The Stripper Ilya AU that won't leave me alone
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The Metros are on a winning streak. They’re riding high; the atmosphere in the locker room is electric. A strong win against Boston - their fifth in a row - and Shane scored a hat trick which apparently means he’s unable to get out of drinks tonight.
His nerves about going out in Boston after beating the Raiders 4-2 falls on deaf ears, apparently trumped by the high of victory and the promise of a late flight tomorrow.
They go to a sit-down bar and it’s not too bad. It’s a pretty small venue and, though they receive some cold looks from a few of the other patrons, at least no one seems interested in starting a fight. Shane counts that as a win under these circumstances. He’s already had two beers and figures he can slip away now, but Comeau loudly proclaims that he knows another place they should go to and somehow Shane gets swept along, figuring he’ll grab one more drink at the next bar and then sneak off.
Only the next place is a strip club.
Not wanting to patronise a place where people are paid to take off their clothes feels like a pretty reasonable stance to him but that seems to be the least of the other guys’ concerns. The only other complaint he hears is from Drapeau and that's centred around the fact that strip clubs in the States are “pointless” because they’re not allowed to get fully naked. This actually eases Shane’s anxieties, if only slightly. He can stick to the plan. He’ll grab one beer and then slip away while the other guys are distracted by the performers. He’ll probably get some shit for it on the plane tomorrow, but he can live with that.
When they enter, the stage is empty. A few of the guys run over there to claim a couple of tables while Shane heads with the rest of them to the bar.
The bartender is a stunning woman with curly hair and dark eyes. She’s clad in a manner that’s a bit risqué but wouldn't seem entirely out of place at a normal club. She’s tall and elegant and objectively beautiful. She watches with an arched eyebrow as the group of hockey players approach her and it’s clear from her expression that she’s well aware of who they are and less than pleased that they're currently standing in front of her. Shane happens to share that stance.
“Are you sure you’re in the right place?” she asks, without preamble. Unfortunately, Drapeau seems to take this as an invitation to flirt with her – if it can even be deemed flirting.
“Oh, sweetheart, I think I’m in exactly the right place.”
Shane swallows a laugh when he realises that the instinctive expression of thinly veiled disgust that pulls at his features is mirrored by the bartender.
“It’s boys’ night,” she tells them in a tone that suggests this should discourage them from staying.
If anything, it only seems to encourage the group. Comeau lets out a "fuck, yeah, it is," and the rest of the guys chime in with exclamations along the same lines. The bartender seems to be fighting back an eye-roll, her expression stony. When Comeau asks whether they have any offers on the bar for boys’ night she tells them that gin and tonics are two for one until midnight.
Apparently that is considered absurd by the rest of the team, Comeau pressing her, “what you don’t have any offers on beers or shots for the boys?” Honestly, Shane wonders if he thinks he’s being charming. He’s just coming off as rude to Shane.
“Gil, if they’re paying you that little, I’ve got the first round,” Shane cuts in. He won’t be able to get away from Comeau and the rest of the guys for a while yet but if he can save this poor woman from having to endure their rowdiness then that’s the least he can do.
Of course Gil takes offence at the insinuation that he can’t swing a round for the table but the rest of the guys laugh, Gagnon shaking Shane’s shoulder as he jeers at Comeau. Shane waves them off. Tells them to go sit down, he’ll have the drinks brought over.
Once the guys have all meandered to the tables he turns to the bartender again. “I’m sorry about them.” She just raises an eyebrow, as though unconvinced.
“Trust me,” she says, “I’ve had much worse.”
Unsure how to respond to that, Shane simply nods. He doesn’t doubt it. He orders a round of beers and vodka shots for the table. He wonders if he could get away with ordering a ginger ale for himself without it drawing the attention of anyone but decides the guys aren’t drunk enough to let that slide yet. Still, “could you make one of the shots water?” he asks, blushing slightly when she just looks at him. Her gaze is dark and cutting. Not unkind. It just feels like it breaks through the surface; like she sees a bit more than Shane would like her to.
“I’ll put it in a different glass,” she tells him, “so you know which one.”
He pays for the drinks and she tells him she’ll have a waitress bring them over. Shane actually feels a bit reluctant to leave. He might prefer the company of this beautiful, yet slightly intimidating bartender over his teammates at present but he doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable by lingering, so he heads to the table.
There’s some grumbling from the guys about the lack of entertainment, they came here for a show after all, but the skimpily clad waitresses seem to keep them occupied enough. Most of the waitstaff are female, which doesn’t surprise Shane. He’s actually more surprised by the fact that there is at least one male waiter. A tall, lanky, dark-haired man who wears trousers so tight they look painted on and no shirt, his well defined abdomen glistening with some type of oil. Shane quickly averts his gaze as he realises he’s staring a bit; pulls his phone out for something else to look at.
Their drinks get brought over and Shane hastens to place his phone on the table to ensure he gets the shot that’s in a different glass from all the others before anyone can grab it. The grimace on his face as he downs it is perhaps slightly exaggerated but it doesn’t seem to raise any questions.
He grabs a beer too and takes a small sip before continuing to look around the room. He’s a little startled to find that several tables are occupied by women. In fact, the majority of the audience seems to be female.
There’s even a bachelorette party over by the other side of the stage.
Shane's never been to a strip club before but he would've assumed the clientele to be almost exclusively male. Perhaps especially on what is supposedly "boys' night."
At that moment a masculine voice bellows from a speakers. “Are you ready for a show?” it asks and most of the women around the room let out a round of excited cheers that are not entirely dissimilar to the noises his teammates are making, albeit higher pitched and performed with a bit more gusto. The voice continues, a bit of an effect on the sound system that makes his words echo around the room. It seems to have the desired effect, the crowd getting more excited by the second. There’s a sickening sense of anticipation filling the air. It almost feels like the pounding of a heartbeat; like the atmosphere of the club is lightly constricting around him in a steady thump that is growing increasingly rapid.
“Please welcome to the stage,” the voice calls out, “Rozy!”
An electronic hip-hop beat with a bit of swing to it starts to blare through the club, playing for a few counts before a figure appears on the stage and it feels like the entire world comes to a standstill. For a second, Shane feels like he's in free fall.
There, on the stage, is a stunning vision of a man.
Shane's breath hitches in his chest in an uncomfortable way and it feels like all noise drops out, his teammates’ chorus of “what the fuck?” “Are you fucking joking?” and “Jesus Christ,” fading into nothingness as a persistent buzzing in his head drowns out everything else.
The man on the stage looks like a marble statue come to life. Like Michelangelo's David, only more handsome and glistening under the stage lights. He is clad in a tight white tank top and loose flowy black trousers. His curly hair is lightly gelled and his oiled up arms - the only part of his body currently visible - look obscene. The way his biceps curl as he moves makes Shane feel a little light headed.
Straight out of the gate he executes a move where he throws himself onto the floor, catching himself with his well defined arms, and grinding sinfully against the stage in a move Shane has no idea what to call but looks almost like a slowed down and more sexy version of the worm. Coming up on his knees, the man keeps the body rolls going, his hand stroking down his chest until he’s cupping his cock, thrusting into it a couple of times in a way that makes Shane's mouth feel dry and his head cloudy.
He’s pulled from his state of shock by Comeau shooting to his feet on his left side. Shane’s head snaps to him as sound rushes back in and the first thing he registers is Gil’s hissed “we’re fucking leaving,” before he strides from the table and straight up to the bar.
Shane’s left blinking dazedly at his retreating figure for a second, the rest of his teammates all getting up too, clearly in a hurry to get out of here. It takes a moment for Shane’s mind to register that he should stand too.
He rises to his feet but his attention is quickly redirected to the bachelorette party as they all let out a loud chorus of whoops. It seems the performer has pulled the bride-to-be up on stage with him.
Shane watches as he seats her in a chair in the middle of the stage.
The song plays on in the background, something about riding his pony, and the man’s eyes flick up to meet Shane’s just as he brings both hands up the the neckline of his shirt and tears it straight down the middle.
Shane can’t help the way his eyes drift down, taking in the man’s gleaming abdomen, his muscles rippling as he rolls his body against the woman on stage. When he grabs her hand and places it on his pectoral before dragging it down his slick chest it slightly breaks the trance Shane had seemingly fallen into. He startles, his eyes whipping back to the performer’s face only to meet his heady gaze; his eyes locked on Shane.
Fuck.
The weight of that stare feels like a physical thing, his eyes dark and full of intent that makes Shane's stomach churn in a way that doesn't feel entirely unpleasant.
“You coming, buddy?” he hears from next to him and it snaps him out of it. His head swivelling in the direction of the noise, coming face to face with Hayden. “I think Comeau’s causing a ruckus,” he says, tilting his head in the direction of the bar.
When Shane looks over, it is clear that Gil is exchanging some choice words with the bartender.
“Oh, shit,” Shane's voice comes out thin and unsteady. He should probably put a stop to that. He can’t have one of his guys causing a scene like this.
He rushes over, catching Gil’s voice as he practically shouts at the poor woman behind the bar.
“You couldn’t have been fucking clearer?” he blares out, “didn’t want to fucking explain what ‘boys’ night’ is?”
“No,” she tells him, arms crossed over her chest and a smug looking grin on her face. She looks far more entertained than she has all night.
“Hey, Gil,” Shane steps in, placing himself in front of Comeau’s body, blocking him from the bar, “it’s not fucking worth it, okay?” he says, “we should just leave.”
It takes a lot of cajoling but even Gil isn’t enough of an asshole to physically attack a bartender over having to see a bare chest. Well, at least not a female one. At least not after only three beers and a shot. At least not on this occasion. At least not when it means staying in this room, with a male dancer who is actively shedding his clothes.
Before they get to the door, Shane hears some more yelling from the crowd surrounding the stage and instinctively looks up at the noise. The performer seems to have torn the trousers from his body and is now wearing nothing but a pair of shiny black briefs. He can feel heat rise to his face once more and averts his gaze, leading Comeau out of the club. He can’t be sure from this distance but he swears, he saw the dancer looking at him back.
That makes sense though. Probably he noticed Gil acting out and was subtly keeping an eye on the situation.
The guys call some cabs, someone sprouting the name of another bar before they split off into different cars. It seems that Shane’s going to have to go for another drink after all, just to monitor the situation and make sure Gil doesn’t get himself into any trouble.
It isn’t until they’re at the next place that he realises he forgot his phone on the table of the strip club.
