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Everyone had told Ilya to plan for something to go wrong. The first big event they’d ever organized, albeit with Yuna’s expert managerial skills, was bound to catch a snag at some point throughout the night. Yet, as the evening dwindled into its final hours, and maybe he ought to knock on wood before considering it so, the fundraiser had been a success.
The décor toed the line of glamour without appearing pretentious. The caterers served guests at intervals consistent enough to soak up the liquor from the open bar, keeping the crowd sober enough to behave but just loose enough to add an extra zero to their donation. The speeches they’d given were scripted without sounding stiff, and Ilya had managed to hold back the emotion that kept clogging his throat when he’d practiced in the mirror. Not to mention, there had to be over one hundred hockey players in the ballroom, a turnout neither of them had expected when they’d sent out an open invite to the league.
Soft jazz wove through the room, dulling the sounds of chatter from a crowd that had begun to grow sparse as guests made their way to the exit. And Ilya, who’d managed to resist until after his responsibilities as host had passed, was desperate for a tall drink and a conversation with his… business partner. A title he’d maintain until the remainder of the event, anyway. At the very least, it was better than calling Shane his rival.
“Great job, honey,” Yuna murmured, placing an arm in the crook of his elbow. Dressed in a sleek black dress with her dark waves pinned in a neat bun, she looked every bit the corporate weapon her reputation had built. Yet when she offered Ilya a soft smile and a light squeeze, he could only see the nurturing, kind woman he’d come to know. “I know that wasn’t easy. But what you two are doing is just amazing… and the turnout! Who would have thought? I don’t think there’s a single team in the league without at least one player here tonight.”
“I would have been fine without Buffalo players, but…” Ilya smirked, shrugging. “Is good, yes?”
“It’s very good,” Yuna nodded firmly. “Where’s Shane? I wanted to talk to him before you two snuck out. Which I don’t condone, by the way, but I could tell by that look in his eye over dinner…”
Ilya knew the look. The one that was growing a bit frantic, a little tired, like the noise and the conversation and the crowd were wearing him thin. “Yes. But we will have to leave separately, so…”
Yuna frowned. “Would it be so big of a deal if you left together?”
“You never know,” Ilya said, feeling a bit like a broken record, knowing those were Shane’s words on his tongue, not his own. At this point, he’d have crawled into the back of a cab with Shane, reputation be damned, but it was for that reason that he was glad he had Shane to keep him on track. To remind him of what they were protecting, of what they were building. “Last I spoke to him, he was going to bar.”
Yuna’s head turned to him on a swivel, wide-eyed, so similar to the look of surprise that Shane wore.
“Not to drink,” Ilya clarified. “To make sure they have not run out. And to give the team a tip.”
Understanding dawned over her delicate features. “Of course he was. What about you? I’d say you earned one.”
“Or two,” Ilya agreed, craning his neck to see past the swarm of hockey players in suits and wives in expensive dresses. If he was lucky, there wouldn’t be a line at the bar, and maybe he’d run into Shane, and maybe, if he was truly blessed, he’d be alone.
Dark hair, freckled cheeks, a shy smile.
His heart swelled at the sight, warmth blooming low in his chest, and it had been less than an hour since they’d last separated, but he could never get enough, could he?
But then the crowd shifted again, and Ilya realized he wasn’t alone. Shane was occupied in conversation.
“Who is that?” he said to Yuna, a bit sharper than he’d intended.
“Oh.” Yuna followed his gaze toward the bar, eyebrows tugging inward. “The one talking to Shane? He plays for the Canucks. Matthew Kafferty. A third-line defenseman. Wow, that’s quite a flight for him.”
Ilya was already wishing Matthew had saved himself the flight. In fact, he didn’t care if he’d donated ten thousand dollars. He’d gladly hand the cheque back himself. Because Shane’s smiles weren’t given out freely to anyone, but the third-line defenseman was being offered one like he’d earned it.
Not only that, but didn’t Shane notice how close this man was standing? That he’d angled himself against the bar in a way that left no space between them?
That his gaze was traveling a little too freely below the frame of Shane’s slightly wrinkled collar, over the broad line of his chest?
Ilya’s jaw tightened.
Was everyone so fucking oblivious but him?
Yuna patted him on the arm, just as oblivious as the rest of them. “I should go grab my son, Ilya. But I’ll see you next weekend, right? Dinner?”
He swallowed past the sour taste on his tongue, offering a stiff nod and a forced smile. “Cannot wait.”
-
It was past midnight by the time Ilya snuck into Shane’s apartment.
“Finally,” Shane murmured into the dark room, rubbing at his eyes while he shuffled out from around the corner. “I’ve been waiting for you. Did you really stick it out until the end?”
The suit had been replaced by a loose T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, and Ilya’s gaze traveled hungrily over every inch, down to where his toes were peeking out from beneath the length of the soft fabric. After an entire evening spent keeping a respectable distance, every cell of his body cried out for Shane beneath his fingers, his mouth. To hear him tell Ilya all the things they couldn’t in polite company.
“You didn’t even say bye,” Shane said, a slight pout in his tone as he closed the distance between them, tucking his head against Ilya’s chest and wrapping his arms around his back. “When’s your flight tomorrow?”
The scent of Shane’s shampoo filled his nose, and Ilya wanted to bury his face in it, inhale greedily until every sense belonged to his boyfriend.
“Ilya?” Shane asked, pulling away just far enough to meet his gaze, a flicker of concern behind his dark eyes, a line forming between his brows.
His bottom lip rolled between his teeth, trying and failing to bite back the comment that had been burning on his tongue since he’d last spotted Shane across the ballroom. “Matthew Kafferty wants to fuck you, yes?”
Shane stiffened, then took another, slightly wobbly step back. He reached to his side and flicked on the light, making Ilya wince as he hissed, “What the fuck, Ilya?”
“Matthew Kafferty,” he repeated. “Canucks defenseman. I looked up his stats. He is terrible, by the way. It is no surprise I did not know who he is.”
“Yeah, no, I know his fucking name,” Shane blinked hard. “But why did you say that? I mean, where did you even—”
“He wants to fuck you,” Ilya said, deadpan, over his shoulder on his way to the plush sofa in the living room. He fell back into the cushions, throwing an arm behind his head. “You did not notice?”
“You’re insane,” Shane stammered, following him into the living room, peering down like Ilya had grown an extra limb. If Ilya were being honest, he might have found the reaction a little adorable, were it not for the gnawing, irrational jealousy twisting in his gut that he was having a very hard time hiding.
“I am… what is word? Observant?” Ilya cocked his head. “Is no surprise. You are very handsome. Looked especially good tonight in that suit, all businessman-like.”
“I think I’d know if the guy I’d been talking to for years—”
Ilya’s cool facade slipped away like silk. “Years?”
“Yeah, sure,” Shane threw his hands up, starting to panic a little too. “Like friends! Talking! I don’t know!”
Vaguely aware that he was doing nothing to diminish Shane’s claim of insanity, Ilya sat forward, pinning him with a glare that could rival Medusa’s. “Talking about what?”
Lips parted, shut. Parted again, then closed. Finally, resolve settled over his boyfriend’s face, and he stomped out of the room.
Who the fuck did this Matthew Kafferty think he was? That he could play the long game with Shane? Ilya was well ahead of him, with no intention of calling it quits before they’d reached the finish line. Which was exactly what he was going to tell Shane when he came storming back in, phone in hand, dropping next to Ilya on the sofa with a grunt.
“Here.” Shane pushed his phone into Ilya’s hands. “Look. See for yourself.”
Ilya turned the screen toward himself, open to a chat between Shane and the defenseman. It felt wrong to want to peek through his boyfriend’s messages, but curiosity was a live wire, buzzing insistently. And anyway, Shane had handed it over. So really, what was the problem?
Ilya rolled his eyes, immediately recognizing the app. “Instagram, Shane?”
His voice wavered, hesitating. “What’s the big deal?”
“Friendly chats. For years. On Instagram.” Ilya glanced up at Shane, who looked… confused. Truly, honestly confused. Like they’d been sending cordial emails and not Instagram chats. And why did that make Ilya smile? A low, rich laugh slipped from his lips. “You really have no idea?”
“What?”
“Instagram is for… chatting, yes?” Ilya waggled his eyebrows. “But also, for, what do you call it? Sliding into DMs?”
“Asshole,” Shane pushed the phone closer, “I promise that Kafferty is straight, alright?”
“Okay.” Ilya was still grinning when he refocused on the screen, finding the latest message.
@Kafferty98: For a fundraiser, that was a pretty good time. :)
“He messaged you…” Ilya checked the timestamp, “…at 11:45 PM?”
This Kafferty guy had some nerve. Not that he knew Shane was going home with someone, but it was a clear way to announce he was awake, in the city, and, if Shane had answered, Ilya could bet any money he’d have subtly found a way to let his boyfriend know that.
Not that Shane would have picked up on it, which was becoming abundantly clear as Ilya scrolled back and found a video Kafferty had shared: a clip from Shane’s goal reel last season.
@Kafferty98: You’re making the rest of us look bad
Ilya raised his eyebrows, and Shane settled sheepishly back into the cushion. “He’s just being nice.”
To Ilya’s amusement, Shane’s responses were short and curt. The fact that Kafferty was even still trying was a testament to his patience, and Ilya found himself glad they’d stumbled into each other in the showers that day, and he hadn’t been forced to try and get Shane’s attention through social media. Because this, admittedly, was painful to witness.
He scrolled further back.
@Kafferty98: Did you see what happened to Rolland? This is why I keep my personal life private
“Shane,” Ilya murmured, low, “you read this message, you think… what?”
“That Rolland shouldn’t take a new girl out to dinner every week?” Shane replied, as if this was obvious. The news cycle that week had been vicious, painting Rolland as a playboy, a womanizer, but Ilya doubted that Kafferty was worried about that problem.
“Not at all interesting that he mentions his very private personal life?” Ilya said slowly, making sure Shane heard every word.
When Shane’s cheeks tinged red, giving no other indication that he’d internalized what Kafferty was trying to say, Ilya raised his eyebrows and turned back to the phone.
@Kafferty98: I know a great gym in Vancouver if your hotel one sucks
This time, Ilya was tempted to message Kafferty back himself. There was a ninety-percent chance the gym Kafferty was talking about was basically an extension of his home, and that this was a barely-veiled excuse to get Shane alone. But then his thumb swiped lower, and he bit back another laugh.
@ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Nope. Solid equipment here
@Kafferty98: Yeah? How solid?
Holy fuck. Did Shane even realize he was basically sexting this man?
@ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Bench press. Weights. Bike.
Nope.
@Kafferty98: Right. Enjoy!
“Shane,” Ilya said through a breathless laugh, “solid equipment?”
“What?” Shane grabbed the phone, rereading the texts from what Ilya hoped was a fresh perspective. “Oh. Oh my god, Ilya. No. You’re reading into it.”
“I am reading it,” Ilya replied. “And I’m pretty sure there’s more, yes?”
Before Shane could protest, Ilya plucked the phone from his hands, a small triumphant smile tugging at his lips as the image of Kafferty blatantly checking his boyfriend out at the fundraiser became slightly more palatable. Not only had Shane inadvertently shut this guy down, he hadn’t even considered the possibility that Kafferty had been flirting in the first place.
This might have been the best day of Ilya’s life.
@Kafferty98: Saw that hit. Are you holding up okay?
@ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Fine
@Kafferty98: Glad to hear it. Concussion recovery can be boring, though. Got anything to keep you busy?
@ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: Keeping up with the playoffs
@Kafferty98: Sucker for punishment? ;)
It was a blessing Shane hadn’t answered that one, because Ilya wasn’t sure he could take the direction that conversation might have gone.
“I think Kafferty is the sucker,” Ilya murmured, turning to press his lips to Shane’s neck. Something low and warm unfurled in his chest when Shane melted into him, head tipping back against the couch as Ilya’s hand skimmed over his chest in a possessive sweep.
Because he was feeling a little possessive, probably. Because he’d just been reminded that Shane was, indeed, a sucker for punishment, but only when it came from Ilya.
“Missed you,” Shane murmured, the DMs momentarily forgotten as he leaned greedily into the touch. “More.”
Teasing him over the thin fabric of his sweatpants, Ilya drew his hand over Shane’s growing length, slow and deliberate, waiting until Shane’s jaw ticked before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “But you like punishment, yes?”
“What?” Shane shifted closer, chasing him instinctively. “Ilya, come on.”
“I am going to read next one to you out loud, okay?” Ilya said, shifting away from Shane. The distance pained him almost as much as his boyfriend, but he had a point to make, and Shane still didn’t seem entirely convinced that Ilya was right.
“We’ve got, like, eight hours until you have to leave,” Shane groaned when Ilya left him alone on one side of the couch. “This is really how you want to spend it?”
Ilya glanced down at the phone, memorizing Kafferty’s message. “If Montreal would have me, I’d switch teams in a heartbeat.”
Shane’s nose crinkled. “I did think that one was a bit unethical.”
“Shane. Hollander.” Ilya stared at him, genuinely wondering how he’d missed the signs. “Switch teams? Have me? Kafferty was very much not talking about hockey.”
“God, no… I mean,” Shane brushed a hand over his face, and when it came away, he looked a little mortified. “You don’t actually think… what did I say?”
“You said,” Ilya glanced down, nearly choking as he read the response, “Don’t think it’s in the budget this year.”
Shane’s hand flew up to cover his mouth, eyes wide as saucers, and Ilya broke into laughter so hard it brought tears to his eyes.
“This whole time?” Shane winced, scrambling across the couch to grab the phone from Ilya’s hands. He frantically scrolled through the chat history, likely hunting for more evidence of his unintentional infidelity, when Ilya wrapped his arms around his hips and shifted him onto his lap, grunting at the pressure he’d been craving all evening.
“Poor Kafferty,” Ilya murmured, reaching between them to click the little button on the side of the phone that turned the screen off. Shane’s eyes lifted to meet his, filled with humiliation. Blushing was easy for him on a good day, but this was a full-on cherry-red canvas behind his freckles.
Feeling a flicker of sympathy, Ilya wrapped a hand behind Shane’s neck and drew him forward for a warm, brief kiss. The first of the night, and one he’d nearly forgotten how much he’d wanted. Against his lips, he murmured, “What did he say to you? Tonight?”
“I don’t want to tell you,” Shane muttered, leaning back in for another kiss.
Ilya pressed a finger gently to his lips.
Shane whispered, dropping his forehead to Ilya’s shoulder, his voice soft against his skin. “He said thehotelswerefull.”
Ilya narrowed his eyes. “Slower.”
“He said,” Shane took a breath, “That the hotels were full. That he’d have to drive outside the city to get a room.”
“Brave,” Ilya smirked. “And what did you say?”
“That he’d better get going,” Shane groaned. Noticing that Ilya’s shoulders were shaking, he muttered, “Stop laughing.”
“I am sorry,” Ilya ran his fingers through Shane’s hair, murmuring against his head, “It is bad if I say I am flattered you do not even notice when boys flirt with you?”
“How could I?” Shane looked up at him, and there was real, genuine adoration shining through his dark eyes, “I’ve already got everything I need.”