Work Text:
Fall 2018
Shane stared at Ilya’s bedroom ceiling, marveling again at how different everything looked in bright light of the day.
He had been in this bedroom countless times before just like this, staring at the ceiling and waiting for his breathing to slow down before hurrying into the shower.
But unlike now, all those other times he had been forced to slip quietly into the night after a quick shower, then spending the taxi ride to the team’s hotel and a cold lonely bed feverishly thinking which lie he would tell his roommate this time. He had hated the sneaking around and lying, sure that one day his teammates would figure that Boston Lily was in fact none other Ilya Rozanov, the cocky, loud-mouthed Raiders asshole his whole team reluctantly admired.
And hated with the heat of a thousand suns.
But somehow that had never happened, and they had kept hooking up year after year in impersonal hotel rooms and in the empty building, a whole goddamn building Shane had bought just so that he could get fucked by his supposed archrival.
And of course in here, in Ilya’s house. They had fucked on the kitchen counter, on the living room couch, on the carpet next to the living room couch, half on the carpet, half on the couch. In the shower, against the bathroom vanity, on the bed, in front of the full-length mirror in the walk-in closet.
The thought of that mirror sent a little shiver through Shane’s nervous system and made his cock twitch.
They had fucked on every room and in every position imaginable. But almost never in daylight, not even during the past season, the first after those magical days at the cottage when they had finally been brave enough to admit that this thing of theirs was much more than just fucking.
They were in love and not afraid to say it anymore. But they were still hiding.
That would change today, at least partly. Today they would announce that they had set up a charity together. The Irina Foundation would offer hockey camps to children, active and retired NHL players working as coaches. It was something that was important to them both, and Shane was really looking forward to getting the thing up and running.
But the main purpose of the whole operation was of course to give the world a chance to see Rozanov and Hollander, the famous rivals together in broad daylight, interacting like normal people. The press conference that would set the whole thing in motion would be in three hours, and they had made the bold decision to arrive together.
Ilya had suggested it, calmly shooting down all Shane’s seemingly reasonable objections. And in the end Shane had been forced to admit that Ilya was right. No one would think it odd if they were seen to arrive in the same car for a press conference they themselves had called to announce a charity they were going to start. Together.
No one would know or suspect that before getting into the car together, they had been in bed together and Ilya had fucked Shane so thoroughly and so good that his legs still felt too wobbly to carry his weight. Five more minutes he thought hazily. Then he really needed to get up and head to the shower.
Shane had counted that they needed to leave at least an hour and a half before the press conference began, because for reasons he couldn’t understand, Ilya had booked a conference room from a small hotel in the historic Back Bay area.
The location unnerved Shane a bit, but he was sure Ilya knew what he was doing. That was what Shane kept telling himself anyway.
Shane had been to Boston countless times, but his knowledge of the city was very limited. Every visit had been an unsurprising triangle of Ilya’s place, TD Garden and whatever hotel had been booked for the Metros. He had never done sightseeing, and he had never driven in the city himself. But he was of course well aware that Boston was famously a nightmare to navigate by car, and a few google searches had been enough to convince him that the Back Bay area should be avoided at all costs.
He had tried to suggest one of the big convention centers the city had or at least a hotel that would be a bit more conveniently situated. But Ilya wouldn’t budge and Back Bay it was.
But neither Google Maps nor Shane Hollander would budge from that hour and a half, no matter how much Ilya rolled his eyes and claimed that it was way too early and called Shane boring or, even more outrageously, nervous nellie. How did the Russian oaf even know an idiom like that, Shane had no idea.
The said oaf appeared from the bathroom butt naked, rivulets of water running from the tips of his hair to his neck and down to his delicious round pecs.
Despite being freshly and very thoroughly fucked Shane felt his mouth go dry and his cock twitch against his thigh. And of course Ilya noticed.
“Really Hollander?” He asked, sounding so fucking smug that Shane wanted to smack him at the back of the head and tell him to stop being such an arrogant asshole. But instead, he just lay there, feeling his cock starting to swell under Ilya’s heavy gaze.
He had been almost desperately horny for Ilya since fucking forever, but lately things had gotten totally out of control. Shane wasn’t sure whether it was the permission to finally love Ilya without the fear of rejection or the long, painful separations forced on them by the sport that had brought them together in the first place that made him feral. But whatever it was, he really couldn’t help it. And he didn’t want to help it. Shane wanted Ilya to know just how much he wanted him.
Except now.
“I’m going to shower and then we are leaving,” Shane said trying to sound firm and decisive, but Ilya just raised a knowing eyebrow.
“Your dick doesn’t agree,” he smirked and sat on the bed next to Shane, sliding his hand on Shane’s inner thigh and circling the sensitive skin with his hard fingertips. The touch made Shane shiver and he closed his eyes. Just for a second, he promised himself. Just for a second.
And then he felt Ilya rubbing his cheek on the underside of his hard cock. Ilya had just shaved and his skin was warm and unusually smooth but not smooth enough not to send sparks of pleasure straight into Shane’s fuzzy brain, making it very hard to remember what the very important thing he was supposed to care about right now actually was.
It felt so so so good. Now Ilya was pressing his tongue flat against Shane’s cock, dragging it slowly along his shaft and Shane really, really needed to pull himself together and fucking focus.
He buried his hands into Ilya’s damp curls. “We need to leave,” he tried. “I googled, the traffic there is a nightmare and the hotel doesn’t have valet parking and there’s no... nggghhh.”
“No nggghhh? That’s a new English word, yes?” The wet heat of Ilya’s tongue disappeared, but it didn’t make the situation any easier for Shane, because now Ilya had one hand right where his tongue had just been while the other was tugging Shane’s balls.
“Fuck you Rozanov,” Shane panted. “There’s no fucking, aaahh, parking on site. No fucking PARKING.”
His eyes darted again to the clock on the bedside table, and he yelped in horror, pushing Ilya’s shoulders. “Fuck Ilya, get off me. Seriously. We are gonna be late. According to Google Maps...”
Ilya silenced him with a few strokes of his skillful hand. “It’s good that you are so pretty Hollander, because you really are unbelievably boring,” he drawled before lewdly licking Shane’s stomach. “Google Maps knows nothing. I know Boston.”
It was now a full-blown attack on Shane’s sensible, worried mind and with Ilya’s hands on his cock and balls and Ilya’s teeth tugging his nipple Shane was quickly losing the battle. “But Google Maps,” he tried feebly while his fingers found their way back into Ilya’s hair.
“Shut the fuck up Hollander or I’m making you walk. You are too boring for my car.” Ilya let out a little disapproving huff before sliding back down and swallowing Shane’s cock in one fluid motion.
Well, Ilya really did know Boston so what the fuck. And who cared about traffic and parking anyway when the alternative was to feel the throat of an incredibly sexy man clenching around the head of one’s cock.
____________________________
It turned out that once Shane’s cock was safely tucked into his fancy suit pants and he was sitting in Ilya’s ludicrous orange Porsche, he did in fact care about traffic and parking.
He cared a lot, and he was rapidly losing his mind.
Shane had been playing against and hooking up with Ilya since they were barely adults. He knew just what kind of a player Ilya was and they had done unimaginable things in bed. But since becoming a real couple Shane had realized that he was only now getting to know what kind of man Ilya really was outside the rink and the bed.
His cooking skills, his deep love of animals, the way he loved and cherished their uneventful and ordinary time together and the easy and natural way in which he had become part of Shane’s family had surprised and delighted Shane. And since those magical summer days at the cottage, they had had a lot of firsts.
First family dinner. First family board game night. First movie night. First dinners with friends, everything easier and much, much better than Shane could ever have imagined.
Well, maybe not the very first dinner Hayden, but not everything could be perfect. Everything had gone great with Sveta and Rose, so two out of three was still pretty good.
And this was another first: after all these years they were now in a car together so that Ilya was driving.
As a player Ilya was fast and often reckless and sometimes aggressive, chirping and taunting anyone who got in his way, skirting the rules shamelessly and using his lethal charm to get his way.
As a driver Ilya was fast and often reckless and sometimes aggressive, chirping and taunting anyone who got in his way, skirting the rules shamelessly and using his lethal charm to get his way.
And Shane was actively contemplating murder.
After leaving the quiet residential streets of the leafy and affluent suburbia, Ilya had ignored every speed limit sign and fucking stepped on it at the sight of every yellow light when everyone knew that a yellow light was a sign to fucking slow down.
Shane had told Ilya that, but he had just rolled his eyes and, very unsurprisingly, called Shane boring. Because apparently driving responsibly and following the rules was now boring too.
By the time they reached the Back Bay area, Shane was ready to start throwing bricks at his stupid, insufferable boyfriend. “I’m starting to think I prefer staying behind closed doors. This is a fucking nightmare. Have you ever heard of such a thing as rules of the road,” he hissed.
But Ilya didn’t respond, because he was busy steering the car into a one-way street and of course very much into the wrong fucking direction.
“What the actual fuck are you doing?”
Shane was not scared. The street was a short one, lined by cafes and little shops and full of pedestrians who seemed to ignore all rules exactly the same way Ilya did, crossing the street wherever they wanted and forcing the cars to practically crawl. There was no danger of a serious accident. But that was not the fucking point. The point was that sane people didn’t knowingly drive one-way streets the wrong way.
“This is very short and saves us fifteen minutes. You don’t want to be late? Ilya looked at Shane grinning happily. “On our important day? Just trust me.”
“Trust you???” Staying calm was getting more and more difficult by the second. The whole point of this day was to try and convince the world that unlike everyone thought, he and Ilya actually liked and respected each other. It would be pretty hard to do that if people saw him trying to strangle Ilya in the car on their way to the press conference.
“I told you that we should have gone to BCEC. It’s easy access and they have one thousand three hundred parking spots. One-thousand-and-three-hundred.”
“Yes, but it’s not sexy,” Ilya said, stopping abruptly to avoid hitting an oncoming delivery van. “We are sexy people, need sexy venue.”
“You fucking idiot. Sexy this and sexy that, we are going to be really late.” Shane hated being late, and he especially hated the thought of being late today of all days. And not just late but stuck in the middle of a narrow street in a bright orange sports car heading in the wrongest possible direction and attracting a lot of very unwanted attention. “We are still several blocks away and there’s no parking.”
But all his indignant huffing was falling on deaf ears because Ilya’s attention was elsewhere. The delivery driver had rolled his window down and was yelling at Ilya, shaking his fist. And as Ilya slowly lowered his own window, the driver’s furious cursing filled the confined space of the stupid fucking sportscar.
“You fucking imbecile,” the man yelled. “Learn how to fucking drive your fancy car you motherfucker. More money than common sense.”
Shane closed his eyes and took a deep breath, fighting panic. He was sure that the driver would climb down from his vehicle any second now, and he would have to keep him and Ilya from beating the shit out of each other.
They would make the headlines alright. Fuck.
“Hey man, my bad, sorry.” Ilya sounded very genuine and apologetic, and Shane saw him grinning sheepishly.
Then, heavy silence. Morbid curiosity made Shane lean toward Ilya to see the other man’s face.
The gruff-looking middle-aged man was staring at Ilya, a mixture of delighted recognition and affable annoyance on his face, all anger gone as soon as he recognized the idiot in the flashy car.
“Fuck, Rozy!”
Then the man did climb down and, after flipping the bird to the furious driver behind him, offered Ilya his hand. Then he proceeded to envelope Ilya’s outstretched hand between his own and shaking it vigorously while telling Ilya how his whole family had always been Raiders fans and how Ilya was their favorite player and how everyone in Boston loved him. Then he produced a felt tip pen from his pocket and Ilya signed his old, faded cap.
By this time horns were blaring in more than one car behind the van, several bystanders were taking pictures and filming the proceedings, and Shane wished the earth to open and swallow him.
“But you are a fucking shitty driver,” the man finally said. Shane felt suspicious eyes sliding over his face before the man climbed back to his van. “Just stick to hockey son.” He turned the engine on and leaned down one more time. “And in case you haven’t noticed, there’s a fucking Montreal Metro sitting in your car.”
And with that he drove off.
Shane kept staring out the window till they turned the corner and the car was finally heading in the same direction as the other cars in their lane. Then he turned towards Ilya. “What the fuck was that? What the actual fuck Ilya?”
“What? They love me here,” Ilya said and smiled slyly. “Don’t fans recognize you in Montreal?”
Shane opened and closed his mouth like a fish on a dry land, unable to articulate just how much he wanted to punch Ilya’s stupid happy face, and before he could come up with the right words Ilya squeezed his hand affectionately. “Lighten up babe, we are almost there and with time to spare! You seem tense. Maybe a quick blow job in the bathroom to take he edge off. What do you say?”
Shane chose to keep quiet.
_______________________________
The press conference was pretty fucking stressful.
The sexy space Ila had booked for them was full of media representatives both from the US and Canada and Shane knew that they would be big news even outside the sports sites. Their friendship of course came as a big surprise to everyone, and the practiced answers about the timeline of things they had carefully thought out and practiced so that they wouldn’t contradict each other came really handy.
Especially since Shane was distracted to say the least.
After the encounter with the delivery driver that had made Shane want to claw his own face till it bled but which Ilya seemed to find utterly charming, they had slowly crawled towards the very upscale boutique hotel that Ilya had decided was sexy enough for them.
Shane had of course scouted the garages nearby beforehand and even though there wasn’t one right next to the hotel, there were several at a short walking distance.
But Ilya had driven past every single one and just parked the fucking car on the side of the road right in front of the hotel.
On a clearly marked no parking zone.
Is not assisted parking. Is not for ambulances. Is so that fancy hotel guests can come and go. We are fancy sexy hotel guests.
As he followed Ilya into the stylish lobby full on phones and cameras pointed at them, Shane was wondering whether introducing himself to the real-life Ilya had been a good idea after all.
But once they sat down in front of the tens on microphones and curious, almost hungry faces he pushed the really, really illegally parked utterly ridiculous orange car out of his mind and focused on what was really important: his and Ilya’s future together.
Shane did most of the talking. Ilya’s English was of course pretty fluent after a decade in North America, but his strengths were hockey talk, chirping and other insults, dirty sex talk and, as Shane had learned during the past months, sweet nothings and tender words of love. But he was more than happy to leave the complicated charity talk to Shane, especially since there were a lot of Canadian news outlets present with their questions in French.
It would have been better to arrange the whole thing in Canada of course, but their insane schedules had landed them in Boston.
But after Shane had answered a lot of questions about befriending one’s rival and other shit like that, Ilya took the stage when there was a question about the idea behind the whole operation. And Shane was instantly flooded with an overwhelming feeling of love, so strong that it felt almost violent.
“Our charity is called The Irina Foundation,” Ilya said. He cleared his throat to buy himself a second. “Irina was my mother’s name. She battled depression all through my childhood and never got the help she needed. She took her own life when I was twelve. So, mental health issues are important to me.”
A hush fell over the room, the seasoned sports journalists accustomed to Ilya’s sharp jokes and constant chirping suddenly thrown by his sincere vulnerability. Shane saw the deep sadness in Ilya’s eyes, and he had to use all his will power to stay still and not pull Ilya against his chest and kiss his pain away.
He did that in the bathroom where they escaped as soon as the official part was over and people started to leave. Shane locked the door behind them and pulled Ilya close, pressing his face on the warm skin of his neck. “You were so brave,” he whispered. “So brave and honest and I love you so, so much.”
He felt Ilya’s lips in his hair, and they just stayed like that for a moment, marveling at the enormity of what they had just done. It was of course insignificant in the larger scale of things, but for them it meant everything.
“Speaking of honesty.” Ilya pulled back so that they could look at each other, and Shane saw that the familiar mischievous glint had returned to Ilya’s hazel eyes, “the way you avoided the truth when they asked why all the camps are in Canada was work of a master liar.”
That made Shane blush a little. He was of course used to lying, he had been lying about his private life to the whole world for a fucking decade. But lying in front of the cameras still made him sweat a bit. He had talked about starting small and it being easier in Canada where they could get help from his parents and other people he knew in Montreal and Ottawa and thank fuck no one had challenged him.
“Protecting you was a great motivator,” he smirked, brushing Ilya’s cheek with his knuckles. “Judging by what I witnessed today on the way here the Boston mob would kill you if they found out that you are planning on deserting them after this season.”
“Oh yes, they would burn me at the stake on TD Garden parking lot. We don’t want that do we,” Ilya mumbled against Shane’s lips.
They lost themselves in a long, soft kiss till there was a knock on the door. “Boys,” Shane’s dad’s voice called from the other side. David and Yuna had come all the way from Ottawa to support them, like they had done ever since finding out that Shane and Ilya were a couple. “Time to go before the staff calls in a lock smith to check if someone has died in there.”
The moment was over, but the warm glow in his chest made Shane feel all fuzzy and when they walked through the lobby and out the front doors, his shoulder kept bumping against Ilya’s accidentally and very much on purpose.
And then he saw Ilya’s car, like an offensive orange exclamation mark smack in the middle of the no stopping zone with a very stern looking parking clerk standing next to it, hands on hips, deep disapproval written all over her serious middle aged face.
“Oh Ilya,” Shane’s mom sighed. “Didn’t you see the no stopping- sign?”
“Oh he saw it alright,” Shane snarled, the warm fuzziness quickly vanishing into the crisp autumn air. “He just chose to park there, because he’s sexy and clever and a fucking reckless idiot.”
“Look Yuna, it’s his angry kitten face!” Ilya looked positively delighted. He jabbed Shane’s ribs with his finger and grinned. “It’s not so serious, it’s just a meter maid. I know many of them. They are great.” And then Ilya was half running towards the car, totally ignoring Shane’s agitated what the fuck do you mean you know many of them?!
By the time Shane reached the Porsche, Ilya was standing there looking like a little boy, hands clasped in front of him and nodding severely while the matronly parking clerk scolded him. Totally irresponsible, potentially endangering pedestrians, the sign is impossible to ignore, rules are for everyone.
“Young people in this town look up to you, you really should set an example,” she went on, and Shane couldn’t help but snort.
Ilya Rozanov, a notorious former fuckboy and an equal opportunity sex machine, league’s most notorious chirper, a dedicated vodka connoisseur and apparently a total shithead behind the wheel. Indeed, a true role model for every boy and girl in Boston and the whole fucking state of Massachusetts.
But his indignant snorting was met with a suspicious disapproving stare as the woman in uniform turned her eyes on Shane, sizing him up. She didn’t say anything, because she didn’t have to. No words were needed for Shane to understand that somehow he was the villain here.
So he closed his mouth and stepped back, but not before giving the clueless woman his most loathing side eye.
Needless to say it didn’t have any effect on her. If fact she barely registered it, because her attention was back on Ilya, all professionalism thrown out of the metaphorical window.
“I really should give you a ticket now young man, especially since I know that you have a bit of a reputation in these things. But I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt just this once. Wanna know why?”
She looked suddenly so fucking soppy that for a second Shane was sure she would pat Ilya’s cheek and pet his hair like he was a little boy.
Ilya, the opportunistic fucker leaned just a bit closer and gave her his most dazzling smile. “No, but I sure want to hear...” he glanced down at her chest and the pin with her first name on it “...Rita! Oh, Rita!”
And then Ilya started to sing, right there in the middle of the fucking street.
Lovely Rita, meter maid
Nothing can come between us
When it gets dark, I tow your heart away
This was madness. Shane knew that he had to do fucking something or Ilya would end up spending the night in jail. But Rita the meter maid just giggled and fucking blushed, playfully shoving Ilya’s shoulder.
“You silly boy, I have heard that one ten thousand times,” she protested while squirming with pleasure.
“Yes, but this is the first time I sing it to you,” Ilya purred shamelessly.
Stop embarrassing everyone in the middle of this cursed the street and just get a fucking room with your lovely Rita. Shane was mortified and sure that he was blushing just as embarrassingly as Ilya’s new friend Rita.
He glanced at his parents. His mom just stared at the spectacle in front of her like she had trouble understanding just what the fuck she was seeing, but David Hollander was barely able to keep a straight face. Shane saw his dad’s mouth twitching and when their eyes met, he winked at Shane.
Ilya was obviously bad influence on his father. Or maybe it was the other way around. Ilya had definitely picked up that song from the endless hours of the Beatles in the background while they played cards and Yahtzee at his parents’ house.
Fucking great.
Then Rita the meter maid told Ilya a genuinely moving story about her father, a lifelong Raiders fan who had fought his terminal cancer just long enough to see the Raiders win the Cup and how the whole family had cried together with Ilya as they watched him kiss it after the final game.
The story made Shane shiver. He remembered it all too well, sitting in Hayden’s living room, surrounded by his teammates and trying to hide his conflicting emotions from everyone around him and mostly from himself as Ilya’s crying face filled the tv screen.
And then Rita was wiping her eyes and Ilya was wiping his eyes and Shane’s father was laughing and his mom looked like she might faint and there was a circle of people standing around their little group, just staring.
Ilya opened his arms and Rita the meter maid hugged him long and tight and Shane wanted to disappear and die.
Then she took a deep breath and shook herself a little, slipping back into her professional role.
“Just make sure that you don’t do it again,” she said like a mother to her misbehaving child. “I won’t be so soft next time.”
Ilya nodded, a picture of repentant innocence.
Rita turned to leave and then stopped, her eyes sliding over Shane’s face again. “And be careful.” She nodded towards Shane. “That’s a fucking Metro right there. He's been lurking around this whole time. I think he’s planning on keying your beautiful car.”
Shane was sure that he had somehow been teleported into some wonky parallel universe because surely this was not the way real people behaved. This was not the real world.
“Right!” Ilya said briskly, turning to Shane’s parents. “I think we are heading home now. Shane looks a bit queasy, I think he needs to lie down for a bit.”
But Ilya was wrong. Shane was not queasy. He was fucking seething.
They drove towards Ilya’s house in stony silence. Stony from Shane’s side at least, because to his great annoyance (piled on top of his already massive annoyance) Ilya didn’t seem to notice. He was talking about the press conference and the charity and ignoring the yellow lights and waving apologetically to other drivers for reasons Shane didn’t want to know.
And he did all this while humming Lovely Rita.
Shane stared stiffly out the window radiating cold disapproval. But there’s a limit on how long you can keep doing that without starting to look ridiculous if the other person simply refuses to understand that you are fucking furious.
They still had about fifteen minutes to go when Shane folded.
“What did she mean, you have a reputation?” He asked, his voice low and tone confrontational.
Ilya stopped his insufferable humming and gave him a quick sideway glance. “Who, Rita? Oh, nothing. I have gotten a couple of tickets over the years and some of them remember it. Me.”
Shane just stared at him, speechless.
“A couple of tickets? Ilya,” Shane closed his eyes to steady himself, “there are millions of people living in this metropolitan area. And you are away at least one third of the year. But somehow they remember you and your parking tickets. Just how many have you gotten?”
“A couple,” Ilya repeated. “I don’t count. I just give them to my accountant when I remember and she pays them. Is no problem. Everyone knows parking in Boston is a bitch.”
“You are fucking unbelievable,” Shane hissed, but once again the object of his anger refused to react appropriately.
“I know,” Ilya purred and leaned closer, planting a sloppy wet kiss somewhere in the general area of Shane’s ear before turning his attention back on the road ahead.
They drove the rest of the way in silence, except for Ilya’s persistent and nerve-grating humming. By the time Ilya finally parked the car next to a gleaming black-and-silver Bugatti in the massive garage built especially for his car collection, Shane was so angry he was shaking.
“And what about this fucking car, eh?” He stared at the Bugatti like the innocent car was placed there just to insult and annoy him. “Probably cost you millions and have you fucking ever even driven it.”
“Oh no,” Ilya said and slid his hand along the roof of the car. “She’s a piece of art. I keep her here and admire her. I could never risk taking her out on the dirty streets of Boston.”
Her. Her. HER???
Shane squeezed his eyes shut and tried to steady himself for what felt like an umpteenth time that day. “That’s so gross, calling a car her.” He shook his body as if trying to shake off the horrible word. “Do you also talk about riding her? I swear Ilya...”
Shane turned to look at Ilya and saw that he was shaking with silent laughter, his eyes crinkled and mouth twitching.
“You fucking asshole, this is not funny,” he tried, but staying mad at Ilya was one of the very few things Shane Hollander didn’t excel in. “Your driving is reckless and irresponsible and apparently the parking rules are too much for your intelligence. I’m worried.”
Ilya just rolled his eyes. “It’s fucking Boston. No one is smart enough to understand the fucking parking rules here.” He stepped closer, forcing Shane to step back till his back was against the wall. “You are just mad because everybody loves me here and you are just a Metro.
“Shut the fuck up will you.” Shane pulled Ilya closer and breathed into his mouth. “I’m going to put an ad on the front pages of both the Globe and the Herald, telling the whole fucking city that you are secretly planning on leaving them next year and moving to Canada just so that you can be closer to your Montreal Metro boyfriend.”
He fisted his hands into Ilya’s shirt and pushed himself off the wall, flipping them so that it was now Ilya with his back against the wall.
“Let’s see how much the city loves you and your shitty attitude after that.”
Then he crushed his mouth against Ilya’s and shoved his tongue into his mouth. Sex with Ilya was always fantastic, and angry sex was the absolute best. Even if he was the only one that was actually angry.
_____________________________
As expected, they got a lot of publicity. And as expected, people focused on the things that weren’t in any way important while mostly ignoring the stuff that mattered.
Charity. Inclusive hockey camps. Suicide prevention. Blaah blaah blaah.
NHL players as coaches. Mild interest.
Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are friends. What The Actual Fuck!!!
OMG Roz is a sexy brat with sexy bratty cars and sexy bratty attitude, and uptight but also sexy Hollander is BIG MAD. Let’s blow up the internet!
It was so depressingly predictable that Shane knew he shouldn’t care, but he just couldn’t help it. All people seemed to be interested in were the pictures of Ilya with the fan boy delivery driver and Lovely Rita.
Ilya looked relaxed and sexy in every picture, giving the driver and Rita his undivided attention and basking in the love of the stupid adoring idiots that seemed to make up ninety-nine percent of the population of Boston.
And of course Shane was in every single picture too, looking confused and irritated and, well, boring.
Or, according to Ilya, like an angry kitten.
Shane was still staying away from social media because, as this latest stupidity proved, it was for idiots. But apparently his friends and teammates were mostly idiots, because people kept sending him screenshots of the posts and of the oh so funny comments. He lost count of how many eyeroll emojis he had been forced to send even before his morning smoothie.
And then arrived a message from Svetlana.
- Welcome to the club Shane Hollander. Being one of the select few who get to ride with Ilya Rozanov in one of his stupid cars is a real honor. It’s not for the faint-hearted
The message was a reminder that Svetlana knew Ilya better than anyone, even Shane. That would change over time, Shane knew that. But till then he would not hesitate to use Svetlana’s extensive knowledge on all things Ilya to make his own life a little easier.
- Has he always been this fucking awful?
Shane chewed his lower lip irritably while watching the three dots appear and disappear as Svetlana typed her answer.
- He grew up in Moscow with about fifteen million other Russians, most of them total assholes. Traffic pure anarchy. every sane person uses public transport, only idiots drive their own car. wanna guess which one our darling Ilya is?
Shane didn’t need to guess. But Svetlana was not done yet.
- My advice: avoid getting into a car driven by that stupid man at all costs
______________________________
Shane had no trouble following Svetlana’s advice for the next month or so, because hockey kept them apart, both of them criss-crossing North America with their teams, thousands of miles between them.
Shane missed Ilya desperately like he always did when they were apart, but somehow it felt even worse now, after they had come out, even if it was only as friends. Because unlike before, his teammates now wanted to talk about Rozanov all the time.
How can you be friends with that asshole? Is he as annoying outside the rink as he is in it? How did that even happen?
So you actually like him?
Ilya was now a constant topic of conversation in the locker room, on their shared meals, on the bus, on the plane, and in every single pre- and post-game interview Shane gave which meant that he had to be careful all the fucking time. Careful not to reveal too much, not to sound too fond, too in love, not to reveal how hearing other people say Ilya’s name made his stomach flutter and heart sing.
And as always, he was counting the days, hours and finally minutes till he would have Ilya all to himself. But before that they had a whole fucking hockey game and a dinner with new charity sponsors to get through.
Ilya was bent opposite him on center ice, because of course both coaches knew that that was the only possible way to start the game. Boston vs. Montreal games were always charged and passionate, and now there was the extra element of the rival captains secretly being friends.
The noise was deafening. Twenty thousand Raiders fans were stomping, whistling, cheering, and chanting Ilya’s name, making Shane’s heart beat fast, too fast. And the man in question was looking at him with so much heat in his beautiful hazel eyes that it almost made Shane angry.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he hissed, making sure that the ref couldn’t hear him.
“Like what?” Ilya’s voice was all soft and innocent, but the look in his eyes betrayed what he was thinking. And sure enough, the next words coming out of his mouth were “Like I’m thinking about railing you so hard that can’t walk for a week. Like that?”
“Fuck you Ilya,” Shane scowled and just then the ref was by his side with the puck.
“What’s this boys? I thought you were supposed to be friends now,” he laughed. “Nice to know that nothing has changed since I had the pleasure of last meeting you. Makes me feel safe, everything is still right in the world.”
“I’m trying to be friendly, but Hollander is being difficult,” Ilya lied, making both Shane and the ref snort and roll their eyes. “Sure, buddy,” the ref nodded with mock severity. “Let’s play hockey shall we.”
“Yes, let’s,” Ilya agreed. “And Hollander, meet me in the parking lot after. We need to go straight to the restaurant. I have a car.”
Ilya won the face-off way too easily, and no wonder. Because that was pure psychological warfare.
That fucking sly bastard.
__________________________
This time the torturing device was not the orange Porsche but a sleek vintage Aston Martin. The car was beautiful and the driver was equally beautiful, but together with the location of the restaurant they created a destructive combination.
The restaurant was in Beacon Hill. The area was gorgeous, full of narrow one-way streets lined with charming old houses and gorgeous massive trees. Which of course meant no fucking parking anywhere.
And that was not the only thing making Shane anxious.
The streets were packed with people on their way to dinner or drinks or just enjoying the atmosphere, and the gorgeous car driven by the city’s favorite gorgeous hockey star attracted way too much attention.
Especially female attention.
They were crawling along the narrow streets and Ilya, that vain fucker was driving with the window open, elbow resting on the window frame, looking cool as fuck, waving to giggling groups of girls and women old enough to be his fucking mother as they ogled him hungrily.
“You are doing this on purpose to make me angry,” Shane finally said after one particularly eager girl reached out to squeeze Ilya’s bicep bulging under his shirt sleeve. “I don’t know why, but you are doing it on purpose.”
“Why would I want to make you angry. Except to see your angry kitten face.” Ilya smirked at him and Shane saw his hand move as if to grab Shane’s thigh before he quickly pulled it back. “I’ve told you, they love me here. And they are going to lose me soon because of you. And you want to deny them these last few months.”
Ilya steered the car to the side of the narrow street and turned the engine off, turning to look at Shane. “Bit selfish don’t you think.”
Shane wanted to hit him. And kiss him.
But really, Shane just wanted to hit him, because this time Ilya had parked on a very clearly marked no-stopping zone, and that was all Shane could think of during the very important dinner.
Their charity announcement had gotten a lot of publicity, and with publicity came big sponsors, like the sportswear company and nutrient supplement manufacturer whose representatives wanted to put money into the camps. Apparently Shane managed to appear focused and Ilya managed to appear sane because contracts were signed over coffee and everyone seemed happy and everything was great.
Then they were alone, smiling at each other across the table. “And now home. I have plans for you,” Ilya said, his voice heavy with innuendo. Shane just raised a questioning eyebrow and Ilya leaned closer. “Let’s go. I’ll tell you all about my plans on the way home.”
Shane felt his cock twitch and he couldn’t help but stare at Ilya’s ass as they walked out the door and into the busy street.
Just in time to see another meter maid getting ready to boot Ilya’s pretty car.
It was not Rita but a very attractive young women who managed to look gorgeous even in her not so flattering uniform.
Shane turned to look Ilya, ready to scold him, again, but something in Ilya’s expression made him keep quiet. There was a flash of embarrassment and uncertainty in Ilya’s eyes before he quickly recovered and stepped closer, clearing his throat.
“Hello Kim!” It was cheerful enough, but to Shane Ilya sounded a bit forced.
Kim stood up and turned around, still holding the wheel boot in her hand, her plump pink lips twisting into a crooked little smile.
“Well hello Ilya,” she cooed. “Different car but always the same man.”
Ilya. Fucking great.
Kim’s appraising gaze slid over Shane, making him blush. But he shouldn’t have worried. Kim was not interested in him.
“I was just about the boot your ride. According to our data you have seven unpaid tickets. On this one.”
Seven unpaid tickets?! On this one???!!!!
The sensible law-abiding Canadian in Shane wanted to scream. And Ilya’s total disregard of the rules that were made for everyone’s fucking safety and equal treatment was not even the worst of it, oh no.
Because there Shane stood like an idiot, watching Ilya flirt totally shamelessly with an equally flirtatious woman whom he had very obviously fucked. Fucked more than once, and apparently at least once in a fucking car.
Shane was sure his ears would start bleeding just from having to hear it, and the way Kim batted her eyelashes at Ilya made him want to gouge his eyes out. And hers too. He was grinding his teeth so hard he was sure his molars would crack.
But Ilya’s shameless whoring seemed to pay off because finally Kim told him to pay his fucking fines and grow the fuck up. And just before she left she tilted her head towards the back seat. “Call me if you need help with those.”
And only then did Shane notice that there was a fucking gigantic packet of condoms carelessly tossed into the back seat.
Ok, MURDER.
Shane kept quiet till they were out of the city center and driving towards the residential area where Ilya’s house was.
“Which car?”
Ilya gave him a baffled look. “What do you mean?”
“In which car did you fuck her?” He knew that it was childish, that it didn’t matter. Ilya had fucked hundreds of women before their iloveyous, Shane had always known that and made his peace with it. But being forced to meet Ilya’s past in such a humiliating way made him furious.
“It was a BMW. I sold it last year.” Ilya put his hand on Shane’s thigh and squeezed gently. “Shane, it doesn't matter. She doesn’t matter. I’m leaving this city and my team for you. I’m going to sell most of my cars and put the money into the foundation. Because of you. You are the only one, the only thing that matters to me.”
He took Shane’s hand and brought it to his lips, kissing Shane’s wrist softly and in spite of his fury Shane felt himself melting.
But he wasn’t ready to let things go just yet.
“And what’s with the fucking condoms? Who buys those by the fucking hundreds?”
Ilya kept his eyes on the road, changing lanes and squeezing into a tight spot between two cars, waving cheerfully to the driver and angrily flashing headlights behind them. “Is cheaper that way!”
Shane was pretty sure Ilya was making fun of him, but that just spurred him on. “You have ridiculous amount of ridiculously expensive cars that you keep in a garage you had to build especially, but you save on condoms?!”
“I’m very, what’s the fancy word your dad taught me... frugal! I’m sensible and frugal,” Ilya said smugly, and now Shane knew that Ilya was making fun of him.
“You’re an idiot.” He tried to stay mad, but it was getting harder by the second. An image of Ilya and his dad sitting side by side and solving a crossword puzzle together flashed in his mind, the familiar warm feeling filling his heart.
“Maybe, but a frugal idiot. I like that word. Frugal frugal frugal.” Ilya rolled the word in his mouth like a child that had just learned how to say the letter r. “Do you think your dad learned it from New Yorker?” Ilya turned to look at Shane, his face dead serious but eyes full of laughter.
Shane shoved his shoulder gently. “Shut the fuck up will you. And keep your eyes on the road!”
”Oh Hollander, you are so boring. You just want to be boring.” Ilya was still half turned towards Shane, like he just couldn’t look away.
Shane wanted to kiss him so fucking bad. But instead he said,
“No, I want to be alive. Now that I can finally be seen with you in broad daylight I want to be alive just to do that.”
The most adorable toothy smile spread on Ilya’s face and he gazed at Shane adoringly. “Oh my god Hollander you are so cute.”
The car swerved dangerously close to the curb, making Shane cry in alarm.
“KEEP YOUR FUCKING EYES ON THE ROAD!” He yelled and Ilya obeyed but not before letting out an overly dramatic sigh.
Ok, it was time to put a stop to this insanity. Shane slid his hand to the back of Ilya’s neck and tugged the short hair there hard, making Ilya moan just a little. “You obviously can’t be trusted with a motor vehicle. From now on I’m gonna do all the driving.”
Ilya turned into his driveway and parked the car. Then he turned to look at Shane, smiling his sexy lopsided smile.
“Oh no Hollander, you are too boring to drive my exciting cars. You can sit there next to me and moan about my driving and you can lie on the backseat and moan because other reasons. But not drive. That’s the rule.”
There was a bit of a back and forth on exactly where they would fuck just then, but in the end Shane won and they ended up in bed.
And he would make sure to win every fight about who was in the driver’s seat from now on. Ilya could do that in the bedroom, Shane was more than happy to let him take the lead there. But he was gonna be the one to drive every time when a car was involved, no matter whose name was on the registration.
______________________
The next few months went mostly without incidents, traffic or other kind. Their newly discovered friendship was of course a topic for discussion in sports podcasts and on social media, but since they had managed to keep the true nature of their relationship a secret, the buzz died down pretty quickly.
They were still meeting in secret, just like they had been doing for the best part of a decade, and way too seldom for Shane’s liking. But the big difference now was that he knew that Ilya felt the same. They were still hiding from the world, but not from each other, and Christmas together at the cottage with his parents was like a sappy Hallmark movie.
The opening scene of course being Shane driving them there.
But then the inevitable happened.
Their Boston based sponsors, the same ones with whom they had dinner on the memorable night of the Aston Martin wanted photos to go with their social media posts about the sponsorship, and they naturally wanted it to happen in Boston. After they had found the day that suited all parties, Shane didn’t waste any time in messaging Ilya his conditions.
- I’m driving and it’s nonnegotiable. You make sure that the car we take doesn’t have overdue tickets. Is that clear?
Ilya’s answer was predictably infuriating.
- Yes, but only if you keep your angry kitten face on the whole time while you are driving. Which you will do. It’s Boston
And it turned out that Ilya was right.
It was still winter, so Shane didn’t have to drive any of the stupendously stupid sportscars but an almost sensible looking Jaguar.
“This is my most respectable car. Suitable for my respectable Canadian boyfriend,” Ilya purred, planting a wet kiss on Shane’s cheek. “And I know you have studied the route and the parking, so I won’t disturb you or try to give advice, I promise.”
“Oh, I don’t need your help,” Shane huffed. Did Ilya think he was a fucking child or something? He had been driving in Montreal and all over Canda for over a decade. “Just keep your big mouth shut and everything will be just fine.
Ilya stayed true to his word and kept quiet as horns blared and fingers flipped when Shane sensibly and law-abidingly observed the speed limits and stopped at yellow lights. Shane felt heat creeping up his neck but didn’t budge.
Rules were rules, and they were for everyone.
But once they got into the North End area where the photographer’s studio was, he was starting to lose his cool. There were pedestrians fucking everywhere. People were walking about like they fucking owned the streets, giving him the finger when he had to really hit the brakes a couple of times.
And not only that, but the signs that were supposed to help and instruct people with parking seemed to be written in cuneiform with some Egyptian hieroglyphs added for color and confusion. They didn’t seem to make any fucking sense.
Shane kept peering out of the window, trying to find a safe and above all legal place for the car when suddenly there was a giggling group of teenage boys and girls right fucking there in front of the car.
Shane hit the brakes and his hand moved towards the horn, but Ilya grabbed his wrist. “Fucking don’t!” He hissed. “They’ll claw you to death. And once the crowd watching the clawing realizes who you are, they’ll claw you to death again.”
Shane opened his mouth to protest, but the look on Ilya’s face told him that he was not kidding.
“I hate this fucking city.” He clenched his jaw and drove on.
After they had circled the block three times and their appointment with the photographer was looming, Shane finally gave in.
“What the fuck do these signs mean. I don’t understand how parking here works,” he admitted through gritted teeth, not looking at Ilya who, Shane saw from the corner of his eye, was shaking with laughter. He just elbowed Ilya’s side and growled, “Stop fucking laughing and help me to park!”
“Oh Shane, do you really think I understand the signs any better than you,” Ilya laughed. “I tried when I first moved here but soon realized that fuck it, complete waste of my time. Now I just make sure that there isn’t a blue sign with a guy in a wheelchair and then pay later whatever they want from me.”
Shane hated to admit it, but he was starting to see Ilya’s point.
But justice was on his side, because he managed to find a legitimate parking spot with a legitimate meter, and even though he had to run to feed the meter in the middle of the photo session, it was still a moral victory, both for him and for every person that understood that “fuck it” was not suitable attitude on public roads.
His moral victory was somewhat soured by the fact that in his agitation he managed to forget a bag with his spare laptop and some important papers at the footwell of Ilya’s car.
He only realized it a week or so later when he remembered that he had downloaded the contracts concerning the first hockey camps on that spare device, and he needed them urgently.
Shane knew that Ilya was down in Florida with his team but he had the keys to his house. Going all the way to Boston just for this was a real bummer, but the mistake was his and his only so it was only right that he would have to waste a precious day off on this shit.
He arrived at Ilya’s house just after noon and found the correct keys from the messy bowl where Ilya kept all his keys.
But he didn’t find the right car from the garage. Or from the driveway. And it still wasn’t in the garage the second time he checked.
It didn’t make any sense. He knew that Ilya never took his own car to the airport. Even he wasn’t stupid enough to do that. But where in the fuck was it?!
“Ummm, yes, it’s a funny story actually.”
Shane didn’t have to see Ilya’s face. The tone of his voice at the other end of the line told him clearly enough that there was no way this was going to be a funny story.
“The fuckers towed it. It’s in the fucking Tow Lot.”
A funny story indeed.
Shane had no doubt that the Raiders would find the story of Rozy and Marleau and some other guys going to a bar and getting totally hammered and Rozy then forgetting that he had come by car hysterically funny.
And that he didn’t remember the fucking car parked somewhere in the general area of Boston until days later made the story even more hysterical. And the car having been towed during this period of oblivion made the whole thing positively unreal.
It was the kind of story that would be repeated in the Raiders locker room countless times during the coming months and always over raucous laughter. And then, later, when Ilya had left and his friends had gotten over their anger and sorrow, it would become part of the Legend of Ilya Rozanov.
But Shane wasn’t laughing. He sat on the back seat of a taxi that was taking him to the Boston City Tow Lot, trying to reschedule his flight back to Montreal and dreading the task ahead.
I called them Ilya had told him. They know me there. Well color me shocked. I told them that my friend picks up the car. You just have to pay all the overdue fines. Anything for you, my love. Am I being sarcastic enough? And I told them it’s you and they promised not to kill you.
Shane was seriously starting to question whether Ilya was worth all this.
The taxi took him to a grim-looking semi-industrial complex next to an off-ramp leading out of the city. There were several self-service kiosks the idiots who had had their cars towed could use, but since Ilya had those unpaid tickets, Shane couldn’t avoid having to interact with the staff.
And where would be the fun in just taking care of Ilya’s mess with a machine when the alternative was dealing with a bunch of openly hostile freaks.
“Shane Hollander.” The man behind the desk peered at Shane over his glasses, his colleagues gathered behind him, fucking gawking. “Shaaaaane Hollander. Fancy seeing the captain of the Metros here, in our humble abode."
Jesus fucking christ.
“Yes, ummm,” Shane tried to appear dignified but not arrogant. He was sure there was a real chance of him ending up in the boot of one of the towed cars if he managed to anger these weirdos. “I’ve come to collect Ilya’s car, I mean Ilya Rozanov’s car. He said he, ummm, called and. His car. We are friends... So, did he call?”
His cheeks were burning and his palms were sweaty. He felt like the main character in one of those movies where the guy’s car breaks down in the middle of nowhere and he ends up in some weird little town and everything is a bit off and then bad things start to happen.
“Oh, he called. Class act that one, Rozy.” The man looked at the creatures standing behind him and they nodded in unison. “Last time he was here, he brought us sandwiches and tickets to the next game.”
Ok, Shane was pretty sure that could be classified as bribery. Hopefully Ilya wouldn’t be arrested before he moved to Ottawa.
“So, did you bring us anything?”
Heavy, expectant silence. Shane was sure a shifty looking sheriff with his own twisted vision of law would appear any second now to put him behind bars.
“Ummm, no, I wasn’t aware...” Oh for fuck’s sake Hollander, pull yourself together. This is not a teenage horror movie. This is Boston 2019.
Shane rolled his shoulders and cleared his throat. “No, I didn’t. I just came to get the car. I’m in a bit of a hurry so could we just...”
The man shook his head sadly. “Great guy, Rozy. Great player, great taste in cars.” Then he looked straight at Shane and said, voice dripping with disapproval, “But a fucking shitty taste in so called friends.”
And maybe not so surprisingly, that wasn’t even the best part of Shane’s incredibly shitty day, courtesy of his boyfriend.
The absolutely best part came after he had paid everything Ilya owed, and oh but he would make Ilya pay it all back with interest, and two staff members took him to Ilya’s stupid Jag.
It was really a one-person job, but Dumb and Dumber obviously needed each other, if not for anything else but for the conversation they had during the short walk from the office to the car.
“Do you remember when he once had a fucking canister of lube on the front seat. I didn’t even know they sold it in such big packages.”
“And then once there was a plastic bag from that sex shop downtown. Remember, we had a bet what’s in it, but the fucker refused to tell.”
“Andy told he once saw red lace panties stuffed into the middle console. Red panties! Imagine living his life.” The man shook his head in awe. “I wonder what we’ll find now.”
Shane’s neck was hot and red and his cheeks were burning and he thought that there was a real possibility that the first ever reliably witnessed case of spontaneous combustion might happen right then and there, In The City of Boston Tow Lot.
And as expected, Ilya didn’t let his friends down this time either.
Because there it was on the back seat, looking just as obscene as it actually was: a pink dildo in its pink package, like a slutty pink exclamation mark bright against the soft black leather.
By the time Shanee reached Ilya’s house he had thought of seventeen different ways to kill Ilya so that it would be as painful as possible.
Too bad he couldn’t tell about them to Ilya right away. Or ever. Because he wouldn’t speak to Ilya fucking ever again.
Not even after having slowly killed him.
__________________________
Ottawa, the following summer
The storm Ilya’s totally unexpected move caused was fiercer and even more vicious than expected. No one could understand why a player of his caliber and profile would leave a team like Raiders to join the Centaurs.
And even more bafflingly, why would a man like Ilya Rozanov leave a city like Boston and move to fucking Ottawa.
After seeing how much the people of Boston loved Ilya and how well known he was in the city (and especially among the staff of Boston Transportation Department) Shane understood the fury the news caused in Boston better than most. But it was still a bit unnerving.
“I’m genuinely afraid they’ll beat the shit out of you next time you go there,” he said to Ilya after spending an hour scrolling through the furious comments on the Raiders’ social media. And it was not just the Raiders’ posts that were flooded with angry rants from Boston fans making their opinions known. The Centaurs’ delighted post announcing Ilya joining the team had been totally hijacked by his former fans.
“I knew they would hate me there after this.” Ilya seemed unaffected, focusing on his breakfast. His new house was still very much a work in progress, but Ilya had hired someone to take care of furnishing it to him. He himself was focused on getting to know his new hometown and his new team.
“You know they hate me everywhere except in the city for which I’m playing. Because I’m so good.” Ilya smiled smugly and Shane rolled his eyes in exasperation. But he knew that Ilya was right. He was arrogant and loud and cocky and too fucking good. People loved to hate him. Shane himself had done that for years.
“But of course after this no one will hate me more than all of Boston.” Ilya grinned cheekily ang grabbed his car keys. “Come on, let’s go. David and Yuna are waiting.”
Shane had managed to avoid being in a car driven by Ilya since the Night of the Jaguar, but now he would have to face the inevitable. He followed Ilya to the garage next to the house.
It was tiny compared to the massive monstrosity that had taken half of the yard in Ilya’s Boston house, and there were only two cars: the orange Porsche and a scarily sensible looking brand new Land Rover. Shane just stared at it, totally dumbfounded.
“What? Is British, very respectable and sensible. Good in snow. Apparently that’s important. A very wise Canadian man told me so.”
“Fuck off asshole,” Shane scoffed but he didn’t even try to hide the tenderness in his voice. Ilya had sold his precious cars and uprooted his whole life just to build a future with him, and that made Shane feel so loved that he was more than happy to sit on the passenger seat and let Ilya take the wheel.
And this was not Boston.
Ilya told Shane not to give him directions because he wanted to learn his way around his new home. So Shane kept quiet and Ilya followed the instructions given by the sweet female voice of the satnav.
And not surprisingly, those were the only instructions he followed.
And not surprisingly, it didn’t take long for the blue lights to flash behind them.
Ilya huffed and puffed irritatedly, muttering something about the light being yellow and the speed limits not making any sense. Shane stayed quiet and smiled inwardly as the female officer got out of the car and walked up to Ilya.
She looked a lot like Rita. Same age, same build, same serious disapproving face.
Ilya lowered the window and gave her his most dazzling, disarming smile. The officer let her eyes slide over Ilya’s face and offered him a much more official smile in return.
“In a hurry, are you?” She asked dryly.
Ilya burst into an excited story about just moving from Boston to Ottawa for a new job and his local friend showing him the town and him being so very sorry for speeding a bit, he was just so excited and...
The officer gave Ilya’s local friend an appraising look, and Shane saw the corner of her mouth twitch in recognition. Shane nodded and she turned her unmistakably amused eyes back to Ilya.
“You also failed to stop at the red light,” she said, raising an eyebrow.
Ilya looked like a mischievous boy. “The light was yellow, Sir,” he said triumphantly.
Shane closed his eyes and groaned.
There was moment’s silence as the officer weighed her options. Then she reached for her pocket and took out a pen and a very official looking notebook.
Ilya opened his mouth to protest, but Shane elbowed him, shaking his head in warning. And thank fuck Ilya decided to stay quiet.
“Mr. Hollander,” the officer said, still writing and not looking at Shane, “maybe you could remind your friend here that this is not Chicago and he’s not Elwood Blues.”
She pocketed her pen and gave Ilya his copy of the ticket. “Welcome to Ottawa, Mr. Rozanov,” she said and winked at Ilya. “We are thrilled to have you. Go Centaurs!”
Then she walked back to her car and waved at them cheerfully as she drove off.
Ilya sat perfectly still, just staring at the ticket in his hand. Then he slowly turned to look at Shane.
“Oh my fucking god, I’m now living in the Official Country of Boring.”
“Welcome to Canada Mister Rozanov.” Shane smiled at his wonderfully stupid wonderful boyfriend, ruffling his golden curls.
__________________________
City of Boston Tow Lot, about a year later
The silence in the grubby little office was filled with shock and disbelief, everyone just trying to take it in.
They had still been processing the scandalous video of the Ilya Rozanov, formerly of Boston Raiders passionately kissing Shane fucking Hollander, a man and, even more shockingly, the captain of the Montreal Metros when their world had been rocked with the information that the two had been a couple for fucking years.
And now they were all trying to understand what all this meant for them.
“The massive amount of lube. The dildo. The sex shop plastic bag mystery. Those were all for Shane Hollander,” the clerk with the classes said slowly. “Well, I think we can finally settle the bet once and for all. No winners. None of us could have guessed right because, obviously, some crucial information was missing.”
“Remember when I told you that when we walked to the car with Hollander, he was red as a fucking beetroot,” one of the guys said. “Well, I suppose we now know why.”
The heated conversation went on for a while till people started to notice that Andy was sitting in the corner, all quiet and rocking himself back and forth.
“Andy my man, are you ok,” the guy with the glasses asked, squeezing his mate’s shoulder gently.
“No,” Andy whispered hoarsely. “Not okay. Every time I close my eyes all I see is Shane Hollander’s fat hockey player’s ass in those tiny red lace-trimmed panties.”
He buried his tortured face in his hands. “And I really, really don’t know how I’m going to live with that for the rest of my life.”