Ilya stares. He doesn't even try not to, because every tiny bit of his energy is now being spent on not hauling the asshole in by the collar and punching his lights out.

"Holy shit, dude," the loud guy says. "I told you guys, I fucking knew the MHL awards were being held here." He holds out his hand and Ilya takes it on autopilot. "I'm a huge fan, Mr. Rozanov. I mean obviously fuck the Raiders, but you're a fucking legend!"

Ilya nods politely. His eyes are dragged back to Brian, who looks kind of like he wants to murder his friend.

"We're from Montreal," another guy explains and right, Ilya isn't supposed to know that. "The Raiders are great-"

"Fucking take that back, Todd!"

"-Charlie's just dedicated to the home team."

"Best fucking team in sports," Charlie crows. "And best fucking center - I mean - fuck."

Ilya does smile at that, small but sincere. "Is fine. Hollander is a good player, they don't give MVP to just anyone."

"That's fucking right!"

Charlie would have made a good hockey player, Ilya thinks. He already has the vocabulary for it.

"Shit, man," Todd says. "Never thought I'd hear Ilya Rozanov say anything nice about Shane Hollander."

This is Ilya's cue to say something sarcastic or shitty, to play into the rivalry for the fans. He can't bring himself to do it, can't even find the words that usually come so easily.

"It's true." He shrugs. "I respect Hollander, he's the only one who can keep up with me. We came up together, we are alone at the top. The game would be less fun without him."

There's a lump in his throat as he finishes speaking and Ilya clears his throat, hoping they didn't hear it. Nothing he said was a lie but it's such a small fraction of the truth, it almost hurts to say.

"Fuck," Charlie says, sniffling. "That was beautiful, dude."

"Is he here?" another guy in the group asks, silent until now. His polo is an unfortunate lime green. "Hollander, I mean. I would actually give my first born to shake his hand."

Todd laughs. "I'm sure Heather would love to hear that."

Lime green polo shakes his head. "She'd agree, man. He's her hallpass, I think she'd just ask him to help her make a new one."

"I'm going out for a smoke," Brian announces, sudden and loud.

He sounds drunk, too, and Ilya feels briefly satisfied that he's probably been drowning his sorrows all day while Shane ignores his sad bids for attention.

But Ilya is in the same boat now, isn't he? He's also been rejected by Shane, only he won't be given the thousandth chance he doesn't deserve to come crawling back into his good graces.

The satisfaction evaporates in an instant, leaving a hollow pit in Ilya's stomach. That can't be how this ends, can it?

"Sorry about him," Todd says as soon as Brian is gone. "He's not a hockey fan, you know."

Ilya waves a hand, distracted. "Is okay. I have to go back to the party."

They all grab his hand to shake it before he leaves, but thankfully none of them ask for pictures. Probably they'd be drawn and quartered once they returned to Montreal if they did.

The party is in a banquet hall, a long corridor away from the bar. Ilya has no intention of going back; he's got his eyes on a small exit to the smoking area outside.

Brian is alone there, leaning against the wall and huffing on his cigarette like it owes him money. His head snaps up when he sees Ilya and his shoulders stiffen as he immediately draws himself to his full height.

"Come to gloat?" he scoffs. "Cute stunt you pulled earlier, not that it changes anything."

Ilya considers him coolly. The anger simmering in his veins is overwhelming and it's a conscious effort to keep his arms still at his side. Every time he thinks of Shane up in that penthouse, his incredulous why would you want me?, a fresh wave of anger pours over him, tinting his vision a hazy red.

Ilya isn't a violent man - not off the ice - but he supposes there are exceptions to everything.

The only thing keeping him from starting a fight now is knowing Shane wouldn't want him to.

"If you say so," he says mildly.

Brian glares at him. "I do say so. Shane wants a regular hookup and you're convenient, that doesn't mean shit. You think he'd actually want you for anything more?"

It lands like a blow to the chest and Ilya clenches his jaw, desperate not to let it show. To let Brian know the vulnerable spot he discovered by accident, the raw wound at the center of him.

"You know what I think?" he says. "I think you don't believe that. I think you're talking bullshit because you're scared."

Brian goes pale. He chucks the cigarette away, takes half a step towards Ilya. He seems to catch himself a moment later, maybe realizing that there is no scenario in which he could win a physical fight against Ilya.

"You don't know shit," he bites out, red faced. "You know where I'll be while you're rotting away in fucking Russia? With Shane, at his cottage."

Ilya's heart drops.

It must show, because Brian grins, smug and vicious. "That's right. And you know what else? Next week, I'm meeting his parents."

"You're lying," Ilya says reflexively. A child's response.

"We're getting more serious," Brian continues blithely. "Closing the relationship. Glad you had fun today, because it was the last time you're touching him."

He must be lying, because Shane would have told Ilya. Nothing that happened earlier today or tonight suggested the relationship was headed anywhere except towards total collapse.

But even if it is all a lie, Brian doesn't know what happened between them. He doesn't know Shane threw Ilya out of his room. So maybe he's lying to fake confidence in their relationship but if he knew the full story, would he even feel the need?

Ilya isn't so sure.

"It would ruin him," he tells Brian, because that much he is sure of. "You know this, yes? Staying with you, it would kill his heart."

For a moment, doubt flickers across Brian's face. It's replaced almost immediately by hot fury and then he's reeling back, swinging for Ilya's face.

Ilya dodges easily. Raises his fist, punches back.

(It's self-defense, Hollander. No judging.)

It's not even a particularly hard punch but there is blood on Brian's lips and he clutches his cheek, staring at Ilya wide-eyed and pale.

"Have a nice night," Ilya says.

Brian says nothing in response, still looking shocked.

Ilya leaves. As he's headed for the elevator, he checks his phone.

you want it? shane shakes his head because of course—of course he fucking doesn't, what kind of question is that, only things feel kind of hazy so it takes him a second too long, and rozanov laughs at him again. lets go of his cock to slap him across the cheek. tell me you want to suck my cock, hollander. fucking say it.

shane swallows hard, watches rozanov take his cock back in his hand and jerk himself slow, foreskin rolling up over the head and a bead of precum leaking out at the tip. for me, shane thinks. out loud, quietly, he says: i want to.

yeah? beg for it, rozanov says, grinning. he looks mean. shane feels himself twitch and leak in his underwear.

please let me suck your cock. shane's voice is embarrassingly wobbly. tears gather in his lower lashes. he can smell rozanov's skin from here and it's only making his mouth water more and that only makes the tears come faster.

rozanov says fuck under his breath and hauls shane further forward by his hair and it hurts, makes shane whimper, and still when rozanov taps the tip of his leaking cock to shane's lips he licks at it and moans and sucks the head into his mouth. rozanov lets him tease his tongue under the foreskin for a few seconds. he gets to taste the precum pulsing onto his tongue and he knows he should be disgusted by that, by the sharp taste of rozanov's sweat and musk, by all of it, but all he can think about is rozanov in his throat, fucking all the way into him.

shane gasps when rozanov pulls him off like he really was that deep inside, then gasps again when he slaps his wet cock against shane's cheek, leaving a smear of saliva on his cheekbone.

wow, rozanov says, nowhere near as out of breath as shane, you really are a fucking cocksucker. he's jerking himself inches away from shane's face, teasing him, not letting him have what they both know he wants. you did this for your old coach too? your team?

no, shane says, recoiling but held firmly in place by the fist in his damp hair. no, i've never–

that's not what i have heard, hollander. rozanov's cock traces up his face, smearing precum across his forehead. shane is cross-eyed, staring. everyone says you are a faggot.

and—it's not like shane has never heard it before. but. a hot lump pushes up his throat.

rozanov shrugs. i think, no way, a fag will never be number one draft pick. is ridiculous. skin on skin dragging back down to his mouth, coming to rest on his lower lip. no opening his mouth to reply without opening up for cock, too. and then i see the way you look at me in the showers, and i think, ah. well. maybe so.

shane shakes his trembling head, tries to blink away his tears. crying makes you a fag, too, everyone knows that.

and look at you now. mock-tender, knuckles grazing his cheek. shane flinches. this desperate for your captain's cock and you think no one will notice.

a pathetic sound bubbles out of shane mostly through his nose, because his jaw is clenched firmly shut. one tear falls hot down his cheek, and rozanov's thumb swipes it away just to smear it around.

open your mouth, hollander, rozanov says, and what choice does he have? rozanov slides the head back onto his tongue and stays there, unmoving, letting shane feel its weight. it's different than shane imagined. his jaw feels tight already.

fuck, rozanov groans. he pulls shane down a few inches further, until the fat head is nearly pushing into his throat. shane lurches but doesn't quite gag. he manages to keep his tongue curled to the underside of rozanov's cock. gonna let me fuck your mouth? give you your first cock?

shane moans before he can even think about it, constricting his soft palate around the tip.

fuuuck, you fucking faggot, you love this dick, rozanov says, and finally pushes into shane's throat—not all the way, there are still inches left in front of him, but enough to make shane retch hard around him. shane grabs for rozanov's thighs in a panic, slaps at them, but rozanov only groans deep and thrusts back and forth shallowly enough to stay in his throat, forcing awful gagging sounds from his chest.

yeah, fuck, rozanov says, sounding just like the porn shane's been trying so hard not to watch lately, and despite the tears rolling down his face shane feels his cock pulse. shane blinks hard and looks blurrily up at rozanov to see him staring right back as he says take it, take this fucking cock, bitch.

rozanov chooses that moment to pull out, right as shane moans again—too loud even around his cock but even worse after the sloppy gluck of rozanov exiting his tight throat and then his mouth, too. shane heaves lungfuls of air, squeezing his eyes shut as rozanov smears the thick spit from the back of his throat onto his cheeks and into his hair, his eyebrows, across the delicate skin of his eyelids.

it's quiet for a moment, both of them panting, and all shane can hear is the echo of his moan. rozanov's hand is tight around the base of his cock and shane feels dizzy with how badly he wants him to feed it back into his throat and fuck in all the way this time until he's coming straight into shane's stomach.

rozanov breaks the silence between them with a small, disbelieving laugh and tilts shane's head back to look him in the eyes. you are fucking desperate for it, hollander.

shane stays silent. swallows, feel the ache in his throat.

beg for it, rozanov says, leaning back and giving his cock a slow, loose tug. beg and i'll let you swallow my cum. is what faggots like you want, right?

shane inhales a shaky half-sob. please, i–

louder.

please, shane says, louder, wrecked voice catching on the vowel, his face burning. please, just—fuck, i want it, captain, want your cock. his tone shrinks almost to a whisper at the end.

rozanov tightens his grip in shane's hair. where. tell me where you want it.

in my mouth, shane says. want your cock in my mouth. captain.

fuck, rozanov says, his head tipping back as he jerks himself a few times before grabbing himself around the base again. fuck, you are fucking nasty. i've never even seen a girl this desperate. you will get addicted, i think.

shane doesn't reply. he stares helplessly at rozanov's cock. please, he thinks, please.

you are too desperate for cock, rozanov says, angling his dick up. faggot like you has to learn that nobody cares what you want.

suddenly, shane is tugged forward until his face is pressed flat to rozanov's crotch, nose to the base of his cock, curly trimmed hair prickling his skin.

suck my fucking balls, rozanov says, grin clear in his voice.

shane's cock throbs so hard he's sure for a moment that he's about to come entirely untouched. rozanov smells so fucking strong here, sharp and masculine and so dirty and shane knows it's disgusting, he does, but still he takes a long, deep, audible inhale of the hot skin against him and moans.

fuck, he hears rozanov groan. his head is shoved down further and he feels more than sees it when rozanov starts jerking himself again, his heavy, tight balls slapping against shane's cheek. he's so big, god, he's so fucking big everywhere—his arms, his chest, his thighs, his cock, his balls. rozanov's knuckles graze his forehead roughly as he jerks himself and shane feels out of his mind, he can't help it, he closes his eyes and kisses at rozanov's balls.

the skin is so hot against his lips, and then against his tongue. rozanov says something in russian above him, and shane can't even wonder what it is, he's too busy opening his mouth to suck and kiss wetly at rozanov's balls. it's like making out, almost, but making out with a girl has never made him feel hot all over like this, and he's never—never kissed a man, before.

rozanov keeps talking, keeps jerking himself faster. shane manages to catch bits and pieces—yes, fucking suck, bitch, like that...make you lick this whole team's balls...fucking faggot...bet you would lick my asshole too...where you belong...take a video, show everyone how much you love—but really it's hard to think of anything beyond how filthy he feels, drooling down his chin and ducking his head even lower to where his spit has run under rozanov's balls and licking firmly there at his taint too until he has to come up for air.

he's hauled back then, cool air rushing over the wet lower half of his face, rozanov jerking himself hard and fast above him. a wad of spit splatters across his cheek and nose. tell me what you are, rozanov demands.

shane shudders, nausea and pleasure swirling deep in his gut.

i'm a faggot, sir, he says breathlessly.

that's fucking right, rozanov says, and starts to come on shane's face.

shane opens his mouth for it immediately, and his eyes nearly roll back at the feeling of rozanov's cum landing on his tongue. he starts to come before he can get a hand in his boxers and quickly fumbles his hand down the waistband, swallowing and gasping and opening his mouth right back up while he works himself through his orgasm.

yes, fucking take my cum, bitch, rozanov grits. it's in shane's lashes, on his lips, on the bridge of his nose, and rozanov keeps jerking himself until there's nothing left to give. the last few dribbles land right on shane's tongue. shane's cock twitches in his hand.

rozanov tosses a towel toward shane as they both catch their breath, after. it hits him on the chest and lands on the floor.