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“Who’s that?” demanded Roy, lifting his chin in the direction of the man in front of the cameras, who was tilting his head, pursing his lips, and raising the eyebrow, the perfect image of extreme cockiness.

Jamie knew the pose well. He’d practiced a similar one in his mirror, lifting weights. “Eh, the lad from hockey, yeah?” he said, shrugging a shoulder as the make-up artist frowned and looked at her pencil selection.

“Ilya Rozanov,” the artist- Hailey, that was her name!- drawled. “And he’s your only real competition today.”

Roy snorted. “He’s twelve and he looks like he’s been denied a fucking lolly with that face.”

“Yeah, but you said I looked that way during the thing with United, and the rags all said I were fierce,” said Jamie, craning his neck.

“You were throwing a fucking strop, you little cunt,” said Roy in a clipped voice. “About took you over my knee right out there in front of God, Phoebe, Ms. Welton, and your mum.”

Hailey snorted, snatching up a light bronze pencil. “Fan’s’d love that,” she assured Roy. “You should do it sometime.”

“Oi!” protested Jamie, holding absolutely still as the pencil went for his eye. He’d learned, doing Lust Conquers All, not to fucking breathe when they went in for the penciling. “That’s sexual harassment."

She grinned wickedly, and he wondered if ESPN had brought in the Baddest Makeup Artists of Sport to do faces for the Baddest Boys of Sport mini-special.

“It’s only sexual harassment if you’d like him to spank you, sexually,” she teased in a low voice, steady hand as she quickly drew the lines on that he’d learned not to argue about.

If the makeup artist said you needed it, then you fucking took it, even if it was a lot to ask a man, to hold still while a pencil got jabbed at your eyeflesh.

Roy grunted, and when the pencil lifted, Jamie rolled his eyes and spat, “Then the other kind of harassment, yeah?”

She looked between them- Roy’s hand still resting on the back of Jamie’s chair- and said, “Sure, that’s believable, too.”

“Cheeky,” Jamie told her, quietly pleased it were so easy to clock that him and Roy were more than just strictly platonic these days, even if they hadn’t done some big coming-out thing like those other hockey boys had done earlier in the year.

Roy were right, and it was different, him being a coach and Jamie being a player. Power differential might be hot, when they played it up in the bedroom, but meant Roy’d take heat if it got out, and Jamie’d do about anything to keep Roy from taking heat.

And besides, it were like Roy said: wasn’t anybody else’s fucking business. They’d cleared it with God, Phoebe, Ms. Welton, and his mum. After that, fucking people should mind their own.

Still, makeup artists were like the hair artists- they knew everything about everybody, and they always kept their traps shut, which he respected about them, as an industry.

“How much more of that crap do you have to slather on him, until his ugly mug is presentable?” demanded Roy irritably.

“Probably fifteen minutes,” estimated Hailey.

Jamie smiled up at her. “He hates not being the center of attention.”

She gave another crooked grin. “I don’t believe you,” she said pointedly. “My brother is a huge soccer fan. I know who Roy Kent is and I’ve seen enough photos of him smashing cameras to know he hates paps.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” Jamie said, enjoying the way Roy tensed beside them at his confiding tone. “Roy just loves smashing things up that don’t belong to him even more than being the center of attention, is all.”

She made an impressed face while Roy growled wordlessly behind him.

Jamie grinned at the Roy in the mirror, whose face was making all kinds of suggestions about how much he loved smashing things that did belong to him, too.

Winding Roy up to get his own nerves out had become a nasty habit, over the years, but it was too ingrained a habit to build new ones.

And besides, it gave Roy something else to think about, besides his own interview for the miniseries, where he’d answer questions about how frustrating it were to coach Jamie, and how Jamie really were a naughty footie lad, just as the rags reported he were, despite how few yellow cards he’d accrued last season.

While still somehow doing as Keeley’d said, and being good about talking up Jamie’s leadership, camaraderie building, and sheer breathtaking skill.

He definitely had the harder job today, threading that needle- Jamie only had to let himself be a cunt all day. And he’d been dying to be allowed a little bragging and tongue wagging for the last six matches of the season, hadn’t he?

But Roy and Beard had said no, and so he’d been a good ickle footie player, star pupil, and earned himself Player of the Season.

“Behave,” Roy murmured, giving his head a quick clip, hard and fast.

“No, think they’re paying me to misbehave,” Jamie pointed out, sticking his tongue out at the man just a bit while she did the stuff around his eyes, working hard so it’d look like nothing had been done around his eyes.

Mad business, working on stage and screen. All this effort put into making you look naturally perfect for a public who’d mostly seen you sweaty and at your nastiest. Baffling, but Jamie’d taken too many scoldings from Keeley to fight anybody on any details.

“What a fucking cunt,” muttered Roy, head craned to stare in disbelief at the main promo-shots stage. “World’s poutiest little bitch, more like.”

Jamie grinned at Hailey, who had frowned for a moment after this declaration like she objected. “One time he told all of everyone he hoped I’d die of the incurable condition of being a little bitch,” he told her earnestly. “It’s his way of saying he wants to be friends.”

Roy scoffed, but Hailey grinned, clearly enjoying herself. “Good to know,” she said lightly. “I’ll have to try to earn a little bitch accolade myself then, huh?”

“Already did, but I was too polite to fucking mention it earlier,” grunted Roy, rolling his eyes. “Stop being nice about his fucking eyebrows and tweeze them, I told him it was stupid not to do it himself last night.”

“I see why he’s up for Coach of the Season,” she murmured at Jamie.

“Nah, got that because half the England team was from Richmond and we were all, eh. Well. Coach has a particular way about him, and we’d gotten used to it, and, eh…” Jamie trailed off into a wide wicked grin although a blush rose to his cheeks.

Hailey frowned up at Roy. “They called in reinforcements?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” answered Jamie, looking very proud of himself and his mate. “Had him on as a special consultant because none of the lads would-”

“Neither here nor there,” interrupted Roy. “I reminded them they were fucking professionals, and their conduct reflected on me, and I expect them to fucking make me look good. Got that little adventure turned the fuck around and all the lads straightened out.”

“Even the ones not from Richmond,” reported Jamie happily.

“Especially the ones not from fucking Richmond,” said Roy, scowling over his shoulder again. “Feel about to fucking find out if it works on players not in fucking footie, too.”

“What’s he doing?” asked Jamie, frozen in place by Hailey and her brushes.

“Being a cunt to the girl bringing him water to drink,” said Roy in a clipped voice.

“Ooooh, yeah, that’s not going to go over well,” Jamie breathed a Hailey with wide eyes. “Can’t stand anybody making other people’s work harder that way.”

“She’s a fucking professional, he can fucking dehydrate if he’s going to treat her like a club girl,” Roy growled under his breath. “What the fuck- hockey isn’t even a fucking sport in most of the world, where does he get off-”

“Down, Roy,” laughed Jamie. “He’s not your charge to-”

“Oh, here comes Hollander,” said Hailey brightly. “No worries, then, Roy, watch what happens now.”

Jamie couldn’t move his head, and Hailey was blocking his view of the mirror, so it was disappointing that Roy only grunted and threw himself into the other makeup chair.

“What’d he do?” he hissed at Roy.

Roy glared at him.

“That’s the best part,” gushed Hailey. “He doesn’t have to do anything. Rozanov just doesn’t have eyes for anyone else when Hollander is near. That’s why Hollander’s doing the interview with him- their fight goes back to before their rookie year.”

She released Jamie to go collect whatever he needed next and Jamie shot Roy an arch look. “Know something about that,” he murmured.

Roy rolled his eyes and glared at Jamie. “Sometimes a fight’s just a fight Jamie.”

“Sure, sure, sure,” agreed Jamie hurriedly. “Except when it’s not, you know? Passion’s like… passionate. Just- intensity’s intense.”

“Water’s wet and enemies to lover is a fanfic tag,” agreed Hailey, nodding and leaning in. “Five minutes until you’re done.”

“I’m… gonna go walk around,” said Roy.

“He means he’s going to wish he could have a smoke, and go stand outside angry that he gave it up twenty years ago,” Jamie reported to Hailey.

“Well done,” Hailey praised Roy. “Nasty habit.”

Roy growled, smacking the back of Jamie’s head as he walked by.

“See? Loves me best, always say that,” said Jamie happily.

“No doubt here,” Hailey told him warmly. “Hold still.”

Jamie froze obediently.

~~~

“Look at me,” Ilya told Shane. “Hey!”

Shane looked up, and Ilya watched him actually breathe, deeply, from his stomach.

“Da,” Ilya told him quietly. “Again.”

Shane drew another breath, staring up at Ilya, his face in that mask he wore, the one that covered all the man he was underneath it.

Ilya hated the fucking mask, but it was good to wear one, here of all places.

So many people, all bustling around.

So many eyes.

Cameras.

“You had something to tell me,” he prompted Shane.

“Yeah, I, uh-”

“I was talking to girl,” Ilya said, when Shane’s eyes began to panic. “You don’t like it when I talk to her the way I was, I stop. I always stop for you, Shane.”

“Yeah, yes, of course,” breathed Shane, giving an eager nod.

Ilya’s eyes scanned, quickly, but no one was caring that they stood talking. The photographer was doing things with his camera and the other art people, all hunched over and looking at the screen.

“Always, for you,” he reminded Shane, gentling his voice to something not a mask.

Shane melted like butter on warm baton, pulled fresh from his mama’s oven.

Mask slipped, but- but he was only facing Ilya and backdrop.

Okay.

“What do you need to tell me?” he prompted gently, with gentle voice.

“Uh, just- mom says we’re greenlighted for that office space,” Shane said, some of his real excitement showing.

“The one in Ottawa,” said Ilya, the word still strange and unfamiliar in his mouth.

Shane nodded.

“This is great,” Ilya told him happily. “Now we can fill it with capital expenditures and personnel, yes?”

“Yes, supplies and equipment,” agreed Shane.

“Non-liquid assets,” Ilya repeated, mimicking David’s exact tone of voice as he’d explained everything to them.

Shane’s eyes twinkled. “Very non-liquid. Real investment.”

“Real investment,” agreed Ilya.

They ended their phone calls that way, now.

Real investment, Ilya would say to Shane.

And Shane would say back, Real investment.

Meant I love you, this is real, let’s do this forever, with different words.

Ilya loved to hear them.

“Good, great,” said Ilya, bouncing a little. He paused and then said, staring deeply into Shane’s masked eyes, searching for real-Shane again, “You know I do not want her, yes? Is just-” he waved a hand, “-part of bad boy, yes?”

Shane paused to think. Ilya loved to watch him do it, even on the ice, when he knew it meant he and his team were about to be fucked meanly, without lube.

“I know now,” said Shane, so simply it made Ilya’s chest hurt.

“Yes, you know now,” he agreed, putting firm into his voice, and scolding, too.

He was not a man to say I love you, my boyfriend to Shane and be interested in water girl!

Little demeaning to call her that, he conceded. She probably did many essential things.

Shane did essential things for him.

“I get- I forget,” muttered Shane, tips of his ears reddening just a bit, which Ilya loved.

But he was being stern, now, so that Shane could get a grip. He scolded, “You do forget, if you think I am not playing my part.”

“Bad Boy Ilya Rozanov,” Shane teased him, and he loved it, the way Shane’s lips curved upwards.

“Bad Boy Ilya Rozanov,” agreed Ilya, nodding. He winked at a man who walked by- close enough to maybe see something, but now he would only see the wink.

People were like that.

“I can’t wait to tell people what a dick you are,” Shane said, much more comfortable now, all the tension out of his neck and his shoulders loose, now.

“Yes, tell them how huge I am, how huge my dick is,” Ilya intoned, forcing his face to be a mask of seriousness.

Shane saw through it, and grinned.

But then Shane always did.

Straight through every one of Ilya’s many, many masks, straight to the heart of him.

“Your eyes look weird in the makeup,” Shane told him.

“Your ass looks weird with clothes covering it,” Ilya retorted in a quiet voice.

“I’m going to let them have it,” Shane spat, cheerful now. “I’m going to confess everything in a tell-all special- every dick thing you’ve ever done, every time you’ve been such an asshole.”

“Good,” said Ilya, grinning back. “I will win, then.”

“Stage manager says his money’s on Tartt,” said Shane, tossing a look over his shoulder at the make-up chair. “He’s the guy- in the chair-”

“I know who Jamie Tartt is, Shane,” mocked Ilya. “I am not uncultured, like you Canadian and Americans are. I know football- real, actual football, Shane. Jamie Tartt is- for England- a legend. Coach is Roy Kent, I had poster of him, he once put four men in hospital and got red card for it and bought all their wives flowers and cards and little teddy bears because they had shit husbands. He felt bad for them. Went on interview and said this. My father, he laughed and laughed, said man has steel balls.”

Shane smiled at his berating, chiding tone.

He was like this, Shane, needing to be scolded to relax, to see humor in things.

Ilya didn’t mind.

“So, he’s the man to beat,” Shane said, shrugging.

“Then I will beat him, and take home title, Worst Bad Boy in Sport,” Ilya said, shrugging back, and expressing his boredom with the conversation by rolling his eyes dramatically. “What else is new? Is rookie year, yes? I will win draft.”

Shane laughed, shaking his head. “You’re a cocky bastard, Rozanov.”

“Mm, yes, very cocky,” agreed Ilya, leaning back as the people huddled around the camera began to look up. “You remember that one, yes, Hollander?”

“Fuck you,” said Shane, as if he wasn’t thinking and only reacting.

“Maybe later,” Ilya got in, low and heated enough to make there be a little fire in Shane’s eyes, a little breath drawn in. “Go on. Go to interview. Tell them I am such a big dick.” He drawled the words just because it would irritate Shane, rile him up.

And it worked.

He was predictable, in some ways.

In all the best ways.

Ilya was going to spend a lifetime mapping out all the ways Shane Hollander was predictable, until every last thing he did was predictable.

Would take him a lifetime, probably.

Okay.

He could do that.

~~~

Roy glared at the interviewer, uncomfortably aware of the young athletes to either side of him and wishing they’d put him next to the gray-haired F1 driver instead of sandwiching him in between all the Youths.

“Okay, first question, and you all answer it, remember? Panelist style?” prompted the woman behind the camera eagerly. “We’ll go down the row.”

The camera pointed at the slim boy at the end of the line.

“What was your first meeting like?” asked the woman.

“Oh, uh, well,” began the boy, clearly fumbling and just as clearly fully aware he was fumbling.

Children.

All of them, fucking children.

Except him and the F1 driver and the diving coach.

When the camera got to him, he rolled his eyes. “Yeah, no, all that sounds very off-putting,” he agreed. “But look, the little shit- am I allowed to call him that?”

The woman nodded eagerly.

“Right, the little shit came up to me, first five minutes I’m in the dressing room, just trying to get my head back in the season, and he comes strutting up to me and says, You’re Roy Kent,” Roy attempted to mimic Jamie’s accent, aware it would only get him so far. “Yeah, I said, because that’s a reaction I get a lot, really, even from other players in the Prem. And the little shit had the brass balls to say, I’m better than you, old man! To my face! Over introductions!”

The lad to his right, who’d already gone, telling a story about how the man he was here for almost ran him over in a car, made a pained noise, but the one on his left snorted.

“That’s almost word-for-word what Ilya said to me,” said the kid, rolling his eyes and shaking his head like they’re commiserating or sommat.

Roy wasn’t going to commiserate with a fucking child! None of the ones on the panel had even been assigned to him by the god of sport! He wasn’t fucking picking up strays, either!

He should have just changed seats.

“Yes, tell us more about your first meeting with Ilya Rozanov, Mr. Hollander,” said the woman eagerly.

“Well, he was outside, and I needed some fresh air, and I- I- thought I’d introduce myself, okay? Because we’re both up for draft, he’s got to be nervous, I wanted to- I don’t know, connect with him,” said the man, shrugging. Roy’s lips twitch. Sounds like a rookie to him. “And he tells me I won’t be so nice when his team beats my team! Can you believe that?”

The woman scoffed but to Roy it sounded like Rozanov had the right lay of the land and Mr. Hollander had rookie stars in his eyes.

Or some kind of stars, anyway.

Roy’d spent his career paying close attention to the men around him.

He never went in for many hookups. But that didn’t mean none happened.

And to be alert to the opportunities, if they ever presented themselves, he had to get good at noticing the small things.

Swallowing words they’d rather say, Adam’s apple bobbing just a bit. Fingers twitching with nerves because they’re no good at lying but this glass-walls under-a-microscope star athlete life made them lie to protect their weaknesses. A subtle flinch, a shade too vulnerable in the eyes, before a forced laugh.

Mr. Hollander, to his left, had every single fucking one, as he talked about his prick rival, the man he was supposed to hate. The man he was invited here to talk about, to describe what a bad boy Ilya Rozanov really was, on and off the ice.

And that was very interesting.

That was very interesting indeed.

~~~

“So, what the fuck are we doing here, again?” demanded Jamie, arms crossed as he glared at the trim little man in his sportscoat.

“Well, these are the physical challenges,” said the man delightedly.

Jamie put his hands on his hips in exasperation. “Yeah, and-?” he spat, nodding at the tank full of water with the floating little foam thingies hitched to ropes tied at the bottom of the tank, seven little floating thingies in a row.

Behind him, a bunch of grumbling murmurs from the other bad lads.

“What do we do?” said the heavily accented voice of his numero uno competition, Rozanov.

Normally it’d drive Jamie mental that he spoke up, because Jamie’d already asked for some fucking clarification, hadn’t he? But the baffled sound of the man’s voice made him feel much less dumb, which helped his nerves quite a bit, like.

“Well,” said the presenter cheerfully. “You’ll climb up, and walk across the water. Or jump or hop or skip- whatever you like. We’re not picky, as long as you stay out of the water!”

“Right,” said Jamie. “Well, fucking not doing that. Great way to twist me fucking ankle or whatever. Ruin all this makeup you’ve put on me.”

“I’ll do it!” said the man Jamie knew were called Matteo, but he kept thinking of him as Temu Dani. Just wasn’t nearly as fucking pretty and he got the accent all wrong.

Matteo was the bad boy of high diving, which were actually quite an ace fucking thing to be, but the lad’s face let him down in the looks department.

Ilya snorted and seemed to brace himself to watch Temu Dani climb to the little ledge at the edge of the tank.

Jamie rolled his eyes and recrossed his arms. He wasn’t fucking going to attempt to- “Shit!” he found himself breathing, shocked.

Temu Dani had some fucking water-bending shit going on, leaping easily from little floaty thing to the next, making it look like he were walking on water and smiling sassy at the cameras while he did it.

Jamie couldn’t fucking lose to Temu Dani!

He felt his jaw clench, and caught Rozanov's hand out the side of his eye as it slowly clenched into a fist.

Jamie let the next lad climb up first, though, and throw himself forward. Seemed to be mostly just using forward momentum, to barely touch down dead center of each floaty and launch your next step to the next one.

Like doing them little hoppy high-step drills with the tires, actually. Only he’d have to be careful, could picture in his head how he’d have to lean forward, because the little floaties’d have no push to them, all weak as they’d have to be, ri-- “HA!” laughed Jamie, clapping his hands, as the racecar driver ate shit right into the tank. “That’s the way, mate!”

“These skill tests, we are supposed to win them?” muttered Rozanov. “Or- how is it determined, worst bad boy of sport?”

“No fucking idea, mate,” Jamie returned, enjoying the racecare driver’s angry fucking strokes as he swam to the other side and levered himself up, clothes all plastered to his body and angry as fuck-

Hey now.

There were a fucking thought.

They wanted fucking bad boys, right?

“Watch this,” Jamie told Ilya, shoving into the man’s shoulder as he made his way to the tank, undoing his belt and sliding his trousers down off what he knew- knew- was an arse you could fucking bounce quarters off of, nearly as blessed as his fucking right foot.

He folded the trousers over the little rail thing not far from the ladder, and slipped his nice shirt off, as well, grateful Roy had talked him out of the one that needed cufflinks.

He climbed the ladder in his pants and little undershirt, and smiled broadly at the camera that locked in on him for a little close up. He blew it a kiss and said, grinning, “Enjoy the view, ladies!” as he gracefully stepped on three of the little floaties, just to show he could do the whole of the fucking challenge if needed, and then just gracefully let himself kind of sink into the water, making hardly a ripple and very definitely not getting his face or hair wet, because it were a controlled fucking thing, yeah?

Timed it so they could fucking compare him in endless loops with the little racecar driver’s mishap, between the third and fourth floaty, didn’t he?

Were wearing black pants and knew the clear sides of the little tank would be showing how they fucking molded to his arse, so he took his sweet time swimming to the far side, before levering himself up slow and careful, again, unlike the little racing man, really playing up his big, strong, beautiful fucking muscles and grinning lazy and happy at all the cameras, well aware he looked fucking hot, all that water cascading down his body like it were.

Roy’d banned him from climbing out of pools anywhere near the man, for how he got a stiffy almost immediately, despite his advanced geriatric age.

Blew another kiss for the camera as a little production assistant ran up with a towel. Sneered at the racecar man, who looked disgusted because Jamie’d definitely made him look a fucking clumsy fool.

Gave Rozanov a raised eyebrow and a raised chin, too.

Could the man do better than that, for sheer bad boy of sport?

Rozanov’s eyes narrowed and his nose did that little flare thing Roy’s did, when he were really fucking ticked off.

Jamie couldn’t help the little thrill it gave him.

Roy were always so forceful when he were all riled up, were the thing. So demanding, so- well.

Jamie were wired differently, now.

Had a response to someone glaring at him like that.

Rozanov transferred his glare to the huge rugby player, who stomped on the first floaty and promptly bellyflopped.

Jamie barked a laugh as he chased water down his body with the towel.

“If you, uh, need to use the changing rooms, they’ve got- they’ve got production, um. Promo clothes?” squeaked the little production assistant.

“Oh, brought me own clothes. Would love if you’d dry these for me, though,” Jamie said with a wide grin, pulling the absolutely transparent undershirt away from his skin with a flirtatious finger.

“We can- yes, yes, sir, I can find- I know costumes has a dryer, but, um- do you- do you want, um- I can see if we have spare, uh. Spare boxers? New, of course?” stammered the little PA.

“Nah,” said Jamie, enjoying the way the man immediately blushed bright scarlet and couldn’t meet his eyes anymore. “Don’t mind going commando, ‘til they’re ready.”

“Normally,” announced Rozanov loudly from atop the little platform, as Jamie made his way back to his pants and shirt, feeling quite smug and very bad boy, “when people bring me to a place and put me on water to do tricks, it is frozen water.”

Jamie snorted, peeling the little undershirt off his body and rubbing the towel everywhere before reaching for the crisp white shirt he’d worn on Keeley’s fucking word that the cut were the most flattering one he owned.

Fancy fucking thing had white embroidery crusted on it everywhere, very expensive.

No need to keep it buttoned up anymore, really, was there?

He turned at the sound of the splash, in time to see Rozanov’s beautiful arching dive turn into an underwater summersault that allowed him to use the floor to launch himself at the other side, every movement under water as fluid and free and easy as an Olympic swimmer.

“Fuck me,” muttered the man beside Jamie, as Jamie realized he would need some privacy for removing the fucking pants and putting on his trousers. “You’re all fucking mental.”

Jamie grinned at the man. “You can concede anytime you like,” he said cheerfully. “What’s your sport again?”

“Gymnastics, pommel horse,” said the man, staring at the tank, where Rozanov was hauling himself up and tossing his curly hair, water flinging in all directions as he laughed at the shouts of shock and discontent.

Jamie hissed. “Ooh, yeah, mate, there’s no fucking way. Do you even train cardio?”

“Some,” said the man.

“They’re going to give us something fucking brutal for cardio,” Jamie sighed, shaking his head. “I just know it, mate. Concede early, and you won’t have to fucking feel like today were a leg day tomorrow, yeah? Leave with your dignity and your fucking- hammies- the way you like ‘em.”

“Mm,” hummed the man, sounding doubtful.

“Your funeral,” said Jamie cheerfully, as the little PA found him again and gestured for him to follow.

He made sure to fucking saunter.

Rozanov had put up a good showing, yeah, but Jamie? Jamie had been the show, for that round!

“Ratings through the fucking roof, after that,” he murmured to himself, well pleased.

~~~

Shane rubbed his palms on his pants leg. Why had he agreed to do this again?

He hated interviews.

He was good at them, sure.

He’d had as much coaching in PR as in slapshots, and from almost as young an age, from his mother.

He knew how to navigate them.

And panelist style meant he had the five men before him to think about his exact phrasing, how to sell the Bad Boy Rozanov image while boosting the NHL talking points and feeding the “grudging respect from his ultimate rival” narrative, too.

It was just a lot to manage, and he was the only one still freaking out, he was sure of it.

Even the first guy had dropped all the stammering and “um, um, um” he had been doing.

It didn’t help that the old guy to his right was so fucking angry, shooting him dark little looks from time to time.

Shane had been in enough fights on the ice to recognize a player who’d taken one too many blows to the head and who was now dealing with some serious traumatic brain injury induced anger management problems.

Probably.

He didn’t actually know the guy’s history or backstory.

But he was pretty sure soccer did a bunch of risky things with headshots, and the guy was seriously gruff and sounded ready to rip limbs from bodies every time he spoke about Jamie Tartt.

Even the way the guy said it- JA-mie TARTT- was like a bitten-off swear word, clipped and short and full of heat.

Shane could tell Jamie must be one of those star players that the guy- a coach, he was pretty sure- had to put up with his attitude and tantrums and showboating and things because he won games.

Every sport had them.

How many questions were they going to ask them? Two hours was a long time to sit for a single interview, without a break?

“Okay,” said the interviewer in that same delighted tone of voice, scanning her clipboard. “One last burning question, and then we’ll break. What’s the single baddest thing your bad boy of sport has ever done to you, personally?”

Fuck.

Shane’s memory raced, and he tapped his thigh nervously, while the moderator checked her watch and gave them time to think, this time.

Thank God. What would he say? The entirely made-up, fictional rivalry?! Ilya had done plenty to him, on a deeply personal level, that some people might say was fucked up or unforgivable, but then Shane had also done things, hadn’t he? Hurtful things?

And none of that was for sharing, because it was all a deep secret, and so he’d have to go with- what?! Winning the cup? Checking him into the boards too hard? Shit talking him on the ice and making him lose his concentration? None of that played well for Shane- he either looked like a sore loser, a weakling, or unfocused!

“Oi,” muttered the angry man to his right.

Shane startled.

“It’s just a fucking question, grab the lowest hanging fruit,” the man muttered. “Don’t overthink it, lad.”

Shane stared at him.

The man stared back, eyes steady and calm.

Shane blew out a breath. “Right,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” said the man. “Breathe or fucking- visualize. Whatever the fuck. Last question, and you can have a fucking break.”

“Uh, okay,” said Shane cautiously, shifting his weight as the man on the end of the line nodded to the moderator and the studio mics and cameras swooped into action for his response.

He practiced talking about the draft in his head, but that came out like a sore loser, too. And still bitter after all this time? Lame.

Two more guys to go, and it was his turn.

Shane breathed. Plenty of time to think.

He could always punt it. He’d punted it so many times, in so many interviews over the last decade.

What was the worst thing Ilya Rozanov had ever done to him?

Be the second best at Shane’s chosen sport, always pushing Shane to be better to maintain his spot as number one.

No, that was way too arrogant, made it sound like there weren’t a handful of players at the top of the league vying for MVP every year.

He could always punt it. He could trot out the “Rozanov is a phenomenal, generational talent who challenges me to bring my best every day, always expanding what I thought I could do.”

The man next to him cleared his throat and launched into a story about filling his car with shaving cream.

That level of property damage was pretty horrific, Shane conceded, or- at least until the man explained it had convinced him to finally trade in his pre-fame beater-mobile for a brand new sports car.

It didn’t make it right, but- it was slightly less horrifying.

Shane bit his lip, and immediately released it, before the cameras could swing to him.

He didn’t have to straighten up because he was Yuna’s son, and he knew how to sit and look politely attentive and engaged even while very much melting down.

He breathed, as the cameras did swing to him, and inspiration suddenly struck.

“The worst thing Rozanov ever did,” he said, putting a little heat and bite into his voice, letting some of his inner tension bleed out, “was beat Scott Hunter’s shooting accuracy record at the All Star game. I mean, I got him back by beating it almost immediately, same day and everything, and mine still holds, but- yeah, for like a whole hour there, he really killed me.”

Muted, muffled laughter let him know the story had play, landed right. He’d told it correctly.

Beside him, the angry coach grunts, and waits for the cameras and mics to resettle on him before biting off, “Little shit ended my career and busted my knee, chasing him across the field to stop him from scoring and relegating us for the next season. And then had the nerve to celebrate about it by scoring the goal that did relegate us!”

Shane can’t stop his shocked gasp, his quick look at the man’s knees.

“Did his little victory dance, too,” said the man, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Everybody in the stands cheering for Tartt, could hear them even as they dragged me off to the physios.”

“Jeez,” said someone down the line in a tone of hushed sympathy.

The angry man rolled his eyes. “He’s still fucking making it up to me. Runs extra laps every fucking day about it.”

“Why’s he allowed to swear,” whispered the man on Shane’s left.

“I think they just bleep you out if you do,” said the gray-haired racecar driver on his left apologetically. “They haven’t made anyone re-shoot any takes, yes?”

“Oh, no, you don’t need to worry about language,” gushed the panel moderator cheerfully. “We’ll censor everything in post.”

Sighs up and down the line.

Shane didn’t care what they would or wouldn’t do in post. His brand was built on Canadian professionalism, and he’d continue to self-censor, thank you.

“Do I have to sit here for the rest, or am I free to go?” demanded the coach.

“Oh, I- I guess you’re free to go- all of you- if you… want?” said the woman a little helplessly, waving a hand.

The sound manager winced, but when all of the men popped up eagerly, rolled his eyes and glowered at the moderator.

“Oh,” said the moderator sadly, like she’d hoped most of them would just stick around, and Shane almost hesitated before giving himself a hard shake and standing up, following the angry coach and the rest of the panel who’d already answered back to the green room.

~~~

Shane looked tense, Ilya noted.

Well, he always took interviews so seriously, even for joke show like this.

Ilya did not do obvious thing like crook his finger to bring the man to his side, but he did tilt his head, and Shane did nod to show he would come to his side.

They spoke like that, a silent language, now.

The two of them the only native speakers of it.

“What’d you fucking do?” demanded Tartt’s coach of him. “You’re fucking limping!”

“Nothing!” spat Tartt right back at the man, and Ilya had to suppress a laugh.

Yeah, that was all- a nothing, what Tartt had done on the climbing wall.

Still, he’d taught the man an important lesson.

“I don’t believe you,” said the coach, stepping forward and grabbing Tartt’s chin, lifting it, inspecting the man, like he had every right to the man’s body, and that- that felt wrong.

Ilya had seen it, in Russia, too, the way the coaches in football touched their men.

Proprietary- easy to fall into the habit of touching the body like that, when they didn’t wear the pads and guards of hockey.

As Shane made his way across the room, Ilya kept an eye on Tartt and his coach, wary.

But Tartt allowed the touching, wincing as his coach found the spot under his jaw and on his bicep, and low, on his thigh with seeming ease.

Awful, thought Ilya resentfully, to be so completely and entirely known by your coach, that when you shuffle your feet, he sees you are in pain, and can find those places immediately, like that.

“They offer you fucking ice?” demanded the coach, sounding angry. “What’d you fucking do, to get so busted up?”

“Yeah, they offered me ice,” sneered Tartt, tossing his head. “Don’t need it, I’ll be fine. And it were a rock-climbing thing, Roy, so- you know- injuries just happen.”

Ilya couldn’t help the snort.

“Listen, you little Russian prick,” snapped Tartt, turning to Ilya immediately, glaring, “I’m having a private word, we don’t need any of your commentary-”

Too many words, too fast, in a voice too accented, Ilya could barely make them out, so he plastered a very innocent, shocked look on his own face and pressed his hand to his chest, “I only hear you say, injuries just happen but no one else-” he waved a hand around the green room expansively, “is limping, Tartt.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m fucking clumsy,” Tartt said with an exaggerated pout.

Ilya laughed, to see a grown man with that facial expression. He did not follow football as closely as Alexei, or with Svetlana’s curious interest in all professional sports, but he had seen the videos on social media of Tartt, always with his tongue out, his cocky smirk, his yellow cards for celebrating too much after goals.

His famous fight with his captain, that had made Ilya’s father declare him derzkiy mal'chik, a cocky little boy, with approval. The captain, Roy Kent, had been his father’s favorite football player, when his father had time for a sport not hockey.

His father had been right, Jamie Tartt was a little boy.

“You’re not fucking clumsy,” growled Roy Kent, captain and coach to the little pouting boy in the very powerful man-shaped body. “What the fuck happened?”

“It were a race, Roy!” said Tartt, shifting, pulling his face away from the man’s grip. “I did- what I’m here to do, yeah? Winning? Never hear you fucking complaining about me winning when I’m on the pitch, do I?”

“Don’t you?” snapped Roy Kent, Ilya’s father’s favorite player, for the passion he brought to every game. “Because I think I’ve always had a lot to fucking say about the way you go about it, most days.”

Tartt rolled his eyes and stomped his foot in irritation, and Ilya enjoyed this, the man-baby show with Roy Kent scolding him for his conduct.

To think great pouty footballer Jamie Tartt was the same age as Shane and Ilya!

No one would know, from the way he avoided his coach’s gaze and mumbled, “Well, done’s done, and this arsehole kicked me good and lost me footing and slammed ‘gainst the wall, took one of them handholds to the neck and another to the shoulder. I’ll be okay, though, Roy!”

Roy spared Ilya a quick glance, a dismissive up-and-down that made Ilya grin fiercely just as Shane finally arrived at his side, ginger ale in hand and mask so firmly in place.

Ilya could see the curiosity below, though, as he greeted Ilya with a simple, “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Ilya said with satisfaction. “Tartt is in trouble with his coach for being idiot on the climbing challenge. He is asshole, knocking people down, and gets injured when he gets knocked down.”

“Oh,” said Shane, rocking on his heels and blinking a bit, before turning to Tartt and say cautiously, “Do you- they have first aid? Do you need first aid-”

“No, I don’t fucking need first aid!” spat Tartt in a vicious little voice.

Before Ilya had to puff up and kindly explain to Tartt that Shane Hollander was not available for his tantrums, Roy Kent snapped, “Oi! He’s kindly asking if you need assistance, Tartt! Tone it fucking down!”

And Jamie Tartt, his father’s favorite derzkiy mal'chik, the one who made his father laugh, snapped his mouth shut, hunched his shoulders, and shot his coach a wounded glare before muttering, “Sorry,” at Shane. “Everybody and their uncle’s been after me about ice and it don’t hurt that bad, swear down.”

Shane blinked and then peered at Ilya. “Are you able to understand what he’s saying?” he asked curiously.

Ilya scowled. “Is fine, he is- fine. I understand Tartt just fine,” he added, giving the man-boy a little sneer.

Jamie Tartt, derzkiy mal'chik, sneered back, and then blinked at his coach in shock and surprise when the man growled at him.

He was cartoon, not real man, in Ilya’s mind.

But, Ilya had to concede, he was likely winning the title of baddest bad boy of sports, today.

~~~

Roy checked the clock on the wall of the green room where everyone was fucking milling about, nothing to do, and almost growled.

Jamie was clearly in no small amount of pain- he’d seen the man take cleats to his thigh with less wincing, and they still had four hours left today.

A lot of fucking work for a single fucking hour of content.

He snagged the next headset-and-polo-shirt-wearing individual who passed by and growled, “Need to take this one to a dressing room, tell me how to get to them.”

The man went big-eyed and said into his mic, “Tartt needs another dressing room, which- which one do I take him to?”

Roy heard the static and some noise, and then the man said, “Yeah, um, come this way?”

“So when will they give you the clothes back?” he heard the nervy little fuck say to the cocky little cunt.

Well, that explained something about the four men wearing promotional tracksuit clothing. He’d thought everyone had been dressed more formal earlier in the day.

“Roy, I’m fine,” protested Jamie, but when he pushed back against Roy’s guiding hand on his back, he hissed, and jumped forward.

Yeah. Roy had placed his hand over the barely-formed bruise very obviously in the center of the man’s shoulder, from the way he’d been holding himself.

“He’s not fine, though,” said the production man over his shoulder. “We keep trying to get him to let first aid look at him, and- and ice? It was a pretty bad, um. Well, the kick wasn’t too bad, we don’t think- it doesn’t look bad, anyway, from the tape, but when he smacked himself against the climbing wall, that really did look, um. Bad. Obviously his own liability, we accept no responsibility, he signed the waivers!”

“Course he did, you git,” snapped Roy, before hissing out an angry breath and calming himself down. Jamie was fine. He’d taken worse in training, for fuck’s sake! “Sorry, worried about him, that’s all. Send the first aid in- and the ice- and I’ll make him behave for you. Give us- a half-hour, yeah? He takes some wrestling.”

The production man nodded earnestly, made a note on his clipboard, and said happily, “That’ll fit the schedule! I’ll send you the box lunches you requested, with the first aid tech, in a half-hour.”

“Mint,” said Jamie, sounding petulant and whiney, as only Jamie Tartt, wound up and in a strop, could sound.

Roy attempted a smile at the production man, nodded agreement, and shoved Jamie into the little room, flipping the little sign from “Available” to “Occupied.”

He closed the door, and stared at Jamie, who’d reached the center of the small space and spun around, lifting his chin and glaring at Roy. “What?!” Jamie demanded. “I’m fine, Roy!”

“I know you are,” Roy said. “But, now no one will bother us for a fucking half-hour, and we’re in a private room, and I’ve-” his fingers twisted the lock, “-secured said room for us, for that half-hour.”

“Your public sex kink has gotten entirely out of control, mate,” said Jamie, but he was already grinning and stepping forward, hands reaching for Roy.

“Could see the video of you pulling yourself out of that fucking tank while we were sitting in the interviews,” Roy told him gruffly, pulling Jamie- his Jamie- to him, and dipping his head that scant inch it had to drop, to kiss the shit out of the fit little fuck.

He grabbed a handful of arse, while he was at it, making Jamie moan quietly into the kiss.

Jamie pulled back, laughing breathlessly, and grinned at him. “Knew you’d go mad,” he said, grinning broadly, and then his smile went wicked as he teased, “And did you, you know, see me, back in me shirt and trousers, and realize what it meant, Roy?”

“What it-” the lightbulb dawned, as Roy thought through the undershirt and pants that Jamie’d worn into the damn tank, and the clothes he was wearing now, and how they were mutually fucking exclusive- “-you’re playing with fire,” he growled, and kissed the man again, sliding his hand up under Jamie’s shirt, along the glorious, hard muscles of the man’s lower back, and then down, slipping under the waistband of his trousers and encountering not one small ripple of elastic before the welcome swell of Jamie’s arse met his fingertips. “Fuck!”

“Yeah,” whispered Jamie in his ear, little more than a panted breath, “know you love when I-”

“You’re in so much fucking trouble,” Roy growled, loving the way Jamie shivered, loving the way Jamie’s hands immediately dropped and began fumbling with the waistband to his trousers.

“Know I am,” murmured Jamie, gasping when Roy bit at his neck savagely. “Careful, Roy! Can’t have anything on-camera in the afternoon that wasn’t there in the morning, yeah?”

“That’s for fucking Hailey to figure out,” Roy decided, although he did aim himself better, pulling aside the collar to Jamie’s shirt impatiently with one hand as his other batted away Jamie’s hands for possession of the man’s fucking cock.

“Ah!” gasped Jamie, arching back. “Fucking- ah! Roy!”

“Fucking crawl out of a pool, dripping wet and smiling like you did,” growled Roy, “And think you can get away with it?”

“Never,” promised Jamie breathlessly. “Sorry, ‘course not, not with you- eh- oh, God, Roy, yes, please!”

“Walking around with no pants on, just a thin fucking layer between me and my favorite cock?” demanded Roy angrily, the way he knew Jamie loved it.

“No layers at all, now, Roy!” said the man hopefully, giving him such a grin that he had to kiss the earnest admiration off the man’s face until Jamie’s hips were rabbiting in fast motions, in time to the way Roy was pumping him, neither one of them minding in the least that it was dry, and rough, and probably unethical in seven different ways.

Actually, for Roy, that was part of the excitement chasing its way through his veins, making his breath come fast and uneven.

“Can’t make a mess,” Jamie gasped, giving Roy the most pleading, pitiful look.

“So you want a blowjob?” demanded Roy incredulously.

“Please, Roy,” Jamie begged immediately. “Please? I’m all injured and things, and we can’t make a mess, can we? Please?”

“Fuck’s sake, Tartt,” swore Roy. “You shameless fucking cunt.”

Jamie gave a crooked grin and dropped a series of pecking kisses to Roy’s lips, his own breath trembling and his hands where they clutched Roy’s shoulders shaking, just a little. “Please, please, Roy, want a fucking blowie, it’s the right fucking thing to do, I’ll give you one in return, please, Roy?!”

“Fuck’s sake, going to have me fucking straining my new knee,” grumbled Roy, but they both knew he’d given in the minute Jamie had gotten in that fucking pool, the minute he’d lost his fucking pants.

Roy’d given in a year ago, the first time he’d done it, and although they both loved the little game of Jamie begging and Roy being pissed off about it, they both also knew how it’d end every single fucking time: Roy, on his knees, Jamie’s fingers carding through his hair, trying to find a single curl long enough to fucking grip.

Which he wouldn’t fucking do.

Roy kept his hair at precisely this length, because it was fucking thrilling, knowing Jamie had to fucking scramble for control and could never get enough hair to fucking stop him, as he sucked the man down until he came, screaming silently, chest heaving, whole body one stiff, arching line of muscle and power and grace.

Roy’d fuck a lot of knees, to look up, and watch his man lose all sense and groan, as Jamie did.

Loved fucking doing it to the man at the club, too, pulling him into the boot room or the corner of the coach’s office that you couldn’t see from the cameras or the windows.

Shook him right the fuck up, made Jamie a fucking wreck, for the first few months, although now the man’d come to expect it and even teased about it, if it had been more than a couple weeks since their last indiscretion.

“Okay, okay,” wheezed Jamie. “Your turn! Your- your turn!”

They were used to only having a few minutes like this, a happy hurry to get wet and get off during their work day. It had tightened their teamwork around this particular bad boy sport until Jamie could lever Roy up and fall to his knees as easily as he could kick a sitter during a scrimmage when Zoreaux was looking the other way.

“You’re fucking gorgeous on your knees for me,” Roy told Jamie, unable to fucking help himself as he leaned back against the wall for support and began unfastening his own trousers, his cock straining the fucking fabric and leaving a wet spot on the pants that, God willing, would not soak through to the next layer.

The man simply was gorgeous like this, face flushed and eyes sparkling with mischief as he looked up at Roy. “Told you,” he said in a voice still a little breathless, “I weren’t hurt that bad, coach.”

“Fucking hell, Tartt,” groaned Roy, because that coach shit the little fuck brought into the bedroom was turning him into such a kinky fucker, wasn’t it?

Jamie chuckled a little, and then he swallowed Roy in one smooth motion- something he’d spent the last year and a half practicing with the dedication that bordered on mild obsession that Jamie was known for across the leagues, now.

Fuck, the man could suck cock!

Roy slammed his head back against the wall once before remembering this was not Nelson Road’s silent cinderblock maze with all its storage and supplies cubbyholes, and was, in fact, a very poorly-constructed sound stage interior room, with all the shoddy workmanship and cheap materials that came with it.

Definitely not very soundproof.

He gritted his teeth and bent his head forward, protection against slamming his head again.

He buried his hands in Tartt’s long locks, twisting all that hair around his fucking fingers and noticing the token protest Jamie put up against it, as he always fucking did when there might be photographs later.

So the man would have to primp later, did Roy fucking care?

No, Roy fucking did not care.

Jamie’d been enthusiastic about Roy fucking his face enough times that he didn’t stop to check in and make sure Jamie really, really meant it, and he fucked those gorgeous lips and that golden fucking throat, too, letting himself get into the brutal fucking rhythm they used when they only had a moment and they both desperately wanted to use it for this.

Fuck, Jamie’s little moans and groans and whimpering noises were as fucking hot as his wet, desperate, sloppy noises, like this. The man loved giving a fast fuck as much as he loved being taken care of with one, and it was one of the more maddening things about their relationship that they’d fucked more this way than the long, slow, soul-searching way Roy’d always managed in his relationships in the past.

But that was Jamie fucking Tartt for you: a singular fucking maddening experience all around.

Roy felt the crest hit, and rose up on his toes with it, clenching his jaw to fight back the roaring shout he knew he’d be letting out, if they were back at his- or in Jamie’s fucking monstrosity of a condo- with no prying ears to catch those louder calls.

Fuck, the man drove him fucking mental!

Roy fucked the man’s mouth in a deep thrust, and pulled back on Jamie’s hair so he could watch the man fucking take it- swallow it, eyes closed, begging for more, more, more by the flicking of his fucking tongue as Roy came hissing and grunting and fighting back any louder noise that wanted to escape.

“Fuck, you’re good at that,” he gasped, when he could, releasing the man by releasing his grip on the man’s hair, petting it down half-apologetically.

“Know I am, coach,” said Jamie smugly, standing up with all the graceful, smooth action of a footballer still in his first ten years in the Prem. Jamie dove in for a kiss while Roy was still at his weakest, struggling to catch his breath and count his fucking limbs.

It was one of the softer, gentler ones, the tender ones Jamie liked to sneak in after he’d fucking wrecked Roy in some nasty, dirty way.

Like getting soaking wet in just his pants, grinning cocky for the cameras as he lifted himself out of the water, walking around with his cock hanging free where just a thin fucking later of cloth prevented Roy from touching it.

“Fuck,” breathed Roy into the kiss, and Jamie hissed a laugh at him, burying his head in Roy’s shoulder.

“Yeah, coach, fucking- me too,” laughed Jamie. “You ought to come with a fucking warning label.”

“Me?” protested Roy, his hands coming up of their own volition to cradle the man to his body, to pull him in and wrap him up, press him tightly to Roy’s own. “You’re the fucking menace, Jamie.”

“Just following in your footsteps, grandad,” teased Jamie.

“No, we’re not fucking doing that,” said Roy in horror. “No fucking- what- incest play or whatever the fuck you’d call it.”

Jamie burst into laughter, sounding giddy and smug as he said, “Right, check, all the other kinks fine, incest right out. Got it. No calling you daddy.”

Roy considered this for half a second. “You could probably get away with daddy,” he growled at the man. “But that’s where I draw the fucking line.”

Jamie laughed again, and then kissed Roy’s neck gently. “Good to fucking know, I’ll keep you posted, coach.”

Coach was kinky enough, as far as Roy was concerned.

He let Jamie cuddle him- actively encouraging the man by cuddling him in return, for a long minute, and then, mindful of the time, sighed, and straightened up from the wall. “Tuck yourself fucking away, Tartt,” he told the man gruffly, doing the same for himself with a deft hand at denying himself what he really wanted in the name of making more money for the both of them. “Try to look presentable, they’ll be here any minute with ice and food and a medic to check you over.”

“Good thing we took care of the fucking stiffy,” laughed Jamie, fastening what remained of his clothing and taking a stab at straightening it all out. “How much did you fuck me hair?”

“Not bad,” considered Roy, shoving the man over to the mirror and the little chair.

“Mint,” declared Jamie, settling himself into the chair and beginning the quick process of getting himself in enough condition to pass a cursory inspection.

Roy caught his own expression in the mirror and had to scowl.

He knew he looked a fucking fool when no one was fucking watching and he happened to look at Jamie or think of Jamie, and mirrors were cunts for always catching him out and reflecting that foolish fucking look back at him, so he’d know what he looked like.

His only consolation was the fact that Jamie looked far stupider, whenever Roy caught him looking.

Not much of a consolation, but he’d take his wins where he could fucking find them.

~~~

Food was food, and Ilya ate it.

The American love of the ham sandwich with mayonnaise for these kinds of events and things was baffling, but edible.

He survived.

He made sure Shane ate, too, and drank another ginger ale. His big interview was over, but maybe that was worse for Shane, because Shane liked a focus.

He didn’t like being the focus, but- he liked having a focus.

Jamie Tartt, man-baby, did not appear until the end of the lunch break, and even then, only briefly, to take a bottle of water and jog back off, muttering something under his breath that Ilya did not understand.

At same time, a staff member returned with Ilya’s dried clothes, and Ilya made Shane stand and follow when the woman guided him back to the dressing rooms.

“People are going to think-” hissed his Shane, behind him.

“No, they are not,” said Ilya, just as quietly. “No one is thinking anything, no one is watching anyone, they are all watching the little screens.”

It was true.

They’d started to show the footage from the morning in the green room, and everyone had laughed and pointed and begun to talk shit.

“When am I needed on set?” Ilya demanded of the woman, after shoving Shane into the small changing room ahead of him.

“Uhh, fifteen minutes,” said the woman, tapping already at her iPad. “Any more than that, and I’ll come looking for you.”

“Okay,” said Ilya, closing the door firmly, and then clicking the little lock.

“Ilya,” hissed his little Shane, all fearful eyes for the door, gaze darting this way and that, little rabbit.

“Shane,” agreed Ilya, enjoying the thrill of the chase and the catch, the quiet way they’d have to do this, to have it done in fifteen minutes. “You be very quiet, and I’ll be very good.”

“Ilya,” hissed his Shane again, as Ilya shouldered his way out of the promotional sweatshirt, thumbs immediately tucking into the waistband of the sweatpants and boxers they’d found for him, and shoving those down, too.

“Shane,” he mocked his love, stepping out of his clothes, fully naked, and spreading his arms.

A challenge.

And there was nothing that focused the sunshine of his days more than a challenge.

There.

The small swallow of want, the way his eyes went glazed with need.

Ilya dropped his hands to his cock and began to stroke it, loving the way Shane’s eyes followed the motion. “Come,” he said quietly. “Come here, serdtse moyo.”

“Speaking in Russian is cheating,” mumbled Shane, but he was already stumbling forward, already kneeling to worship.

“Ahh,” sighed Ilya, as Shane’s lips locked around his cock. “You are so good at this, at this for me, yes? Shane?”

A little choked, needy noise from Shane was all the confirmation he needed, the eager bob of the man’s head on his cock perfect- perfect- so fucking good!

Everything he’d ever wanted, and it never took them long, did it? When they had a stolen-away minute?

Fuck, it felt like that first time, all over again, his cock in Shane’s throat, the nerves and the excitement, the need to race, race, race, as fast as he could, lust slicing through him like his blades through the ice, fuck, what this man did to him, like this, on his knees.

“So sexy,” Ilya purred, feeling smug, feeling amazing. Feeling very bad boy, to have Shane Hollander like this, in some changing room on some set.

Shane Hollander, NHL MVP, on his knees for Ilya, begging Ilya with his whole body to come, come, come for him, his quick glances up so full of want and desire that they made Ilya burn, too, hotter and hotter.

Fuck, this was a good life.

Fuck, this was a good life!

He let himself burn all the way up, staring down at Shane, thinking such thoughts about the man, about his luck, about his love for this man, on his knees so easy, all because Ilya suggested it.

All that fear and worry, melted into shameless lust, because Ilya wanted a blowjob before the afternoon activities.

“Fuck,” groaned Ilya from his chest, as Shane began to do the thing with his tongue and Ilya wasn’t- couldn’t really last much again- it was- there was- he- “Shane!”

Shane made a single quiet desperate noise, and that was all it took, that little noise from his sweet man, and Ilya tipped over the edge.

He was still panting when he said, “Get up or lay down.”

An order, but he’d seen the need in Shane’s eyes.

“Get up,” he repeated, making the decision when Shane hesitated. He pulled on Shane’s arm until the man stood up, still cock-drunk, and let himself be pushed back against the wall.

And then Ilya took his turn while Shane shook and whimpered and made little scared needy noises, his fingers digging into Ilya’s hair in the desperate way Ilya loved so much.

No mess, with blowjobs. They’d learned that, very young.

Want to hide some sex?

Better with blowjobs than with hands, even.

Everything all cleaned and fine, afterwards.

No one could tell.

“Ilya,” moaned Shane.

Ilya made an encouraging noise. They didn’t have much time. He didn’t have any idea in his head how much had passed- not much- but- but they didn’t have much time.

Shane moaned again, and then shocked Ilya, by gasping right away, tensing and arching from the wall.

Ilya sucked him down harder, taking as much as he could, stroking as quickly as he could with his hands, as Shane hissed and gasped and choked above him, and finally came with a long, low, aching moan of Ilya’s name.

Ilya loved this man, who knew how to do these little secret sex acts.

He loved him best at the cabin, in the sunlight on his hands and knees on his stupid fucking rug he loved so much that gave them both rugburn on their knees.

But this?

This sneaky sex?

This was a favorite, too.

“Ilya,” gasped Shane. “Ilya!”

“Yes,” Ilya said, swallowing twice before standing and admiring the wrecked look his Shane gave to him. He dove in for a quick- how else?- kiss, before reaching for his fancy clothes and beginning to pull them on.

They’d ironed the fucking boxers, the crazies.

But he appreciated the effort.

It was nice, being a star for a day, like this.

He didn’t mind playing the part of Bad Boy.

Not if he got bad boy blowjobs in little rooms with Shane, and things like ironed boxers, which were just- nice.

It was nice.

“C’mon, Shane,” he said, laughing at the man’s expression. “Pull your face on. Let’s go! Whole afternoon yet.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane declared.

“Mm, yes, okay, you love me like this,” agreed Ilya, nodding, unable to hide the cocky grin.

“I do, and it’s a mystery,” Shane argued.

“No mystery,” corrected Ilya, leaning in while he fastened the pants, giving Shane’s little pouty mouth a kiss, “I give great blowjob. You love it, da?”

“I love it, da,” breathed Shane into his mouth, all soft and loving again, all masks melted away.

Ilya would burn cities for this man, if he needed to.

But, no, all he needed to do was skate, and score, and wait a few months, until he could sign with Ottawa.

No biggie, compared to burning a village.

“I love you,” he said to Shane, against Shane’s lips.

Shane said nothing at all, until the little PA knocked on the door, and they parted, hearts racing, and they both put on their masks to go play their parts for the show.

~~~

They’d just had sex in a changing room, which was fine.

It was fine.

It was going to be fine.

It wasn’t even sex-sex, it was just- just blowjobs.

Ilya was already looking calm and collected and his hair was always tousled, he always looked like someone had been running their fingers through his hair and-

Oh god.

Oh, god, someone was going to know.

No, that was ridiculous.

They’d been sneaking around having sex for a decade.

No one ever caught on.

No one ever caught on, because it was nothing. It was nothing.

Just blowjobs.

“So, you see,” said Ilya smoothly, opening the door, “that’s why I say the event, we have to hold it after season, yes? I don’t have time to- thank you for the knock, ah, what was name, again?”

“I’m Katie,” said the PA cheerily. “Thanks for asking!”

“We could hold it after season, I guess,” said Shane, hoping his delivery was anywhere near as smooth as Ilya’s.

He always felt so discombobulated, so spun around, after an orgasm.

Especially one given to him by Ilya Rozanov, who had just an insane GOAT-level of Shane-orgasm skill.

“Katie, thank you, yes, I’m glad you agree, I am very smart,” Ilya said, tossing Shane a wicked, teasing grin over his shoulder.

Shane told himself to get a grip, drawing a deep breath, when the girl- woman!- woman!- knocked on the door beside their changing room, and he heard Jamie Tartt yelp, “Roy! It’s fucking time, would you stop- I don’t need fucking ice, I said!”

Shane breathed a very deep breath, and shot a panicked look at Ilya, who had also frozen in place.

Because Ilya sensed the same problem Shane did.

Shane had heard the yelp like it was happening outside the changing room. Like there wasn’t a wall there at all. Like you could hear things inside the room from the outside of the room as if the walls didn’t exist!

The door to the other changing room banged open, and out backed Jamie Tartt, hands raised in front of him like he was warding off-

His coach, who stalked out behind him, glaring, hands fisting around an ice pack.

“I’m all done icing it, I think you’re only supposed to ice for like, fifteen minutes, man,” protested Jamie. “Look, Katie- it’s Katie, right? Talk to the man, tell him the physio cleared me, yeah?”

Katie scrolled through her iPad and announced, “There’s a note from fifteen minutes ago that said he’s fine from the first aid guy?”

“There, see? Settle down, Coach!” said the man, crossing his arms and glaring at his coach. “I don’t need to ice it more, it’s been iced plenty!”

“Fine,” growled the coach. “But you’re fucking icing it back at the hotel.”

“No, I’m fucking lounging in the pool, back at the hotel, you hairy old cunt,” said Jamie, before pausing and saying, “Eh, no offense, Katie, I know, eh- that’s a different word here, right? Allowed to say fuck but not cunt?”

“Correct,” she said in a tone of amused indulgence. “Although you’re not on camera, and if you were, we’d just bleep you anyway, so honestly, I don’t think it matters.”

“No, I mean, didn’t want to offend you?” he said, looking at her with big eyes. “Me mum’d kill me if I came all this way and then offended women, when you’re all oppressed and shit? Got cults and things keeping you down or owt?”

“Mm,” said Katie, tilting her head. “Well, I’m not offended, but I work in show biz, soooo… not a great sample size.”

“Oh, whew,” sighed Jamie. “Okay, well, then, which way to stage?”

Shane had several heartbeats where he was sure Jamie and his coach had been too busy doing the icing and whatever to hear anything through what were very clearly much thinner walls than he’d realized.

And then, as they were walking to the stage, Jamie and Ilya already throwing mild and friendly insults at each other’s demonstrated prowess from the morning’s challenges, Jamie’s coach leaned closer and said, “He’s good at that.”

“Who?” asked Shane absently.

“Jamie. He’s good at… making a scene, distracting people. In case you were worried. She won’t think anything about it, now.”

“Think anything about- about what?” stammered Shane, feeling himself stiffen up and knowing his control wasn’t up to his usual standards by the way the words came out tighter than usual.

“Oh, nothing,” said the coach, giving Shane a very steady look. “Nothing at all.”

He patted Shane on the shoulder, and then shouted, “Oi! Tartt! She turned left there! Pay the fuck attention, one of you lot!”

Shane wheezed. “What- I mean- I mean-”

“Not a damn thing, lad,” said the coach very firmly, shoving his hands in the pockets of his very, deeply cool black leather jacket while Shane attempted not to trip over his feet.

Shane breathed, heavy and hard for a few seconds, while his body moved on autopilot to follow Ilya through the increasingly-filled-with-people parts of the backstage area.

This was okay.

This was all okay.

They’d had sex, and somehow Jamie and his coach had been in the next fucking room over and they’d heard- something- shit, probably Shane, they’d probably heard him moaning like a whore or whatever, and this was all his fault, but the coach had said they were cool.

The coach had said they were cool.

They were cool.

It was fine.

Shane stared at Ilya, until his eye was caught by Jamie, as Jamie talked a mile a minute too fast for even Shane to keep up, and Ilya did the thing he did where he stared unblinking at the man, probably just trying to catch keywords as he could and about to be bluntly “I didn’t hear anything” when Jamie stopped for breath.

His eye was caught by Jamie, because there was something about the way Jamie held himself, or carried himself, that made Shane think maybe there was a reason Jamie was so good at drawing the eye away from… things people didn’t want seen.

Which would… be good.

It would be fine, if that was… also true, for Jamie Tartt.

If he also had… he was clearly like Ilya, right?

Smooth talker, bad boy, that whole… thing. Attitude. Persona.

So he probably had, like, his shit together, then. That’s probably what his coach had meant, about Jamie being a good cover-story guy.

He probably had things he had to cover up, like Ilya’d had, and- and he probably was good at covering them up.

Okay.

Okay.

This was fine.

This was not damage.

This was damage under control.

It still felt incredible, when Ilya paused, and let Shane catch up, and gave him a cocky wink and a grin.

Because…. Right.

Right.

Nothing was fucked here.

They’d fucked a little, and it was all okay.

This was fine.

This was okay.

~~~

“You’re fucked,” Jamie muttered to Ilya, as they stood together to one side of the little group of bad boys that milled around the stage, waiting for their next task.

“We are fine,” Rozanov said, tossing his head. “You are sickos, to listen and not bang on wall.”

“I mean, yeah, Roy’s the real sicko,” conceded Jamie. “He probably’ll wank off to that for like, years, you’ve no fucking idea. But if you’re trying to fucking hide that, you’ve got to fucking do a better job, mate! Stuff his mouth with a fucking sock, you know?”

“I know what to do,” Rozanov said firmly.

A pause, and then Jamie asked doubtfully, “I mean, do you? How long’ve you been… eh. Not stuffing socks in each other’s mouths?”

Ilya squinted, clearly working through the math in his head. “Too long,” he sighed. “We are getting careless now, so near to end of season.”

“Eh, why? Are you, eh, hiding it? Isn’t that the whole- the whole rainbow thing about hockey, now? If even I’ve heard about it, it’s kind of a big deal, yeah? Whole Twitter were buzzin about it?” asked Jamie quietly, shooting the man’s partner a quick look. He didn’t seem the type, too nervy, to manage a secret illicit sexual conquesting for a long period of time.

“I am Russian,” Ilya said, like Jamie couldn’t fucking hear that in his voice. “In Russia, they jail you for kissing the man you love.”

“Ooooh,” said Jamie, proper impressed by that reminder. “Forgot that. So, gonna like, secret marry him to get citizenship before you say, what, fuck all you fuckers, I love him?”

“I could say that, yes,” murmured Ilya, as the man in the little sport suit stepped up onto the stage. “Quiet, now, Tartt. I hear your worry, but we are fine.”

Jamie couldn’t wrap his head around how the man could be so certain they’d be fine.

He had Roy, and Roy knew fucking everything about carrying on a secret fucking relationship. Fucking everything about how to fucking do it! Said some things you had to just do all the time so that people stopped finding them fucking weird, and then other things you’d get resentful if you didn’t turn it into like, a hot fucking fantasy, sneaking around, getting your blood up kind of thing. Jamie’d had no idea, but Roy’d been around several blocks, and he knew all about it.

He’d be lost, trying to carry on a secret relationship with anyone else.

“For our next task, you will each need a pencil and some paper,” announced the woman, as Katie wheeled over a little supply cart.

“For what?” scoffed Jamie, crossing his arms. “Going to write you some bad boy poetry?”

“Hardly,” said the woman dryly.

Jamie blinked at this sudden glimmer of actual personality out of the woman, and rocked on his feet a bit as he absorbed the response.

“We’re going to give you a very short time- say, fifteen minutes? To sell the audience on why your sport is the baddest sport, that is to say, the best sport for rebels and wild cards like yourselves,” said the woman, back to her bright on-air personality, wide smile plastered on her face.

“What you write will be read by another participant, and they will be given two minutes for an on-camera rebuttal response,” she explained.

“Fuck me,” said Jamie.

“Not even if you asked,” muttered Ilya, glowering at the woman before sighing and bumping his shoulder into Jamie’s to put Jamie in motion. “Come on, I beat you at this, too, and English is not even my second language.”

“Really?” asked Jamie, impressed despite himself, as they waited to collect their supplies from the cart. “How many languages do you speak then?”

“Russian, Chechen, little French, little uh, Yazyk Kosa, little bit…Pǔtōnghuà… uh, in English, you say, Chinese? I think? But yes, Russian is best and then French, and then English.”

“Studied French in academy,” said Jamie, thinking back. “Thought if I were going to be, you know, go international, wouldn’t mind the French leagues.”

Ilya grunted.

“Don’t remember much,” continued Jamie, as Ilya grabbed two pencils and two clipboards with paper attached. “Bonjour, je m'appelle Jamie.”

“Bonjour, Jamie, je m’appelle Ilya,” said Ilya, giving him a small glare as he passed Jamie a clipboard and pencil. “Now go sit and do work, let me think.”

Jamie found a seat near Ilya, and tried to ignore the cameras taking shots of them all sitting on their arses on the stage, clipboards balanced on their knees as they all scribble shit down.

He tried to think what Keeley would want him to say about footie. That didn’t work because she’d be fucking brilliant, so then he tried to think what Ted would say, and gave that up because Ted was an American and a blithering fucking one, and he’d never be able to match the man’s storytelling. He thought about Roy, but Roy’d just say fuck to the whole thing, which is about what the boxer bloke appeared to have done, because he’d written his piece already and had flopped back on the stage, fingers tapping out a little rhythm on his chest.

Finally, he thought, well, what would Simon say about why footie’s best for me?

And that?

That were a fucking inspiring angle to work from.

He glanced over at Ilya when he were done, and the man had a crinkled-up forehead and a frown, exactly how Roy looked when he were staring down at the fucking expense reports he had to do quarterly.

Wouldn’t be right to distract the man, so he only sighed and flopped back on the stage, turning the clipboard over as he’d seen others do, and joining the professional boxer in his little tummy-drumming, trying to figure out what fucking rhythm the man were using to do it, and mostly failing to match him.

It was a shock when Ilya’s hand closed over his hand, pressing it to his stomach, and the man said very sternly, “Is distracting. Stop now.”

“Fine,” sighed Jamie, rolling his eyes and curling onto his side. “I’m just dead bored, yeah? Hate fucking waiting.”

“Write it out again, in French,” said Ilya, shooting him a look of irritation. “So French league hears and says, oh, we want this one, he will fit in, and they offer you millions of dollars a day.”

Jamie snorted. “That’s not the French at all, mate,” he pointed out. “Clear you’ve only worked with the French Canadians, who’re like, nice and shit. Real French people hate your guts if you even try to write in their lingo and don’t have a degree in it.”

“Well, prove to them you’re better,” said Ilya firmly. “I am working, Jamie.”

“Sure,” sighed Jamie, rolling onto his other side, away from Ilya, to scan the small crowd gathered off-stage and look for Roy.

Bit hard to see because of all the lights, but eventually he found the fit bastard, looking fucking edible in his black leather jacket, tucked back against the wall with Ilya’s partner and glowering.

Yeah, that were like Roy, to do that. He were always looking out for lads coming up, had had a whole thing about Colin’s boyfriends always being sat next to Keeley so they’d have someone to chat with.

Tommy were the nerviest fucking player in the entire fucking league, and could only work under Roy, who were the shoutiest fucking coach on earth, but who also just stood still and glowered at you, when you were having a fucking moment and he didn’t know how to help.

And that, Jamie had found, really fucking helped Tommy.

And Jamie, although usually he preferred when Roy’d go fucking mental on him, so he could get it all out and go mental right back, and then they’d have it out and then he could fucking have his little collapse and Roy’d pet him all awkwardly, like he’d seen Mummy do, and then usually they’d figure out how to turn it into really fucking hot, like, emotional sex. Which was something he only ever really got from Roy, come to think of it. Keeley’d gotten close, but she’d never fucking made him cry, the way Roy did, when he was being… tender, Jamie supposed was the word.

Hard man Roy Kent touching you like you were made of like, glass shards or whatever- delicate?

Fucking amazing.

“Time is up!” announced the woman, and Ilya blew out a disgusted breath, tapping his pencil against his clipboard and glaring at her. “Pencils?” she said pleasantly, and they all threw their pencils into the top of the cart, only the race car driver misjudging his toss and missing and everyone proper razzing him about it until he were beet red.

“All right,” she said hesitantly and wide-eyed in a way that made Jamie want to snicker. “Please gently pass forward your clipboards. We’ll just pile them up and then I’ll select the first person to read and respond, and they’ll sit- thank you Katie- on the chair right there, to do it!”

“I recommend,” called the man from the sidelines, “that you read through the paragraph at least one time so that you know you can, although of course errors add that human feel and we don’t want it to feel memorized or practiced, but like a real reading.”

“Why don’t we have- Max!- go first and pick a clipboard?” said the woman brightly.

“Fuck me,” muttered the rubgy player, levering himself up and swiping the clipboard at the top of the pile with a careless hand as he passed.

“Uh, okay,” he said in his broad Australian accent as he settled in, scanning the page. “Right.”

Jamie tuned him out as the PA announced, “Quiet! Cameras rolling!”

He had a thought and rolled back over to stare up at Ilya until Ilya glared down at him.

Carefully, remembering all the PR training he’d had, he signed, hello-my-name-J-A-M-I-E. Followed by your-name-what?

Ilya rolled his eyes and fingerspelled four very distinct letters with one hand, although they moved too quickly for Jamie to catch what the fuck letters they’d been. He didn’t know the whole alphabet, did he? Only needed to know his five.

Jamie still grinned, because clearly Ilya had taken his meaning, which meant they could fucking talk without getting in trouble, if they were clever about it. He wiggled with excitement as he tried to remember all the really naughty phrases he’d asked the interpreter how to sign, when they were having training on it for fan interactions.

You-like-footie? he asked Ilya, kicking the imaginary balls at the man as quickly as he could.

Ilya shook his head and gave what must be the sign for hockey with an impatient swipe of his hand, finger curled.

Jamie’s stomach fucking hurt, trying to hold in the fucking laugh he wanted to give at the man’s obvious disgust.

Clearly fan sensitivity and engagement training were the same among all fucking sports, because the fucking baseball pitcher kicked his shoe and signed what Jamie could only interpret as baseball, followed by the little sassy wrist-turning number one.

Jamie made the little fisted no-no-no, laughing as silently as he could, and argued back, footie - number one!

NO! signed the baseball player, which caught the attention of three of the other men. Baseball - number one!

NO-no-no! signed both Ilya and Jamie, shaking their heads, but then Ilya signed hockey- number one while Jamie repeated footie- number one!

The high diver leaned over and with much more hesitation signed what he must think was the sign for diving, but to Jamie it looked like fucking falling over, so he sneered at the man and signed, no-no-no! as scornfully as he could.

The man cued the man reading in the little chair to give his two minute response and Jamie rolled his eyes as Max stumbled his way through a “Well, first of all, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever had to read,” sort of beginning.

Ilya and the racecar driver were having a bit of a time trying to establish whether or not hockey were number one or number two- the racecar driver kept repeating you-two-you-two over and over again with a fierce fucking look on his face, so Jamie left them to it and turned to where the high diver and the baseball player looked ready to come to blows already over which one was number one.

Jamie grinned, and caught the basketball player’s glare. He shrugged, and signed, my- footie- you- what?

The basketball player rolled his eyes, and did the gesture.

Jamie snickered and signed back, breasts.

The basketball player growled quietly and signed back, basketball.

Jamie nodded and signed, breasts!

Basketball! insisted the basketball player, his chin jutting up as he glowered.

“Time, thank you!” announced the man.

Jamie craned to watch as Max practically jumped from the chair and tossed his clipboard into the cart where the woman pointed.

“Right, that was Hinato’s paragraph, why don’t you come up and pick a clipboard, and that’s how we’ll randomly select,” said the woman brightly.

The baseball player rolled his eyes and blew out a breath, standing and sauntering to the pile to collect a clipboard and flop himself into the chair.

Jamie signed baseball-two at him, and hissed a laugh at the way he glared.

When he turned back around to look at the other lads, they were all copying him, signing it over and over again at the man, so Jamie whipped around and rejoined the silent harassment campaign until the PA announced, “Quiet! Cameras rolling!”

So at least he didn’t have to sit there, bored out of his fucking mind as everyone took their little turn, one by one, to sit in the chair.

He kept waiting and waiting for his paragraph to be read, but the clipboard pile dwindled as he started fights about whether fucking or blowies were better, and managed to get half the lads to agree to go out for a pint with him, too, although no one could agree on a time to meet, which were fair- nine or ten might make sense to the lads who didn’t have to be up at fucking four a.m., but Roy’d never allow Jamie to head out for a pint at fucking ten the night before a travel-training day.

Everybody fucking scoffed at the boxer’s suggestion of fucking eleven, though- what a fucking gobshite for even suggesting they’d any of them want to waste so much time getting ready just for a fucking pint?

Ilya elbowed him when the next reader recited hesitantly, “Boxing is the best, and anyone who says it’s not can step into the ring with me.”

Jamie looked at Ilya curiously, snickering because the man had made his fucking point, yeah? Brilliant work by what’s-his-name. Ilya pointed at the three remaining clipboards and at his chest and Jamie’s.

Jamie craned his neck and then shrugged at Ilya.

Fair enough. It’d be them last, yeah? And whoever were fucking last out of the two of them would read the first cunt’s fucking clipboard. Seemed a fair system.

The diver on the chair gave a quick rebuttal, clearly made nervous by the implication of threat from the boxing bloke’s initial arguments, and then the boxer stood and walked to the pile.

You signed Ilya at Jamie, giving him a sassy little smirk.

No-you, argued Jamie, making sure to make the no part very fucking emphasized.

But it was Jamie, in fact.

The boxer read in a toneless voice, really not doing it justice at all, “Footie is the best sport for men who have too much energy and too many aggressive instincts.” The man breathed and continued, “It is fast paced and you learn teamwork, but there are so many ways to stand out and be the best that you can work your whole f- I’m not reading that word- career and still never be as good as Jamie Tartt is.”

Silence, as several people signed, you- number two! You- number two! at Jamie, although they were honestly just jealous, so it made him preen a bit, didn’t it?

“Is that all?” said the woman doubtfully.

“I’m not reading the next part,” said the boxer firmly. “My mama would kill me.”

“Fair!” called Jamie cheerfully. “Now do the rebuttal!”

The boxer nodded, and then rolled his shoulders, followed by his head. He stood, and got into fighting stance, both arms raise. Then he worked himself through a fast combo of blows, jabs, and punches, dancing from foot to foot.

At the end, he said, “Come up here, Jamie Tartt, let me explain it to you.”

Jamie, like every other lad on the stage, fell about the place fucking laughing so hard he were crying.

“Perfect! Fucking mint, mate!” cried Jamie, loving the pure fucking brass balls of the man’s response.

When everyone had settled a bit, Jamie clambered to his feet and, carefully skirting the boxer as he sat back down, lifted the first clipboard. It wasn’t Ilya’s, so he said, “Ehh, so, if I read this one, then Rozanov has to read his own, sure you want me to do this one?”

“Oh,” said the woman. “No, please- please read Rozanov’s!”

“Kay,” agreed Jamie, swapping out the clipboards.

He tripped a bit, walking up to the chair, because puzzling out the words were fucking hard.

“Eh, don’t know that I can read this one,” he announced. “‘s not written in one of me languages? I don’t think?”

“What do you mean?” asked the woman, coming closer as he held out the clipboard to her. “Oh. Well. Um. Mr. Rozanov, would you be so kind as to, well, translate what you have written into language Jamie can read?”

“Oh, da,” said Ilya happily, standing up.

He walked to the chair, and Jamie knew by the bounce in his step that the man were going to fucking take the mickey.

Thought it were fucking funny, if the man did it, anyway, so he didn’t say a fucking word, recognizing the glint in Ilya’s fucking eye and letting a grin slide across his face so the man would see he should do his worst.

You- number one- bad, he told the man, grinning.

Ilya stopped writing for a moment to sign you with the hand holding the pencil.

Jamie grinned.

Yeah, he’d take whatever joke the man were doing and tie it up for him.

When Ilya slid him the clipboard back, after several long moments, it took everything in him to adopt a serious expression.

The French were gonna fucking hate this.

The real French, anyway. Canadians would probably find it fucking funny.

“Le hockey est un sport violent pour des bagarreurs qui veulent en découdre et frapper les autres avec leurs bâtons,” attempted Jamie as best he could, knowing he were fucking mangling the words beyond all recognition.

He looked up, waited a heartbeat, and added, “D'accord! Non un sport. Impossible victoire.”

He thought that were a fucking amazing rebuttal, from someone who’d stopped studying French the fucking minute he’d signed with the Prem, and only had those two fucking flings with French girls as like, refreshers.

He grinned happily at the woman and added, “So, you know. There’s that.”

“We can use that,” said the man excitedly. “No need to- just keep going, Marcie!”

The woman breathed out, her expression all pinched and pissed off, and that, more than anything, made Jamie want to wiggle with glee.

Make him write a fucking stupid essay, sit around listening to blokes read like it were primary school days again?

Ilya was already on his feet, scooping up the clipboard and waving impatiently for Jamie to vacate the seat.

He sat down quickly, eyes scanning the paper, and his lip curled. “Yes, okay, tell them time for silence,” he directed the PA.

“Quiet! Cameras rolling!” called the PA.

“Racing cars is like making love to a beautiful woman- any man can do it, but it takes a talented, bold man, who isn’t afraid to get in a little trouble, to do it well,” read Ilya with a straight face. “That is why racing is the sport for daring men who aren’t afraid of adventure, risk, breaking a few rules, or getting their hands dirty.”

Ilya looked up, and waited patiently for the woman to prompt him, “And what do you say about that?”

“I say racing is good enough, if you want to finish fast,” Ilya said, with a smirk. “Me? I like to take time, score many big goals.”

Jamie couldn’t contain the laugh that burst out of him, and laughed even harder as the men around him began to sign fuck- number one- hockey!

~~~

Fucking children.

Roy took comfort in the fact that the gray-haired driver- and he should know the man’s name, he was some kind of F1 legend- had also gone directly to the stage to scold his younger teammate.

“Have fun, did you?” he asked Jamie in a low voice, when he’d pulled the man back to the little corner of the sound stage where he’d been standing with Shane.

“Yes,” said the impossible man happily, shooting Roy a grin that was 90% pure cheek and 10% no shame about his behavior. “Hey, did you see me using me sign language? Keeley’ll be chuffed if they caught any of that!”

Every fucking camera except the one trained on the man in the chair had been moved around the fucking studio to catch the little games the lads had been playing while they waited their turns. Roy couldn’t wait for the fucking transcripts- some of the things they’d been signing had been fairly obvious but it wasn’t like he was anywhere near fluent, yeah?

Jamie had seemed to hold his own although as far as Roy knew, he only knew the same few signs they’d all been taught, to help them interact with deaf fans: hello, their name, football, and thanks.

Fucking impressive what they’d managed, the whole activity, without making any noise that could get picked up by the mics.

Besides the occasional snort or splutter, of course.

“When are we meeting in the lobby for that drink?” called a voice across the room.

“EIGHT!” shouted a handful of lads, while even more hands signed eight at the man.

Roy snorted.

“Oooh, good, didn’t catch the end of that one,” said Jamie. “TA, BASEBALL!”

“His name’s Hinato!” shouted the high diver.

“Mine’s JAMIE!” called Jamie.

“NO ONE CARES,” shouted back the boxer, to much general laughter.

Jamie took the ribbing in good part, Roy noted, his eyes twinkling as he threw back his head and laughed.

Roy touched Jamie’s shoulder. “You making plans for us?”

“Always,” said Jamie comfortably, grinning happily at Roy. “Up to you, we’d always be in bed by half-seven, watching fucking dull docos.”

“You love the ones about fish,” Roy pointed out.

“What’s left?” said Shane’s gruff partner, interrupting to tap Jamie on the shoulder. “You know?”

“I dunno, mate,” said Jamie easily, craning his neck. “Think just- I mean, did the fashion show thing, did the physical challenges, did the one just now, don’t think there can be much left, yeah? Roy?”

Roy signed, and pulled out his phone, tapping for the daily itinerary.

“Well,” offered Shane, “What they sent wasn’t really useful, so I emailed this morning, and the PA got back to me, and I think it’s just group photos and promo shots in their gear, and then- yeah, think that’s it.”

“Ta,” said Roy, nodding at the nervous little fuck.

“Yeah, I-” began Shane, fiddling with his shirt hem.

Roy knew that fucking tell. Jamie did that, practically twisted his shirt hems around his fists like a little kangaroo pouch, when he was feeling nervy.

He watched the Russian clock Shane’s body language and say, “I am hungry. We go to green room, see if snack is there, yes?”

“Da,” said Shane, sounding grateful.

He’d been quietly enjoying the lads and their antics the entire afternoon, Roy’d noted, but still nervous and jumpy, standing next to Roy in the back.

They’d talked a little, in between Quiets! from the PA- just general things about sports- the PR they did in hockey, comparing it to the PR done for football. Shane had been wary at first but slowly relaxed as one hour dragged into two.

Relaxed, but never quite hitting totally comfortable and calm.

If he’d been Jamie, Roy would have taken him and made him do burpees somewhere, to get some of that nervy fucking energy out.

But he was mostly a stranger, and very definitely not assigned to Roy, and so Roy was keeping his fucking nose out of the man’s business.

Mostly.

“Ooh, yeah, invite meself along,” said Jamie eagerly. “Could do with a bite, fucking starving, en’t I?”

“You’re a bottomless fucking pit,” Roy scolded him, but when Jamie took the first step, Roy followed.

And if that wasn’t a fucking metaphor for their whole fucking relationship, he couldn’t fucking find it in him to figure out a better one.

“So, Ilya, are you coming out after, for a pint?” asked Jamie, as they entered the deserted green room.

“No, probably not,” said Ilya, eyeing up Shane.

“Oh, all right,” said Jamie easily, which wasn’t like him. He’d pester the lads half to death to get everyone out for a pint, whenever the opportunity arose. Loved the buzz of all the people, did Jamie.

Roy shot Jamie a glance, but Jamie was looking at Shane, worry clear in his expression.

“He’s fine,” Roy muttered at Jamie, elbowing him. “Like Tommy.”

“Oh,” said Jamie, his face clearing. “Sure, yeah. Yeah, ‘course. Well, can’t wait to get dinner and be fucking done, yeah, Ilya? Cameras on me all day, makes my skin fucking itchy.”

“Is tough,” commented Ilya, nodding. He picked up a banana from the fruit bowl and passed it to Shane. “Eat. On food plan, I know.”

“Roy’s always forcing food on me,” Jamie confided in Shane, smiling his widest, friendliest smile, the little git. Shane took it about as well as Tommy ever did, staring back warily, which was, on balance, probably the best fucking response to Tartt coming on all hyper and happy at you.

“If you’d fucking feed yourself like a grown man, I wouldn’t fucking have to,” Roy reminded him. Unbelievable, that the little cunt could burn calories being as fucking hyperactive as a squirrel, and forget to fucking eat unless you shoved food at him, but that was his life now: forcing idiots to do the fucking bare minimum to survive.

“But then what would you do, all day?” teased Jamie, grinning and bouncing on his heels. “Eh, Coach?”

Roy rolled his eyes.

He’d fucking read a book, with all the spare fucking time he’d get back, not pandering to Jamie fucking Tartt and Jamie fucking Tartt’s needs.

A book a fucking day, that’s how much time he’d have on his hands!

A book a fucking day.

Katie-the-PA stuck her head in the room and said, “Oh, good! You’re here! We’ve got touch-ups and then the group shots, and then you’re free!”

“Great,” said Ilya, grabbing Shane by the elbow and propelling them both to the door. “Let’s go.”

Jamie bounded after them, and Roy sighed, grabbing the half-drunk ginger ale left on the table and following behind.

~~~

Shane’s head was throbbing by the time the director released them all. Ilya shoved him out of the building and onto the first hotel shuttle bus, far into the back and away from everyone else.

He’d tried to be cool about it, and not worry, but they’d been so fucking stupid!

Fine, no one else had been near the changing rooms while they’d been in there, they’d been tucked down one of those weird twisty corridors in the backstage area, deep into a corner.

There was no reason for anyone but Katie to come that way.

But it had been stupid.

They were so close!

They were almost done with this season, and Ilya would sign with Ottawa next season, and then they could follow Hunter and just- just come out, already.

But it all fell apart if they were leaked too early.

Everything- every part of the plan- fell apart, if they were stupid, like they’d been today.

Roy had reiterated, during one of their quiet conversations, that they’d’ve heard footsteps of someone approaching because they’d heard Katie approach, in their room.

But that wasn’t exactly comforting.

The problem wasn’t if they’d been caught this time, it was why the fuck they’d taken the chance, right?

Why the fuck would they take that fucking chance?

“Shane,” said Ilya quietly. “Close your eyes. Rest. I will order dinner up to room, at hotel.”

“Yeah, great,” Shane told him miserably.

“Shane…” said Ilya, even more quietly. “You must not- it is an okay thing. Everything is okay.”

Shane would glare at him, but he’d been glaring all afternoon and his head hurt.

“So then, I were thinking Roy,” floated the voice of Jamie Tartt, their new best friend, it seemed, “that the hotel gym’s probably going to be packed tomorrow morning, should we jog, yeah? Never been to this city, would like to take a look around.”

“If you can prevent yourself from fucking traveloguing the fucking place, maybe,” said Roy, as he shoved the man into the window seat directly in front of Shane and Ilya, nodding to Shane. “You look peaked,” he commented. “Need paracetamol?”

“A what?” asked Shane, rubbing at his forehead.

“They call ‘em Tylenol here,” Jamie pointed out with far too much energy for a man who’d been under the spotlight all day.

“Tylenol, then,” corrected Roy irritably. “You want two?”

“Yes,” said Ilya, holding up a hand.

“Guys, I don’t- you don’t have-” began Shane.

“We know,” said Ilya, bluntly overriding his protests, his eyes so warm and caring, when Shane glanced up at them.

Ilya pulled a water bottle out of the side pocket of the little duffle bag the crew had given him, with his promotional clothing and other goodies tucked inside as a thank-you-for-participating gift.

“He’s got stronger stuff back at the hotel,” Jamie offered, kneeling up on his seat with curious eyes. “If it’s a bad headache, I mean.”

“It’s not,” Shane spat, but when Roy imperiously handed him the tablets, he took them, and nodded his thanks, accepting the water bottle from Ilya with a grateful look.

He swallowed the pills, and then settled back into his seat, glaring out the window.

“He is mad because… you know,” sighed Ilya.

Shane glared at the love of his life.

“Yeah, it’s rough,” Jamie agreed. “I get mad all the time, too, don’t I Roy?”

“Fucking raging fits, every fucking week,” sighed Roy, shooting Jamie a glare. “Like a child.”

Jamie wiggled, Shane was shocked to see, and actually stuck his tongue out at Roy before grinning. “Yeah, well, it’s me youthful vigor that makes me so fucking sexy the ladies can’t stop fucking tweeting about me arse!”

“Sure,” said Roy, rolling his eyes. “You need anything else?” he demanded of Ilya and Shane both. “I’m gonna chokechain this one and make him fucking sit quietly for the ride back to the hotel.”

“Like to see you fucking- ulp!’ said Jamie, followed a moment later by a quiet, “...ow, Roy! That one fucking hurt!”

“Yeah, because you fucked that leg up getting kicked for being an arse whilst forty feet in the fucking air, Jamie!” muttered Roy. “Now shut the fuck up and fucking- rest- until we get to the hotel and you can go do laps in the pool.”

“While you sit and scroll your phone,” complained Jamie.

“I did my time in hotel pools when I was your age. Now shut up, unless you want me to add fucking laps until you can’t go out with your lads tonight.”

There was, blessedly, near total silence as the seats filled up with other men going back to the same hotel.

It reminded Shane of a thousand after-game shuttles, through unfamiliar cities, quiet voices of exhausted men a low background hum.

The headache had mostly lifted by the time they arrived.

Ilya steered him into the elevator, and they got off on the same floor. Ilya shoved him into the little alcove with the ice and vending machines, and they stood staring until all the doors opened and closed and the sound of voices disappeared.

Then they walked down the hallway together, to Ilya’s room, and Ilya unlocked the door, and they went inside.

Quiet.

Absolute quiet.

There, on the dresser, his suitcase and Ilya’s half-opened together, things scattered by the sink in the bathroom from their morning routine.

“We agree to this, so we can have weekend together,” sighed Ilya, pulling Shane down onto the bed beside him, and wrapping his arms around Shane, squeezing him tight. “I say to myself, we are so smart, then. But now I see you so upset, and I-”

“I just- it was stupid, to take that chance,” said Shane bitterly. “What if someone-?”

“What if, what if?” murmured Ilya. “So, we got lucky today, it teaches us we don’t want to just be lucky. Next time, we make a different choice. Next time, we are safer.”

Right.

Yeah.

That actually… sounded good.

Everything sounded better, when he could talk it through with Ilya.

“Next time we will be safer,” Shane repeated.

“Next time,” agreed Ilya.

And then he snorted.

Shane raised his head to look into Ilya’s beautiful, expressive eyes. “What?”

“We can put sock in mouth, to muffle noises,” said Ilya, grinning. “This is what Tartt tells me.”

“Shit,” swore Shane, before laughing a little. “Or I can just- not moan like a whore.”

“You must moan like a whore,” Ilya argued playfully. “I love it, it is the best sound. It makes my heart and my ears so happy to hear it.”

Shane knew he was blushing but couldn’t stop staring at the man.

“I love you,” Ilya said forcefully. “I love how you are. It is okay- this time, it is okay, and next time- I will keep you safer.”

“Next time,” agreed Shane, and then he licked his lips, and met Ilya’s eyes more boldly. “Tonight?”

Ilya’s breathing came faster. “Da, yes. Tonight. Tonight and- and right now, yes?”

“... yeah,” breathed Shane. “Yes, Ilya. Now?”

Ilya scanned around the room, and then said, grinning, “You have clean sock, yes? I do not want to shock neighbor with whore moaning-”

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane told him, laughing just a little with the giddy release of nerves.

“This is me,” agreed Ilya, nodding. “Your asshole.”

“Mine,” agreed Shane, surging up to claim Ilya’s kisses as his prize.

~~~

“Roy, it’s nearly eight, please,” begged Jamie. “Help me find step seven, I know I fucking packed it!”

“Did you check in my fucking shave kit? Last night you tucked it-”

“Ta!” called Jamie, and there was the clatter of several things being knocked over in the bathroom. “Shit, sorry, I’ll- I’ll get all that.”

“Fucking right,” muttered Roy, flipping the channels. Talk show, game show, news, news, news, wrestling, baseball- ah! “Tottenham’s on,” he called.

“Fucking Spurs,” swore Jamie. “Keep an eye on their fucking right wing, will you? He bothers me, Roy, he really do! Can’t figure out what he fucking does when I charge him, yeah?”

“Will do,” Roy promised, reaching for the notebook on his nightstand.

“Aces,” said Jamie, no doubt very pleased with whatever look he’d molded his hair into.

They heard it again, and Roy snickered.

Jamie popped out of the loo and grinned at Roy as the telly played a very low volume and the sounds of happy ecstasy filled the room.

“Okay,” declared Jamie, grinning. “You’re right. We need to send them a ball gag or owt. They’re never going to hide it from anyone, Roy!”

“Hockey must make you deaf,” agreed Roy. “Because that-” and his words were broken by Ilya’s groaned Shane, driving home his point like he’d planned it all out, “-is fucking hard to miss.”

He waited a pause while Jamie snickered a bit, and then said, “Tell you what, I’ll go knock when they’re done, and offer them your spare one, yeah?”

Jamie looked immediately affronted. “Fuck no! It’s only me spare one because you prefer the darker red to the black.”

Roy rolled his eyes. “You’re selfish,” he scolded.

“Besides,” said Jamie, checking his hair in the mirror before wandering over to the bed to grin down at Roy, “You’ve got to have something to do while I nip downstairs to the pub and have a pint with me new mates, yeah? And that-” he nodded significantly at the wall, “is the perfect fucking thing for you, you kinky fucking bastard.”

“Used to love listening to you,” Roy said huskily, staring up at the gorgeous creature Jamie had turned himself into and grinning wickedly, “when you’d have a wank at away games.”

“Fuck, mate,” said Jamie, “you make it fucking hard to leave, you know that?”

“I do,” said Roy smugly.

Jamie attacked him with a kiss, which he’d expected.

Roy gave as good as he got, until Jamie were moaning just a bit, himself.

“Think we scared ‘em off a bit there, Roy,” breathed Jamie against his lips, drawing back a bit.

“Well, I’ll find something else to occupy my time with, while you’re gone,” promised Roy.

“Ooh, yeah, hotel porn,” agreed Jamie, nodding eagerly. “Find something new for us to try out, yeah?”

“And you call me a kinky bastard,” Roy growled, shoving the man away to make him laugh.

It worked- it almost always worked.

Jamie bounced up to his feet and bounded down the little hall. “I’ll be back, you be ready!” he called.

“Fucking- have fun!” Roy told him.

“Always do!” returned Jamie.

It took several- several- long minutes for there to be any noise from the next room.

Roy grinned as Shane begged, “Ilya- Ilya! Ilya- no! Fuck! I- I can’t- They could-!”

He’d also packed a new gag for Jamie, and he could definitely slip that to one of the lads, tomorrow. It wasn’t a problem for the night- their room was against the room the boys were in, and the room on the boys’ other side was clearly their other room, because he’d seen Shane come out of it that morning, as they’d all headed down to the shuttle at around the same time.

The look on their faces would be fantastic.

The best part, he mused, of being the one experienced man among all these young idiots, was the looks on their fucking faces when they realized they had a lot to fucking learn about sneaking around attempting to be bad boys.

Roy Kent’d been the baddest boy of sport when they’d all still been in fucking nappies, and before anyone’d thought to set up a stupid little contest to televise it.

Still, he'd already been asked to present the award at the ESPY Awards in July, and he'd already accepted.

The look on Jamie's face- win or lose- was going to be fucking worth it.