Chapter 11: The Long Game: Chapter 11

Ilya bent over the face-off circle in Montreal and smiled at the man across from him. “Hi.”

Shane’s lips quirked up. “Hi.”

They’d done this dance so many times, but this time felt the hardest. Ilya hadn’t seen his boyfriend in three weeks, and now he was inches away from him, heart-stoppingly beautiful and completely forbidden.

“Do you have plans after the game?” Ilya asked casually.

Shane’s smile grew. “I’m wide open.”

Ilya hoped his own eyes showed the promise he was trying to silently transmit:

The way Shane licked his bottom lip suggested the message had been received.

The puck dropped, Ilya won the face-off, and the game was on.

During their fourth shift together, Ilya was battling Shane for the puck against the boards. Shane struggled against Ilya’s weight as they clashed their stick blades together. “You got any more tricks to show me?” Shane said.

If he was trying to distract Ilya, it worked. Shane wasn’t usually the one to try to fluster Ilya with secret sexy messages on the ice. The surprise caused Ilya’s body to slacken long enough for Shane to skate away with the puck. Ilya smiled to himself as he chased after him.

The next time Ilya was pressed against him, later in the first period, Ilya answered Shane. “I don’t think I need tricks.”

For a split second, their eyes met. Shane’s were dark and full of promise, but then he said, “We’ll see,” and shoved Ilya off of him.

Honestly, Ilya wasn’t expecting anything too complicated to happen tonight. After three weeks of not touching each other, Ilya would be surprised if they even made it past the living room, or bothered to take their clothes off, before they were both spent and sleepy.

But they did have tomorrow. And the next night.

They hadn’t been able to see each other, before the game. The Centaurs had flown into Montreal in the afternoon, after practicing in Ottawa, and he and Shane had both been busy getting ready for the game. Ilya’s team was flying back to Ottawa directly after this game, but he wouldn’t be flying with them. He’d been nervous when he’d told Coach Wiebe his fabricated story about needing to meet with Shane about their charity tomorrow. He’d never skipped a team flight before, in all of their years of sneaking around, and he was worried it would seem strange now. And obvious.

But Wiebe hadn’t even blinked at it. “It’s a day off tomorrow anyway,” he’d said easily. “Enjoy Montreal.”

Ilya loved his new coach.

“Hollander giving you trouble?” Evan Dykstra, Ottawa’s best defenseman, asked when Ilya returned to the bench.

Ilya’s lips curved up. “Always.”

By the second period, the score was two to one for Montreal, which wasn’t bad, considering. Wyatt had been making incredible saves to keep Ottawa in the game.

After another highlight reel–worthy glove save, Ilya skated over to Wyatt to tap him on the pads.

“Is it supposed to rain tomorrow?” Wyatt asked, as if he wasn’t in the middle of a hockey game and hadn’t just done something amazing. “I was thinking about taking my bike out, hitting a trail.”

Ilya could only smile and shake his head. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll check later. Hey, score a goal, would ya?”

“No problem.”

Three minutes later, Ilya scored a goal, tying the game. He waved to the Montreal crowd as they booed him.

“Stop being an asshole,” Shane grumbled as he skated by him.

Ilya blew him a kiss.

“Knock that shit off,” said a gruff voice beside Ilya. He turned to find one of the refs frowning at him. “I’ll give you an unsportsmanlike conduct penalty if you keep that up.”

Ilya rolled his eyes as he skated to his bench. If the ref only knew how much Ilya wanted to kiss Shane.

He enjoyed a brief fantasy as he sat on the bench of pressing Shane against the glass after scoring a goal and kissing him breathless. That would shut this fucking crowd up.

“Man,” Bood said as they skated to the bench, “this town hates you.”

“Nah. They wish I played for them.”

Bood laughed. “Hollander would hate that.”

“My good friend Shane Hollander, you mean?”

“There’s no way he likes you that much.”

“He loves me,” Ilya said plainly. Honestly.

Bood, of course, thought he was kidding. “Now you’re really dreaming.”

Ilya chomped on his mouth guard to avoid smiling.

A few seconds later, Luca Haas took a long pass and was on a breakaway. Most of the Ottawa bench stood up, Ilya included.

“Get it, Haasy!” Bood yelled.

They all watched as the puck sailed past the Montreal goalie’s arm and into the net. His second NHL goal. He jumped up after scoring, arms raised and an enormous grin stretching his boyish face. Then he was engulfed by his linemates.

“The damn kid’s got skills,” Bood said.

“Good. We need them.” Ilya held his hand out for a high five as Haas reached the bench. Haas slapped Ilya’s glove, then was pulled into an awkward embrace by Bood that nearly hauled him over the boards and onto the bench.

“Fucking beauty, kid!” Bood yelled in his ear. “Legendary.”

Less than two minutes later, Shane scored, making the Ottawa celebrations short-lived.

“That was rude,” Ilya said when they bent for the face-off after.

“What? Trying to win?”

“Couldn’t even let poor Haas enjoy that for a couple of minutes?”

“Maybe I’ll explain to you how hockey works later,” Shane said dryly.

“If that’s what you want to do,” Ilya said, Ilya won the face-off.

Twenty seconds later, Shane had the puck because Ilya’s linemate, Tanner Dillon, had fucked up a pass. Ilya really needed a better right wing player on his line.

Shane charged into the Ottawa zone but couldn’t get a clean shot, so he went behind the net with the puck. Ilya chased after him, but couldn’t catch him before Shane passed the puck to J.J. at the blue line. Ilya moved to the front of the net, and found himself directly in the line of fire when J.J. unleashed his rocket of a slap shot at the net. The puck caught Ilya on the side of the knee, and he went down, swearing loudly.

Wyatt must have covered the puck because play stopped a second later. The same ref who’d gotten in Ilya’s face earlier skated over to check on him.

“You need the doctor?” he asked gruffly.

Ilya glared up at him. “No. Give me a second.”

He slowly pulled himself up until he was on one knee, the good one planted on the ice. The other one was bent in front of him and felt like a fiery ball of pain.

“That’s job, y’know,” Wyatt said. “I’ve got these big pads on my legs.” He tapped one with his stick. “So the puck doesn’t directly hit my fucking kneecap.”

“Was not my kneecap,” Ilya said through gritted teeth. “Just the side. Is fine.”

“Ah. Like, where you have no padding at all?”

Ilya stood up with some effort. The crowd clapped for him, but he knew it was half-hearted. The Montreal fans would probably prefer to see a puck go clean through his torso.

Shane approached him as Ilya made his way to the bench. “You okay?”

“Great.” He flexed his knee a few times, testing it, and winced.

“Wyatt probably woulda stopped that without your help.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Shane frowned at him with obvious concern in his eyes. “You sure you’re okay?”

Ilya gave him a quick smile that probably looked more like a grimace. “Maybe no kneeling for a few days.”

Shane bumped right up against him. “I’ll have to make new plans, then.”

He skated away quickly, leaving Ilya grinning and shaking his head as he finished his slow journey to the bench.

Shane: Where the fuck are you?

Ilya huffed at his phone in the back seat of a taxi that was taking him—slowly—to Shane’s house.

Ilya: In traffic.

Shane: Fuck. Where?

Ilya: Montreal? I don’t fucking know.

Shane: Hurry up.

Ilya: Ok. I will ask the driver to make the car fly.

For a full minute, Shane didn’t reply. Then he wrote, Are you over the bridge yet at least?

Ilya chuckled and wrote, You seem a bit horny.

Shane: I’m fucking dying.

The blunt admission made Ilya’s cock twitch. He wrote, Get yourself ready for me then.

Shane: What do you think I’ve been doing for the past twenty minutes?

Oh. Fuck.

Ilya: You better not come without me.

Shane: Then you’d better hurry up.

Ilya was getting way too aroused in this unmoving taxi. He should put his phone in his pocket, take some cooling breaths, and think about something else. But instead he asked, Where are you?

Shane: Bed.

Ilya: Fingering yourself?

Shane: Yes.

Ilya: How many?

Shane: 3 Ilya sucked in a breath, then wrote, You need something bigger.

Shane: I know! That’s why you need turmeric.

Shane: Need to hurry, I mean. Fucking voice-to-text.

Ilya: Get yourself close. Right to the edge. But don’t come.

Shane: I already got to the edge once by accident.

Jesus fuck. Ilya could see it so vividly: Shane trying so hard to be good and productive, getting himself ready so Ilya could slide right into him when they were finally together. Working himself open, trying not to touch his cock. Probably giving it a few strokes anyway, until suddenly he’d found himself on the brink of orgasm. Ilya could imagine his panicked expression, the desperate way he’d squeeze the base of his cock, teeth clenched, breathing hard through his nose.

Ilya: But you didn’t come?

Shane: No.

Ilya: Good boy.

Shane didn’t always like that kind of praise, and, admittedly, Ilya was usually teasing him when he used it. But not tonight. Tonight, Ilya was proud of him.

Ilya: Can you do it again? For me?

Nothing for a few seconds, and then, Yeah.

Ilya palmed his right knee, pressing his fingertips into the fresh bruise there, trying to calm his dick down. He wasn’t even sure how this weird thing he’d asked for was supposed to work.

Ilya poked his bruise, and waited.

He loved playing these games with Shane. Even though they’d been an exclusive couple for over three years, and secret lovers for years before that, their sex life was far from stale. Every kind of sex they had was exciting: the frantic, heated, almost aggressive sex they sometimes had after a game, or after an argument; the unhurried, exploratory sex they indulged in when they had plenty of time and privacy; the playful, competitive sex they enjoyed when one of them challenged the other.

And this. The times when Shane wanted to prove something to Ilya—wanted to be for him. And rewarded for it after. Ilya fucking loved sex.

He wondered what Shane was doing at that moment, as the taxi finally crawled past the accident near the entrance to the bridge. Was he still fingering himself, or was he jerking himself off while he played with his balls? Was he reaching for a toy from the drawer that had gone from housing a solitary dildo to an impressive array of sex toys over the past couple of years? Ilya was fond of buying Shane presents.

Three minutes passed between Shane’s last text and the next one.

Shane: Fuck.

Ilya: Did you do it?

Shane: Yes. Fuck you. That was torture.

Ilya glanced out the window, then wrote, I will be there in five minutes. One more before I get there, ok?

Obviously, Shane could refuse. Tell Ilya to get fucked. Or lie about it. Ilya knew he wouldn’t do any of those things.

Shane: Ok. You have your key, right?

Ilya: Yes.

He smiled at the thought of making Shane answer the door like this.

Five and a half minutes later, Ilya was thrusting a wad of cash at the driver, thanking him quickly, and exiting the car. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and jogged up to Shane’s front door, past the hedges that secluded the house from the street. He’d given up trying to chill his dick out after the last near-orgasm confirmation text from Shane. Now he was rock hard, and desperate to get his hands on his boyfriend.

“Ilya?” Shane called out from upstairs as soon as Ilya opened the door.

“Yes.”

“Fucking hell. Get up here.”

Ilya practically flew up the stairs, and found Shane sprawled on the bed, naked and flushed and beautiful.

“Chert voz’mi,” Ilya muttered. He dropped his backpack on the floor and immediately began tearing off his clothes.

“The last one was a close call,” Shane said. “I haven’t touched myself since.”

He was on his back, legs akimbo, one hand resting on the pillow above his head, the other gently stroking his stomach. There was a bottle of lube on the bed beside him, and Ilya grabbed it once he was fully undressed.

“Is your knee okay?”

“Good enough,” Ilya said impatiently as he slicked himself up. “How do you want it?”

“Now,” Shane said.

Ilya grunted. “Condom?” They rarely used them anymore, but sometimes Shane preferred them for easy cleanup.

“Fuck no. Come on.”

Ilya kneeled on the bed between Shane’s thighs, wincing at the pain that shot through him as his bruised knee pressed into the mattress. He forced himself to ignore it, and leaned down to kiss Shane roughly. Fuck, he’d been wanting to do this for so long. He missed kissing Shane possibly more than anything else.

Shane chased his mouth when Ilya pulled away, but Ilya only smiled. Then he gripped Shane’s thighs and hauled his hips up off the bed. Shane rested his ankles on Ilya’s shoulders as Ilya lined up and drove into him in one smooth thrust.

They both swore loudly, then Ilya made eye contact with Shane, checking to make sure he was good. Shane nodded, and Ilya nodded back. Then, Ilya started pounding into him in a steady, powerful rhythm that had Shane panting and clawing at the bed sheets in seconds.

“My impatient slut,” Ilya growled as he fucked him. “Could not even wait for me.”

“Just,” Shane gasped, “being efficient.”

“So good,” Ilya said, punctuating his words with thrusts. “At time. Management.”

“Wanted your dick.”

“You have it. Is it good?”

“Fuck yes. Love it. Harder.”

There was a padded leather bench at the end of Shane’s bed that Ilya was ninety percent sure could hold his weight. He shuffled toward it, dragging Shane with him, then planted one foot on the bench.

“You want it harder?” Ilya asked.

Shane nodded, his eyes glazed and blissed out. Ilya hauled Shane up until only his upper back, shoulders, and head were on the mattress, then started a steady, ruthless rhythm, driving into Shane hard enough to make them both lose their minds.

“How many days?” Ilya gritted out. “How long has it been?”

“Three, I think? Four? When was the last time we had phone sex?”

“Four days ago,” Ilya answered quickly. He didn’t need to do the math. He . The difference was he’d jerked off at least once a day since. Twice most days.

“Can you come like this?” Ilya asked, because sure as fuck was going to.

“Fuck, maybe. You’re so deep. Jesus.”

Ilya wrapped his hand behind Shane’s left knee and bent his leg forward, adjusting the angle of his dick inside him. He gave a few quick thrusts and Shane let out a noise that was almost a sob.

“Right there. Like that. Holy fuck. Let me just…” He wrapped a hand around his own dick and started stroking. “Keep going. Don’t stop. Don’t—”

Ilya never wanted to stop. He jackhammered into Shane, while Shane stared up at him, eyes wide and lips parted as his hand flew over his cock.

“Saved it all for me?” Ilya asked, his voice shaky and strained.

Shane nodded and bit his bottom lip.

“Let me see it,” Ilya commanded.

Shane’s gaze went to the head of his cock. “Fuck.

I’m going to—oh .”

Shane probably realized the same moment that Ilya did that his face was directly in the line of fire. It was a moment too late, if he wanted to do anything about it. His cock spurted ribbon after ribbon of come over his cheeks, chin, and lips. One stripe landed across his eyebrow.

It was all too much for Ilya. He made a last-second decision, pulled out, and gently lowered Shane to the mattress just in time for Ilya to shoot his load all over Shane’s chest.

For a long moment, neither man said anything. They panted together, Ilya looming over Shane on his knees. Shane was absolutely covered in come, which Ilya was sure he’d be grossed out by in about half a second.

“Ugh,” Shane said, half a second later. “I’m a mess.”

“Sorry.”

“Are you kidding? That was hot as fuck. Holy shit.”

Ilya watched Shane’s glistening chest heave as he waited for his own breathing to steady. “You are okay?”

Shane stretched his arms out in a T shape on the mattress. “I’m fucking great.”

Ilya brushed his fingers over Shane’s hole, and Shane jerked his hip off the bed. “Not hurt?” Ilya asked.

Shane exhaled slowly. “Not hurt. Feels nice, actually. You touching me there after.”

“Yes?”

“Mm. But I need a shower. Or at least a cloth.”

After a few more lazy minutes, Ilya went to the bathroom and returned with several warm, damp facecloths. He carefully wiped Shane’s face first, then kissed his nose, each eyebrow, and then his mouth. Shane tangled his fingers in Ilya’s hair as they kissed, and Ilya sighed into his mouth. It was so fucking unfair that they had to endure so many days without this.

They kissed for a while, then Ilya continued cleaning his boyfriend. He used a new cloth for his chest and throat, then another for his dick, thighs, and ass. He took his time with Shane’s ass, since Shane seemed to find the attention to his sensitive flesh soothing. Ilya gently swiped the warm cloth over his slightly swollen entrance more times than was necessary, watching his boyfriend smile and shiver happily.

“You are so beautiful,” Ilya said.

“Not bad yourself.”

“We can shower in the morning, yes?”

“Yeah. Come here.”

Ilya stretched out beside Shane, then rolled him so he could spoon him from behind. Shane curled against him easily—automatically—holding Ilya’s hand where it lay in front of Shane’s belly.

“Hi,” Shane said sleepily.

“Hi.”