Losing is just part of the game, but for Ilya it always has the bite of personal failure. Alone in his hotel room, illuminated only by the game recap playing on TV, Ilya stifles the undercurrent of panic by picking at his smallest errors on the replay. He should have been accurate enough to complete that pass, skated faster and taken a shot on goal during that play, he could have noticed that defender sooner and shouldered him into the boards.
His father’s voice is easy to summon.
On the ice he generally feels at ease, confident, and maybe even liked. It’s only after that doubt creeps in. The electric thrill of competition that drives him in the rink has long been eclipsed by pressures outside of it. Hockey isn’t just an escape, it’s his literal escape route out of a family home that felt like a prison. When he falls short of his aspirations in the sport, part of him insists that he’s back inside a cage he needs to chew his way out of, first MLH draft pick or not.
Usually he’d fuck a stranger about it - his other easy outlet. But the flight home is very early, and part of him likes sulking. As if on cue, the recap analysis cuts to an interview with tonight’s winner: Shane fucking Hollander. The hot twist of jealousy doesn’t take Ilya by surprise. He had wanted that as much as he’d wanted the rest of his self-recrimination.
Hollander is fresh off the ice, in the recording, his hair spiked with a rushed shower or just sweat, skin so flushed it blurs the freckles, still breathing heavy but answering in perfect fucking French. So gracious, so humble, so boring.
For everyone in public, that is.
Ilya remembers him even wetter, water beading on his down-cast eyelashes as he eyed Ilya’s cock in the shower despite his best intentions. The shoot had started as a whim for Ilya, a way to itch a vague curiosity about the boy everyone insisted on measuring him against: Hollander vs. Rozonov, always in that order. Not that he was complaining about how it had turned out. Hollander wasn’t just a perfect rival, he was a damn good lay.
It was funny. Part of him wanted his rival gone, because without Hollander, Ilya would have been the uncontested star this season. With Hollander, he is always at risk of falling into an also-ran. On the other hand, nothing is better than playing against Montreal when they can go head to head. They push one another hard in the rink, reaching heights Ilya knows they never would have alone.
But the competition is lopsided. If Hollander wasn’t a hockey god, he’d still be an upper-middle-class all-Canadian boy with a great work ethic. If Ilya wasn’t a hockey god… fuck him, he didn’t want to know. Cocaine in shitty Moscow clubs? Getting the shit kicked out of him for not hitting the right masculine cues? Coming home to his father every Sunday to be raked over the coals? While Hollander would be a tennis star, a businessman, a model. Polished Mr. Perfect giving his media-trained non-answers on TV.
Ilya palms his dick, slouching into the bleach-stiff sheets of the anonymous hotel room - indistinguishable, really, from where they’d met. God, Hollander had wanted it so badly. Could Ilya make him beg for it in French next time? His curiosity was supposed to be satiated once Hollander had been convinced to blow him, but he keeps thinking of how Hollander had folded his clothes before coming to the bed. It’s an image that always makes Ilya smile, it’s so absurd.
Nearly as often, though, Ilya remembers how Hollander had genuinely thought Ilya would blue ball him. Obviously, Ilya had only been riling him up. What kind of person would roll over and leave? It’s funny, but also… goddamn. Ilya kind of likes Hollandar; Hollandar just thinks he’s a jerk with a good body.
Ilya coughs hard, a tickle deep in his throat. He winces, pressing a hand to his chest. Fuck, he actually does have to stop smoking. Hollander has chided him about it every time they meet, like a PSA. annoying for him to be right. The cough turns productive, this time. Something wet in his throat is dislodged.
Disgusted, he grabs a tissue to wipe his hand and finds… For a second, uncomprehending, he stares at the delicate pale furl of a flower petal. It’s fleshy pink, somewhere between a cherry blossom and a rose.
Without thinking very hard he pops it back into his mouth, needing it to disappear even though he’s alone. There’s perfume on his tongue, then the delicate vegetal crunch as he catches it between his molars.
