Chapter 8: The Long Game: Chapter 8

Ilya had a decision to make.

He could play it safe and take the sure thing, or he could risk it all for a shot at glory.

No decision at all, really. He rolled the dice.

“But that was a full house,” Yuna pointed out.

Ilya rolled two dice onto the table. “And now it is four threes.” He picked up the one nonconforming die and kissed it before rolling it.

“No!” said David as soon as the die came to a stop.

“Shit,” said Yuna.

“Yahtzee!” Ilya yelled. He raised his arms in triumph.

“I don’t know why we invite you over,” Yuna grumbled.

“Because I bring hand pies.” Ilya had learned from Harris about a bakery outside the city that sold the best hand pies Ilya had ever eaten. He especially liked the cherry ones.

“He has a point there,” David said.

Ilya’s phone rang then. When he saw who was calling, he grinned and stood up from the Hollanders’ kitchen table.

“Let me guess who is,” Yuna teased.

Ilya winked at her as he walked into the living room and answered the call. “Hi.”

“Hey,” said Shane. “How’s it going?”

“Good. I am at your parents’ house.”

“Oh yeah? What are you doing there?”

“Destroying them at Yahtzee.”

Shane laughed. “Mom won’t like that.”

“She loves me.” Ilya strolled over to the mantel, which was covered in framed photos of Shane at various ages, mostly in hockey gear. He’d been a truly adorable kid. “Ready for the game?”

“Sure. It’s just Boston.”

Ilya huffed. His own team hadn’t won against Boston in ages. “Cocky.”

“Usually. But you like it.”

Ilya’s lips curved up. “Yes.”

“You’re gonna watch, right?”

“Maybe.” Ilya traced a finger over a photo of Shane in his junior hockey uniform. He looked about seventeen—the age he’d been when Ilya had first met him. “Maybe we will watch a movie instead.”

“Dick,” Shane said affectionately.

“But you like it.”

“I do. But I also like the rest of you.” His voice dipped into a more seductive tone. “I’ve been fucking dying to have you inside me, though.”

Ilya grinned. “You are on speaker phone by the way.”

“I am kidding.”

“Jesus.” Shane exhaled. “Not funny.”

“If you say so.”

“I should probably go. We’re leaving for the arena soon.”

“Okay.”

There was a long pause—the same long pause that made an appearance at the end of most of their phone conversations. Both men needing to end the call, neither one wanting to.

“Good luck tonight,” Ilya said finally. “Try not to embarrass yourself too much.”

Shane snorted. “Sure.”

“Call me later, yes?”

“Of course.”

Ilya smiled at the photo of teenage Shane. “Ya lyublyu tebya.”

“Ya vsegda budu tebya lubit,” Shane replied.

“Show-off.”

They ended the call, and Ilya returned to the kitchen, shaking his head at how gross he and Shane had become.

“He looks good tonight,” Yuna said.

Ilya murmured his agreement from his end of the couch. Shane looked good every night. He was a great player on a great team. Ilya was a great player on a terrible team, and he felt less great with each passing week.

“Is it weird to watch Boston play?” David asked.

It had been once, but not anymore. Their roster had changed quite a bit in the two seasons since Ilya had played for Boston. “I have a better team now,” Ilya said. “Well, better for me. The team is bad.”

“You don’t regret it?” Yuna asked. “Leaving?”

“Never.” It was mostly the truth. He might have led Boston to another Stanley Cup if he’d played for them last season. They’d gotten close, even without him.

But being in Canada, near Montreal, made it easier to be with Shane. Ilya could build a life here, in Shane’s hometown of Ottawa. Eventually he could become a Canadian citizen, and retire, and start a new adventure with Shane.

“Do you need another Coke?” David asked during a commercial break.

“No, no, I am good. Full from the delicious dinner,” Ilya said with a small smile. David had made chicken parmesan, one of Ilya’s favorites. Ilya had eaten more than he’d needed to. Especially after eating two hand pies.

“There’s ice cream,” Yuna said. “If you want some.”

“No, thank you,” Ilya said. Then, “What kind?”

Yuna smiled. “Cookies and cream.”

Ilya put his hand over his heart. “Impossible to resist.”

A few minutes later, Ilya was tucked under a blanket on the couch, eating ice cream out of a little bowl. He felt like a child, and he kind of loved it.

They were showing Shane on the television, a close-up as he got ready for the face-off. His cheeks were flushed, his skin glistening with sweat. His dark hair stuck out from under his helmet the way it never had for most of his career.

“His hair is too long,” Yuna complained.

“No,” Ilya said quietly. “It is perfect.”

In the second period, Shane took a long pass from J.J. that resulted in a breakaway. Shane raced through the Boston zone, using his incredible speed to make sure no one caught him. When he reached the net, he switched to his backhand, and in the split second before he took the shot, Ilya realized what he was doing. Shane had left the puck where it was, faking the backhand shot and forcing the goalie to move. Then, lightning-fast, Shane fired a forehand wrist shot over the goalie’s shoulder.

And then, Shane winked at the camera.

And Ilya knew it was meant for him.

“That’s my move!” Ilya said. The blanket he’d been wrapped in fell to the floor as he stood, one hand waving at the television, the other cradling his ice cream bowl protectively to his chest. “He did !”

David and Yuna were laughing. Ilya wasn’t.

“When did he learn that?” Ilya demanded. “I did not teach him.”

“You know Shane,” Yuna said. “He studied it, learned it, and, I would say, perfected it.”

“That move is called the Rozanov!” Ilya exclaimed. “He cannot do it.”

“He just did,” David pointed out.

Ilya dropped back onto the couch with a huff. “Is bullshit.”

“You should be honored,” Yuna said. “It’s a show of respect.”

“Is a show of being a thief.”

“You think kids aren’t practicing that move all over the hockey-playing world?” David asked. “I’ll bet half the NHL has practiced it, but no one can pull it off except you and Shane.”

Well. That was nice to think about, not that Ilya would admit it.

“I can do it faster,” he grumbled instead.

Shane was on the bench now, grinning and looking way too fucking proud of himself. Ilya shoved a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth to stop himself from smiling back.

“You little shit.”

Shane laughed in face of his boyfriend’s fury. “Did you like that?”

“How did you learn it?”

“Like it’s hard,” Shane said dismissively, as if he hadn’t practiced it in secret for hours, visualizing this moment. Hoping for this exact expression on Ilya’s face.

On Shane’s phone, Ilya was scowling, but his eyes were glinting with the mixture of anger and desire that always made Shane’s knees weak. He was shirtless, and Shane could see the top of the grizzly bear head tattoo on his left pec, and part of the loon tattoo near his left shoulder.

“Were you trying to make me angry?” Ilya’s voice was low and dangerous, and it made Shane shiver.

“Did it work?”

“Are you alone?”

Shane moved the phone around to show his empty hotel room. “Yes.”

“Take that shirt off. Get on the bed.”

Shane took a moment to snap his phone into the tripod he’d had the foresight to set up next to his bed. He’d known his little stunt on the ice would make Ilya horny as hell. He’d been counting on it.

When he was settled on the bed, shirtless as instructed, Shane said, in Russian, “Do you have plans for me?”

Ilya’s mouth hung open for a moment, and Shane could practically see the bolts of arousal rocketing through him. “Fuck,” Ilya said.

Shane bit his lip, pleased with himself. Pleased that he could still make Ilya react like this, could still surprise him, after all these years.

“I think I should get a reward,” Shane said, in English. “For perfecting that move.”

“Perfecting,” Ilya scoffed. “Was just okay.”

“The puck went in the net.”

“Whatever. Hold on. One minute.”

Shane waited while Ilya set his phone up on his own tripod. When he was finished, Shane had a good view of Ilya reclining on his bed, wearing only boxer briefs.

“I hope that’s not what you wore to my parents’ house.”

“I dressed up for your parents. Nice shirt, very respectable boyfriend.”

“You don’t have to dress up for them. They love you.”

Ilya’s smile looked soft, and helpless. “I know. They made me chicken parmesan. And there was ice cream.”

“Sounds healthy and well-balanced.”

Ilya shook his head. “What is the point of life if you are not eating chicken parmesan and ice cream?”

“I can think of some good things,” Shane said as he gently caressed himself through his underwear. “Besides food.”

“High interval training?” Ilya asked dryly.

“Shut up. I’m trying to be sexy.”

“Oh. Okay. I was not sure.” He stretched one arm over his head and let his hand drape casually against the pillow. “So what is the plan?”

“Plan?”

“You are in charge, yes? You want a reward? What do you want me to do?”

“Um.” Shane wished he could respond to that sort of question without blushing. Ilya always managed to be perfectly filthy without embarrassment. “Touch yourself.”

Ilya poked his own nose. “Like this?”

Shane looked skyward in frustration. “Why are you like this?”

“Because it is fun.”

“You know what? Fuck this. Take your dick out and get yourself hard while I watch.”

Ilya was silent for a moment, blinking at the screen. Then, quietly, he said, “Yes. Okay.”

In seconds, Ilya was naked, and Shane could see him from his thighs to the top of his head. Shane was pleased to see his cock was half hard already, the head beginning to peek out of the foreskin. Shane licked his lips.

“I wish you were here right now,” Shane said.

“Be weird. With your teammates around.”

“Then I wish I was at your house right now. Stop being difficult.”

Ilya smiled lazily as he stroked himself. “I want to touch you. I miss you.”

“I always miss you.” Shane’s throat felt tight, which was a ridiculous sensation to experience when watching your boyfriend jerk off. He swallowed hard and said, “You look hot.”

“Probably.”

Shane’s lips curved up and he added, “For a guy who just had his move stolen.”

That made Ilya laugh and smile so wide his eyes crinkled. Shane laughed too, and tried not to be terrified by how much he felt for this man.

Ilya’s laughter morphed into a sigh of pleasure as he kept stroking his cock. “Is this all you want?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, barely above a whisper. “Just want to watch you.”

It was true, and it wasn’t true. Shane wanted to climb through the phone and sit on Ilya’s lap. Watching Ilya stroke himself was a decent consolation prize, though.

“I want you to be here,” Ilya said.

“Me too. Wanna touch you. Wanna…fuck, I want to see you come.”

Ilya spread his legs wider and leaned back more on the pillows behind him. “Put your glasses on, then.”

“So I can see better, or because you’re hot for my glasses?”

“Both.”

Shane reached for his glasses case on the nightstand. He made a show of opening the case, pulling the glasses out, unfolding them, and putting them on. Like a nerdy reverse striptease.

Ilya grinned as his big hand moved in an easy, sure rhythm over his thick cock. Shane took advantage of his own improved vision and let his gaze dart all over the place, from Ilya’s broad shoulders, to his twitching pecs, to his swollen balls, to the way his muscular forearms worked as he stroked himself.

“You are so fucking beautiful,” Shane said.

Ilya smiled at him in that crooked way that had been making Shane feel crazy for over ten years. “Tell me.”

“As if you don’t know how hot you are.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Shane smiled and shook his head, but said, “You’re so fucking . Like, everywhere. Your arms, your chest, your fucking thighs. I love how tall you are. I don’t even care that you make fun of my height because I fucking love being swallowed up by you when we’re together.”

Ilya groaned and moved his hand faster.

Shane laughed. “Figures that would do it for you.”

“Touch yourself.” Ilya’s voice was strained, making it sound less like an order and more like a plea.

Shane obeyed, humming happily as he finally gave his rigid cock some attention.

“Were you waiting for me to tell you to do that?” Ilya asked with amusement.

“No,” Shane said quickly. “I just wanted to see how long I could wait.”

Ilya huffed. “Playing your own game over there, yes?”

Shane shrugged one shoulder. “Needed to do something to keep myself awake. It’s not like you’re doing anything interesting over there.”

“Brat.” Ilya let his dick snap backward, slapping hard against his firm stomach.

“Wow,” Shane said sarcastically. “You’ve got tricks now.”

They both cracked up. Ilya flipped him off with his left hand while he went back to stroking himself with his right.

“How is this for interesting?” Ilya said when he’d stopped laughing. “I have not come for three days.”

Shane’s eyebrows shot up. “Jesus. Are you okay?” Shane regularly went at least as long between orgasms without feeling deprived, but he knew Ilya usually needed at least one a day.

Ilya chuckled softly. “Fine. Busy, I guess. Or maybe waiting for this. For you.”

“I’ll admit,” Shane said. “You have my full attention now.”

“Good. Please jerk off so we can come together.”

“I . For fuck’s sake, give me a chance to catch up.”

“Like you need it.”

Shane mimicked with his best attempt at a Russian accent.

“That is what I sound like? No wonder you are so hot for me. Sexy.”

Shane laughed. “Shut up. Let me focus.”

For the next couple of minutes, both men were silent besides their quiet moans and heavy breathing. Jerking off together like this always felt like a competition, even when it wasn’t. This time, Ilya had explicitly stated that he wanted them to come together, but even that sounded like a challenge to Shane. Fortunately, challenges were a huge turn-on for him.

“You close?” Shane asked shakily.

Ilya smiled. “That was fast, Hollander.”

“I didn’t say was close.”

“But you are.”

“You don’t—

—know anything.”

“How long has it been since you came?”

Shane shuddered. “I don’t remember.”

Ilya’s head rolled against the pillow. “I am going to come so fucking hard.”

Shane exhaled, relieved that they were done pretending. “Fuck, me too.”

“I can’t wait to fuck you again.”

“Me too. Shit, me too. Ilya, are you—”

“Yes. Come on.”

Shane’s orgasm hit him so hard that he let out a weird whimpering noise as the first burst of come landed on his stomach. It was a struggle to keep his eyes open through the intense jolts of pleasure, but it was worth the effort to watch Ilya coming spectacularly all over himself.

“Holy shit,” Shane said, when he was able to talk again.

Ilya had his eyes closed and was breathing hard through his nose. He was still holding his dick.

“You okay?” Shane asked.

“I think there is more.” Ilya started stroking himself again, hard and fast. Shane watched in amazement when, a few seconds later, Ilya’s whole body tensed and arched as a small spurt of come joined the mess on his belly.

“That’s new,” Shane said.

Ilya’s chest was still heaving. “Like you said. I have tricks.”

They both laughed.

“That was hot,” Shane said.

“Yes. Very.”

“I really need to take a shower. Again.”

“Mm.”

“I love you.”

Ilya’s expression turned serious, and for a moment Shane’s stomach clenched as if he expected Ilya to tell him something awful.

But all Ilya said was, “I love you so much, Shane.”

Shane knew it, but hearing Ilya say it in such a raw, unguarded way cut through him like a blade. The pain of not being in the same room as Ilya felt physical.

“Ten days,” he said. God, . How was he supposed to endure ten more days without Ilya? And then only have him for one, maybe one and a half, before they’d be apart again.

“Ten days.” The number sounded just as enormous when Ilya said it.

They said goodbye, ended the call, and then Shane was alone again, and wishing like hell that there could be a solution to their problem.