Winner Winner
Ilya Rozanov x Male Reader
Summary: Ilya Rozanov just won the Stanley Cup, and the second he got back home, he knew just how to celebrate.
A/N: Yeah I'm already obsessed after reading their first novel and part of the second, but I need to watch the show eventually. I'm surprised there isn't much fics out, so I suppose I'll work my charm. Um I don't really know what else to say, requests are open for this though.
CW: Secret relationship - Established relationship - Hockey Player reader - Teasing - Gay sex - Fingering - Anal - Top Ilya - Bottom reader - Fluff - FEMALES DNI - MINORS DNI
Words: 9k
This was the Ottawa Senators' greatest season to date, but for Ilya Rozanov, it felt hollow. They were four periods away from glory, yet they had lost their spark plug—one of their star wings—to a brutal injury early in the year. Ilya seemed to feel the loss more than anyone else in the locker room, though he was a master of the "Russian Stone Face." He wouldn't show it to the cameras, offering only a few clipped, carefully chosen words during interviews when reporters pestered him about his teammate's recovery.
He hated it because that teammate was his boyfriend. Of all the players in the league, he’d fallen for the one who played like he had a death wish. It was a secret, of course, but the secrecy didn't dull the ache in his chest. As he stood on the bench, the roar of the crowd vibrating in his skates, he realized he was about to win the Stanley Cup—something he’d desperately dreamed of doing with you by his side after years of Ottawa being the league’s punching bag.
Ilya knew exactly where you were: back in the apartment, leg propped up, glued to the TV. He wished you were here, even if you were just a scratch on the sidelines. He wanted to see your face when he hoisted that silver trophy over his head. He wanted to pull you over the boards, sweat-soaked and exhausted, and kiss you in front of the sold-out arena just like Scott Hunter had done all those years ago. But he couldn't. The risk was too high, the stakes too personal.
The NHL was still a shark tank. While you had come out publicly as gay when you signed with Ottawa—only months before your mutual friend Shane Hollander had broken the internet with his own announcement—Ilya was a different story. Admitting you were gay was one thing; admitting you’d been domestic and deeply involved with a Russian superstar for years was a complication Ilya wasn't ready to navigate under the world's microscope.
Back in the apartment, you shifted on the couch, your left leg resting on the coffee table. You’d finally shed the heavy cast, but your ankle felt stiff and foreign, a reminder of the night your season ended.
It had been an early-season game against a heavy-hitting American squad. You weren't a big guy—standing 5’8” and barely cracking 160 pounds—but you played like you were 6’4”. When two defensemen who doubled your weight decided to sandwich you into the boards, physics won. The result: three cracked ribs and an ankle that had essentially turned to gravel. You were known for many things in the league, but "safety" wasn't one of them. Ilya used to say he hated your recklessness, but you’d seen the way his eyes darkened with heat whenever you successfully body-checked a guy twice your size.
Your phone buzzed, vibrating against your hip. It was Shane.
Shane: Ilya seriously wouldn't let you come? Not even for the box seats?
You groaned, staring at the screen. You’d been texting him for an hour, mostly complaining about the boredom that made you want to put your head through the drywall.
You: Wasn't his call. Team doc said I need to keep the elevation up for a few more days since the cast came off. Don't want any 'setbacks' before summer training.
Shane: Right. Professionalism. I’m sure if you were there, Ilya would find a way to skip the celebration and just take you right there on the ice.
A small, genuine laugh escaped you. You typed back a quick response.
You: Shut up. We’re actually going to win this, Shane. This city deserves it after the hell we’ve put them through the last five years.
Shane: Can't argue with that. Good luck, man. Enjoy the after-party. Or the private one Ilya gives you later. ;)
You rolled your eyes, tossing the phone onto the cushion. Sometimes you regretted being so honest with Shane, but then again, Shane Hollander was one of the few people who actually understood the messiness of this life. Plus, having slept with him a few times years ago meant there were zero secrets left between you.
On the screen, the whistle blew. You saw the #89 on the back of a red jersey—Ilya. He looked lethal, his jaw set in that familiar line of pure determination. You leaned forward, ignoring the dull throb in your ankle. "Come on, Ilya," you whispered to the empty room. "Bring it home.”
You sucked in a breath, the air sticking in your throat as you leaned so far forward on the couch that you were nearly off the cushions. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that matched the ticking of the clock in the bottom corner of the screen. Under a minute left. One goal game.
Everything seemed to settle into a surreal, agonizing slow motion. You watched the grain of the ice as Ilya picked up the puck in the neutral zone. He was flying, his strides long and powerful, a force of nature in red, black, and white. As he crossed the blue line, the defenders closed in, but Ilya was a surgeon with a stick.
He moved in on the goaltender, shifting his weight with a deceptive tilt of his shoulders. It was his signature—the Rozanov feint. He sold the backhand shot with every fiber of his being, a masterful piece of theater that forced the goalie to commit, sliding hard to the right post. But the puck stayed glued to the toe of Ilya’s blade. The second the opening appeared—a sliver of daylight above the goalie's pad—Ilya snapped his wrists.
The puck didn't just fly; it whistled. It buried itself into the top shelf, the twine of the net bulging outward with the force of the shot.
The horn wailed, a piercing, beautiful sound that echoed through the speakers of your TV. Ottawa had won. Your team had won. And it was Ilya—your Ilya—who had sealed their legacy.
Adrenaline, sharp and electric, surged through your veins, completely masking the logic of your recovery. You surged upward, standing from the couch for the first time without reaching for a brace or a crutch. Your left foot hit the rug, and while a dull, protesting ache radiated from your ankle, you didn't care. You couldn't care.
Your hands flew to your head, fingers tangling in your hair as a breathless, disbelieving laugh broke from your lips. "Yes! Oh my god, yes!" you whispered, the words repeating like a mantra. "We did it. We actually did it."
The screen was a riot of color—white jerseys swarming Ilya, a dogpile of pure, unadulterated joy. You watched as Ilya was buried under his teammates, his helmet knocked askew, a rare, toothy grin visible even through the grainy broadcast.
The silence of the apartment suddenly felt heavy, almost suffocating. You were standing in the middle of your living room, one foot favoring the other, clutching your own hair while the man you loved was being hoisted into the air miles away. You wished you were there—not just for the trophy, but to be the one he looked for first. You wanted to feel the cold air of the rink on your face, the smell of sweat and ice, and the weight of his arms around you. Most of all, you wanted to be the person he didn't have to hide his joy from.
The screen was a blur of silver and sweat. On the ice, the celebration had reached a fever pitch, but then the camera found him. The "Russian Stone Face" was gone, replaced by something raw and triumphant.
Ilya took the Cup. He didn’t just lift it; he hoisted it like it weighed nothing at all, his muscles straining against the damp fabric of his jersey. The roar of the Ottawa crowd was a physical force, even through the tiny speakers of your television. He did a slow lap, the silver reflecting the arena lights, but then he stopped. He looked directly into the lens of the main broadcast camera, his eyes searching until he found the "eye" of the world.
A bright, jagged smile broke across his face—the kind of smile he usually saved for four in the morning when you were both tangled in the sheets of your king-sized bed.
Then, he leaned in, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that cut through the thunder of the arena.
"Это для тебя, любовь моя," he shouted.
Your breath hitched. You didn’t need a translator to know the words. This is for you, my love. Hearing his native tongue always did something to you—it was the sound of his unguarded heart. It was the language of his curses when he missed a shot, and the language of his softest murmurs against your neck. Hearing him claim you in front of millions, hidden in plain sight by a language barrier and a "teammate" narrative, made your skin tingle more than the adrenaline ever could.
With a final, audacious wink, Ilya pressed his lips to the cold silver of the Stanley Cup. He lingered there for a second too long for it to be "just" a celebration. He was kissing the Cup, but he was looking at you.
He knew you were watching. He knew you were hurting. And in that moment, he was giving you the only piece of the glory he could legally share.
Your phone buzzed again on the cushion next to you—likely Shane again, or perhaps a flurry of "Are you seeing this?" texts from friends and family—but you couldn't move. You were pinned to the spot, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your cracked ribs.
On screen, the post-game frenzy swallowed him back up. Reporters swarmed, jerseys clashed, and the "Stone Face" began to slide back into place as he was pulled into an interview. But the image of him—flushed, victorious, and speaking to you—remained burned into your retinas.
You slowly sank back onto the couch, the dull throb in your ankle finally catching up to you. You were thousands of miles away, alone in the dark, but for the first time since the injury, the apartment didn't feel so empty. The air still tasted like his name.
You leaned back into the cushions, the adrenaline finally ebbing and leaving a heavy, satisfied ache in its wake. You picked up your phone, the screen nearly blinding in the darkened living room. It was a graveyard of notifications.
There were messages from former teammates scattered across the league, a long, emotional paragraph from your mother—who had likely cried through the entire third period—congratulating you and the boys, and, predictably, a string of gray bubbles from Shane.
Shane: I cannot believe he actually pulled that off. That was a circus shot.
A smirk tugged at your mouth. You adjusted your position, mindful of the dull pull in your ankle, and began to type.
You: Of course he did. He’s spent his whole career beating Montréal. Did you forget that? Or are you just salty because we had to go through you to get here?
You’d known Shane since you were kids, long before the lights of the NHL or the pressure of the "Hollander vs. Rozanov" headlines. Even during your rookie year, when you were wearing the Bleu, Blanc, et Rouge of the Canadiens, your friendship had been built on a foundation of relentless teasing. Back then, you’d been on Shane’s side of the rivalry; now, you were the one sleeping with the "enemy."
The reply came back almost instantly.
Shane: Careful. You’re starting to sound like him. That "Russian arrogance" is rubbing off on you.
You stared at the words, a small, private smile warming your chest. Maybe he was right. Ilya was blunt, fiercely protective, and possessed a level of confidence that bordered on lethal. If a bit of that was bleeding into your own personality, you weren't about to complain.
You: Maybe. Better than that Montréal politeness. But thanks for the congrats, Shane. Seriously.
Shane: Whatever. You’d do the same for me. Just tell him nice goal. And tell him if he drops the Cup during the parade, I’m never letting him live it down.
You: I’ll pass it on. Talk soon.
You tossed the phone onto the cushion. It was true—just because you’d signed with Ottawa didn't change the history you had with Shane. And despite the league’s obsession with the "bitter rivalry" between Shane and Ilya, you knew the truth: they respected each other. In the strange, insular world of elite hockey, they were two of the only people who truly understood the weight of the crown.
But Shane didn't know about the "This is for you." He didn't know that the superstar everyone was currently chasing for an interview was, at this very moment, probably checking his own phone to see if you’d seen him.
You took a long, shaky breath, your eyes flickering back toward the TV. The screen was filled with analysts in sharp suits breaking down plays you already knew by heart, their voices a background hum you no longer cared to hear. The game was over. The history was made.
You grabbed your phone again, the weight of it familiar in your palm, and pulled up Ilya’s contact. You didn't bother with anything flowery.
You: Congratulations. I should’ve been out there with you guys.
You went to set the phone face-down on the cushion, expecting him to be buried under a mountain of reporters and champagne showers for at least an hour. But it hadn't even touched the fabric before it buzzed with a violent intensity.
Ilya: Wasn't the same. Felt like a ghost was missing.
The honesty of it—the lack of his usual bravado—made your heart ache.
You: Next time. I'll be on your wing for the next one.
Ilya: Counting on it.
The conversation ended there, but the restlessness in your limbs didn't. You stood up, testing your weight. The dull throb in your ankle was a nuisance, but you navigated the hallway with a practiced, careful limp.
In the bedroom, the air smelled like home—a mix of your cologne and the faint, crisp scent of the laundry detergent Ilya liked. You opened the closet and bypassed your own gear, reaching instead for a specific hanger. It was one of Ilya’s older Ottawa jerseys, the fabric softened by wear and countless washes.
Without a second thought, you peeled off your hoodie and joggers, the cool air of the room hitting your skin. You tossed them toward the hamper and tugged his jersey over your head. It was massive on you, the heavy fabric draped halfway down your thighs, the sleeves swallowing your hands. The crest felt scratchy against your bare chest, a grounded, physical reminder of the man who wore it.
You climbed onto the bed, propping yourself up against the headboard. You knew exactly how to play this. You angled the camera, catching the messy sweep of your hair and the triumphant, slightly tired look in your eyes. You made sure the jersey rode up just enough to expose the sharp line of your hip, the prominent v-line of your stomach, and the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of your boxers.
Click.
You didn't overthink the caption. You just sent it. If you couldn't be there to help him hoist the Cup, you could certainly make sure he had a reason to break land-speed records getting back to the apartment.
You watched the "Delivered" status turn to "Read" almost instantly.
The phone didn’t just buzz this time; it practically jumped off the mattress. Ilya’s response was a flurry of frantic gray bubbles that popped up one after another, his frustration radiating through the screen.
Ilya: Unfair.
Ilya: You are a cruel man. I am stuck here in a room full of screaming idiots and champagne, and you send me this?
Ilya: I have three more interviews. The owner is opening a hundred bottles of something expensive. They expect me to stay for the toast. I am going to lose my mind.
You stared at the flurry of texts, a wicked, satisfied heat blooming in your chest. You could almost see him—pacing a corner of the locker room, hair matted with sweat and Gatorade, trying to maintain that stony exterior while his thumbs flew across the screen.
You shifted against the headboard, the fabric of his jersey sliding over your skin, and typed back with slow, deliberate calm.
You: That sounds like a "Superstar" problem, Ilya. I’m sure you can manage a few more hours of glory.
You: I’ll be here. Maybe I’ll even be asleep by the time you get back. Recovery is important, after all. Doc’s orders.
You knew that would do it. You knew exactly which buttons to push to make the most disciplined player in the league completely unravel.
The "typing" dots appeared immediately, vanished, and then reappeared.
Ilya: You will not be sleeping. If you are asleep, I will wake you up.
Ilya: I am leaving. I will tell them my head is ringing. Concussion protocol. They cannot argue with the doctors.
Ilya: You stay right there. Do not move. Do not take that jersey off. If I get home and you are under the covers, I am going to be very, very cross with you.
A breathless laugh escaped you. Ilya was officially compromised. The man was ready to fake a medical emergency just to shave twenty minutes off his commute.
You: Better hurry then, Rozanov. The clock is ticking.
You set the phone down for good this time, the screen glowing for a moment before fading to black. The silence of the apartment felt different now—charged, electric, like the air right before a summer storm. You leaned your head back, listening to the distant hum of the city outside, and waited for the sound of a key in the lock.
As the minutes ticked by, the silence of the apartment became a physical weight. There was still nothing; no rattle of keys in the lock, no heavy thud of the door, no sound of Ilya calling out your name in that gruff, smoke-and-velvet voice that always made your heart skip.
You let out a jagged sigh, the sound echoing too loudly against the walls. Grabbing your phone, you padded over to the ensuite bathroom, your gait still uneven but practiced. You set the phone on the cold marble of the vanity, leaning over it to stare at your reflection. In the harsh, clinical glow of the LED mirror, you looked like a ghost of the player who had started the season.
Your hand reached out instinctively, fingers wrapping around your toothbrush. You didn't actually need to use it—you’d already scrubbed the taste of takeout from your mouth—but the repetitive motion offered a hollow sort of comfort. You just needed to stay busy. If you laid down now, the exhaustion of the emotional roller coaster would drag you under, and you refused to be asleep when he finally arrived.
You sighed, the plastic clicking as you set the brush back into the holder. Your gaze flicked to the phone. A slow, reckless smirk tugged at the corners of your mouth as you opened your thread with Ilya again.
The man wanted a reason to hurry? You’d give him one.
Without a second thought, you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your boxers and stepped out of them. You stood there for a moment, bare beneath the rough, oversized fabric of his #89 jersey, feeling the cool air hit your skin. Holding the phone up to the mirror, you angled the shot just right—capturing the way the heavy hem of his jersey grazed your thighs and the defiant, hungry look in your eyes.
Click.
You hit send before your common sense could intervene. The "Delivered" bubble appeared instantly, a tiny blue anchor in the sea of silence.
The silence of the apartment didn't last long. Barely a minute after the photo sent, your phone didn't just buzz—it practically snarled against the marble countertop.
A FaceTime request. Ilya.
You picked it up, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. When the screen flickered to life, the image was a handheld, dizzying blur of motion. Ilya was clearly walking fast—no, he was practically sprinting. The background was a smear of concrete walls and yellow industrial pipes; he was in the bowels of the arena, likely the service tunnels.
"Ilya?" you breathed.
He stopped moving for a split second, bringing the phone close to his face. He looked feral. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat and champagne, his tie was yanked loose, and his eyes were dark with a terrifying, singular focus.
"You are a very bad man," he rasped. His voice was a low, jagged growl that vibrated through the speaker. "I am standing in a hallway with the General Manager and three security guards, and you send me this? My heart... I think it actually stopped."
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, leaning back against the sink. The jersey shifted over your skin, the heavy fabric a constant reminder of him. "I thought you were busy celebrating. I didn't want you to forget what was waiting for you."
"Forget?" Ilya’s jaw tightened, his gaze raking over the screen, taking in the sliver of skin and the way his jersey draped over you. "I have forgotten how to breathe, I think. I told them I have a migraine. I told them I must leave or I will vomit on the trophy. I am at the car now."
Behind him, you heard the heavy thump of a car door closing and the sudden muffling of the arena's distant roar. He was in the back of a black car now, the interior dim and shadowed.
"How far?" you asked, your voice dropping to a whisper.
"Too far," he groaned, leaning his head back against the seat and closing his eyes for a second as if trying to steady himself. "Ten minutes. Maybe eight if the driver values his life. You stay exactly like that. Do not move. If I walk in and you are under the covers, I will be very, very angry."
"I'll be right here," you promised, feeling a surge of heat that had nothing to do with your recovery.
"Good," he said, his eyes snapping open, burning with a mix of triumph and desperation. "Wait for me, lyubimyy."
The call ended abruptly. You were left staring at your own reflection again, the bathroom suddenly feeling five degrees hotter.
It wasn’t more than fifteen minutes later when the sharp, metallic snick of a key in the lock cut through the room. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, phone propped against a pillow, halfway through a FaceTime call with Shane. He was in the middle of a breathless, fluster-fueled story about some guy he’d met in the VIP lounge, his face flushed with the kind of post-game high only hockey players understand.
"I’m telling you, man, six-foot-four and he actually knew what a blue-line violation was. I think I’m in lo—" Shane stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing as he watched your face on the screen. Your head had snapped toward the bedroom door, your eyes wide and fixed on the hallway. "Hello? Earth to Ottawa. Did I say something wrong, or did you just see a ghost?"
"Hang up," a voice growled from the doorway.
It wasn't a request. It was a command that vibrated with enough gravel to pave a highway. Ilya was leaning against the frame, his suit jacket already gone, his white dress shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest and damp with a mix of melted ice and sweat.
Shane’s eyes went wide on the screen as he caught a glimpse of Ilya’s shoulder. "Oh. Right. The victor returns. I’ll just—"
"Unless Hollander wants to watch," Ilya interrupted, his gaze never leaving yours. He took a step into the room, the usual look replaced by something dark, hungry, and entirely focused on the fact that you were wearing his jersey and nothing else. "Unless he wants to see exactly how I’m going to ruin you for that picture."
Shane visibly reddened. He’d seen you in plenty of locker rooms, had your hands on him, had you inside him, and the two of you had a history that involved more than a few shared beds in your younger years, but he wasn't about to cross the line with a man who looked ready to commit a felony.
"Yeah, no. I’m good. Enjoy the... parade, boys," Shane muttered.
"Talk later, Shane," you said, your voice sounding breathier than you intended. You reached out and swiped the call ended, setting the phone face-down on the dresser without looking away from Ilya.
Ilya was already moving, his hands working with a frantic, disciplined speed as he shed his clothes. His belt hit the floor with a heavy clack, followed by his trousers, which he didn't even bother to aim toward the hamper. He looked lethal—all hard muscle, the adrenaline of the win still radiating off him in waves.
"You," he growled, closing the distance between the door and the bed in three heavy strides. He planted a knee on the mattress, looming over you until the scent of the rink and expensive champagne filled your lungs. He gripped your chin, forcing you to look up at him. "You have been sitting here all night, being a tease while I have to talk to reporters? You think this is a game?"
He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, his breath hot against your lips. "You are so going to regret sending that, lyubimyy. I am going to make sure you can't even think about hockey for a week.”
Your eyes raked over him, devouring the details you’d been forced to memorize from afar for months. The dark, unruly hair on his chest bled into a thick trail that disappeared beneath the elastic waistband of his black boxer briefs. That ridiculous grizzly bear tattoo on his left pec—a souvenir from his youth in Moscow—seemed to pulse with every heavy breath he took. The gold crucifix on his chain caught the light, swinging rhythmically as he moved.
You bit your lower lip, the sting of it grounding you, and slid back until your spine pressed against the headboard. The jersey bunched at your waist, the cool air hitting your skin in a way that felt like an invitation.
Ilya didn't wait. He moved like a predator, crawling up from the foot of the bed with a slow, deliberate prowl. You reacted instinctively, sticking your right foot out—your good leg—and planting your heel firmly against the hard, corrugated muscle of his abs. It stopped him in his tracks, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned into the pressure, his eyes dropping to where the jersey had ridden up.
From his angle, he had a clear view of the curve of your thighs and the plump, athletic swell of your seat—a physique built by a thousand squats and a lifetime on the ice, though Ilya often swore you were simply born with that kind of perfection. As you shifted to get comfortable against the headboard, the heavy fabric of his #89 jersey parted just enough to reveal the tip of your cock, already half-hard and twitching against the pale skin of your inner thigh.
Ilya’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his gaze fixated on the sight. A low, vibrating sound—halfway between a groan and a snarl—erupted from his chest.
"You think this is funny?" he muttered, his Russian accent so thick it was almost a physical weight in the room. He wrapped a hand around your ankle, his thumb dragging rough circles over the bone. "You sit here in my colors, looking like this, while I am forced to smile for cameras? You play these games... you drive me out of my mind, kotyonok."
He didn't wait for an answer. He shoved forward, forcing your knee to bend toward your chest as he crowded into your space. He looked up at you through his lashes, his expression raw and stripped of his usual façade entirely.
"The game is over," he rasped, his voice dropping to a dangerous, velvety whisper. "And you are not going to like the way I keep score.”
Ilya’s hand slid from your ankle to the back of your knee, his fingers digging into the muscle with a possessiveness that made your breath catch. He didn't just move toward you; he reclaimed the space, hovering over you until the heat radiating from his skin felt like a fever.
"I sat in that locker room," he began, his voice dropping into a low, rhythmic cadence, "listening to the music, watching the guys pour expensive vinegar over each other. And all I could think about was the way you looked in that mirror. The way you knew I was trapped there."
He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He took a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling the scent of your skin mixed with the familiar, homey smell of the jersey. You felt the scratch of his five o’clock shadow against your sensitive skin—a rough, grounding contrast to the silkiness of the fabric.
"You're shaking," he murmured against your pulse point, his lips grazing the skin.
"Adrenaline," you managed to choke out, though you knew it was more than that. Your hands came up, fingers tangling in the damp, messy curls at the nape of his neck. "And I’ve been sitting in this quiet apartment for three hours, Ilya. Do you have any idea what that does to a person?"
Ilya pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. The gold crucifix swung forward, brushing against your chest. "I have an idea," he said darkly. He reached down, his large hand flat against your stomach, fingers splaying wide. He slowly began to bunch the fabric of the jersey upward, the knit sliding over your skin inch by agonizing inch. "Because every time I touched the puck tonight, I imagined it was you. Every hit I took, I wanted to be home so I could give it back to you."
He leaned in, his mouth hovering a fraction of an inch from yours. You could taste the faint, sharp ghost of champagne on his breath.
"I won the Cup for the city," he whispered, his thumb hooking into the hem of the jersey, ready to tug it over your head. "But I came home for this. For you. No more cameras, lyubimyy. No more secrets tonight."
He didn't wait for you to agree. He captured your lips in a kiss that tasted of victory and desperation, his tongue sweeping past your teeth to claim you with the same ruthless efficiency he used on the ice. It wasn't the hockey player Ilya Rozanov kissing you—it was the man who had been starving for months, finally allowed to eat.
Ilya’s weight was a welcome, grounding pressure, pinning you into the mattress as the kiss deepened. It was a messy, desperate collision—the kind that happens when two people have been holding their breath for a lifetime and have finally found air. His skin was still humming with the residual electricity of the arena, a stark contrast to the cool sheets beneath you.
He pulled back just enough to catch his breath, his eyes dark and dilated, his pupils swallowed by the intensity of his gaze. With a fluid, powerful motion, he grabbed the hem of the jersey and yanked it upward. You lifted your arms instinctively, a silent surrender, and then the fabric was gone—tossed somewhere into the shadows at the foot of the bed. For the first time all night, there was nothing between you but the gold chain dangling from his neck and the frantic beat of two hearts out of sync.
"You look better without my name on your back," he rasped, his gaze traveling over your chest. It lingered on the fading, yellow-green bruises over your ribs—the ghost of the hit that had ended your season. His expression softened for a fleeting second, a flash of the raw guilt he’d been carrying through every road trip and every power play. He leaned down, pressing a reverent, lingering kiss to the center of your chest, his lips warm against the healing bone. "I hated seeing you break. I hated every game you weren't on my wing."
"I'm right here now," you whispered, your voice thick with a mix of relief and wanting. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, feeling the corded muscle of a champion, and you pulled him back up to meet your eyes. "Ilya. I'm okay."
He didn't need further invitation. The usual bravado was completely gone now, replaced by a man who was done being patient. Ilya shifted, his large, calloused hands sliding down to your hips, his thumbs hooking into the soft skin just above your pelvic bone with a grip that promised bruises of a different kind.
He began to trail a path of biting, proprietary kisses down your stomach, his five o’clock shadow abrading your skin in a way that made your nerves set fire. He followed the dark line of hair he’d been devouring through the phone screen, his breath hot and rhythmic against your abdomen.
Your back arched upward off the bed, your breath hitching in a jagged sob of a laugh. Your cock twitched, straining toward him, the friction of the air alone feeling like too much and not enough. You looked down, watching his dark head move lower, his hands squeezing your hips as if he were trying to anchor you both to the earth before you floated away.
"Ilya," you groaned, your fingers tangling in his hair to guide him, to hurry him.
"Patience," he murmured against your skin, his voice a vibration that traveled straight to your core. "We have all night.”
Ilya didn't stop at your waist. His hands, steady and strong from a decade of gripping a stick, slid beneath your bare thighs, lifting you effortlessly to meet him. Without the boxers in the way, the sensation of his palms against your skin was a shock—searing and electric after weeks of nothing but medical tape and the soft, lonely fabric of your sheets.
He paused, his nose brushing against the sensitive skin of your hip. You could feel the ragged edge of his breathing, the way his chest expanded against your legs. When he looked up at you, his eyes were no longer the cold, calculating flint of the usual Ilya. They were molten.
"I thought about this on the bench," he confessed, his voice a low vibration that seemed to settle in your bones. "In the third period, when the clock was at ten minutes... I wasn't thinking about the score. I was thinking about the way you look when I do this."
He leaned in, his tongue tracing the sharp line of your hip, moving inward with a devastating, hungry patience. Every time his gold crucifix brushed against your stomach, it was a cold shock that only made the heat of his lips feel more intense. You let out a strangled sound, your head falling back against the headboard, your eyes fluttering shut as he tasted the salt of your skin.
He moved over you again, hovering, his body a solid wall of muscle and victory. He caught your hands, pinning them to the pillow on either side of your head, his fingers interlocking with yours. The weight of him was perfect—a heavy, crushing reminder that he was finally, truly home.
"You are my trophy," he whispered, his lips ghosting over yours before he claimed them again in a kiss that tasted of victory and a love he wasn't allowed to put into words for the reporters. "Not the silver. Just you."
He shifted his hips, the rough fabric of his own briefs sparking a fire against your bare skin where you were pressed together. The reality of the win, the secret of the season, and the pain of the injury all melted into the background. There was only the rhythmic thrum of his pulse against yours and the knowledge that for tonight, the world didn't exist outside the four walls of this room.
"Please," you murmured, the word breaking against the quiet of the room. Your fingers tightened in the mess of his hair, trying to anchor yourself as the world narrowed down to the heat of him. "Please, Ilya."
He let out a low chuckle, a deep, resonant rumble that you felt in your own chest. He pulled back just an inch, his eyebrow quirked upward in that infuriatingly cool way of his. "Please what, lyubimyy? You must be specific. I am a simple man. I do not understand riddles."
You looked up at him, your eyes half-lidded and hazy with a need that felt like it was bruising your ribs. When he shifted, rolling the heavy, clothed weight of his erection against your bare skin, a sharp, helpless whimper escaped your throat. The friction of his briefs against you was maddening—a rough, teasing promise of what was actually waiting.
"Fuck me," you breathed, the command coming out more like a plea.
It was still hard to believe that years ago, when you were sneaking around with Shane Hollander, the roles had been completely reversed. Back then, you’d been the one in control, the one doing the pinning. It had been embarrassing at first—the realization of how much you craved the opposite—but then you’d started to understand what Shane meant when he’d joked about finally letting someone else carry the puck. There was a profound, terrifying relief in letting someone as strong as Ilya take over.
Ilya pulled away suddenly, the loss of his heat making the air feel freezing. A sly, predatory smile played on his lips as he sat back on his heels, watching you unravel on the silk pillowcases.
"You think after everything you did tonight?" he hummed, his voice smooth and dangerous. "The photos? The talking back? You think a simple 'please' will work on me?"
He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of your lower lip, tugging it down just enough to see the ghost of your teeth. "I think you have forgotten that I am the one who just spent sixty minutes fighting for a win. I am not in a generous mood, kotyonok. I am in a taking mood.”
A frustrated groan tore from your throat. Your cock was painfully hard, twitching against your stomach at even the simplest, ghost-like touch Ilya offered. The friction was maddening. "Then take me, Ilya," you breathed, your voice cracking with the weight of the wait. "Fuck... just take me. Right now."
That was the trigger. Ilya always favored directness—the moment your pride crumbled into something borderline begging, his own composure followed suit. He reached beneath the waistband of his briefs, yanking them down with a rough, impatient tug before tossing them blindly into the shadows of the room. His own cock snapped free, thick and pulsing against his lower abdomen.
"Fuck," he grumbled, the cold air hitting his skin a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off you.
Ilya reached into the bedside drawer, his fingers shoving aside the dildo you’d originally bought as a gag gift for Shane. It was supposed to be a "congrats on coming out" present, but Ilya had intercepted it before you could give it to him. He’d decided then and there that he liked it better when he got to watch you use it.
He grabbed the lube, the plastic bottle clicking as he flipped the cap. He poured a generous amount onto his fingers, the liquid glistening in the dim light. He leaned over you again, one hand braced beside your head on the pillow—trapping you—while the other hovered near your hole.
You shuddered the moment his slicked fingers made contact. The lube was freezing against your feverish skin. "Shit," you hissed, your back arching involuntarily. "Ilya, that’s... that's fucking cold."
Ilya dipped his head down, pressing his lips to the tip of your nose. It was slightly crooked—a permanent souvenir from the numerous times you’d broken it on the ice, usually while playing way too big for your 5’8” frame.
"Relax, lyubimyy," he murmured against your skin, his voice a low, steadying anchor. "I will warm you up soon enough."
You tried to let out a breath, but it caught in your throat, turning into a sharp gasp as Ilya worked his first finger inside. The initial stretch was a shock, your body tightening instinctively around him. He didn't move yet; he just stayed there, his forehead resting against yours, waiting for you to find your rhythm again in the quiet of the room.
"There," he whispered, his thumb grazing your hip bone. "Just like that. Stay with me.”
Ilya didn't rush. He moved with the calculated precision of a man who knew he had already won the game and was now simply savoring the victory lap. He kept his forehead pressed against yours, his dark eyes locked onto your hazy ones, watching every flicker of sensation cross your face.
His fingers began to move—a slow, rhythmic curl that mimicked the steady beat of your heart. With every shallow thrust, he tilted his hand just enough to brush against the sensitive swell of your prostate. Each time he hit the mark, a jagged, electric jolt shot through you, traveling from your core all the way down to your good foot, which curled into the expensive silk of the sheets.
"Ilya," you gasped, your voice breaking. "God, Ilya."
He didn't answer with words. Instead, he began to worship your skin with his mouth. He trailed a path of lingering, damp kisses along your jawline, then down to the pulse jumping in your neck. He tasted the salt of your skin. He moved lower, his tongue swirling around your collarbone before he dipped his head to catch the sensitive skin of your inner arm.
As he worked his fingers deeper, adding a second to the stretch, his thumb never stopped circling your hip bone, grounding you. The sensation was overwhelming—the cold slick of the lube now warmed by the friction and the furnace-like heat of his body.
He leaned down further, his chest hair abrading your bare nipples as he moved to ghost his lips over the yellowing bruises on your ribs. He kissed the site of the injury with a tenderness that made your throat ache, a silent apology for every game he’d had to play without you protecting his wing.
"You feel so good," he rasped against your skin, the vibration of his voice making you tremble. "So tight. Like you were made just for this."
He found the sweet spot again, his fingers hooking more firmly this time, and you let out a high, thin wail, your fingers tangling so tightly in his hair that your knuckles turned white. Your back arched completely off the bed, your head tossing back as you lost the ability to focus on anything but the way he was filling you, opening you up.
Ilya hummed into the crook of your neck, a dark, satisfied sound. He began to pick up the pace, his fingers working in a slick, demanding rhythm that had you sobbing his name into the quiet of the apartment. He kissed your shoulder, your chest, and then returned to your lips, catching your moans in his mouth as he prepared to finally bridge the last remaining gap between you.
The sudden absence of his fingers left you feeling hollow and cold. You let out a low, needy whine, your hips stuttering upward in a desperate attempt to bring him back. Ilya only smirked, a dark, triumphant look that said he knew exactly the kind of wreckage he was making of you.
He sat back on his heels, the gold crucifix on his neck swinging like a pendulum. He grabbed the bottle of lube once more, the plastic clicking in the silence. With a predatory slowness, he positioned himself between your legs, his large hands careful to navigate around your injured ankle—a gentle touch that contrasted sharply with the hunger in his eyes. He poured the slick liquid into his palm, his gaze never leaving yours as he began to stroke his own cock.
He gave himself a few hard, rhythmic pumps, the wet sound of his hand against his skin filling the quiet room. You watched, mesmerized, as the muscles in his forearms corded with the effort, his jaw set in that familiar line of grit.
Then, he leaned forward.
He guided the head of his cock to your entrance, the tip blunt and demanding. He didn't just shove; he moved with a slow, agonizingly deep thrust, pushing past the initial resistance of your muscles until he was seated fully against you. The sound of his hips meeting yours—a heavy, wet thud—was the only thing you could hear over the pounding of your own blood.
You arched violently off the bed, your spine a bowstring, your mouth falling open in a silent, breathless moan. It felt like being filled with white-hot iron. Your cock, already weeping with precum, began to drip onto your stomach, the slickness mixing with the thin, shimmering coat of sweat that had begun to form over your skin.
"Look at me," Ilya rasped, his voice a jagged, Russian-thick command. He braced his weight on his forearms, his chest hair abrading your sensitive nipples as he began to move.
He pulled back until he was nearly out, then drove in again, harder this time. Ilya's previous expression was replaced by a mask of raw, unadulterated pleasure. "You are so tight," he growled, a low vibration that you felt deep in your gut. "I have been thinking about this since the first whistle. Every minute on that ice, I was just waiting to be back inside you."
He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming more rhythmic, more punishing. With every strike, your head thrashed against the pillow, your fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulders as you tried to hold on to the only solid thing in a world that was quickly turning into a blur of heat and Ilya above you.
The rhythm of the room changed as Ilya found his stride. It was no longer about the tease or the long-distance longing; it was about the raw, mechanical power of an elite athlete who had spent months channeling his frustration into a championship run. Now, he was channeling all that stored-up intensity into you.
Each thrust was deep and deliberate, his hips snapping against yours with a sound like heavy rain. He kept his weight braced on his elbows, hovering just enough so he could watch the way your body reacted to him.
"Ilya—fuck, Ilya," you gasped, your voice a wrecked, breathy sound that bounced off the quiet walls of the bedroom. Your fingers were locked into the corded muscles of his forearms, your knuckles white as you tried to stay grounded.
He didn't say a word, but his grip on your hands tightened, his fingers interlocking with yours and pinning them back against the pillow. He began to pick up the pace, his breaths coming in jagged, heavy rasps against your ear. You could feel the cold gold of his crucifix swinging with every movement, tapping rhythmically against your collarbone—a strange, holy contrast to the heat of what he was doing to you.
"Look at me," he commanded, his Russian accent thick enough to cut.
You forced your eyes open, your vision blurred by tears of overstimulation and the sweat stinging your lids. He was looking down at you with a terrifying amount of devotion. In that look, you saw everything he couldn't say in front of the cameras: the fear he felt when you went down on the ice, the loneliness of the hotel rooms without you, and the absolute triumph of finally having you back where you belonged.
The friction was building, a white-hot pressure that made your entire lower half feel like it was glowing. Your cock was slick against your stomach, the sensation of your skin meeting his with every strike driving you toward the edge.
"I'm close," you managed to choke out, your back arching so high that only your head and heels were touching the mattress. "Ilya, I'm—"
He leaned down then, his mouth crashing against yours to swallow the rest of your sentence. He drove into you one last time, harder than before, his entire body tensing as he hit that sweet spot with a punishing accuracy. The world narrowed down to the sound of his ragged breathing and the feeling of him finally, completely, letting go.
You followed him instantly, a sharp cry caught in your throat as your body buckled under the weight of the release. It felt like the final buzzer of a game seven—a sudden, deafening explosion of relief that left you both trembling and spent in the sudden, ringing silence of the apartment.
The adrenaline that had fueled the last hour finally began to ebb, leaving a heavy, satisfied languor in its wake. Ilya didn't pull out immediately; instead, he collapsed forward, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure that pinned you into the mattress. Your hearts beat against each other in a frantic, overlapping rhythm that slowly began to sync up. The cum that had pooled on your stomach smeared between you, a slick, warm testament to the intensity of the moment.
For a long time, the only sound in the room was the harsh, jagged sound of his breathing. Ilya buried his face in the crook of your neck, his skin damp with sweat and the faint, lingering scent of the arena.
"I," he started, his voice a raw, gravelly rasp that vibrated against your collarbone. He swallowed hard. "I love you. More than the game. More than the silver."
A soft, genuine smile pulled at your lips, and you reached up, your fingers tangling in the damp curls at the nape of his neck. "I love you too, Ilya. Always.”
The silence of the apartment felt different now—no longer lonely or suffocating, but intimate and protective. Ilya shifted, his arms wrapping around you with a proprietary gentleness as he finally pulled his softening length out of you. He didn't move away, though. He tucked your head under his chin, his large hand splaying across your back, pulling you flush against his side.
He peppered soft, lingering kisses across your forehead and the bridge of your crooked nose, his gold crucifix cold against your heated skin. You lay there for what felt like hours, watching the shadows of the city lights dance across the ceiling, the weight of his arm across your chest acting as an anchor.
Eventually, the stickiness of the sweat and the drying salt on your skin became too much to ignore. You shifted slightly, looking up at him. His eyes were soft, the pupils finally returning to normal, though they still held a glint of that fierce devotion.
"We should shower," you whispered, your voice still a little wrecked. "You probably smell like an entire locker room's worth of champagne."
Ilya let out a huff of a laugh, a small, tired smile breaking across his face. "Okey," he murmured, his accent softening into something sweet and domestic.
He sat up first, his muscles rippling in the dim light as he stretched. He didn't let you go for long; he reached back, hooking his hands under your arms to pull you up with him. He was mindful of your ankle, moving slowly as he guided you toward the ensuite bathroom, his arm draped firmly around your waist to take most of your weight.
The bathroom was soon filled with the hiss of water and a thick, rising cloud of steam. Ilya stepped into the walk-in shower first, testing the temperature before pulling you in after him.
The hot spray was a shock at first, washing away the sweat, the lube, and the literal grime of a championship game. You leaned your forehead against the cool tile, letting the water beat against your aching back and your healing ribs. Ilya stepped behind you, his large hands slick with soap as he began to wash your skin.
He was incredibly thorough, his touch alternating between the firm pressure of a massage and a light, reverent graze. He washed the dried cum from your stomach and the lingering scent of sex from your thighs, his movements slow and focused. When he reached your hair, he worked the shampoo in with his fingertips, his touch so soothing you almost drifted off right there under the spray.
"Turn around," he murmured.
You obeyed, leaning back against his chest as he rinsed the soap away. You grabbed the loofah, returning the favor. You scrubbed the last of the eye black from the high points of his cheekbones and washed the champagne out of his hair. Standing there in the steam, stripped of the jerseys and the pads and the expectations of millions, you weren't NHL players anymore. You were just two men holding onto each other in the quiet.
Ilya pulled you into a slow, soapy embrace, the water cascading over both of you. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed.
"Tonight was good," he whispered, the steam curling around his words. "But tomorrow, I stay in bed with you. No interviews. Just this."
You smiled, closing your eyes and leaning into his heat. "I think the league might have something to say about that, Ilya."
"Let them talk," he grumbled, pulling you closer. "I am already home.”
