“You’re Starting to Sound Like Him;” A Heated Rivalry Fan Fiction

PART ONE

Shane

Shane dropped onto the bench, yanking at his jersey and stripping it off.

“Here,” said Hayden.

Shane looked up to see his best friend holding out an ice pack and towel to him. Shane stared at it like he had never seen it before.

“For your hand,” Hayden prompted, dipping his chin.

Sighing, Shane reached out and took them from Hayden. “Thanks.”

He knew it had been dumb taking a swing at Scott Hunter; it was Scott Hunter, for fuck’s sake! And Shane was the captain. The game was over, and he should be able to take a bit of chirping from the losing team’s captain. Shane always prided himself on being gracious, both in defeat and especially in victory, but the need to rub it in, just a little, had been overwhelming. He should have just shut his mouth.

“What the hell happened, man?” Hayden asked.

Shane knew it was a genuine question, that Hayden was just trying to help, trying to make sure Shane was okay. But Shane was not in the mood for any of this. What Scott had said had pissed him off, but so much worse, it scared him.

“Nothing,” Shane shook his head. “I just…I was being an asshole, and so was Hunter, and I guess I just lost my temper. No big deal.”

Hayden’s brows shot up, but thankfully, he didn’t push. Shane left the ice on his hand and Hayden left him alone. Shane didn’t have any ability at this point to be polite. He reached up and grabbed his phone from his locker, glancing at the screen as his teammates milled around him. The energy was high – they’d won, after all. It was only Shane who was feeling sour about things.

There was a text from “Lily” on his screen. Shane’s stomach flipped as he opened the message.

Lily: Most boring fight between most boring hockey players.

The accompanying video showed Shane, visibly flushed, his face scrunched, as the ref yanked him back from Scott Hunter. Shane rolled his eyes at the message and shot back,

Shane: Go fuck yourself.

He shoved his phone away and quickly stripped off his gear. He needed to shower, get home, and get his head on straight. Hunter’s words echoed over and over again in his head even as he turned on the water and let the cold spray hit him directly in the face.

“You’re starting to sound like him.”

Fuck, but it was true. He was practically quoting Ilya with that jab at Scott at the end of the game. Hell, maybe he was directly quoting him. Hadn’t Ilya thrown those very words at him a few months ago via the press?

“I wish he’d been playing tonight,” Shane thought was the quote the reporters had asked him to respond to.

Shane hadn’t meant to sound like Ilya, but he’d felt on top of the world in that moment, kicking his idol’s ass all over the ice. When he reached for something confident, something cocky and smooth, of course he’d found the Russian voice that was taking up increasing space in his head with every day that passed, every text exchange, every late-night, ill-advised, gloriously hot meet-up. 

“Fuck,” Shane whispered to himself, dropping his head between his shoulders as the water spilled down his back.

He was alone in the showers, all the others hurrying through their postgame routines to get out and celebrate a big win at home. Shane wished Ilya was there, a terrible, dangerous wish, that put him in mind of the first time they’d been in a shower together, when Ilya had reached down and…

No, Shane was not going to think about that right now. He quickly turned off the water and walked back to his locker. A few players lingered, but the room was almost empty. Shane toweled dry and tugged on his joggers and his CCM undershirt. Then, almost compulsively, he reached for his phone. There was a missed call from his mom – he’d call her back tomorrow when he had the bandwidth for it.

And of course, almost as if he’d been looking for it, there was a text from “Lily.”

Lily: Was planning on it.

A pulse of desire slammed through Shane, and he shoved the phone in his pocket. Clearing his throat, he gathered up the rest of his things. He slipped on his Reeboks and yanked his sweatshirt over his head, tugging up the hood and slipping in his earbuds. Even his favorite cool down playlist wasn’t helping drown out the words as he walked out of the arena. Now, his brain was oscillating between “You’re starting to sound like him” and “Was planning on it.” 

Shane got into his car and yanked out his earbuds, tucking away iPod into his bag. He checked his mirrors and took off down the road, pushing faster than he usually would have. He needed distance from the game, from the fight, from Scott’s words and Ilya’s and the specter of the sexy Russian that haunted him everywhere he went. 

Then, his phone rang. He grabbed for it without looking, assuming it was his mom. He would have to talk to her at some point, and if she was worried, Shane knew he should put her at ease, so he answered.

“Hey–” he started.

“Hollander,” a rough, Russian voice growled his name.

“Fuck,” Shane whispered.

“Where are you? Are you home?” Ilya demanded.

Shane sucked in a breath. “No, I’m driving.”

“Pull over,” Ilya demanded.

“W-why?” Shane hated that his voice shook, but it felt like all of him was shaking.

Maybe he should pull over, not because Ilya told him to, of course not, but because it was dangerous to drive and talk on the phone at the same time. That was absolutely why Shane turned on his blinker and pulled off, clear past the shoulder and into the dirt that was surrounded by trees. 

“I need you to touch yourself,” Ilya replied so matter-of-factly, like that wasn’t crazy.

“What?” Shane cried.

“You heard me, Hollander,” Ilya’s voice sounded strained, like he was on the edge himself, and…

Oh, God. 

“Touch yourself,” Ilya growled.

“Fuck,” Shane repeated as he pressed his palm to the front of his sweats.

He was so fucking hard it was almost embarassing, but Ilya didn’t know, he didn’t need to know, how desperate Shane was. Shane squeezed himself through the fabric, and as if he was squeezing Ilya from hundreds of miles away, the other man let out a groan. 

“Tell me what you are doing,” Ilya commanded.

Shane wetted his lips. “I’m…touching myself.”

Ilya grunted. “How?”

“Through my sweats,” said Shane.

“You need more though, yes?” Ilya asked.

“Yes,” Shane said, his voice tight.

“Put me on speaker,” Ilya said. “Let me hear you.”

Shane made a sound that was unfortunately less manly than a groan that he was unwilling to name, and he punched the speakerphone button. Ilya’s throaty moan filled the car, and Shane fought with his sweats to yank them down his hips. He was glad he hadn’t bothered to put on underwear; they would just be in the way at this point.

“Tell me,” Ilya demanded.

“I have my sweats down,” Shane said as he wrapped his hand around his already leaking cock. 

“Stroke yourself,” Ilya said.

As if the words unlocked something inside him, Shane gripped his cock and stroked himself, harder than he usually did when he was alone, more like Ilya did when he was jerking Shane off himself. A bead of precum dripped out of Shane’s slit. It was still a bit rough and dry, but arousal was zipping up Shane’s spine and gathering low in his belly.

“I am,” Shane told Ilya.

“Good,” Ilya praised in a soft, crooning voice that made Shane’s breath hitch. “Such a good listener.”

Shane panted as he worked himself over, as he imagined what Ilya was doing to himself in that moment. He wished he knew where Ilya was – on his couch? On the bed? The bathroom? Somewhere else? So he could properly picture it all. Was he wearing a tank? No shirt at all? Was he entirely naked, splayed out like he was luxuriating in it, or were his pants around his thighs like Shane because need had overtaken him in such a rush that there was no time for anything else? But Shane didn’t want to interrupt this to talk about anything. Ilya, though, seemed happy to talk.

“You were so angry on the ice tonight,” Ilya purred. “Was hot, your little face all scrunchy. Your freckles.”

“Shut up, Rozanov,” Shane managed.

“Does your hand hurt?” Ilya asked. “From punching Scott Hunter’s pretty face?”

“Yes,” Shane gritted out.

“But you are stroking yourself for me anyways?” Ilya sounded unbearably pleased with himself and the entire situation. “Such a good boy.”

“Fuck off!” Shane cried.

He wanted to throw something at Ilya. He wanted to crash his mouth into the other man’s just to get him to shut up, but that was impossible. He hated the power that Ilya held in this moment, but he didn’t hate it enough to stop, because the truth was, as much as he hated it, he loved it more. Shane loved this side of Ilya, the bossy, cocky side, the version of him that put Shane on his knees and then dropped to his own to treat Shane like he wasn’t just glorious, he was precious. 

“Are you…” Shane swallowed hard, needing to know, to be able to picture what was happening on the other end of the line and copy it for his own pleasure. “Are you doing it too?”

“Yes, Hollander,” said Ilya with relish, as if he was waiting for Shane to ask that question. “I am – ah – close.”

Shane picked up his own pace, twisting his fist over the head as he let his other hand drift down, cupping his balls and rolling them, imagining it was Ilya’s hand around him. Imagining it was Ilya’s wet, hot mouth with his tongue toying with him, bringing him so close that Shane was going to explode. 

“Me too,” Shane managed.

“Come for me, Hollander,” Ilya’s voice was so low and so rough that it settled in Shane’s chest.

He did exactly as he was told, his hips jerking up as his climax hit. It flashed through his entire body in a series of white-lightning crackles along every nerve ending. He bent his head back, his eyes squeezed shut as he pictured Ilya, his large, powerful hand wrapped around his rigid cock. Shane gasped, then cried out, not caring if he was loud. Wanting to be loud. Wanting Ilya to hear everything.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya’s groan followed Shane’s own. 

Shane was left breathless and panting in the driver’s seat of his idling car. Shane, with the hand that wasn’t covered in his own finish, reached into the door and found a stashed towel that he used to clean himself up. On the other end of the line, Ilya’s breath was heavy but steady. Shane felt like his heart was going to burst out of his chest, and he knew he needed to say something, but he wasn’t sure what, and even if he knew, he wasn’t sure he could say it.

“Hollander?” Ilya asked, his voice a little distant, almost dreamy.

“Yeah?” Shane asked, his throat tight.

“You got some good shots in on Hunter,” Ilya said. “For such boring guy who does not fight.”

“Thanks,” said Shane dryly.

“What did he say to make you fight him?” Ilya asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” Shane said as he pulled up his sweats.

“Were you fighting over who is most boring?” Ilya pressed.

Shane snorted. “Fuck you, Ilya.”

“Ah, I will need a few minutes before I can go again, but yes,” Ilya retorted.

Shane shook his head. “You’re impossible.”

“Yes,” Ilya said, a strange tone in his voice that made Shane wonder if he’d said something else entirely.

“He said ‘you’re starting to sound like him’,” Shane blurted.

“What?” Ilya asked.

“Scott Hunter, tonight on the ice,” Shane didn’t know why he was saying this, but he felt like he needed to. “I told him that I hoped next time we played, that he would decide to show up.”

Ilya snorted. “That is good, Hollander. I told him something similar yesterday.”

“Yeah,” Shane let out a sharp sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “That’s what he said, that it sounded like you.”

“He said ‘you sound like Rozanov,’ and you hit him?” Ilya sounded like he was grinning.

Shane scrubbed his face with his left hand. “No, he said, ‘you’re starting to sound like him.’ Yeah, and then I hit him.”

“Oh,” Ilya said, his voice changing.

It was different, and Shane was glad Ilya understood why, even with the language difference. Somehow, “You sound like Rozanov” would have just made Shane laugh, but “You’re starting to sound like him,” well…it assumed Shane would know the “him” Hunter meant. And of course he had, proving Hunter’s point. It implied context, context that Hunter was aware of, and that prospect crackled over the line that stretched between Shane and Ilya like static.

“Is fine,” said Ilya. “Just shit talk. Nothing to worry, Hollander.”

Shane took in a slow breath. “Okay.”

“Is fine,” Ilya repeated. 

Shane exhaled shakily, and said again, “Okay.”

“Good night, Hollander,” Ilya said.

“Night,” Shane said, then hung up the phone.