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It wasn’t that Shane wasn’t appreciative of the career he’d had for nearly a decade; he was. Despite the taxing schedules and strict diets, the soreness that lingered in his muscles even after hours of physical therapy, the overbearing media and the constant demand for a version of himself polished for public consumption, he was grateful. But for a sliver of each year, he slipped away to the custom-built retreat in cottage country and pretended none of it existed. That, for just a little while, he could live and breathe something other than hockey.
It had always been his place of respite, but it had never felt quite like this. Not with his fingers idly weaving through Ilya’s light brown curls as they melted into one another on the plush sofa. No deadlines or meetings or practices or games pressing in on his thoughts like a constant shadow. A hard rain pelted the tall windows, glass trembling as thunder rolled in the distance, announcing flashes of lightning that split the dark clouds.
A defeated sigh slipped from Ilya’s lips as he tossed the remote into Shane’s lap. “I give up.”
They’d been trying to settle on a movie for nearly fifteen minutes, and in the near-decade they’d spent tangled in various sheets—in countless hotel rooms, in Ilya’s apartment or Shane’s—they’d never once watched anything other than hockey. The realization had come as the rain began to dot the back porch, ushering them inside with slightly soggy hot dogs and damp hair.
“You didn’t even try,” Shane chided, resuming where Ilya had left off. The next category made his eyebrow lift. “Something scary?”
“In middle of woods,” Ilya said, glancing around as if only just noticing how close they sat. “During storm that could cut power any minute?” He shook his head. “I think no.”
“Big baby,” Shane laughed, clicking through the options anyway. “I’ve got a back-up generator and a high-tech security system.”
“So did they, probably,” Ilya said, nodding at the screen to a group of middle-aged friends at what looked to be a log-sided cabin, a masked man with a blood-soaked axe standing eerily behind them. “No. Next.”
Shane huffed a dramatic groan and tugged lightly on Ilya’s curls. The growl that slipped from his partner’s lips pulled low in his stomach, nearly enough to make him turn the television off entirely. “You’re impossible.”
“I haven’t watched a movie since I was child,” Ilya said, melting further into Shane’s side and stretching his bare feet onto the coffee table. “What about action?”
“Like superheroes?” Shane teased, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth as Ilya tried to pluck the remote from his hand. He held it just out of reach. When Ilya changed tactics, sliding his hands beneath Shane’s thighs and tugging him onto his lap, Shane lifted the remote overhead, pointing it at the ceiling. “Was your first crush Wolverine or something?”
Ilya bucked his hips, abandoning the fight for the remote to nuzzle his lips against Shane’s neck instead. His tongue traced a small path beneath Shane’s jaw, teeth grazing skin. “Action like fast cars,” he murmured. “Beautiful women. Explosions.”
“Yeah?” Shane asked, breathless. It never ceased to surprise him how quickly Ilya’s touch tore down his defenses. How easily he surrendered control, despite spending his whole life trying to keep a tight hold on it. As fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, stealing what little upper hand he’d had, he nearly forgot what they’d been talking about. “Not really my thing.”
“No, of course not.” Ilya wrapped his hands around Shane’s thighs, dragging his gaze down. “You like practical cars and small fires.”
“Bonfires,” Shane corrected, but the fight was gone from his voice, replaced with a needy exhale as he settled deeper onto Ilya’s lap.
“Mm,” Ilya hummed, feigning interest, his accent smooth as honey from a spoon. “So, then, you would prefer—” He glanced over Shane’s shoulder. “What is this? A Quiet Place?”
Shane huffed a laugh. “I watched that last summer. It was good.”
“If you say so.” Ilya took the remote from Shane without resistance and clicked into the movie.
Within a few minutes, they’d reconfigured into a differently shaped knot, Shane’s legs slung over Ilya’s, their fingers threaded together, their heads resting on the same cushion. Behind the television, rain slid steadily down the glass, a dark, moving backdrop to the dimly lit cottage.
Though the movie was one of Shane’s favorites, he paid it little attention. Instead, he found himself studying Ilya’s reactions, whether he was enjoying it, bored, unsettled. In the beginning, reading him had felt impossible. Shane had lost sleep trying to decipher how Ilya felt, what he left unsaid. Months stretched into years, and slowly he’d learned what the twitch of an eyebrow meant, the tightening of a jaw, the set of his shoulders. Small, private windows into Ilya’s mind.
Reading people had never been his strong suit. A weakness he’d recognized young and worked hard to conceal. For the most part, he’d succeeded. With Ilya, it had always been harder, but God, if he wasn’t enjoying the payoff.
“I learned a little sign language when I was younger,” Shane admitted quietly, watching as the actor on-screen spoke in gestures to his daughter.
Ilya tilted his chin up, eyes soft. “Why?”
“A neighbor,” Shane said, a memory of a red-haired boy next door coming back to him. “He was deaf. I wanted to say hello. My mom, uh, she got me a few lessons. Not much stuck, but I remember some things.”
“Like what?” The weight of Ilya’s full attention warmed his chest. He loosened his grip on Shane’s hand. “Show me.”
“This is Ilya,” Shane murmured into his curls, shaping the letters above their outstretched legs.
Ilya copied the motions, brow furrowing in concentration. “So you spell everything?”
“Not exactly.” Shane searched his memory, something old and half-forgotten drifting back in pieces. “Some words have their own signs. Like—” He formed an L with his hand, opening and closing his fingers like a beak. “That’s bird.”
Ilya did the same. “Is easy.”
Shane laughed, wrapping his hand around Ilya’s mid-gesture and lifting it to his lips, pressing a kiss to his thumb. He’d won countless medals and trophies, titles, games, but he’d never known a reward as sweet as this. Being here with Ilya. Sharing a glimpse of what life could be like.
Two weeks alone would never be enough, but it was more than they’d ever had before, an eternity compared to a near-decade of rushed meetings and hushed admissions. As if Ilya had slipped inside his thoughts and pulled the words straight from his chest, he murmured, “This is easy, too.”
“It’s about time,” Shane said softly, finding Ilya’s hazel gaze as they turned toward each other, faces hovering inches apart. He traced a gentle line along Ilya’s jaw, waiting for an argument. None came.
“Show me another,” Ilya whispered, brushing his lips against Shane’s cheek.
“Okay, uh—” Shane closed his eyes, thinking. But the only images that surfaced were Ilya: on the dock, by the fire, in his bed. Hands on his chest, roaming and greedy. The scent of leather and bergamot. The surprise on his face when Shane had spoken his first name for the first time, catching them both off guard. Ilya at his hospital bedside after the last game, relief mingling with morphine until Shane had wondered if he was dreaming.
It was impossible to think of anything else when Ilya’s clothes filled his hamper, his soap sat on the shower ledge, a half-smoked cigarette rested on the stones by the water. He was everywhere, and Shane didn’t want it to end.
So when he extended his thumb, index, and pinky, curling the other fingers into his palm, Shane pointed at Ilya. The pounding beneath his ribs might have given him away, the weight of what he’d just signed sitting heavy on his tongue since they’d pulled up to the cottage. Longer than that, even. Longer than he wanted to admit.
Ilya stared at his hand, eyes narrowing. “What does that mean?”
“It’s nothing,” Shane said quickly, dropping his hand. He was grateful for the dim light that hid the warmth creeping into his cheeks. “Hello, or something. I don’t know exactly.”
“It was similar to how you spelled Ilya,” he noted, mimicking the gestures. “I-L-Y.”
“Mhm,” Shane mumbled, reaching for the remote. For all the bravado and confidence, Ilya was sharper than he let on, observant to a degree that baffled Shane. How the hell had he made that connection? The room suddenly felt too warm, too small. He shoved the fleece blanket off their legs, thoughts swimming with how near Ilya had come to the truth. “I need some air. You need some air? A smoke, or something?”
Ilya’s eyes narrowed. “You have never offered me to smoke. What happened to it’s bad for you, Ilya, don’t do that, Ilya, you’ll ruin your lungs, Ilya?”
But Shane was already heading for the patio door, tugging it open. A gust of wind and cool rain swept through the room, and he welcomed it. He called over his shoulder, words tumbling out fast and clumsy. “Whatever. It’s summer.”
The sound of Ilya’s footsteps followed, but Shane didn’t turn. Not until arms slid around his waist. “It’s pouring,” Ilya said against his ear. “You want to get wet, Hollander?”
The insinuation tugged at Shane’s mouth, his panic easing as he melted back into Ilya’s chest. “Why not?”
“Let’s go, then.” Ilya stepped around him, catching his hand. “Plenty of air out here.”
“Ilya,” Shane tugged him back, already regretting his earlier panic. “Stay in here.”
But Ilya only grinned, wide and playful, and it was suddenly obvious why he hadn’t watched a movie since he was a child. He couldn’t sit still that long. Tightening his grip, Ilya pulled Shane into the storm, laughing as rain soaked his curls. Across the deck, through the lawn, until they reached the water’s edge, rain hammering against its inky surface.
Without warning, Ilya let go of Shane just long enough to tug his shirt over his head, then his sweatpants, leaving them in a wet heap in the grass.
“It’s dangerous,” Shane blurted, already bracing for the reaction. When Ilya rolled his eyes, he added, “Don’t go too far.”
“You think I am going alone?” Ilya shook his head, and Shane was already objecting when Ilya’s hands found the hem of his shirt, lifting it away. The air was still warm despite the storm, the cool rain a welcome contrast. Wrong, maybe, but undeniably good. And Ilya had always been good at that. Convincing Shane to loosen his grip on caution, to follow impulse and worry about consequences later.
Resigned and unable to resist the gleam in Ilya’s hazel eyes, Shane followed suit, kicking his sweatpants aside. The thrill crept into his voice as he muttered, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“I can’t believe you’re doing it so slowly,” Ilya teased, already wading ahead. The water rippled around his hips as he moved deeper, his silhouette blurred by the rain, the distant lights of the cottage just enough to outline him.
Nerves, or the fear of losing him, propelled Shane after him, teeth chattering from the cold. His body adjusted within seconds, and when Ilya pressed a hungry kiss to his lips, heat bloomed through him, chasing away every chill. “It’s not going to be the same without you here,” he whispered, voice low, almost strangled with need.
“More peaceful?” Ilya’s crooked smile was wicked, hands sliding down Shane’s chest to his abs. “Less food to cook?”
“No. None of that.” Shane pressed closer, skin slick against slick, words tumbling out too fast to stop. “I want to cook for you all summer. Every morning. Pick up your dirty socks. Learn everything about you. I just—”
Ilya cut him off with a fierce kiss, teeth grazing, tongue sliding against his in sharp, teasing strokes. His hands slipped under Shane’s thighs, lifting him with effortless strength to press him flush against his hips. The water made them feel weightless, but the friction of skin against skin, the slick drag of their bodies, made everything feel hotter. The relentless rain hammered down around them, but all Shane could feel was Ilya, the taut muscles beneath his touch, the closeness of him, the way he responded to every subtle shift.
Shane’s words came again, broken and desperate. “Ilya, I—” He pushed wet curls from his forehead, blinking rain from his lashes. “I’m going to miss you.”
Ilya’s expression darkened, serious, almost dangerous. “This cottage… I am glad you invited me,” he murmured, lips brushing Shane’s jaw, teeth grazing the skin. “But I think it will ruin me.”
Shane swallowed hard. “Ruin you?”
“When I am in Russia and you are here,” Ilya whispered, pressing his chest against Shane’s, grinding their hips together, tugging firmly at the underside of Shane’s thighs, “and we are alone, a thousand miles apart, I will be ruined. Before, I could manage. Now…” He thrust forward, hips rolling into Shane’s hardness, eliciting a sharp groan. “It will be far less easy.”
Shane’s breath hitched. “Does that mean you’ll miss me, too?”
Ilya guided them toward a rock jutting from the lake, pressing Shane back against it. The cold stone was nothing compared to the fire Ilya ignited as his mouth traced a line up Shane’s stomach, teeth tugging gently at sensitive skin. “You need to hear me say it?”
“Yes,” Shane gasped, gripping Ilya’s shoulders.
Ilya’s hands slipped into the waistband of Shane’s boxers, tugging them down into the water. “I’m going to miss you, Shane,” he murmured, lips pressing hot, teasing kisses over every inch of Shane’s sensitive skin. “I’m going to miss this…” His fingers brushed against Shane’s length, languid, teasing, exploring. “…and this.”
Shane groaned, unable to form objections, heat pooling through him. “So good, Ily.”
Ilya lowered himself further, mouth and hands claiming Shane with an unrelenting hunger, each movement slick and urgent under the rain, drowning out the world until only them, only desire, existed. A small, cautious voice at the back of Shane’s mind reminded him that they weren’t truly alone, fishing boats, nearby cottages, but it was impossible to think about anyone else. Ilya’s tongue glided over the underside of his length, generous and thorough, and all rational thought slipped away, replaced by a hot, aching pressure that consumed him.
“I—” Those three words were trying to escape for a final time, pleading, but Shane gripped Ilya’s hair and forced them back down. Focusing on the feeling, his touch, this moment, until they faded to the back of his throat. “I’m going to—”
Ilya’s fingers traced Shane’s neck, circled his jaw, thumb slipping between his lips. Shane sucked hard, matching Ilya’s tempo, desperate for some outlet to quiet the cry building in his chest. His mind went blank, dizzy with the most primal of urges, body teetering on the edge of surrender. In these moments, he felt untamed, a version of himself that only existed here, with Ilya.
“Oh fuck,” Shane curled forward, palms pressed into Ilya’s head as stars pricked the edges of his vision. The water splashed around them, cold against their heated skin, and Ilya’s lips curved into a playful, teasing smile as he leaned over Shane, pinned back on the rock, bracing his arms on either side.
“That was—”
“Fun, out here,” Ilya murmured, brushing rain from Shane’s cheek. “How close did you say the next cottage is?”
A breathless laugh escaped Shane. “A kilometer or so, give or take.”
“Good.” Ilya helped Shane ease off the stone. “Unless they have binoculars. Then, not as good.”
The rain had softened to a drizzle, clouds parting around the moon, though Shane only noticed when pale light spilled over the lake. “We should go in.”
“And watch boring movie?” Ilya rested his chin on Shane’s shoulder from behind him, holding him still.
“I knew it.” Shane reached behind him and pinched the first patch of skin he could find. “I knew you didn’t like it.”
“I like you,” Ilya said, nudging Shane toward the shore. “If you want to finish quiet movie, we can. Or you can finish me, and I can finish you, and then you let me pick the next one.”
Shane would’ve let Ilya put on a ten-hour nature documentary at this point. There was little he wouldn’t do for him, as something tight pressed against his ribs, tying his lungs in a knot. God, why couldn’t he just bite his tongue? There it was again, the admission he so desperately wanted to make, threatening to spoil everything. What would Ilya do if he said it? Brush it aside? Pretend he hadn’t heard? Or worse, know, but deny him the reciprocity he craved like the very breath he drew?
“Ilya, wait.” Shane grabbed his hand as they reached the shore, heart hammering louder than the distant thunder rolling north, mouth dry, ears ringing. “I…” He bit the inside of his cheek, swallowing hard. “I don’t care what we watch.”
If Ilya noticed the hesitation, he didn’t comment. “Perfect. Because I want to watch you.”
A sharp flash of memory, a hotel room, glass of vodka, a soft bed, pulled Shane from the fog of his mind with a sharp tug. Heat pooled low, a familiar ache stirring, and he didn’t hesitate. Eager, ready, he grabbed his discarded clothes and chased Ilya inside.
Maybe tomorrow.