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November 2013 – Boston
Sveta [7:30]: he looks like shit
Ilya [7:33]: He’s 45 years old and still trying to play of course he does
Sveta [7:34]: he beat you in points last season
Ilya [7:36]: And now he’s 55 years old and can’t bring his walker on the ice with him. Fuck last season.
Sveta [7:38]: hollander will be beating you in points too if it keeps going like this
Ilya [7:38]: We all can’t play 65 year olds every day
Sveta [7:40]: this is boring
Sveta [7:42]: what are you doing tonight
Ilya hums and taps the edge of his phone against his lips as he considers the day-after-a-game ache of his body and whether he wants to be free tonight. Hollander is still thoroughly embarrassing Hunter in the last few minutes of the game and Ilya can’t help but grin. Hollander gets so antsy when he’s spoiling for a competition and isn’t getting one. And even if Sveta is right about Hollander pulling ahead of him in the point totals, Ilya can’t help delighting in the pettiness of the open net goal Hollander scores in the last seconds of the game, dead-center between the pipes like he’s dicking around before practice.
“So polite, Shane Hollander,” Ilya smirks as Hollander accepts the accolades of his teammates like a hat trick against the Admirals is nothing much at all, and then goes to rub salt in the wound once the clock runs down by skating up to Hunter to probably say some good game, better luck next time bulls—
Ilya pauses as Hollander spits. And he sits up straight when Hollander’s stance suddenly shifts to a tense indignation that Ilya is used to seeing directed at himself. “Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya says incredulously as Hollander lifts his chin, openly pissed, something like anticipation fluttering in Ilya’s gut because it looks like Hollander might actually—
“Fuck, Hollander,” he breathes when Hollander takes a swing. What the fuck did Scott Hunter say to get so deep under Hollander’s skin so quickly? But Ilya quickly sets that aside because the novelty of seeing Shane Hollander fighting requires his full attention.
“Oh, cute,” he says dryly as the pair start taking swings like two people who never do. He leans forward to the edge of his couch, curious. How far will Hollander take this? Until the refs separate them? Until helmets come off? Until blood? All the way down to the ice? Will he stop even then? Or will he keep his fist twisted in Hunter’s sweater and straddle his body and use that leverage to keep Hunter on his back and under him? Will he spit again? Will he look Hunter straight in the eye as he does it?
Ilya feels a stab of something dark and jealous in his chest, staring at Hunter. But there’s a growing flutter low in his stomach, too. The first edges of that disbelieving, blasting-through-the-speed-limit, what-will-happen-next thrill that Ilya hasn’t felt since their last Montreal game. It isn’t particularly strong yet, but it’s growing, and Ilya has never been able to stop himself from chasing this particular feeling.
He lets it pool in his gut and in his balls as he watches the fight and then the slow-motion, all-angles replays, drinking in every second of Shane Hollander snarling like he’s on the verge of shrugging off his teammates and throwing himself at Hunter again.
Fuck, what is he saying. Ilya wants the announcers to shut up. He wants to hear what Hollander is snapping across the ice to go along with that look on his face. He wants to know what Hunter did to crack that perfect little newly minted Big Six Captain shell.
Ilya fumbles for the remote, rewinding back to the start of the fight. His body clenches at the sight of Hollander spitting like it means something. Fuck. Does Hollander like that? Hunter spit first. Does Hollander like that? Or was it just his usual inability to walk away from a challenge, that spoiling hunger to prove himself finally finding an outlet?
Ilya plays it again, then again, then finally the full fight and aftermath. He hisses in annoyance at the English commentary that isn’t even focusing on any of the important bits, finally muting the TV and leaning forward, concentrating on Hollander’s lips.
“What are you saying,” he mutters, carefully mimicking the shape of Hollander’s mouth, the position of his tongue, trying to feel out the words. ‘You’ he knows on Hollander’s lips. And ‘fuck’ he is more than familiar with in all the forms and flavors that Hollander has spat and muttered and laughed and moaned it.
But the bolt of heat that goes through him when he finally makes out ‘you fucking pussy’—the crassness of the words throb through him the same way that Hollander moaning with his mouth full of Ilya’s dick does, the thrill of Shane Hollander being something other than media perfect.
Anticipation makes Ilya’s breath come quick as he figures out the next bit. ‘Go home, go home’ he finally mouths in time with the TV and Ilya sucks in a hard breath as he remembers: the end of last season, Montreal in hosting and playing New York next and Hollander that delightful combination of flushed and irritated and hungry as Ilya had pulled off his cock yet again just to see how worked up Hollander would get before doing something about it. Hollander’s face scrunched up and trying not to laugh as Ilya had said something about the end of the season and game strategy and whether Hunter should just go home to save his ancient body—
‘You’re forty-five years old,’ Hollander taunts as Hunter tries and fails to throw his glove.
—since Hunter was forty-five years old and falling apart and fuck. That’s…
Ilya absently notes Hunter’s comical lack of athleticism to bring up during their next game. He feels oddly breathless as he watches that shift on Hollander’s face over and over, the slide from anger to a taunting, goading amusement, an expression Ilya is used to seeing directed at him.
Ilya feels strangely taut as he watches again, and then again. His skin prickles and a familiar restlessness is itching down his spine and his cock has definitely taken interest. It’s not that he hasn’t seen Hollander like this before. But seeing it through a screen instead of right in front of him, watching without being watched in return, seeing Hollander react without knowing what he is reacting to—Ilya feels almost off-balance, almost hypnotized as he plays it over and over again.
Taylor of all people is the one to get to Hollander first, the one holding Hollander back, and Ilya feels suddenly deeply, intensely jealous that its some fucking third-ling winger who gets to feel Hollander straining against him that way. Who gets to see that anger up close and hear the edge that slides into Hollander’s words when he’s itching for something to test himself against. Who gets to be that close to a Hollander feeling victorious and too cocky to fully hide it and looking at you like he wants to let it all out.
“Fuck,” Ilya grunts, knees falling wide as he adjusts himself. Ilya wants to feel it, wants to hear it and taste it and lick it straight off Hollander’s skin. He wants to see what his spit would look like sliding down Hollander’s chest, wants to find out if Hollander would open his mouth for that, too. If he’d spit on Ilya’s fingers before pushing back against them, if he’d spit on his own and stare Ilya down while he…
He wants to feel Hollander yanking him close and testing himself against him. He wants that punch, the hot salty rush in his mouth if Hollander lands a hit, he wants…not to punch back, exactly. But to be the one who can get under Hollander’s skin. To be the one who can make Shane Hollander spit and snarl and split his probably-virgin knuckles against him, Hollander as he truly is.
Ilya’s gut twists with hunger as he palms himself. The idea of everyone seeing Hollander like that and of Ilya being the only one that knows Hollander that way, of Ilya knowing exactly how to unleash this in him…
He finally pauses the TV on Hollander’s taunting, gloating face, a tight, heavy kind of heat throbbing in him. Then he glances down to his dick. He’s been palming it through his sweatpants, not fully committed yet, and the press of it against the gray fabric…
He grabs up his phone and takes a picture, thumbing down through his texts.
Ilya [8:27]: You should fight more often [Image attached]
Jane [8:31]: Jesus christ
Ilya grins. Faster than he expected.
Jane [8:31]: wtf I could have still been in the locker room
Jane [8:32]: I’m not even in Boston
Ilya smirks at the opening.
Ilya [8:32]: Boston wants to be in you
Jane [8:43]: that’s terrible
Ilya laughs, stroking himself through his sweats as he waits for—
Jane [8:43]: that doesn’t even make sense
It does, and they both know it, but Ilya sets that aside for later because more pressingly—
Ilya [8:43]: how did it feel to take down that old man
Jane [8:43]: shut the fuck up
Ilya [8:43]: new for you, must be very exciting
Jane [8:44]: I HAVE fought before you know
Jane [8:44]: why is everyone being like this about it
Ilya laughs. Like Hollander doesn’t know.
Ilya [8:44]: like watching a kitten trying to fight a paper bag
Jane [8:45]: I hate you
Ilya [8:45]: my next fight will be all for you
Jane [8:45]: what?
Ilya [8:45]: I will dedicate it in your honor
Jane [8:46]: ugh fuck off no
Ilya [8:46]: you can send me pictures after
Jane [8:46]: you wish
Ilya does, actually, but—
Ilya [8:46]: Did Hunter ask you to spit or did you just want to
Ilya smirks as the message registers as read with no immediate reply. He waits, contemplating, rubbing slowly over his length. Would be like Hollander spitting on him? Maybe when Hollander gets really worked up, that way he gets after Boston’s won a particularly grueling game. Maybe he’d spit on their dicks with that scrunched up, furious look he gets, fuck, Ilya wants that ass so bad. He wants Hollander any way he can get him. It’s very annoying. But hot, for now. Especially when he can see Hollander typing, typing, typing, and finally—
Jane [8:49]: that’s disgusting
Jane [8:49]: he’s Scott Hunter he probably doesn’t even kiss with tongue
Ilya laughs and rocks up against his palm. He wonders what Hollander typed and erased, what he chickened out of saying. Maybe Ilya can bait him into sharing, next time.
Ilya [8:49]: has anyone spit in your mouth before
Jane [8:49]: no???
Ilya [8:50]: has any nice girl asked you to spit in hers
Jane [8:50]: fuck off
Ilya [8:50]: you’re hard aren’t you
Jane [8:51]: you’re such an asshole
Ilya [8:51]: yes
Ilya [8:51]: you like it
He grins when Hollander doesn’t reply, as good as a confirmation, and sends another picture, his hand in his pants this time, taking a moment to frame the base of his cock and the bulge of his knuckles against the fabric. Then he strokes himself slowly, letting the anticipation build as he stares at the TV. It’s a long time but he knows Hollander. And the idea of Hollander still riled from his fight like Ilya can see him on the screen, the thought of him full of adrenaline and that raw kind of energy that lights Ilya up after a fight, that makes him want to fight again or dance or fuck or—
Jane [8:57]: Fuck you
And then a second later an image, and Ilya nearly drops his phone fumbling the attachment open left-handed. “Fuck, Hollander,” he breathes as he takes in the photo of Hollander hard in his own sweatpants. The hard line of him and the dark spot on the light grey fabric where he’s already leaking, like he was they keyed up and all he needed for that energy to tip over to fuck was Ilya.
Ilya [9:01]: send me another I want to see you
Jane [9:01]: no
Ilya [9:01]: I showed you
Jane [9:01]: barely
“Greedy,” Ilya whispers, delighted, spitting into his own palm before gripping himself again. That was very, very close to asking.
Jane [9:01]: I didn’t realize we were trading
Ilya [9:01]: send me one with your spit on it
Jane [9:02]: wtf???
Jane [9:02]: what is your thing with this??
Ilya grins, breathless with triumph as he fucks into his own fist a little. Hollander is curious.
Ilya [9:02]: I will show you next time
Jane [9:03]: in your dreams
Ilya [9:03]: and yours
Jane [9:05]: maybe I’ll spit on *you* next time
“Oh, Hollander,” Ilya says, laughing.
Ilya [9:05]: if you want
He is suddenly very, very amenable to the idea.
Jane [9:05]: ugh
Jane [9:05]: I’m leaving now
Ilya just smirks and just sends a winky face, imagining the way Hollander’s expression is probably all scrunched up with annoyance and exasperation that doesn’t hide the flush of his desire. Then he flips back to the photo and rewinds back to the start of the fight, to that shift in Hollander’s shoulders to annoyance, the challenging jut of his chin, and strokes himself off as he plans what he will say next game to get that look focused on him.
You will have to fight again HockeyFights say it was a draw, Ilya texts later that night along with a photo of his dick, saliva sliding off the head.
Hollander doesn’t reply. But the text immediately shows as read, and Ilya watches the typing bubble go and go and go and never send, and smiles as he strokes himself off, satisfied.