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The early months of 2018 were a blur of ice, adrenaline, and the agonizing ache of distance. For Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander, the distance wasn't just measured in the miles between Boston and Montreal; it was measured in the carefully constructed lies they told the world. To the public, they were rivals—two elite athletes from opposing teams, competing for glory and dominance. In reality, they were two men drowning in a secret that felt both like a sanctuary and a prison.
They had been official for about six months. Six months of stolen weekends, encrypted messages, and the kind of desperate, skin-on-skin hunger that only comes from being forbidden.
The catalyst for their most daring game yet arrived in two separate inboxes.
Ilya was in Boston, slumped on his sofa after a brutal practice, when his phone buzzed. He squinted at the email: an invitation to a televised "Lip Sync Battle" pride month special. The premise was simple: athletes from across various leagues would be paired off as rivals to compete in a series of high-energy musical performances. They wanted a competitors from traditionally male-dominated sports so they got a pair from football – Cristiano vs Messi, the pair from NFL and of course two biggest rivals from MHL – Shane Hollander vs Ilya Rozanov.
At the same time, in Montreal, Shane was staring at the exact same invitation.
Ilya didn’t even finish reading the second paragraph before he was dialing Shane’s number. He could hear Shane’s breath on the other end, a low, amused sound that immediately made Ilya’s chest tighten.
"Did you get the mail?" Ilya asked, his voice rasping slightly.
"The Lip Sync Battle?" Shane laughed, and Ilya could practically see the mischievous glint in his eyes. "Ilya, we can't actually do this. We’re supposed to be rivals and hate each other still. If we’re on stage together for ten minutes, people might notice we don’t actually want to kill each other."
"That’s the point, Shane," Ilya countered, a slow smile spreading across his face. "The tension. The drama. Imagine the ratings if the asshole from Boston and the 'Golden Boy' of Montreal have a dance-off. For the pride month! Also it is a good start for us to actually starting to change the story before I’m moving to Ottawa, as this show will be in June, after playoffs and before the official info"
“Yeah. Right. Maybe it is a good idea.” Shane said “Let’s check with our managers though”
Their managers—Yuna Hollander, who knew the truth quickly found the irony delicious, and Ilya’s manager, who saw it as a branding goldmine—gave them the green light. Surprisingly, both of them were almost immediately on board with the idea. The fact that they were to be cast as the rivals, also give both of the athletes a chance to be in the same place in public again. A narrative that allowed them to do that without anyone questioning why they were staring at each other with such intensity.
And so, the stage was set.
The studio in Los Angeles was a whirlwind of neon lights, makeup artists, and frantic producers. For Ilya and Shane, the atmosphere was electric. Every time they passed each other in the hallways, they had to maintain a cold, professional distance. But beneath the surface, the air between them was thick enough to cut with a skate.
A lingering glance, a brush of shoulders in the corridor—these small moments were torture. They spent the entire preparation period pretending to ignore one another, while internally, they were counting down the seconds until they could be alone again.
The competition began with the standard rounds. The crowd was roaring, sensing the perceived animosity between the two stars. When it was Ilya’s turn for his first performance, he chose something that was fundamentally not him. The crowd expected something aggressive, perhaps a rock anthem to fit his persona. Instead, the speakers blasted the high-energy, emotional chords of Kelly Clarkson’s "My Life Would Suck Without You."
The audience erupted in laughter and surprise. Seeing the formidable Ilya Rozanov lip-syncing to a power-pop breakup song was an unexpected delight. Ilya leaned into it and was having a lot of fun. But as the song progressed, the mood shifted. He wasn't just playing it for laughs; he was using the lyrics as a coded message.
As he hit the chorus, Ilya’s gaze locked onto Shane, who was watching from the wings. “Forever united here somehow, yeah...” the song wailed, and Ilya’s expression softened into something dangerously honest. When he done the part of “My life would suck without you” he didn't look like a rival; he looked like a man who was starving for the person across the room. He smiled, a genuine, soft expression that he only ever reserved for Shane. For a split second, the whole studio vanished, and the world saw a glimpse of something dangerously intimate.
Shane, watching from the sidelines, felt a jolt go straight to his gut. He shifted his weight, his heart hammering against his ribs. He knew that look. That was the look Ilya gave him right before he kissed him senseless.
Ilya also watched Shane’s reaction. He saw the way Shane’s pupils dilated, the way his jaw tightened. “I know you feel it,” Ilya thought, a surge of pride and longing hitting him. “I know you’re thinking about how much you want me right now”. He put an extra amount of passion into the performance, his body swaying with a rhythmic intensity that felt less like a dance and more like a plea. Ilya finished his performance with sending a kiss sign in direction of Shane and laugh second after.
Then it was Shane’s turn. He stepped onto the stage with a confident stride, the lights catching the spark in his eyes. The music shifted a bit to the rhythmic, edgy beat of Ting Tings’ "That’s Not My Name."
Shane was a natural. He owned the stage, his movements sharp and energetic. He played the crowd perfectly, but as the song reached the bridge— “They call me hell / They call me Stacy / They call me her / They call me Jane”—he pivoted. He looked directly at Ilya, who was now the one standing in the wings.
The look Shane gave him was a challenge. It was a dare. It was a silent promise of what was going to happen once the cameras stopped rolling. He smirked, a playful, arrogant tilt of the lips that made Ilya’s blood boil with desire.
Ilya felt a jolt of electricity shoot down his spine. He watched the way Shane moved his hips, the effortless confidence of his posture. “God, he’s so sexy when he’s showing off”, Ilya thought, his hand gripping the edge of the chair nearby, so hard his knuckles turned white. He could almost feel Shane’s skin under his fingertips, could almost hear the way Shane would moan if Ilya were to push him against a wall right now.
The finals arrived. The tension in the room had reached a breaking point; the audience was buzzing about the "chemistry" between the two rivals, oblivious to the fact that it wasn't chemistry—it was starvation.
Ilya took the stage first. The lights dimmed to a deep, moody crimson. The heavy bass of Taylor Swift’s "Look What You Made Me Do" began to throb through the floorboards.
Ilya had changed, he was wearing a sleek, form-fitting black outfit that hugged every muscle of his torso and thighs. And he was also wearing a collar. He moved with a slow, predatory deliberation. He wasn't just lip-syncing; he was hunting. Every movement was calculated to be provocative. He rolled his shoulders, his gaze fixed intently on Shane.
Shane, standing near the edge of the stage, felt his breath hitch. He was mesmerized by the way Ilya’s body moved—the power in his legs, the fluid grace of his arms. Every time Ilya shifted his weight, Shane could see the tension in his thighs, and it triggered a violent surge of heat in his own lower body. He felt himself hardening, his trousers becoming painfully tight.
“Do it”, Shane thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. “Look at me. Tell me what you want to do to me.”
As the song reached its climax, Ilya stepped closer to where Shane stood. The air between them was practically sizzling.
“Look what you made me do...”
Ilya looked Shane dead in the eyes. There was no one else in the room. There was only the heat emanating from Ilya's body and the desperate need in his gaze.
Then came the line: “I'll be the actress starring in your bad dreams.”
Ilya leaned in, just inches from Shane’s face, and gave him a slow, deliberate wink, his lips curling into a wicked, mischievous smirk. A promise of total surrender and total dominance combined into one.
Shane gasped, an audible intake of air that was caught by the microphones. He felt a wave of sheer, unadulterated lust crash over him. He wanted to reach out and grab Ilya by the collar, to pull him into a kiss that would shock every single person in that studio. He was trembling, his mind racing with images of Ilya’s hands on him, stripping him bare, claiming him with a ferocity that only Ilya possessed. Shane’s hands clenched into fists; he was barely holding himself together.
The final act belonged to Shane.
The lights went soft, and it started with a soft sentence: “It doesn’t matter if you love him or capital H-I-M. Just put your paws up, cause you were born this way baby”. The crowd lost their mind and just a second later music changed to beginning of “Bad Romance” by Lady Gaga. Shane came onto the stage wearing fishnet tights, high-waisted briefs and a cropped leather jacket, channeling the bold, androgynous energy of Lady Gaga's Born This Way era.
Ilya, standing close to the stage in the wings, felt his jaw drop. He looked like he had been hit by a freight train. His hand flew to his mouth, his eyes wide with shock and intense arousal. He needed to sit down.
The transformation of the previous performance was instantaneous. Shane shifted from a boy-next-door to a provocative powerhouse. He mirrored the high-fashion, avant-garde energy of Gaga, his movements becoming fluid, sensual, and daring. He used the entire stage, his body arching and twisting in ways that emphasized every curve of his physique.
Ilya watched Shane’s hips sway to the beat of "Bad Romance," watched the way he played with the crowd while keeping his eyes locked onto Ilya. In Ilya's head, a million thoughts were colliding. “He’s doing this for me. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me”.
As the song transitioned again into "Born This Way," Shane’s performance became even more liberated. He was radiating confidence and sexuality, his movements practically screaming that he belonged to no one but himself—and yet, the way he looked at Ilya said he also belonged to the sexy Russian hockey player entirely.
Ilya’s arousal was now a physical ache. He could feel the throb in his groin, the desperate need to possess Shane. He watched every flick of Shane's wrist, every dip of his waist, imagining those same movements happening in their bed. He was shaking, his breathing shallow, his mind focused entirely on the moment they could finally be alone. Ilya had to physically grip the chair to keep himself from lunging onto the stage and claiming Shane right there in front of millions of viewers.
As the final notes faded and the crowd erupted into a deafening roar, the judges announced the winner.
Shane had won.
The moment they stepped off the stage and into the dim light of the backstage corridor, away from the prying eyes of the crew and cameras, the mask shattered.
The silence of the hallway was heavy, filled only with the sound of their ragged breathing. They didn't stop until they reached a secluded alcove behind some heavy equipment trunks.
Ilya didn't wait. He slammed Shane back against the wall, the impact echoing in the quiet space. He didn't kiss him immediately; instead, he leaned in close, his lips hovering just millimeters from Shane’s ear. His voice was a low, dangerous growl, stripped of all pretense.
"Oh, I want to fuck you so fucking much right now," Ilya whispered, his breath hot against Shane's skin.
Shane let out a shaky laugh, his head tilting back against the wall, his chest heaving. He looked up at Ilya with a triumphant, wicked glint in his eyes, echoing the lyrics of the night's most provocative performance.
"Well..." Shane breathed, his voice dripping with desire as he wrapped his arms around Ilya's neck, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. "Look what you made me do." And then, Shane kissed him...