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Ilya Rozanov had been thinking about Shane Hollander and his pretty freckles for hours, all day even. No, that was a lie. He’d been thinking about Shane Hollander and his pretty freckles ever since the Canadian boy had first approached him, held out his hand and introduced himself. From that very moment, Ilya had been plagued with thoughts of the beautiful boy, unable to get him out of his mind.
It had been a risk, organising the shoot between himself and Hollander, and making his attraction so abundantly clear in the shower. But Ilya’s instincts had been correct. Shane Hollander definitely wanted him too. And so Ilya was going to knock on Hollander’s door at nine o’clock and finally do all the things he was desperate to do to the hockey world’s golden boy.
Truth be told, he was a little nervous. He had plenty of experience himself, but he suspected the same could not be said for Hollander. He probably had little experience with girls and Ilya was confident he had no experience with other men. Ilya did not want for Hollander’s first experience with a man to be bad, or something to regret. He wanted to take care of Hollander, make it good enough to ensure Hollander would want a second experience with him. The pressure was intense, almost making it feel like it was Ilya’s first time.
Stepping onto the elevator, he pressed the button to Hollander’s floor and leaned against the hand rail, letting out a breath. The doors were just about to close when a woman quickly stepped in. Recognising her as Shane Hollander’s mother, Ilya tensed up.
“Oh,” she gasped in slight surprise as the elevator doors closed behind her. “Hello,” she greeted extending her hand, in much the same way her son had when they’d first met. “I’m Yuna Hollander.”
“Hello,” Ilya replied awkwardly gently shaking her hand. “You are Shane’s mother, yes?”
“I am,” she answered proudly and Ilya smiled weakly.
“I am Ilya Rozanov,” he told her, though of course she already knew. “Is nice meeting you,” he was sure he fumbled the translation slightly and felt a little embarrassed, but she took it with good grace.
“Nice to meet you too, Mr. Rozanov,” Yuna responded.
Ilya grimaced slightly. Being called ‘Mr. Rozanov’ by a woman whose son he was planning to fuck felt very strange and uncomfortable.
“I’m just heading up to Shane’s room. Reebok want to shoot a new commercial,” she boasted slightly.
“Wow, exciting,” Ilya replied awkwardly, his accent coming out thicker due to his nerves.
“Are your parents around at all?” Yuna asked curiously. “It would be lovely to meet them.”
“No, is just… is just me,” Ilya answered her, stressing about what he was going to do and how he was supposed to visit Hollander in his room when his mother was planning to head there too. In that moment, he decided that he hated Reeboks. “What is happened?” he asked as the elevator came to a sudden halt, his stomach lurching from the unexpected movement.
“Oh no,” Yuna sighed. “The elevator’s broken down.”
“Is broken?” Ilya’s eyes widened in panic.
Yuna pressed the emergency call button on the control panel. It took a couple of buzzes before a voice answered her. She explained they were trapped in the elevator and the voice on the other end assured her they were sending somebody out urgently. They were given an estimated wait time of forty-five minutes.
“Forty-five minutes?” Ilya repeated in disbelief.
“I’m sure they’ll be here sooner,” Yuna replied taking out her phone. Ilya started listening when he realised she was talking to Shane. “Actually I’m stuck in the elevator with Rozanov if you can believe it.”
Ilya breathed a small sigh of relief. At least Hollander was aware of where he was and wouldn’t think he’d stood him up. But the relief was short lived as he glanced around the elevator. It suddenly looked far too small. He could feel the walls closing in on him. His legs started to shake, and he dropped down, sitting on the floor and rocking back and forth.
“Rozanov, are you ok?” Yuna asked gently as she stood over him.
“I… no… I forget English word,” Ilya continued rocking, Yuna’s expression growing increasingly concerned. “Small place… it makes me very…”
“Oh,” Yuna looked surprised, but she crouched down to his level, trying to comfort him. “You’re claustrophobic.”
“This is not how night was supposed to go,” Ilya complained.
“It’s ok,” Yuna settled herself more comfortably on the elevator floor. “Everything’s going to be fine,” she soothed, running a hand through Ilya’s curls. He tensed at first but then relaxed into the maternal touch. “How was this night supposed to go?” she asked, trying to distract him from the situation. “Is there a pretty girl involved?” she guessed.
“Very pretty,” Ilya answered, gripping at the necklace around his throat. Somehow, he didn’t think he’d feel any calmer by confiding in Yuna that the ‘pretty girl’ was in fact her beloved son, Shane Hollander.
“A girlfriend?” Yuna asked.
“No… not really… is just… tonight was supposed to…” Ilya didn’t know how to have this conversation. He should not have this conversation. He looked around the elevator, wondering if he could punch his way through the walls or force the doors open himself.
“Hey, hey, look at me,” Yuna seemed to sense his growing panic. “Look at me,” she repeated calmly, taking his hands in hers. “Take a nice deep breath… in and out… in and out,” she instructed.
“In… out… in… out,” Ilya breathed. Of course he had hoped to have had his cock thrusting in and out of Hollander’s asshole by now, not being coached through breathing exercises by Hollander’s mother.
“Very good,” Yuna praised and Ilya blinked at her, unsure how to handle a genuine sounding compliment from an adult. “Now tell me more about this pretty girl. What does she look like?”
“Um…” Ilya should probably lie and describe a girl who looked the complete opposite of Shane. “Dark hair,” idiot, “lovely freckles,” stupid idiot, “is scar on shoulder,” stupid fucking idiot.
“A scar?” Yuna asked, seeming surprised but not looking as though she was making the connection to her own son.
“Yes,” Ilya replied uneasily. “I do not know what from… maybe one day I will ask… If I don’t die in here first.”
“Relax, we are not going to die in here, somebody is already on their way to get us out,” Yuna told him calmly. “You must have started playing hockey when you were very young,” she changed the conversation topic. “When did your parents realise how talented you are?”
“My mother she… she loved to skate,” Ilya answered. “She would take my brother, Alexi, and me. He was older… did not like it so much.”
“But you fell in love with it,” Yuna guessed.
“Being on ice… it felt… felt free,” Ilya told her. “Others would be afraid to fall… I did not mind… was never scared of falling down.”
“Does your mother play hockey?” Yuna asked curiously.
“No,” Ilya answered quietly. “She just skated.”
“She doesn’t skate anymore?” Yuna wondered. “Did she have an injury…?”
“Dead,” Ilya stated bluntly, eyes downcast as he clutched at his necklace.
“Oh, oh, I’m so sorry,” Yuna apologised, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Did she pass recently?”
“I was twelve,” Ilya murmured and Yuna squeezed his shoulder tighter. “I found her.”
“You poor boy,” Yuna said sadly.
Ilya swallowed thickly, feeling tears threaten to spill from his eyes but having no way to hide them from this woman. He looked around the small space of the elevator (had it decreased in height and width somehow?) before focusing his gaze back to Hollander’s mother. His vision was blurred. For a wild moment, he worried he was losing his sight. But then as he blinked he realised the tears he had been trying to ignore had in fact fallen.
“Sorry,” he apologised, hastily wiping them away from his face, ashamed.
“Ssh, ssh, it’s ok,” Yuna soothed, stroking his arm gently. “It’s ok to cry.”
“Russian men do not cry,” Ilya commented, using the same stern tone his father had the day he’d discovered his mother’s unmoving body.
For a moment, the woman wasn’t looking at him like he was hockey player, Ilya Rozanov, her own son’s greatest rival. The way she looked at him, it made him feel like a lost little child. She looked so sad for him, and then her hand was running through his curls. A mother’s hand. Not his mother. It could never be his mother. But the touch was unmistakably maternal, something that had been painfully absent from Ilya’s life for so long. He leaned in to her touch, feeling small and safe in her arms as she embraced him. He briefly wondered if this was how Yuna would hold Shane. Perhaps comforting him after a nightmare or reassuring him that he did not need to be afraid of the dark. Ilya of course had no idea if a younger Shane was scared of the dark or not, but he seemed the type. Probably scared of clowns too.
“It’s ok,” Yuna soothed. “We’ll be out of here soon.”
Closing his eyes, he found there was something familiar about her perfume. It may have been similar to something his own mother had once wore. Or maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him. Either way, the scent was comforting. Some kind of lavender. He made a mental note to find a lavender scented candle or air-freshener or something.
“I hate elevators,” Ilya declared. “Next time I am taking stairs.”
“Yes, I think I will too,” Yuna laughed lightly.
“Is too small,” Ilya complained, gesturing to the space of the elevator. “I feel… feel suffocating… difficult to breathe.”
“It won’t be much longer now,” Yuna told him. “Just stay calm. Do you want to talk about your mother some more? Or the pretty girl you were going to see?”
“…Shane,” Ilya said tentatively. “Tell me stories of Shane. First time… first time on ice? Perfect straight away, yes?”
“Well not exactly,” Yuna smiled fondly at the memory. “He fell down almost immediately,” she confided. “But he got straight back up. It didn’t matter how many times he fell down. And he fell down a lot at first. But he always got back up and carried on skating. He loved it. Then a few weeks later when was stable and confident on the ice, David gave him his very first hockey stick.”
“David… this is Shane’s father, yes?” Ilya asked.
“Yes, he played hockey for McGill,” Yuna informed him and Ilya nodded as if he had any idea what that meant. “Shane took to hockey instantly,” she beamed proudly. “We got him playing on a proper team as soon as he was old enough. I look forward to watching him win the cup one day.”
“I think Shane will probably win more than one,” Ilya admitted. “Never tell him I said this,” he adds quickly.
“My lips are sealed,” Yuna promises.
The elevator shifted and the lights flickered.
“Oh fuck,” Ilya swore.
“It’s ok, it’s ok,” Yuna told him.
There was some more banging and clanging before the doors opened. Ilya got out as quick as humanly possible.
“Thank you I will… I will take stairs now,” Ilya said.
“I’ll join you,” Yuna followed him, looping her arm around Ilya’s elbow. “Are you feeling ok?” she checked as they began climbing up.
“Yes… I am much better… thank you,” Ilya replied awkwardly, still wondering how he was supposed to sneak into Hollander’s hotel room.
They made the rest of the way up the stairs in silence, Yuna stopping outside room 1410.
“Well, I need to go and tell Shane the good news about Reebok,” Yuna said.
“Ok,” Ilya fidgeted with his fingers.
“And you’re going to go and meet the pretty girl, right?” Yuna asked. “What was her name?”
“Is Jane,” Ilya improvised.
“Well, you and Jane have fun. Tell her I said ‘hi,” Yuna said.
“Ok,” Ilya fidgeted with his fingers some more. “Bye, bye,” he mumbled before slowly carrying on down the corridor, wondering where he could hide to wait for Yuna to leave so he could get into 1410.
“Oh, and Mr. Rozanov,” Yuna called after him. “Montreal are going to crush Boston.”
XXX
At long last, Ilya was able to come out of his hiding spot and knock on Hollander’s door, albeit later than they’d planned.
“Your mother says ‘hi’,” Ilya told him. “And that we should have fun.”
“What?” Hollander stared at him in bemusement.
“She thinks you are pretty girl named Jane,” Ilya shrugged as he removed his jacket and pressed Hollander up against the wall, hands roaming all over him.
“Can’t believe you got stuck in an elevator together,” Hollander commented.
“Bad luck… but is ok,” Ilya claimed. “Your mother was scared, but I was very comforting.”
“I know that’s not what happened,” Hollander replied.
“Stop talking,” Ilya commanded, taking a gentle hold of Hollander’s jaw and searching his eyes, making sure the other boy wanted it.
“This is a bad idea,” Hollander whispered and Ilya grinned before crushing their lips together.