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Ilya knew he wasn’t meant to be here. It wasn’t like he was breaking the rules or something, he’s allowed to be on the property, just not where he is.
Or really, where he’s going.
In fact, if you were to look at his actual schedule, he was supposed to leave this part of the state 48 hours ago, but…no one’s counting right? The Raiders didn’t spontaneously combust when he used to skive off from them despite being captain - he sure Ottawa can deal without him for another day or two.
After all, he has plans. Well meaning, well thought out plans, if being well thought out is leaving it to your boyfriend to make the plans and just tell you where to find everything in his home arena.
Ah, yes, speaking of which-
He quickly crams his hand into the nearby letterbox, wincing as his wrist gets a little stuck before his fingers curl around something cool and metallic. Fishing it out, he’s rewarded with the master keys, quickly sneaking them into his pocket and bolting into the shadows before the janitor or the Zamboni guy can see him, back pressed against the wall as he finds his way around to the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Eventually, he reaches the annex, slightly winded despite the several day reprieve he’s had since his last game, but all of that falls away when he sees a familiar shadow sitting at a desk in a small office with glass lined walls, a wooden door with an electronic lock to the side. Inside, the figure is typing away with his back turned towards it, seemingly unknowing of what’s to come.
The blonde can’t help but grin.
Slowly walking up to said door, he makes his foot falls quite loud on the shiny concrete, pausing when he sees the other person pause briefly before going back to their typing - it’s clear though that they have heard him, especially from the twitch in their leg, which Ilya can see vaguely as he finally closes the distance and unlocks the door with almost no sound, pushing it open and letting himself in before he shut it, his back and shoulders against it before he’s turning and going straight into a lean that some of his social media followers have dubbed “Booktok guy”, a smirk or plastered on his face as he catches the eye (and frown) of the man at the desk.
“You’re late.”
“Is not that late.”
“I said 11 o’clock. It’s 11:45.”
“Still-“ Ilya shrugged. “Am here.”
“Mr Rozanov, I don’t think I have to explain to you the concept of punctuality, but if you need another refresher, I’m sure I have the notes from my team’s current season-“
Ilya simply made a scoffing noise in the back of his throat. “Is very formal title you are referring to me with, Mr Hollander.”
“That’s Coach Hollander to you, Ilya.” Shane sat there, his glasses perched on his nose as he stared the younger man down. 20 years his junior (god, Shane doesn’t want to admit turning into Scott Hunter and cradle robbing a younger man, but here he is) and he was still one of the most cocky assholes he ever met in his whole life, which says a lot given the fact he’s been in the hockey sphere from the time he could walk. Most of the cockiness runs out after rookie season, but with Ilya, it simply just seems that he is just destined to be that way forever.
He’s sure that by the end of the season that Ilya will have given him more grey hair in his own team has.
Speaking of Ilya, the man practically waltzes over and and settles himself between Shane and his laptop, asscheeks practically digging into the edge of the desk as he smiles down at where the elder man has lent back in his seat, a neutral expression on his face.
Ilya can see right through it. In a split second, Shane’s laptop closes itself before Ilya is kneeling on his lap, hands pinning Shane’s hands above his head and grabbing his glasses with his teeth to pull them off his face as Shane fake balks.
“Hey, that’s not fair! You can’t treat the staff like this!”
A warm chuckle emerges from Ilya’s chest and settles in the air around them as he lets it out, voice dropping to a lower octave then he normally uses. “Oh, I think I know how the staff likes to be treated after all this time.”
His delight practically bubbled to the surface as he watched Shane paint himself pink in response, Ilya’s knee slipping a little as Shane opened his lap wider, Ilya’s hands moving from his arms to palm Shane’s chest while Shane’s hands - calloused from years of holding a hockey stick before you ever picked up a pen - wrap around his waist, fingers digging into the small of Ilya’s back and drawing out a moan from the younger man.
“Someone’s eager.”
“You try fucking old man who picked you up during rookie season and not break hip. Makes you very eager.”
“My hips are in perfect condition, thank you.”
“Okay, Mister CEO.”
“Jesus, Ilya, CEO? You make me sound like a fucking sugar daddy.”
“Nyet-“ Ilya grinds against him, already starting to run out of breath, again. “-but maybe you give me some sugar, daddy?”
Shane snaps forward at that, hips digging into the valley between Ilya’s legs as he noses the column of his throat with a hungry noise. “You’re gonna kill me. I’m gonna have a heart attack before I retire.”
“‘Voyager’s coach dies of sexual heart attack’, sounds like American story by line.” Ilya laughs breathlessly before he’s swallowed by Shane’s mouth, teeth gnashing and lips swelling as Ilya’s hands run through the salt and pepper strands underneath them, Shane’s hands reach up under Ilya’s muscle tank to squeeze his pecs, thumbs circling the nipples as Ilya ruts against him.
By the time Ilya makes it back to Ottawa, his teammates are slightly pissed, but welcoming nevertheless when he finally joins them at their home bar for a drink. Of course, that all changes when he walks in and there is a tonne of hickeys sitting at the base of his throat like a necklace, setting off a healthy amount of wolf whistles as he makes his way over.
“Dude-“ Bood says, discussed and impressed in good measure. “-what freaky ass chick do that to you?”
Ilya just takes a careful sip of his beer, smirking. “Was not just any girl. Was Jane, of course.”
“Shit, remind me never to get on her bad side. Fuck me, Rozy, you need to introduce us sometime.”
“Eh.” Ilya shrugged. That probably would be a bad idea. “Maybe I want to keep for myself.”
That produced a round of boos and lighthearted chirping, but it didn’t wipe the smile off his face in the slightest as he felt a buzz from his pocket.
Pulling his phone out and clicking open the message, he couldn’t help roll his eyes as he got a full face of claw marks against slightly wrinkled skin with muscle still left underneath it and a comment.
‘You better hope to God that none of my team calls me out for these during next practice.’
Ilya simply just saved the photo, sent a old man and a wink emoji back and laughed out loud before settling in for the night as Hayes launches into another crazy story from his rookie career and another round of beers has passed around the table.
Hopefully, Coach would send a photo after practice tomorrow, preferably all sweaty, as Ilya needed some motivation and his old man?
He was as close as he was gonna get.