#not 1.4k

“-And if Rozanov could keep his hands on the stick rather than on his face, the Raiders have a good chance of advancing in the fight for the cup”

Drawn by the commentator’s jab at his boyfriend, Shane tore his attention away from his meal prepping stations and turned towards the game he had admittedly been watching with only a small portion of his attention. He knew Ilya was never one to be bashful, so to cover his (second, after his ass- his brain added) most valuable asset mid game was a sign that something was off. Had he been hiding some sort of injury from Shane, or worse his team members, hiding behind his gloves to avoid letting the camera see a wince? The cameras panned away from the center, bringing attention to Marleau as he advanced with the puck towards the opposing goalie, though Shane barely noticed the play over his worries. Immediately Shane reached for his phone and texted the Russian.

“Are you ok?”

He didn’t expect an answer immediately but the lack of response did nothing to quell his concerns as the camera zoomed in on a tense, distant expression that passed through Ilya’s face that dispersed soon enough, giving through to frustration, but not before the commentators had the opportunity to mock him for his apparent distraction. At this Shane abandoned his meal prepping and migrated to the couch, worried he might miss something glaringly concerning about Ilya. He still seemed to be skating with his usual force, but Shane knew Ilya better than to assume he couldn’t be hiding something deeper.

As the second period ran to a close and the players exited the ice, Shane turned a worried glance to his phone. Logically, he knew it might be unlikely that Ilya would even see the message knowing he only had a handful of minutes till he had to skate back out. He didn’t need to worry for long however, as soon after the game cut to commercial, a three-dotted bubble appeared in their chat.

“Da,” Ilya replied. “Am fine. Nose is… How you say? Scratching?”

“You mean itchy?”

Normally, seeing the usually stoic player flub a word in English would bring a smile to Shane’s face, but the topic at hand made him unusually nervous.

“Yes, that. Been sneezing all day, headcold is annoying.”

Shane stared at the screen, a sudden, familiar heat blooming low in his chest,

He flushed at the thought of Ilya, usually an unstoppable force on the ice struggling with such a small crack in his facade.

“Oh be careful on the ice then, don’t want you to get worse.” Shane replied, though secretly he wished his condition would improve for selfish reasons first.

“You worry too much.” Ilya replied, but before Shane could craft anything approaching a clever retort, intermission was over and the teams were called to return to the ice.

Shane sank deeper into the couch cushions as the third period officially got underway, his focus completely narrowed down to number eighty-one. The heat that had sparked in his chest during their brief text exchange only intensified now that he knew exactly what to look for. Ilya was out there playing high-stakes playoff hockey while silently battling a miserable head cold.

It didn't take long for the cracks in Ilya's armor to show.

During his first shift, the camera tracked Ilya as he raced down the boards to fight for a loose puck. He won the battle with a vicious shove, but as he turned to pass it back to the blue line, he suddenly stiffened. Mid-stride, his head snapped down into his shoulder twice in rapid succession. Even through the grainy television feed, Shane recognized the violent, full-body jerk of a suppressed sneeze. The momentary lapse in his rhythm cost him; an opposing defenseman easily intercepted his pass, and Ilya let out a visible, frustrated snarl, his jaw hanging open as he forced a heavy, congested breath through his mouth.

Shane swallowed hard, his throat dry as he watched Ilya skate back to the bench. His hand inevitably reached for his boxers, cupping the bulge that had silently been growing as he watched. Ilya constantly worked to portray himself as a paragon of strength, and in this moment of weakness, the contrast was utterly intoxicating.

Once on the bench, Ilya immediately ripped off his helmet and gloves. Instead of leaning back to rest, he buried his face in a white trainer's towel, blowing his nose with a harsh, unbothered roughness. When he pulled the towel away, the camera caught a tight close-up of his face. His cheekbones were sharply flushed, a feverish, beautiful pink that stood out starkly against his sweat-dampened hair and the white ice behind him. His eyes looked glossy, heavy-lidded, and clearly irritated by the bright arena lights.

Shane wouldn’t have been able to control himself if he had tried, he had never seen Rozanov look more gorgeous. He reached into his pants and released the pressure that the waistband was placing on his achingly hard dick, taking the precum that had started beading at the tip and spreading it all over his penis. He couldn’t help but imagine that it was Ilya’s snot as he twisted around the head and he had never felt more ecstasy running through his veins.

On his next shift, things got messier. Positioned right in front of the opposing goalie to screen his vision, Ilya was a wall of muscle. But as the whistle blew to halt play, Ilya didn't have a towel. Shane watched, a sudden thrill spiking in his stomach, as Ilya lifted his heavily padded forearm and messily wiped the back of his wrist right across his nose, trying to clear the inevitable snot before his next sprint. Shane’s hand quickened around his member, chasing the peak of his arousal desperately. Ilya looked completely drained of his usual prickly pride, operating entirely on pure, stubborn adrenaline and a rising temper fueled by his own physical misery.

He was a lethal, terrifying athlete, but right now, he was also just a sick, feverish mess who was going to be completely exhausted the second his skates hit the locker room floor.

The commentators praised his "gritty, physical play" and noted how aggressive he seemed tonight, but Shane knew the truth. Ilya wasn't just mad at the opposing team, he was furious at his own congested sinuses, leaking snot onto his face and disrupting his concentration as his body tried to sneeze out the virus that had lodged itself in him. Shane leaned back against the pillows, a heavy, restless anticipation settling deep in his core as he watched Ilya's chest rise and fall in hitchy stuttered breaths as he lost what little control he had left over his body. Both of them were building up their release, and as the camera chose that inopportune moment to zoom in on the raiders’ captain, Ilya’s nose finally succumbed to the tickle that had been erratically building in his sinuses and, making eye contact with the camera, he released a loud uncovered sneeze straight onto the ice, unable to bring his arms up fast enough once he realised he wasn’t going to be able to shake the itch. At the sight of this Shane finally lost control of the coil that had steadily been building in his abdomen while watching Ilya lose control and he came harder than he had in months, shooting ropes of cum over his stomach and his hips.

The announcers commented on Rozanov’s unhygienic practices, but Shane was too far in the afterglow of his release to even notice. He reached for his phone.

“I have to see you. Tonight.”

He sent the text, then got up to clean himself off. He wasn’t sure what he’d say or do when Ilya came over, but he knew he couldn’t wait longer than absolutely necessary to see him. His phone buzzed on the coffee table.