Chapter Text
The hotel room smelled like a mixture of expensive cologne and stale cigarettes.
Shane Hollander stood just inside the door, fingers hooked in the strap of his duffel, watching as Ilya Rozanov shut the door behind them with a soft, decisive click, the lock sliding into place sounding louder than it should have.
They’d done this before — cities blurred together, hotel rooms that never felt like they belonged to anyone. New York, Montreal, Chicago. Neutral territory carved out of rivalry and stubbornness and something neither of them had wanted to name for a long time.
Tonight it was Boston. Late. After a Raiders win. After media obligations, handshakes, and a shared look across a hallway that had burned a hole through each man.
Now there was no hallway. No cameras. Just the low light of the lamps and the quiet hum of the minibar.
Ilya leaned back against the door, eyes slow and assessing.
“You stared at me whole press conference,” he said mildly.
Shane swallowed. “You kept smirking.”
“You like when I smirk,” he said while making the same face he had moments before.
Heat crawled up Shane’s neck. He dropped his bag by the dresser. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“And yet, you still came.”
That crooked, devastating half-smile.
Shane felt his heartbeat in his neck; it seemed like it could, and would, plunge right out of his skin. He stepped closer, crowding into Ilya’s space, trying to steal back ground he never quite held. “You invited me.”
“I did.” Ilya’s voice dipped lower. “And you said yes.”
The air shifted.
There was always that moment — when it stopped being jokes and competition and became something else. Charged. Intentional.
Ilya’s hand lifted, slow enough that Shane could have stepped away. He didn’t. Fingers brushed Shane’s freckles, down his jaw, then slid to the back of his neck.
Shane exhaled, not realizing he forgot to breathe.
“Look at you,” Ilya murmured. “Already shaking…”
“I’m not,” he tried to argue.
“You are.”
His thumb pressed lightly into the side of Shane’s throat, not enough to hurt — just enough to remind. Shane’s breath stuttered. He hated how easily Ilya could read him. Hated how much he liked it. Hated and loved everything about it.
“You want me to tell you what to do?” Ilya asked softly. The way he always did.
The words hit like a spark to dry firewood.
Shane’s stomach tightened. He nodded — small, almost invisibly.
Ilya’s gaze sharpened. “Use words, Hollander.”
There it was. Their rule. Always.
“Yes,” Shane whispered so low Ilya could barely hear him.
“Yes? Yes, what?”
“Yes. I want you to tell me what to do.”
The corner of Ilya’s mouth lifted, eyes completely fixated on Shane and his body, still clothed somehow in front of him.
“Good,” he said.
He guided Shane backward toward the bed with his hand strongly on his chest. Every step felt deliberate, choreographed.
The mattress hit the back of Shane’s knees and he sat without being told — because he knew.
Ilya stood in front of him, tall, broad, composed. A wall of heat and control. Eyes surveying Shane, hungry for more.
“Hands on your thighs,” he said sternly.
Shane obeyed, not even hesitating for a millisecond.
Something about following Ilya’s instructions made his chest cave in- with relief, surrender, and the sweet ache of giving up control to someone he trusted.
Ilya reached down, fingers brushing Shane’s hair back from his forehead. He removed his shirt. Slow. Careful. Then glided his fingers down the side of his face again. Those freckles could not ever be ignored.
“You’re too tense,” Ilya murmured.
“I’m fine.”
Ilya’s blue green eyes flicked up. “You’re not.”
Shane forced a laugh. “You don’t get to psychoanalyze me in a hotel room.”
“I get to do whatever you let me do.”
The words should have been cocky. Instead they landed gently.
Ilya stepped closer, one knee nudging between Shane’s thighs. Not forcing. Just present.
“Tell me what you want,” he said.
Shane’s pulse spiked.
This was the part he usually loved — the edge of it. Being told. Being guided. The safety of it.
But he found himself deeply triggered by
Ilya’s hand sliding down to his wrist, lifting it away from his thigh. Turning it over. Exposing the vulnerable inside of it.
Shane’s breath hitched — sharp, wrong.
The hotel room blurred for half a second.
Not this room.
Another one.
Different lighting. Different smell. No choice.
His stomach flipped violently and Ilya noticed immediately.
He always did.
The playful dominance drained from his expression in an instant. “Hollander.”
Shane tried to swallow it down. “I’m good.”
“You’re not.”
Ilya released his wrist. Stepped back. Gave space.
The air between them changed completely.
The heat didn’t disappear — it shifted, redirected.
“Talk to me,” Ilya said, voice steady.
Shane stared at his own hands. His throat felt too tight.
“It’s stupid,” he muttered.
“Nothing about you is stupid.”
A humorless huff. “You say that like you believe it.”
“I do.”
Silence stretched.
Ilya didn’t touch him again. Didn’t crowd him. Just stood there, close enough to matter, far enough not to trap.
Shane pressed his palms together, grounding himself.
After a few calculated seconds he forced himself to look up at Ilya.
“There was someone,” he said. The words felt like glass. “A few months ago. Before… before us being whatever this is.”
Ilya’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing; as much as he wanted to.
“He didn’t ask,” Shane continued, voice going thin. “And I didn’t know how to say no. I didn’t even know if I was allowed to. And then I tried and—”
His breath hitched.
The hotel room felt too small.
“He held my wrists down,” Shane finished quietly. Looking anywhere but at Ilya. Ashamed.
Silence filled the room.
Not empty — heavy.
Ilya’s fists curled at his sides. His expression had gone cold in a way Shane had only seen on the ice before a fight.
“He hurt you,” Ilya said. Not a question.
Shane shrugged helplessly. “It’s not like… I mean, it wasn’t—” He swallowed. “It counts. I know it counts. I just didn’t know how to process-”
Ilya stepped closer, slowly, giving Shane time to accept the closeness, or not.
“You never have to minimize that,” he said.
Shane’s eyes burned. “I hate that it happened. I thought I was over it.”
“Trauma doesn’t follow your schedule,” Ilya said.
Shane forced out a shaky laugh. “When did your English vocabulary get so good? You sound like a therapist.”
“I sound like someone who cares about you.”
That did it.
The sting of tears came sudden and humiliating. Shane turned his face away instinctively.
Ilya closed the distance — but carefully. One hand lifted, hovering near Shane’s cheek.
“Can I touch you?” he asked.
The question broke something open inside Shane.
“Yes,” he whispered, barely able to breathe.
Ilya cupped his face gently, thumb brushing away tears with infinite patience.
“You are safe here,” Ilya said. Each word deliberate. “With me.”
Shane nodded, breath uneven.
“I should have told you when it happened,” he murmured.
“You tell me when you’re ready,” Ilya replied. “Not before.”
“I didn’t want to ruin—” Shane gestured vaguely at the room. “This.”
Ilya’s mouth curved faintly, but his eyes stayed serious. “You think I care more about this being hot than you being okay?”
Shane hesitated.
Ilya’s expression softened further. “Oh, Solnyshko.”
The nickname landed warm and steady. Shane felt more at ease.
“This was always about you being okay,” he added.
Shane let out a long, shuddering breath.
“I like when you’re in control,” he admitted quietly. “It feels… safe. Like I don’t have to guess what will happen.”
Ilya nodded once. “Then we do it in a way that makes you feel safe.”
“And if I freeze again?”
“Then we stop.” Immediate. Firm. “No questions. No ego.”
Shane searched his face.
“You’re not.. disappointed?” he asked.
Ilya’s brow furrowed. “Disappointed? That you trust me with this? Hollander, what he did was not ok. Is never ok.”
Shane blinked.
“I am not at all disappointed,” Ilya said softly.
He sat beside him on the bed, not looming now. Just present.
“Tell me what feels okay,” he said. “Tell me what you want.”
Shane considered Ilya’s words carefully.
“Your hands,” he said slowly. “On my shoulders. N-Not my wrists.”
Ilya nodded. “Okay.”
He placed his hands exactly where Shane had asked. Warm. Steady. No pressure.
“Like this?”
“Yes.”
“Too much?”
“No.”
Ilya stayed there, thumbs moving in slow, grounding circles. All he wanted to do was take care of him.
The tension in Shane’s body eased inch by inch.
“Look at me,” Ilya said, fingers against his chin.
Shane tried to maintain the eye contact Ilya desired.
“You are in control of this,” Ilya said. “Even when I am.”
A small, shaky smile tugged at Shane’s mouth. “That’s paradoxical.”
“English vocab not that advanced, Hollander.”
That earned a real laugh.
The heaviness thinned, replaced by something softer.
“Do you want to keep going?” Ilya asked.
Shane took a breath. Checked in with himself.
“Yes,” he said. Stronger this time.
What followed wasn’t their usual fire and sharp edges. It was heat banked low and careful.
Ilya guided him down onto the bed with a hand at his shoulder, never trapping, never pinning. Every touch was preceded by a glance, a quiet “is okay?” woven into the movement.
Shane found himself melting into it — not because he was overpowered, but because he was this time, choosing to yield.
When Ilya’s fingers slid into his hair, Shane exhaled in relief. It was good. It was okay.
They moved together in a way that felt less like lust and more like trust being built brick by brick. Shane’s hands fisted in the fabric of Ilya’s shirt instead of being held. Ilya let him anchor himself however he needed.
At one point, Shane’s breath stuttered again — a flicker of memory threatening.
Ilya noticed instantly.
“Eyes on me,” he said gently. “Is ok?”
Shane focused on the sharp hue of those eyes. Present. Real.
He nodded.
By the time they settled, tangled together beneath the hotel sheets, the sexual hunger they experienced earlier had transformed into something deeper.
Intimate. Hard-won.
Shane lay half-draped over Ilya’s chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.
“Thank you,” Shane murmured.
“For what?”
“For not… making it weird.”
Shane smiled against his skin.
They lay in silence for a while.
Eventually, Shane spoke again. “I..never reported him.”
Ilya’s arm tightened slightly around him.
“Do you want to?” he asked carefully.
“I don’t know.”
“That is your choice.”
Shane traced absent patterns on Ilya’s chest. Made little circles around each beauty mark.
“But understand something,” His eyes were no longer soft.
“Anyone who puts hands on you without permission makes an enemy of me. You give me name of this man. I will find him.”
A shiver ran down Shane’s spine — not fear. Something fiercer.
“I don’t need you to worry about this,” Shane said quietly. “You wouldn’t really hurt anyone, would you?”
Ilya’s mouth curved in a humorless smile.
“Oh, I would be very- how do you say, “subtle?” he said. “I will make that mother fuckers life extremely unpleasant.”
“You’re terrifying.”
“For you? Never.”
He brushed his fingers gently down Shane’s spine.
“But for him?” Ilya’s gaze darkened. “Terrifying doesn’t even scratch surface.”
Something about that — about knowing Ilya would burn the world quietly on his behalf — made Shane’s throat tighten again.
“You don’t have to protect me,” he whispered.
“I know.”
Ilya pressed a soft kiss to his temple.
“I want to.”
Shane closed his eyes.
The hotel room was still anonymous. Temporary. Another city on a schedule full of rivalry and noise.
But in that bed, wrapped in steady arms and careful consent and a promise of protection that didn’t override his agency, Shane felt something he hadn’t expected when he’d knocked on that door.
Not just heat.
Not just surrender.
Safety.
And as Ilya lay awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling while Shane slept against him, one thought repeated itself with cold precision:
Some men deserved forgiveness.
Others deserved inconvenience.
And whoever had once held Shane’s wrists down would learn, one day, exactly how creative Ilya Rozanov could be when someone he loved had been hurt.