The night has barely begun and already Ilya wants to—well, not go home, because his big empty house is just as exhausting to be in right now as this club; but he doesn't want to be here. Yes, there are dozens of beautiful women. Yes, there is alcohol. Yes, Boston won earlier, beating New Jersey easily, 4-1.
There's a thick wall of glass, separating Ilya from all of it, muffling everything. Everything feels heavy, and shit, and Ilya is sick of himself.
Restless, he swipes his messages open again, thumb tapping on Jane automatically, even though there's no new notifications. He wishes there was, even though that's stupid. But Hollander is fun to talk to, fun to tease, and Ilya wants—that. Wants to feel lighter again.
He drains the rest of his vodka—not particularly good, конечно—and pushes off the bar, shouldering his way through the crowd of tipsy, sweaty bodies.
The crisp air outside hits him like a welcome slap to the face, bracing, invigorating. There are other people out here, of course, smoking and laughing loud, but it's still quieter than inside the club. Ilya thinks about bumming a cigarette—he hasn't got any on him tonight, trying to be good, like an idiot—but he doesn't want to talk to anyone.
He walks a little further away, instead, and unlocks his phone again. The same week-old messages stare back at him, before he taps Jane again.
His thumb hovers over the little phone icon.
They don't do this. Ilya knows that. Knows Hollander will probably be weird about it, too.
The sound of the dial tone makes his stomach clench. He's holding his breath. Maybe Hollander won't even pick up. Maybe he'll see a missed call later, and—
Ilya leans back against the building, closing his eyes. Something fills up his throat, briefly, and he has to swallow down.
"Hello?" Hollander says again, sounding tenser, like maybe he thinks this is a prank.
"Hi," Ilya says, and has no idea how to continue. They don't do this.
"What are you—is something wrong? Did something—fuck. Did something leak?"
Ilya knows it's a bit fucked up, but he can't help smiling at the sharpening edge of panic in Hollander's voice. He knows it wouldn't make sense, if he had to say this out loud to any other person on earth, but Hollander's predictability is oddly comforting. Relaxing. Ilya knows how to handle it.
"No, no, sorry," Ilya says, body loosening, warming up. "It was—uh, how you say. Pocket dial."
"Oh," Hollander says, voice looser and warmer, too, in Ilya's ear. It makes his scalp crawl pleasantly. "Okay. Um. Well, I can—let you go. I guess."
"Is okay. You are saving me from boring celebrations." Ilya pushes off the wall, starts walking back towards the hotel. Maybe, just maybe, he can keep Hollander on the phone long enough to jerk off together. "Gets old fast, when you are the best. I know you don't know this, as second best."
Hollander scoffs. "Fuck you."
"Mm. In three weeks, yes?" He thinks he hears Shane's breath catch a little.
"Yeah. Three weeks." There's a pause. Ilya wonders what Shane is doing, if he's in the kitchen, or curled up on his sofa, or in bed. Probably reading a boring hockey book or watching boring hockey tapes. Just the thought of it makes fondness surge up inside him. "You won't have to worry about celebrating then, when we beat your ass."
Ilya laughs, stride lengthening now the hotel is in view. "Shane Hollander, my hero."
"Mm. I'm very selfless, you know."
"Oh I know so. Very generous. Always so good for me."
Now the catch in Shane's breath is obvious. "Fuck. Shut up."
"Mmmm, no." Ilya's getting hard in his jeans. He walks past the reception, to the elevators. The doors ding as they close.
"What are you doing? Where are you?"
Ilya presses the button for his floor, impatient now, buzzing. "Back at hotel. I have whole room to myself." He lets that speak for itself, and grins at the sound of Shane's breath growing heavier in his ear. "And I will be so terribly lonely and bored, Hollander… and my cock is so hard…"
"Mm, no, just Ilya is fine."
Shane laughs, and Ilya feels alive.
Pocket dial // @hollanovbingo // 730 words
