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Shane realises that joining the Ottawa Centaurs might have been a mistake approximately 15 seconds after their first game.
They won, of course. With him and Ilya working together no other team stood a chance. It had been incredible, passing the puck back and forth between them, being able to celebrate when his husband scored a goal instead of seeing it as a challenge.
He did miss the challenge a bit, though.
No, the mistake was having to share a locker room with his husband after. Ilya was always so horny after a game – they both were – and now they had to get undressed and shower alongside the rest of their teammates.
Ilya had arranged it so that his stall was directly opposite Shane’s. Shane had raised an eyebrow at the time but hadn’t questioned it too much. That had been the second mistake.
He could feel the heat of Ilya’s gaze on his back as he pulled the jersey over his head. He sat on the bench, pretending to focus on unfastening his elbow pads while surreptitiously throwing a glance in Ilya's direction to check.
He was watching. Shane could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, and he was already so red from the exertion he’d put into the game. He glanced around the rest of the room and was relieved to see that their teammates were occupied, half of them already in the showers with the other half loudly discussing the game as they stripped.
“Don’t,” he hissed quietly.
“You like it when I watch,” Ilya replied, equally quiet.
“Not here.”
Ilya raised his eyebrows and Shane recognised it for what it was: a challenge.
He did love a challenge.
Shane knew Ilya well enough to know that he wouldn’t stop. The only way Shane was getting out of this was to beat him.
Shane slowed down his movements. Elbow pads off, he pulled the shoulder pads up and over his head. He made sure it mussed his hair up on the way. Ilya liked it when he looked like he was losing control. He had a thing for Shane’s longer hair. Shane took the time to run his fingers through the strands. He knew Ilya’s heavy gaze was on his fingers.
He considered pulling his compression shirt off next, but paused. There was a routine to this. He wasn’t going to go mad.
“It’s not professional to watch your teammates undress,” he tried, throwing it out as a last attempt.
“I checked with the captain. He said it’s ok.”
Shane couldn’t stop the smile that bloomed across his face. Game on.
He stood and threw another glance around the room. Almost all of the other guys were in the showers now. Bood was texting furiously on his phone. Luca was turned away, his back to the room as he finished undressing. Still, Shane turned around to face the wall, then shimmied his hockey pants over his ass and down his thighs, making sure his hands smoothed over his thighs as they did so.
He heard Ilya’s breathing grow heavier. He wanted to see his face, wanted to see what effect he was having. But no, he had a task, and he would focus on it.
Hockey pants off, he sat back down on the bench. His hands caressed his inner left thigh as he pulled at the top of his hockey sock, taking time to slowly reveal the hot skin underneath. With the left sock off he turned his attention to the other one, growing bolder now that he was confident the others weren’t going to bother them. His right thigh he played with a little more, running his fingers up and down the soft skin, teasing the hem of his compression shorts.
He heard the softest little grunt from Ilya and his head whipped up. Ilya’s gaze was intent. He'd lost his shirt at some point, and his hand was resting lightly over his jock. In his state of half dress he looked unbelievable.
Shane determined to keep his face neutral. Socks off, he undid his shin guards and pulled them away from his skin. He rubbed down his shins afterwards, his fingers trailing on his skin. He stood abruptly and turned away.
All that was left was his compression top and shorts. He pulled the top off first, flexing his muscles. He knew Ilya liked his broad shoulders, the strength of his back. He paused to turn slightly, so Ilya could see his side profile. He picked up his water bottle and squirted some in his mouth, swallowing exaggeratedly.
Some of the guys walked back into the room, towels around their waists. Ilya paid them no attention. Even surrounded by a group of practically naked, incredibly attractive, elite athletes Ilya only had eyes for Shane.
Now that there was more of a potential audience, Shane turned back to the wall. He could feel Ilya's eyes on his back. He felt powerful. He picked up his phone and pretended to check it, drawing this out. Ilya huffed a little, and Shane knew that he knew exactly what Shane was doing. He put his phone back down, taking time to tuck it carefully into his bag.
He ran his fingers around the top of his shorts. A quick glance around the room, everyone was busy getting dressed. He dipped his fingers into the back of his shorts, gripping his own ass for a second. He pulled his fingers back out of the shorts. He ran them around the rim of his shorts again, then gripped it and slowly pulled them down so they revealed what was underneath centimeter by centimeter.
“Oh hell no,” Troy’s voice rang out beside him.
Shane’s shorts were back up in a second. He turned to Troy, hoping he was reacting to something else entirely, but no. Troy was looking between Shane and Ilya, and it was clear from his face he knew exactly what was going on.
Shane’s mind raced. Would they get in trouble, would it be reported to HR? What if he wasn't allowed to play, what if Ilya wasn’t allowed to play; would he be allowed to stay on the team?
“We’ve got to share this room,” Troy moaned.
“Like you and Harris haven’t fucked in here,” Ilya shot back.
To Shane’s horror, Troy blushed.
“Not, like, when others were here!” Troy protested.
Shane’s gaze flitted around the room again, as if he would find evidence of where exactly Troy and Harris had fucked. As if they'd left anything behind.
“We need to bleach this floor,” Ilya commented.
“I need to bleach my eyes,” Troy muttered back.
Ilya pulled the last of his garments off in front of both Troy and Shane. Shane kept his gaze away.
“Don’t pretend you can’t see Shane is hot,” he said to Troy as he sauntered, unashamed, to the showers.
“Coming, Shane?” he called over his shoulder. Shane glared at his back.
“Asshole.”
“Yes, I have asshole. You can see it if you join me in shower.”
“Fuck off Rozanov.”
“Rozanov-Hollander,” Ilya corrected him.
More of the guys were paying attention now.
Shane paused in his stall. He couldn't not shower, that would be gross. But if he joined Ilya right now it would look like he just answered to Ilya’s every beck and call. Like he was a dog.
No. He was Shane fucking Hollander. He won trophies, for fuck sake. He was an elite professional athlete. He would shower like he did after every game. He would put on the damn suit. And when they got back he would absolutely take Ilya apart. The sex was going to be so hot tonight. Ilya would fucking beg.
“Are you coming?” Ilya shouted.
“I will be later,” Shane shouted back.
A smattering of laughter, a whoop, a few groans from the men around them. Somebody moaning that they didn’t need to hear that; someone else shouting, “get it captain!”
Shane stepped under the hot water of the shower furthest from Ilya. Which wasn’t that far as Ilya had chosen the one directly in the centre. Shane did not look at him. He showered efficiently, pretending not to notice how Ilya kept glancing over. He would not look.
He peeked a glance and Ilya’s face bloomed into a smile when he caught Shane looking. He threw Shane a wink. God, he was going to get it tonight.