Ilya had been right: it wasn’t really about them.
But it was nice, having all these clips and interviews put together in a one-hour package. It was even nicer to be able to watch it curled up together on Ilya’s couch.
Suddenly a clip appeared that Shane had never seen before.
“Don’t watch this,” Ilya said. His tone was dead serious.
“Is this—oh.” On the screen, Shane had just been laid out by Cliff Marlow during a game against Boston. He winced. He’d never been able to remember that hit, but he sure remembered the injuries it caused.
Ilya’s body tensed against him as they both stared at Shane’s unconscious body on the ice.
“Spoiler,” Shane said with a shaky laugh. “I wake up.”
“I know,” Ilya said quietly.
In the video, Ilya was crouching over Shane’s body. The camera caught a close-up of Ilya’s face as he glanced over his shoulder and began to frantically wave medical staff over. His skin was ashen and his eyes were wide and terrified.
A crowd formed around Shane’s body seconds later, but Ilya didn’t leave. He stood, just outside the scrum, like a guardian. He was talking, but no one seemed to be listening to him.
A spinal board and a stretcher were brought onto the ice. Ilya had to be shoved out of the way by one of the medics, but that didn’t keep Ilya from staying as close as he was allowed, his eyes never leaving Shane’s body.
“Was I awake then?” Shane asked quietly. “I don’t remember.”
“Yes. Barely.” Ilya’s voice sounded small and unsteady. “You were trying to talk to me.”
Ilya never fucking left. Even though Shane’s teammates were all, sensibly, huddled near the Montreal bench, out of the way of the medics, Ilya stayed. He’d stood there in his Boston uniform, making sure Shane knew he wasn’t alone.
Shane squeezed his hand, now. Because Shane wasn’t the one reliving a traumatic moment by watching this.
“How could they not know?” Shane said. “How could anyone have seen this—seen you—and not known about us?” Ilya had displayed his heart so openly, smashed against the ice as unmistakably as Shane’s broken body.
“I don’t know,” Ilya said.
Ilya needed to stop watching this, so Shane climbed into his lap and kissed him. He’d never thought much about how scared Ilya had been. He’d been relieved that his injuries weren’t career-ending, and hadn’t thought much about the incident beyond that. But he knew if their situation had been reversed, Shane would have been a wreck. Injuries were part of the game, but getting knocked out cold was scary. He hoped Ilya never scared him like that.
“I’m sorry you went through that,” Shane said. “And I’m sorry I never knew about it.”
“Is fine,” Ilya said, even though his eyes were glistening with tears. “Was scary, but you are okay.”
“I’m okay,” Shane agreed.
Beside them, Ilya’s phone lit up. He picked it up, probably welcoming the distraction, and laughed.
“What?” Shane asked.
“Hayden texted me a picture of his middle finger.”
* * *
Shane woke up from a dream where he and Ilya were fucking at center ice. It had been ridiculous, and obviously fucking on ice would be difficult and uncomfortable, but it had also been hot as hell and now Shane was rock hard and felt about three strokes away from orgasm.
Jesus. What if he’d actually shot his load in his sleep? Ilya would never let him live it down.
He turned his head to find Ilya sprawled out on his stomach beside him, deep asleep with his mouth hanging open and hair covering most of his face.
Shane’s heart swelled. This beautiful man was all his.
He closed his eyes and reached down to ruthlessly squeeze the base of his own cock, then did some deep breathing. No point in being this fired up if Ilya was dead to the world.
When he finally got himself under control, he opened his eyes and found Ilya grinning at him.
“Trying not to come?” Ilya asked.
Shane palmed Ilya’s face, pushing his stupid grin away. “You were asleep! What the fuck?”
“I woke up,” Ilya said simply. “And you were meditating with your dick in your hand.”
Shane shoved him onto his back and climbed on top of him, straddling him so he could look down at his smirking boyfriend and try to gain some dignity back. “I was not meditating.”
“Okay.”
“I had a sexy dream, that’s all. And I woke up all...aroused, or whatever.”
Ilya folded his arms behind his head. “Tell me about this dream.”
“No way.”
Ilya’s mouth fell open in mock offense. “You will not share?”
“Nope.”
“It was about another man, then. Was it Hayden?”
Shane threw his head back and groaned. “For the last time, I’m not attracted to Hayden.”
“Too bad for Hayden.”
“Hayden is straight and not attracted to me!”
“If you say so.”
Shane rolled his head in a dramatic fashion until he was glaring down at Ilya again. “I guess all I had to do to get rid of this hard-on was wake you up. Now I’m too annoyed to be turned on.”
“I don’t think that is true.”
And, no. It wasn’t true. Not now that Shane was finally cluing into the fact that he was straddling his very handsome boyfriend’s naked body. He couldn’t resist being aroused by Ilya’s crooked smile and sleepy, half-lidded eyes.
“You’re so fucking hot,” Shane said helplessly, sliding his palms up to Ilya’s chest.
Ilya’s smile grew. “Tell me about the dream.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
Ilya pulled one hand from behind his head and cupped Shane’s mostly soft dick. “Tell me one thing.”
Shane’s breath hitched as Ilya began to slowly massage his cock. “I—we were...fucking.”
“Wow,” Ilya said dryly.
Shane wasn’t going to sit here and be accused of having unimaginative sex dreams. He swallowed his shame and added, “At center ice.”
Ilya’s eyebrows shot up.
“I know that logistically,” Shane continued quickly, “it would be, y’know, basically impossible, but dreams are weird. So, yeah. Center ice.”