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, “later.”
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 my 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 good for him. And rewarded for it after. Ilya fucking loved this 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.