Shane and Ilya and Cliff don’t make a big public announcement that the three of them are more or less in a three-way marriage. It’s not legal, for one thing, and Shane and Ilya in particular have had enough of a media circus as it is, thanks. But people close to them are aware, and people on their periphery more or less… guess.
And sometimes those people guess that this means Shane and Ilya are in an open marriage. That they’re swingers with a shared taste for tall dark and handsome men that may or may not have some flavor of thick New England accent. Cliff Marleau appears to be their favorite, of course, but maybe they can be persuaded by the right different guy.
So imagine how mortifying it is when some cocksure defenseman on the dl approaches The Shane Hollander at a conference and propositions him. When Shane blinks at him, stunned, the man just laughs. “Come on, everyone knows Rozanov lets you bring home another man to please you, Hollzy. It’ll be fun for all of us, trust me.”
Shane doesn’t know if he wants to hit him or throw up on his shoes. Maybe both. It’s bad enough that his marriage has become everyone and their mother’s business. That no one in the hockey world can look at him without vividly imagining him bending over for Ilya. Now they think they can just insert themselves into his bedroom like it’s a fucking weekend getaway?
“We’re not fucking swingers,” he spits. “We’re exclusive. What the fuck.”
The guy snorts and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure, that’s why Cliff Marleau is always hanging off you two like a dog.”
Shane is so close to hitting him. He stops himself, but just barely. “I said what I fucking said,” he grits through clenched teeth. “We’re exclusive. The three of us. No one else is fucking invited. Get lost, you fucking creep.”
That night, in their hotel bed, Shane slots himself between Cliff and Ilya’s solid, warm bodies and fights back his frustrated tears as they hold him. He can feel the alternating currents of emotion flowing between them, each taking a turn being angry while the other does time being concerned. For now, it’s Ilya’s turn to be pissed, while Cliff dotes worryingly over Shane as he peppers his bare shoulders with kisses and rubs his biceps in smooth, soothing strokes.
“It’s so fucking gross,” Shane hisses, lip wobbling. “They look at us like we’re freaks. Like we’re just things they can gawk at and play with. Like -“
“Easy, baby,” Cliff murmurs, his deep voice low and rumbling in his chest, vibrating against Shane’s back. “Easy. Relax. It’s just us here. No one else. They don’t get to have this. It’s for nobody but us.”
Ilya’s grip around them both tightens, almost painfully. “Nobody but us,” he snarls, blue eyes blistering in their fury as he glares a hole in the ceiling. “Fucking perverts.”
Shane nestles against the two of them, held and safe and secure, and wishes that fact was enough to calm his troubled mind.
