someone approached him at a club with a camera and asked for his opinion on Dallas Kent, he responded, “I have wiped better shit off my shoes.” Ilya stands by it.)

He checks out the Metros’ official pages too, because Hollander doesn’t share everything and sometimes there’s photos or video of him Ilya can study closely and tell himself it’s game prep.

The Metros’ Facebook page has a new video, posted just six hours earlier: Let’s hear it for Montreal’s Ice King, Shane Hollander.

It’s a highlight reel. Of Hollander. Set to Gretchen’s song about Ilya.

Ilya watches the video feeling like the moments the rollercoaster car is steadily climbing the top of the first hill, knowing there’s a downward plunge coming soon. It’s a well-edited video, shot after shot of Hollander scoring goals, slamming opponents into the boards, giving a captain speech in the locker room, hoisting the Cup.

As the first chorus comes in, the line I know trouble when I see it, it’s just quick cuts of his goals, rapid fire one after another.

The second time the chorus starts, every clip is of Hollander beating Ilya: winning a face off, slamming him into the boards, intercepting a pass.

Ilya feels both like he has a million thoughts all swirling around in his brain together, and like he’s totally empty, a lake on a windless day.

He rewatches the video a dozen times in a row, sometimes on mute, sometimes not.

The All-Star game is in Dallas this year, and the league decided to “randomly” assign players to the two teams. Ilya is completely sure it’s not random, because the league doesn’t want him and Hollander on the same team, and sure enough, they aren’t. Apparently ratings are very good when they’re both there and opposing each other.

His ankle is healed and he’s been cleared to play. Ilya would have lied about his ankle to get cleared, but it actually is totally fine. He can’t be in Dallas if he’s not playing, and he isn’t missing this chance to see Hollander. He tells himself he’s not missing the chance to compete against him.

Lily: what time do you get into Dallas?

Jane: Thursday at 1pm, why?

Lily: 😘

Ilya’s plane arrives at 2:30 (booked after he texted Hollander). The skills competition is Friday night, the game Saturday night. They’ll both fly out early Sunday, Hollander back to Montreal and Ilya to Anaheim. Ilya plans to press his luck, see if he can get all three nights with Hollander. They’ve had two nights in a row before, twice, and both experiences figure frequently in Ilya’s standard jerk off remembrance rotation. Hollander gets more relaxed on a second night, a little less fervid, but also more open to new things Ilya wants to try. He’ll also cuddle longer after. Ilya can’t even imagine what a third night will get them.

Ilya isn’t even out of the airport yet when he texts again.

Lily: I’ll be at the hotel soon, see you in an hour?

Jane: It is the middle of the day!!

Lily: late to technically have nooner but spirit still applies?

Jane: I have meetings this afternoon, and I need to skate.

Thirteen minutes later:

Jane: After dinner?

Lily: 😘😘😘

Dinner is stupid. Ilya’s “random” teammates mostly consist of guys he doesn’t know very well, and not many he’s wished to know. Dallas Kent is getting drunk, and that sets Ilya on edge. He barely knows the guy but he already knows he genuinely loathes him.

The feeling appears to be mutual, as Kent has apparently heard about the video of Ilya at the club. Ilya regrets that being on the same team denies him the opportunity to be as big a dick to Kent as he wants to be.

Because dinner is lame and Kent is a boor, it’s no hardship to throw his napkin on his plate and push his chair back from the table well before the rest of the team is done. (He’d arranged to pay separately right when he arrived at the restaurant, flirting a little with the waitress purely out of habit. She was giving strong interest signals, and another night he almost certainly would have taken her up on it, but tonight there’s no temptation.)

Ilya stands and says, “Gentlemen,” nodding and turning to walk off.

“Got a hot date?” a goalie from Minnesota asks.

Ilya just grins at him, whistling a little as he walks away.

Back in his hotel room, he brushes his teeth (he hasn’t had a cigarette in several days but there was a fair amount of garlic in his dinner), checks his hair in the mirror, putters a little. The bed is still made, but he moves the room service menu he was looking at earlier from the bed to the desk, corrals his toiletries back into their bag on the counter, and pushes his duffel bag to the side on the floor so it’s not a tripping hazard if he gets to walk Hollander backwards to the bed while kissing him (something he loves to do).

Hollander shows up about forty five minutes later, which saves Ilya from the embarrassment of texting him to check if they’re still on. He probably wouldn’t have, but he’s been thinking about it for the last fifteen.

Hollander is wearing the exact same kind of outfit he’s almost always wearing: dark jeans, polo shirt, boring tennis shoes someone must have once told him were nice. A look that says “I’m wholesome and media friendly but please don’t actually look at me.”

Why Ilya is so into it remains a mystery he’s steadfastly avoiding solving.

Hollander darts into the room, in one of his little snits. “This hallway is jam packed!”

“OK.” Jam packed is one of the stupider English phrases Ilya has heard.

“I could have been seen!”

“OK.” Ilya doesn’t want to be annoyed right now. He wants to be kissing Hollander. He wants to tell Hollander to get on his knees, because there is an incredibly high chance he’ll immediately do it and that hasn’t stopped being Ilya’s favorite magic trick he can do. He does not want to be mad at Hollander, especially not mad at him in a way that’s not going to lead to better sex. He doesn’t want to be annoyed right now, but he is. Fuck.

Hollander is still doing his angry kitten face. Ilya loves that face, usually.

“We have to be careful!”

“OK.” Now Ilya is wondering how far this conversation can get if he just answers “OK.”

Hollander is staring at him, clearly angry and confused. Ilya thinks Hollander is still turned on too, but he’s not sure.

“This only works if we’re completely fucking discreet, Rozanov.”

“OK.”

“Are you… fuck, do I get a real answer?”

“What do you want me to do? Clear hallway somehow? Set off smoke bomb? Loudly announce need for privacy?”

Hollander makes a growling noise. “I just… this is such a risk, dude.”

Ilya reaches a hand out, strokes Hollander’s arm. “Yes, but is so fun. Little risk is part of the fun, yes?” He feels vulnerable, admitting this is fun, somehow, as if verbally acknowledging they go to all this trouble for a reason reveals too much.

“Is it?”

“I think so,” Ilya says. “And not high risk, not really. We’re careful, no one suspects.”

He sees Hollander tense further, feels it in Hollander’s arm, which he’s still holding onto. “Scott Hunter suspects.”

“Scott Hunter is one thousand years old.”

“He’s not, but also what does that have to do with it?”

“No one cares what Scott Hunter thinks. Scott Hunter does not think about us. He thinks about putting Ben-Gay on his aches and pains, and telling kids to get off his lawn.”

“He lives in New York City,” Hollander says, and Ilya can see his lips quirking a little, fighting a smile. “Pretty sure he doesn’t have a lawn.”

“Wow, you are still so boring,” Ilya says, fighting his own smile. He rubs Hollander’s arm again, takes a chance and trails his fingers down his forearm, grabs his hand and holds it. For a long, devastating second, Hollander doesn’t react at all, but then he squeezes Ilya’s hand back. It feels better, and more relieving, than makes sense. Ilya keeps their hands together and gently pulls him closer, and Hollander lets himself be pulled.

It’s good – it’s always good, with Hollander. They fuck, and Hollander wants it fast and frantic, like always, and Ilya lets him have what he wants. He places his hand between Hollander’s shoulder blades, pushing him down into the bed, then at one point moves his hand and grips Hollander’s hips as hard as he can; Ilya can feel the ridges of his stretch marks under his fingers. Hollander is so fucking responsive, so deeply inside his body and feeling everything that’s happening, magnifying how it feels for Ilya by sheer proximity. Hollander is keeping himself quiet, but he’s still making little moaning noises, bitten off oh fucks, panting. Ilya is working on being quiet himself, and it’s a struggle, because Hollander is so fucking tight and nothing, nothing feels as good as being with him. Ilya usually avoids thinking about that but it’s harder when he’s literally inside the man.

Afterwards, Ilya drags Hollander into the shower with him, and they wash each other’s hair, soap each other down, kissing all the while but knowing it won’t lead to anything further.

Ilya stays in his towel, leaning against the desk and watching Hollander get dressed. Hollander isn’t rushing into his clothes like he can’t wait to be out of here, but he isn’t dragging it out either, dawdling like he hopes Ilya will initiate another round (which Ilya has done a couple times). He’s doing the thing he does sometimes, where he won’t look directly at Ilya but keeps stealing sidelong glances. Hollander is never good at eye contact, but sometimes he looks at Ilya like the looking costs money and he’s broke.

“Tomorrow night?” Ilya asks. “Your room or mine?”

“Oh,” Hollander says, like he genuinely hadn’t considered that they’d still be in the same place again tomorrow. “Is that… is that a good idea? Two nights in a row?”

“Have done it before,” Ilya says. He keeps his voice flat, a little bored. He stays leaning against the desk: he does not cross the room, he does not reach out to stroke Hollander’s waist, he does not lace their fingers together again.

“Right, right, we have,” Hollander says. “Um, ok, that should work, after the competition? Uh, this room again?”

Ilya stays leaning against the shitty hotel desk. He does not stride across the room to grab Hollander’s face between his hands and kiss him. “OK, sounds good.”

“Well… bye,” Hollander says, and he’s out the door before Ilya fully hears him or has a chance to respond.

In the morning, Ilya gets in his workout at the hotel gym, has breakfast with a few guys he knows decently well, and then watches tape in his hotel room. As soon as the All-Star break is over, the Raiders are facing the Hammerheads, and they’re good this year. Then he goes for a run; the hotel is in the same kind of shitty plain office park half the hotels he’s ever stayed in are, but it’s Dallas and it’s not snowing and it’s the nicest weather he’s run in for months. He runs shirtless just because he can. He passes Hollander, headed the opposite direction on the same trail, and can’t resist giving him a big wink. Hollander loses his stride for just a second, staring at him, his mouth open.

The rest of Ilya’s run, he feels like Julie Andrews twirling around the fucking Alps.

Skills competition that night: Ilya’s doing shot accuracy and fastest skater. Hollander is doing both of those too. Ilya hasn’t beaten him yet at shot accuracy, but he does usually win fastest skater. He feels great today, blood pounding in his veins, vision sharp the way it usually only is when the game is on the line and he just wants it more than the other guy, wants it bad enough to bend the game to his will. Overkill for the stupid All-Stars competition? Maybe. Overkill for trying to take on Shane Hollander? Absolutely not.

Ilya sits impatiently through the stickhandling and hardest shot competitions. He claps for the winners but couldn’t tell you who they are thirty seconds after they end. He’s fidgety with his excitement to be on the ice, to be competing with Hollander. Sure, other guys are technically competing too, but not really: it’s Rozanov versus Hollander, always has been and always will be.

Hollander skates third in the lineup, and of course he sets the fastest time yet. Ilya is last, and he skates lazily out onto the ice, grinning and waving to the crowd. He already knows how this ends, the same way he sometimes knows, before the play has even started, exactly how the puck is going to get to his blade and then into the net; the only thing left is to make it happen.

Ilya doesn’t just win, he wins decisively. Seven tenths of a second faster than Shane Hollander. He waves to the crowd, loving their cheers, and then he purposely makes eye contact with Hollander, waving to him too. Hollander scowls back; nothing could be sweeter.

There’s a break between the race and the accuracy competition. Ilya sits on his team’s bench, drinking Gatorade and feeling smug while the Zambonis do their thing. In his peripheral vision, he can see Hollander on his own bench, holding a water bottle and pouting a little. His hair is sticking up a bit in the front of his helmet. He looks so cute Ilya wants to lick him. God, this is so good. Ilya slaps the back of the guy sitting next to him, a defenseman from St. Louis he barely knows, hard, a display of aggressively happy bro-ness.

And then. The song changes (it had been a pop song he recognized but couldn’t name), and these motherfuckers are playing “The Ice King.” Right now, in this arena. At him, in what was supposed to be his moment of glory. Now all he can hear is Gretchen’s song. The d-man from St. Louis is humming along. So is another guy on the bench, mumbling the lyrics.

“Hollander, it’s your song!” someone shouts, and Ilya whips his head around – it’s Stedlund, the only other Metro at the All-Star game. “This is our goddamn Ice King right here!” Stedlund claps Hollander on the shoulders, shaking him back and forth a little where he sits. Hollander does not look any happier – to be called out this way, to be touched – than he was to sit there pouting about losing the race to Ilya.

The rest of the bench, though, doesn’t pick up on that, and now they’re singing it to Hollander, singing I know trouble when I see it and pointing at him in unison, like they’d planned this somehow. The social media person for the league is filming it all with her phone and grinning – she can tell she’s got incredible material here – and Hollander rallies enough to give her his media smile, his cheeks pink with embarrassment, and Ilya wonders if he has died and gone to hell.

His shot accuracy has literally never been this bad, not since he learned to skate. He comes in midway through the rankings, a shameful performance. Hollander wins, and his bench chants “Ice king! Ice king!” at him as he skates back to them.

Ilya gets drunk.

He agrees to go with a couple members of his temporary team to the hotel bar. He shouldn’t, he knows – he should shower and text Hollander and meet him upstairs. But he’s… he’s not sulking, fuck that, but instead of thrumming with the good energy of having won the race, bested Hollander, of knowing that soon Hollander will be in his bed, under his hands, kneeling in front of him, he’s thrumming with the bad kind of energy, jangly and sharp and needing to be exorcised. When he feels this way in Boston, or on the road, it’s a sign he needs to get drunk and find a stranger to fuck. When he feels this way in Russia, it’s the same, but worse. He’s seen Hollander when he was mad about a loss or angry with his family or in a bad mood for no fucking reason, but he’s never seen him when it was this bad. Ilya isn’t sure he wants to see Hollander when he feels like this. He isn’t sure he doesn’t want to see Hollander, either, and that kind of pisses him off too.

So he’s avoiding deciding by getting shots with a guy from Buffalo, a guy from Tampa, and two guys from Chicago. He does not care about these men at all, but none of them suggested inviting Dallas fucking Kent, so they are his comrades in arms for this weekend.

He feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. Two quick buzzes; that’s Hollander. Ilya gave Hollander his own alert years ago, the very night in Nashville they exchanged numbers. It was just practical, and he has absolutely not developed a Pavlovian response to it. Ilya doesn’t take the phone out right away; Medved from Chicago is handing out the next round of shots, and Ilya takes his before looking at the message.

Jane: Are we still meeting up? I knocked on your door but you weren’t there, I had to go before someone saw me. What the fuck, dude

Ilya puts his phone back in his pocket without responding. Dude is not a good English word, and he really doesn’t like it when Hollander calls him that.

Fifteen minutes later (he thinks), Hollander comes into the bar. He’s walking in with Scott Hunter, mid-conversation, and Ilya can tell from across the room they’re talking about hockey, and talking about it in a boring way. They walk up to the bar and Ilya hears Hollander say, “Ginger ale, please,” and Ilya can’t resist.

He leans sideways so that he and Hollander can see each other and says, “Oh my god Hollander, you are so boring.”

Hollander visibly startles a little at Ilya’s appearance, and it makes Ilya smile. Scott Hunter rolls his eyes, and that makes Ilya smile too. He’s had… seven shots? Maybe more. Hollander is here! With Scott Hunter! Ilya still feels keyed up and spiky, but this might be fun.

The bartender gives Hollander his ginger ale and Hunter his beer and they start to turn away but Ilya says, “No, please, stay, my two closest friends in the whole MLH. Tell me what you are talking about.” He props his chin on his hand and gives them his best come hither look.

“Your closest friend in the league is Cliff Marleau,” Hollander says.

“This is what I like about you, Hollander, you are so literal,” Ilya says, and he sees the little crease form between Hollander’s eyebrows, unsure just how rude Ilya is being. Ilya isn’t sure how rude he’s being himself. He’s had… many shots.

“Enjoy your night, Rozanov,” Hunter says, playing up his Elder Statesman of Hockey thing, trying to mediate.

“I am enjoying night, thank you for asking, Hunter. Would enjoy more if I could join this fascinating conversation.”

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Hollander scowls, and there’s some real heat there, Ilya thinks. He’s mad about – missing his night with Ilya? Feeling exposed knocking on his door and not getting an answer? Feeling like he got turned down? Ilya can’t tell which thing is bothering Hollander most, and he would really like to know.

Ilya was honest when he told Hollander, the first time they hooked up, that he made him curious. Curious about his body, absolutely, and about Ilya’s sense that Hollander would welcome his advances. Curious about his hockey. Curious about his weird little brain, too: Hollander isn’t like anyone else Ilya thinks he’s ever met.

He was honest when he told Hollander he liked trouble, too. Ilya knows trouble when he sees it too, apparently, and he saw it in Shane Hollander's freckles the day they met.

“Don’t want to fuck off,” Ilya says, grinning even wider. “Want to talk to you.” Oh, that makes Hollander pink up, just a little. Ilya’s feeling decidedly less jangly now.

Carter Vaughan interrupts at that point, derailing both the conversation and Ilya’s enthusiasm. The spiky feeling returns, as he watches Vaughan engage Hollander and Hunter and he gets neatly boxed out. They end up in a booth, Vaughan and Hunter talking animatedly and Hollander doing what Ilya thinks of as his “polite social setting” mode: he’s got a small smile on his face, he’s listening intently, rarely talking. He laughs at jokes, sometimes a beat too late. When he does speak up, Vaughan and Hunter listen closely, valuing whatever he’s saying. Ilya would guess he got a haircut right before this weekend; he looks freshly shorn. Hollander got some sun running that morning, and his freckles are just a little more pronounced, though Ilya knows in this dark bar that might well be his imagination.

After two more shots’ worth of time, watching them talk, knowing he’s not invited, Ilya decides he’s sick of this shit and wants to leave. He does find out, as he leans away from the bar, that getting back to his room will be just a little harder than he thought. He’s drunker than he realized, or intended to be. He still feels keyed up, too, the edges of the feelings blurred but not enough.

No problem, though. He can get himself upstairs. He passes by their booth on his way out, and if he stumbles just a little and reaches out a hand to Hollander’s shoulder for support, well, shit happens.

“Whoa,” Hunter says, like he thinks Ilya is about to start a fight. What would he do if Ilya was? His fists are as old as the rest of him, Hunter couldn’t do much to stop him.

“Don’t worry, Hunter,” Ilya says, “I’m leaving you to your fascinating conversation.”

“Someone should help you to your room,” Hunter says, frowning at him.

Hollander stands up. “I’m just a few doors down the hall from him, I think, I’ll do it.”

Ilya is… surprised. Hunter and Vaughan look surprised too. Hollander is being uncharacteristically brave.

Hollander can tell they’re wondering; he blushes that gorgeous pink and says, “I need to turn in anyway, and I don’t want him hurting himself. It’s no fun to beat him in the scoring race if he’s injured.”

That gets a chuckle from Vaughan and Hunter, and Ilya can tell Hollander is relieved.

“Come on, Rozanov, get your ass moving,” Hollander says, not touching him but gesturing towards the hall. They leave the bar together, a first.

Ilya doesn’t feel spiky at all, now.

Hollander keeps a resolutely no homo distance between them as they wait for the elevator, as they ride it up to the seventeenth floor, as they enter Ilya’s room. His face is blank, and Ilya can’t tell how mad he really is, or how much this was a chance to come back to Ilya’s room.

Once inside, Ilya immediately crowds Hollander at the door, putting his hands on the door on either side of Hollander’s head. He slides a leg in between Hollander’s, intending to rub his thigh on Hollander’s crotch, but the movement proves tricky for Ilya in this state and he lists to the side; Hollander ends up putting a hand out to steady Ilya, then walks him backwards further into the room.

Ilya is swaying a little. Just a tiny bit. Hollander hands him a bottle of water from Ilya’s minibar, because Hollander is a thoughtful guy, actually.

Ilya accepts the water, drinks some of it. He leans into Hollander, brings his hand up to cradle his jaw and kiss him. Hollander kisses back, but when Ilya brings up his other hand to lift Hollander’s shirt, skate his hand over his abs, Hollander pulls back.

Ilya leans his head into the curve of Hollander’s shoulder and makes a noise that might, could be, possibly be a whine.

“You’re really drunk,” Hollander says. He’s judging Ilya, he can hear it in his voice, but he’s also rubbing Ilya’s back as he says it.

“Not too drunk to fuck you.” Christ, that is not Ilya’s best line.

“I think a little too drunk to fuck me. Want help getting to bed?”

Ilya considers going full petulant, a child deprived of his toy and sent to his room. “Yes,” he says instead.

Hollander holds him up while he takes off his shoes, bullies him through brushing his teeth, makes him finish the bottle of water. He actually pulls back the comforter on the hotel bed before Ilya slides in, but once Ilya is in bed he just stands there, arms dangling at his side, out of ideas for how to continue. Ilya desperately wants to drag Hollander onto the bed with him. To kiss, to fuck, to simply lay there together and listen to his breathing.

Ilya takes pity on him instead. “Thank you, Hollander,” he says gently. “I will be ok. Go get some sleep.”

Hollander nods, and for just a second his body cants forward, as if he’s thinking about leaning down to give Ilya a goodnight kiss – on the lips or on the forehead, Ilya’s not picky – but he seems to reconsider, straightening up, and he just nods and says “Feel better” and then he’s out the door, turning off the lamp as he leaves.

Ilya can’t sleep. He lays on his back for a while, staring at the ceiling, occasionally moaning out loud to see if that helps. After a bit, he gives in and turns on the TV. He’s in luck for the first time in hours: there’s a marathon of No Reservations on.

Ilya would never tell Hollander this, but he did try to read the New Yorker some. He read a whole profile of Anthony Bourdain, actually, though it took him forever with all the words he had to look up; he could have read War and Peace in Russian in the time it took him to read that article. It was a really good article, though.

As far as Ilya is concerned, hotel TVs exclusively show ESPN, HBO, softcore if you can get it, and reruns of No Reservations. Ilya absolutely loves that show, loves to see how Bourdain travels the world, finds all these interesting places. Ilya’s travel history is extensive but significantly more structured; he doesn’t get to eat at many hole-in-the-wall restaurants or really see much of the cities he’s visiting at all, most of the time. He does have a lot of opinions about the various Marriotts of America, though. Ilya thinks he and Bourdain would get along, would appreciate each other’s humor, and he hopes to meet him at some point. There aren’t many celebrities Ilya is really eager to meet, he’s not impressed by fame, but Bourdain would be cool.

Ilya finally drifts off during an episode focusing on Quebec, wondering if Hollander has eaten at any of the restaurants.

Ilya feels like shit Saturday morning. Well, that’s nothing new, he knows how to handle a hangover. He goes wild at the breakfast buffet and then goes for a run and only pukes up about half the breakfast. A success.

By the time his All-Star team is meeting for a light practice, Ilya feels good as new. It’s a hockey game against Shane Hollander, and then after Hollander is going to come back to his room and no one will be too drunk to fuck. Ilya has to bring his best, Shane Hollander does not want to fuck a guy who wasn’t trying his hardest. He’ll fuck Ilya when Ilya just lost a game – someone just lost nearly every time they see each other – but he won’t fuck a loser. Ilya is lazy about lots of things, but not hockey, and certainly not where Hollander can see.

It’s kind of a stupid game, because it’s an All-Star game. But Hollander slams him into the boards and steals the puck from him so beautifully Ilya can’t help but be turned on.

Hollander’s team wins, but Ilya wasn’t a loser during the game, so he doesn’t really care. That much.

Ilya hurries to shower and change; he doesn’t have to talk to the media, he isn’t the captain for this team, he doesn’t need to pep these assholes up after this loss. He can get the fuck out of here.

Lily: meet in my room in 20?

Jane: ok

He and Hollander actually make it to the elevators at the same time, but Hollander spooks at the idea of riding up together, so he pretends to have forgotten something and turns around. Ilya laughs, a little. When Hollander does make it to his door fifteen minutes later, Ilya lets him in and immediately starts kissing Hollander, holding his head in place while he does so.

They’re a little less frantic than two nights ago. Hollander is always impatient, always anxious to get fucked, like he thinks they’ll run out of time if they make out first. But tonight, maybe because they’ve seen so much of each other this weekend, he’s dialed it down a little. He reaches under Ilya’s T-shirt, running his hands over Ilya’s abs and pecs and back, but doesn’t move to actually take the shirt off. Ilya glides his hand softly over Shane’s dick, outside his shorts, and is a little embarrassed at how fast he goes from semi hard to able to hammer nails when he hears Hollander’s little moan.

They stay standing in the middle of the room for a long time, still clothed, just kissing. Hollander runs his fingers through Ilya’s hair and Ilya has to fight not to make noise; Hollander somehow always knows the exact right amount of pressure to use. Eventually, Ilya starts unbuttoning his shirt, sliding it off Hollander’s arms slowly, appreciating the sight that’s revealed to him as it goes.

For a minute they stand there, just looking at each other, breathing in sync. And then Hollander drops to his knees, looking up at Ilya. His brown eyes are luminous. He’s panting a little, not breaking eye contact as he unbuttons and unzips Ilya’s jeans. It makes Ilya want to howl at the fucking moon.

It’s always good, with Hollander. This one, though – Ilya knows he won’t forget how this feels, Hollander whimpering as Ilya opens him up with his fingers, slowly and methodically; the little noise Hollander can’t help making the first moment Ilya pushes all the way into him; Hollander’s hands clasped around the back of his neck, looking up at him as they fuck, his mouth open; the almost pained look on Hollander’s face as he comes, overwhelmed and gorgeous; Ilya resting his forehead against Hollander’s shoulder as he comes down from his own orgasm, Hollander whispering, “I know,” his hand moving over Ilya’s back in long, even strokes. Ilya doesn’t pull out for long minutes, past the point it’s physically comfortable for either of them, and Hollander just keeps running his hands up and down Ilya’s back the whole time.

Eventually, Ilya has to disengage from his body, and from there he pivots to shower quickly, trying to beat Hollander’s brain booting back up. When he steps out of the bathroom, Hollander has moved from laying on the bed to sitting up, and Ilya can see clouds of thoughts beginning to form.

“Hollander,” Ilya says, purposely using his captain voice to try to shortcut around Hollander having any ideas, “hit the showers.”

It works, and Ilya realizes he hadn’t really expected it to.

Not ten minutes later, Ilya and Hollander are sitting on the bed (Ilya sloppily remade it and then grabbed the extra blanket out of the closet to spread over the duvet, in an attempt to provide an environment the post-nut clarity version of Hollander would find acceptable), ESPN on low. The talking heads are discussing basketball, which neither of them really cares about.

Ilya has his hand on Hollander’s thigh, just resting lightly, and he is exquisitely aware of that contact, the warmth of his palm, the five little points of electricity in the pads of his fingers where they make contact, even through Hollander’s dorky khaki shorts.

He knows he needs to be the one to initiate conversation, that Hollander probably is simply not capable of it, but he feels stuck for what to say. His mouth wants to form the words you could stay here tonight and that is absolutely not a thing he can say. The rules of this do not have space for that, and Ilya doesn’t think he could bear Hollander’s confusion about why he would ask such a thing, why he would want such a thing. Ilya couldn’t explain it himself.

So Ilya goes to hockey. Safe, reliable, can be done in a way that riles Hollander or soothes him. Ilya wants to soothe him right now.

“You played well tonight,” he says. “Your team listened to you. That goal in second period was very nice.”

Hollander’s face does the thing Ilya finds almost unbearably dear, where he fights his internal battle over wanting Ilya’s praise while being a little wary of it.

“Thank you,” he says, only a little bit stiff. “They were pretty good, really, I’m lucky I got Vaughan and Hunter. Sorry about Kent.”

Ilya makes a noise of disgust. “What a dick. Not a good enough skater to be half that big a dick.”

“Yeah, he gets so sloppy,” Hollander agrees. “So does Medved, for that matter; I heard you tell him to watch his edges and stop puck watching. You’re right, he really starts to do that like his fourth or fifth shift, every game, missing the play because he's watching the puck. His stamina sucks. And honestly, it’s dumb they made Johnson captain instead of you. He doesn’t know how to bring a group together that fast, can’t keep them focused through the third period. You could have, obviously.”

“Oh,” Ilya says. That’s a really nice thing for Hollander to say. “Thank you.” Ilya can tell he sounds, unfortunately, completely sincere, none of the cool detachment he wants to have in this moment.

The noise from the TV shifts, and they both turn towards it – SportsCenter is now recapping the All-Star game. It’s a quick segment, but after talking about the score and the previous night’s competitions, they show the footage of Hollander’s team singing “The Ice King” to him.

Ilya tenses, accidentally digging his hand into Hollander’s thigh.

But Hollander doesn’t even seem to notice. “Ugh,” he says, blushing and looking away from the screen, “I wish they’d cut it out with that stupid song.”

“Oh, you do not want to be king of the ice?” Ilya thinks he sounds cool and ironic, like it’s of no consequence to him. His hand stays on Hollander’s thigh, not moving.

Hollander rolls his eyes. “I’m just tired of it. The guys play this song all the time now, at practice or in the room. If you actually listen to the lyrics it’s not really a compliment? She’s singing about how the guy is an asshole. And I don’t even listen to music that much, I don’t wanna hear any song over and over again in the locker room.”

“Oh, we should all be in silence, thinking only hockey thoughts? Or listening to positive affirmations about how we are going to win Cup this year?”

“Fuck off, I’m not that bad.”

“Hmm ok, no affirmations – podcast about hockey history?”

The look on Hollander’s face tells Ilya he was right. “Oho, what are we learning about right now?”

Hollander grumbles, “OK but the ’94 lockout is actually really interesting and has had long-term consequences for the league.”

Ilya laughs. Hollander really is one of the funniest guys he knows. He squeezes Hollander’s thigh, just because he can.

“Anyway, what do you think about the trade rumors with Vegas and Columbus?” Hollander turns to more fully face Ilya as he asks, clearly trying to get off the subject.

“Mm, is good call for them, I think. Vegas needs more depth on defense, needs someone who can handle higher shots on goal volume, and Van Metre will do better in Columbus. He needs a softer touch from his coaches than Vegas will give, I think he likes it better there and improves.”

“That’s what I said!” Hollander taps Ilya’s arm as he says it. “I mean, I don’t know whatever about Van Metre and coaching but I take your word for it. Vegas definitely needs more depth. This seems like a smart call; we’re going to hate it, I bet, when we play them.”

Ilya’s brain snags on I take your word for it. Hollander trusting Ilya’s opinion on hockey feels like a warm glow in his chest.

“You take my word for it?” Ilya says, because he is who he is and can’t resist prodding. “Shane Hollander, taking my word for it?”

Hollander colors a little and shoves Ilya, but not hard. “You know what I mean, asshole. I don’t care about shit like who wants what kind of coach. But I know you know that stuff. I wanted to ask you about the trade as soon as I heard about it.”

Ilya can’t fully fight the grin that’s taking over his face. “Oh? Need someone to explain to you? Ok Hollander, it works like this: in professional hockey, there is something called trade deadline, where teams -”

Ilya doesn’t get to finish his sentence because Hollander shoves him again, harder this time, his face still that pretty, pretty shade of pink.

“Fuck off, asshole. God, why are you like this?”

“Because I’m a Leo.”

“Are you?” Hollander asks, curiosity in his voice like he’s gotten derailed from their conversation.

“I have no fucking idea, Hollander,” Ilya lies. He knows perfectly well he’s a Gemini, because it’s very effective to let a woman you’ve just met tell you all about your sign. Leo is just one of the ones he finds easier to say.

“Do you… believe in that shit?”

“Obviously not, Hollander. Get a grip.” Ilya slides his arm around Hollander, bringing him close enough for Ilya to nip at his earlobe. He hears the quick intake of breath, and his hand reflexively tightens on Hollander’s side.

“Do you believe in that stuff? Superstitious hockey player, think the moon helps you play?” Ilya is murmuring into Hollander’s ear, can feel the way the sound and vibration is affecting him. “Maybe if you had different sign you’d have better backhand, no?”

“Fuck you!” Hollander splutters.

“Hmm, what house is Uranus in, I wonder?”

“Where do you even learn this shit?”

Ilya laughs, delighted. Hollander is laughing too. He grasps Hollander’s jaw and turns his face, can see that his pupils are huge and dark. Ilya pulls his face in, not especially gentle, and kisses him.

Hollander responds immediately, not gentle either.

This time it starts faster, harder, but not mean, no edge there, none of the sensation Ilya sometimes has that Hollander is genuinely angry with him, that Hollander resents how Ilya makes him feel.

Ilya bites Hollander’s thigh hard enough to leave a mark, likes thinking it might bruise and show for days, might be a visible reminder of him. Hollander goes fucking nuts for that, bucking up wildly as Ilya bites. He immediately takes Hollander into his mouth and Hollander keeps bucking, fucking into his mouth, not fully letting Ilya set the pace. He comes hard and fast, barely time to give Ilya a warning.

Hollander grips Ilya’s hips so hard he’ll be bruised too, and he welcomes it, wants the imprints. He mouths at Ilya’s dick, licking all around for ages before finally taking him fully in, torturing Ilya on purpose and having fun with it, and Ilya loves the view, looking down at Hollander, industriously moving up and down, consciously relaxing his throat, occasionally making little humming noises of satisfaction that set off waves of pleasure for Ilya. Ilya feels both like his orgasm has been building for hours, days, years and like it slams into him as a total surprise. He clenches Hollander’s hair as it pulses out of him, squeezes the back of his neck.

Then, without even fully considering it, he rolls them over, spits on his hand, and pushes two fingers back into Hollander, twisting his wrist to find the exact right spot to stroke his prostate. Even though he’s already had two orgasms that night, it doesn’t take long for Hollander to have his third, coming messily on his own stomach as Ilya fingers him, murmuring in Russian about how good Hollander is, how pretty.

For round two showers, Ilya drags Hollander in with him, just like two nights ago. Just like two nights ago, they wash each other and kiss but it stops there. Hollander still has that spacey, fucked out look, which pleases Ilya more than he’s comfortable admitting. He loves being able to take Hollander that far out of his strange robot brain.

(Ilya wonders sometimes about who else Hollander is fucking, and what they do together. Does anyone else get him this far gone? Do they tease him, and does he like it? Is it better if someone else does this for him too, or if Ilya is the only one? What does Hollander talk about, with someone who can’t follow hockey like he can, like Ilya can?)

He towels Hollander off, and then himself. He grabs clean boxers from his duffel bag, and offers Hollander a clean pair too. Hollander stares at the underwear in Ilya’s hand for a long minute, not really processing, before taking them.

“I can give them back to you in a couple weeks, when we come to Boston?” he asks tentatively.

“Hollander, is underwear. I don’t give a fuck if I ever get them back. I have more. MLH pays us enough for this.”

“OK,” Hollander nods, and Ilya can tell this is weighing on him somehow, that the offer of underwear and Ilya’s lack of concern about their return is meaningful in some way to Hollander. So many little actions that Ilya doesn’t even think about end up stacking up in Hollander’s accounting, weighed and judged on a standard Hollander keeps secret, portending something about the two of them Ilya’s never been able to figure out. Hollander is fucking desperate for sex with him, but as far as Ilya can tell barely thinks about him outside their designated meeting times. This is casual, but Shane Hollander’s definition of casual has never made much sense to Ilya.

Anyone else, Ilya would have gotten sick of this shit years ago. But with Hollander, he stays curious. He still likes trouble, all these years later.

“Return next time we see each other if you want,” Ilya says. “But if you do… don’t wash them first.”

“What? Ew,” Hollander says.

Ilya gives him his most lascivious grin.

Hollander puts on the boxers, gets dressed, and stands there, visibly uncertain what his next move is. Ilya is once again tempted to ask him to stay, and once again uncertain why he wants that. Hollander wouldn’t say yes if he asked, but if he did, what would Ilya even do then? What would that look like in the morning?

“I will be thinking of you in my boxers,” Ilya says, crowding into Hollander’s space, cupping the side of his neck. Hollander reflexively tilts into Ilya’s hand, eyes starting to close. Does he even know how responsive he is, Ilya wonders. Does Hollander have any fucking idea what effect he has?

“Fuck off,” Hollander whispers dreamily.

Ilya carefully takes his hand off Hollander, running it down his shoulder and arm, all the way down to his hand, and, just as he did two nights ago, squeezes it.

Another long second of waiting, and then Hollander squeezes back. Hollander is smiling at Ilya, a small, real smile, and then he’s easing himself out the door of Ilya’s hotel room, door clicking softly shut behind him.