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June 2009 – Los Angeles
“Shane, could you move a little closer to Ilya, please?”
Ilya felt Shane Hollander’s arm lightly brush against his own as he followed the photographer’s instructions obediently.
“That’s perfect. All right, smile, boys.”
The bright flashes of the cameras hit him suddenly, but he realised this was something he was going to have to get used to. Standing in between Hollander and some American player, he knew he was beginning his new life. A life in the NHL, and a life of competing against Shane Hollander. This was now his second victory, being drafted first, but he only longed for more.
Ilya wasn’t familiar with most of the other young players at the draft, although he recognised a couple faces from the World Junior’s a few months prior. He had mostly kept up with NHL teams, considering which players may become his future teammates. He always tended to focus on the future; his past and present weren’t particularly satisfying to him. But he had kept up with Shane Hollander. They were both the captains of their respective teams, leading both to the championship this season. They were both league and playoff MVPs. The only rookie on his level, Ilya had thought smugly, almost as good as him.
“Congratulations”, Hollander said politely as he stretched out his arm and offered a handshake.
Accepting with a smug grin, Ilya responded, “Thank you.” He patted the smaller boy on his shoulder. Hollander had a couple months on him in age, and was fairly muscular and broad for an eighteen-year-old, but Ilya easily had four inches on him in height. Hollander quickly pulled away from his touch, and was whisked away by the flurry of staff.
Ilya had been drafted by the Boston Bears, one of the more aggressive, competitive teams in the NHL. Suited his style, he thought. His father had travelled with him from Moscow to see the draft, but he felt little pride or comfort from him. As his eyes travelled around the busy room, he glanced over at the Montreal Voyageurs GM, speaking with their number two draft pick, Hollander, flanked by his loving parents. He quickly diverted his eyes back to his own conversation, trying to ignore the twinge of jealousy in his heart. His father’s English was poor, even compared to his own, but he managed to hold conversation with the Bears GM okay. Ilya had studied English determinedly once he realised he could have a future in the NHL, but hockey came naturally and English did not. His ears pricked up when he recognised familiar, cutting words leaving his father’s mouth.
“My son will need discipline. He can be… lazy”
He stared down blankly, feeling that frequent feeling of hurt that occurred in most exchanges with his father. He could hardly focus enough to take in the praises sung from the mouth of the Bears boss in return. He went to respond, to promise his hard work and loyalty to his new team, but his father glared and muttered in Russian before he could get the words out. He just hung his head quietly.
After an overwhelming and exhausting day, Ilya had assumed sleep would come quickly as he lay alone in his hotel room. But, as with all success in his life so far, he was kept awake by lingering loneliness and disappointment. It was late here, but in Moscow it was mid-morning, and he was yet to receive a message of congratulations from anyone in Russia. He hadn’t really expected it, he wasn’t one to make friends with his teammates, and his brother would rather die than speak a kind word to him, but it still stung. He would be glad to leave Russia behind, but the lack of love he felt from his own home still hurt. In a desperate plea for distraction, he left his blank phone in his hotel room and left in search for the hotel gym.
Despite initially wishing for solitude, he wasn’t upset to find there was one other guest in the gym when he arrived. He recognised the broad shoulders and dark hair immediately: Shane Hollander. He hadn’t noticed Ilya when he walked in, but for some strange reason Ilya wanted his attention. He got onto the treadmill directly beside him, and offered him a quick nod as he set the machine to the same pace, a steady jog.
After a peaceful minute or two, Ilya decided to let his competitive nature take over. He increased the speed on his machine, so he was running just noticeably faster than Hollander. Within a few seconds, Hollander increased his speed, now faster than Ilya’s. As he increased his own again, Ilya couldn’t help but let a slight smirk appear on his face.
Their silent battle continued, until the both of them were at an uncomfortable sprint pace. His body fought against him, but his stubborn brain knew he had to keep up his winning streak against Shane Hollander. After another minute or two of heavy breathing and sprinting, Hollander hit his machine’s emergency stop button and stumbled towards the back wall. Feeling the swelling of pride and the ache of his body, Ilya stopped his own machine and held onto the console for support until he had steadied himself.
“Fuck,” he heard from the exasperated mouth across the room. Ilya couldn’t help but laugh as he sat on the floor facing him. They both sat with their legs sprawled out in front of them, his sneakers almost touching Hollander’s ankle as his eyes unconsciously followed up his muscular calf.
Ilya ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, attempting to keep his wet curls from falling into his eyes. Looking directly forwards now, he couldn’t help but noticed the beads of sweat glistening on the other man’s face, highlighting his dark freckles. He was so cute, he thought instantly before attempting to erase it from his mind.
“What a fucking day, huh?” Ilya said to distract himself.
“Yeah. Totally.”
“Everything you dreamed of?”
His dark eyes stared back at him fiercely, “Almost.”
He couldn’t help but grin. “Sorry I ruined your big day.”
“Fuck off.” The words were meant to cut, but Ilya found his attempted aggression endearing.
“Montreal is nice, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Is Boston nice?” He hoped that Hollander wouldn’t noticed his slight nervousness in asking. Ilya had been so focused on getting into the NHL, leaving Russia, moving on, that he’d only just began to grapple with the reality that he was moving alone to a country he’d only visited once, to a city he knew almost nothing about.
“Sure. Yeah. I’ve only been there a couple of times, but it’s a good town.” He wasn’t sure if the response comforted him or not, but he nodded anyway.
They were silent a moment, and then almost without thinking, he tapped Hollander’s ankle with the bottom of his sneaker. “Hey. We will see a lot of each other.”
It took him a minute to reply. “Oh. Yeah. Montreal and Boston play against each other a lot.”
“Should be interesting.” For years, Ilya had dreamed of playing in the NHL. He was excited to play every team, to play alongside great players, to win. But right now, all he could think about was being on the ice against Shane Hollander.
He took a long swig from his water bottle, and only noticed as he pulled away that the man was staring at him. Initially, he wondered whether he was watching the way he held it in his mouth, the way his throat moved as he swallowed, the way the water wet his lips. Until he realised that Hollander hadn’t brought his own water, and was probably just thirsty. He pushed his confusing thoughts away as he extended his arm out, offering him the bottle.
“Oh. I’m all right. Thanks.”
Ilya shook the bottle at him, and Hollander took it. He was just thirsty then, thirsty and polite.
The tips of their fingers touched briefly together. Hollander held the bottle away from his lips and quickly squirted water into his mouth. Ilya watched, thinking how he wouldn’t have minded if he sipped from the bottle, tasting Ilya’s sweat against his own mouth. He watched his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he drank, just as he’d imagined Hollander had watched his. He knew it was wrong to think like this; this man was his future rival. He’d accepted a while ago that he was attracted to men, but he had never expected to be this attracted to Shane Hollander.
Rather than pushing the thoughts away, he just watched closely as he relieved his thirst until he noticed him pull the bottle away from his face and stretch his arm back out towards him. As he took it back, Ilya allowed his fingers to brush along Hollander’s wrist, knowing this may be the closest he’d get to touching him. It was a quick touch, but he’d wished it to last forever. Maybe he wished to touch him elsewhere, to drag his fingers along his muscular chest and press his lips against his. Maybe he wished that he would open his mouth willingly, allowing him to lace their tongues together. Before he could continue thinking about what Hollander could do with his mouth, the man stood up.
“I’m going to bed. I guess I’ll...see you around, right?”
Ilya looked up at him from the floor. “You will be seeing plenty of me.”
As he listened to his footsteps slip away down the hall, he tried to grapple with his own emotions. Maybe he was just horny, he usually slept with women at least twice a week in Moscow, but it had been a few days now. Maybe he missed men, it had been a few months since his last encounter with his coach’s son in Russia. He was certain that this attraction would have no impact on his ability to compete with Hollander on the ice, but he couldn’t understand why he longed for his touch so much now.
As he slinked back into his own hotel room and got ready for his shower, he noticed he was half-hard thinking about the things that could happen between them. About things that could never happen between them. He let the warm water of the weak hotel shower flow down his chest and took his dick in his hand. He couldn’t help but think about those dark freckles, wet lips, tight calves. Ilya Rozanov rarely felt any shame surrounding his sexuality and promiscuity, but he couldn’t help but feel guilty for ending his NHL draft day jerking off, dreaming about Shane Hollander.