Fight You For It
Mike Comrie won the draw off the face-off and managed to slash at Ilya's hands while he fought for possession.
Kovalchuk dug in the corner for the puck and accidentally elbowed Comrie in the throat.
Comrie swept his stick at the puck as Kovalchuk broke away for a two-on-one and somehow caught Ilya's skates instead, hauling the small winger down.
"Jesus Christ," Anson Carter remarked from the bench with a roll of his eyes, "are they going to flirt all fucking night?"
Mike Comrie wasn't as amused. "You'd better back the fuck off, kid," he warned to a passing Kovalchuk, to which Ilya only tossed his head and laughed.
"If you afraid of hurting, then stay out of my way," the Russian shot back in badly accented English.
"Oh, trust me, I'm not afraid of you," Comrie retorted as they lined up for the face-off. "I'd like to see you fuckin' try it."
The linesman gave them both a stern look that bordered on fatherly. "Keep it clean, boys," he muttered, throwing the puck down.
Ilya sneered as the Thrashers won the draw. "Fag," he hissed softly, catching the puck on the tape and taking off down the boards.
Mike had had enough. Pumping short, powerful legs as fast as they would go he plowed into Ilya at full speed, knocking the Russian rocket off his skates. Kovalchuk leapt to his feet, seething with anger and humiliation, and snapped his stick up to catch Comrie in the chin. Mike took a split second to reel back in shock before dropping the gloves.
The fight was sloppy but spirited, with wild punches exploding on both sides. At one point Ilya actually made a grab for his hair, and Mike howled with pain as he tugged at the short strands. He threw a hard right that rocked Ilya backwards, and the linesmen immediately jumped between them, ending the fight.
"Nice fight," Mike York offered as the Oilers poured into the locker room. "You get his phone number?"
"I can't believe you pulled his fucking hair," Heatley teased Ilya as the sulking Russian iced his swollen knuckles. "You might as well have started making out with him at center ice."
The response from both boys was a resounding "fuck off."
But as he stood under the hot water and let it wash the sweat and blood away, Mike Comrie had to admit that the thought had crossed his mind. Not the phone number--what would he do with a phone number?--but what acquiring such a number implied. In short, he'd given considerable thought to fucking Ilya's brains out (if he in fact had any). It was sounding more and more like a fantastic idea.
"You should go for it." Eric Brewer's voice sounded from just above his right shoulder, scaring the shit out of him. He rounded on the defenseman, who was soaping up beneath the shower next to his. Eric grinned. "Ilya, I mean."
"I KNOW what you meant," Mike squeaked, flushing. "How did you know I was thinking about it?"
Eric flashed him that pretty smile and leaned close, his voice dropping to a warm murmur that could just be heard above the pounding spray of the showers. "You're half-hard and glaring at the wall like you want to strangle it," Eric informed him, grinning when Mike turned several interesting shades of crimson. "It wasn't a difficult connection to make."
"Hn," Mike grumbled, still pink with embarrassment.
"You know, he's probably still there," Eric continued, jerking his head in the direction of the guest locker room. "You really should go for it. And tell me all about it later," he added, with a wink and a playful nip at Mike's ear.
"Slut," Mike taunted, grinning nonetheless as he wrapped a towel around his waist and headed out of the locker room.
"I learned from the best," Eric replied.
Mike could hear Janne shout an indignant "I heard that!" as he padded barefoot and still mostly naked out the door.
***
"So there's no chance at all that maybe you kept picking fights with him because you wanted to get into his pants."
Ilya closed his eyes and counted slowly backwards from ten, his nostrils flaring as he sucked in deep, calming breaths. "Dany. You ask this question already. I am try to take shower. Go away."
His friend and linemate was not to be dissuaded. "I'm just making sure," he clarified, staring at Ilya intently as the pouting Russian shampooed his hair. "You're sure?"
"For last time, yes, I am sure," Ilya insisted.
"Oh, good," Dany replied blandly. "'Cause he's here."
"Here?" Ilya shrieked, whirling around in surprise to cast a desperate glance over Dany's shoulder. Sure enough, Comrie was in the locker room, making his slow, deliberate way towards the showers. He didn't seem to have spotted Ilya yet. "Fuck," Ilya cursed, which made Dany smile as it always did. "Why he is here? Stupid canuck boy."
"Well," Dany drawled, although the question was clearly not directed at him, "probably he either wants to beat the hell out of you or fuck the hell out of you. And since he already did the first--no offense," Dany added hastily at Ilya's injured look, "--I'm betting on the second one." Dany glanced swiftly over his shoulder. "Oops, and he's almost here, so I'm gonna go," he concluded, twisting the shower off and throwing a towel around his waist, winking knowingly to Comrie as he passed him on the way to his locker.
Ilya watched Comrie approach and struggled to come up with an appropriate English word to express what he was feeling. "Fuck," he decided as Comrie stopped in front of him, nodding at the choice. Yes, that pretty much summed it up. "Fuck."
"Oh, good, we're on the same page," Mike Comrie remarked brightly as he shoved Ilya up against the tiled wall and forced him into a punishing kiss.
To Comrie's credit, Ilya wasn't complaining. His mouth opened eagerly beneath the shorter boy's, drawing his tongue inside, as his quick, skillful hands wasted no time in stripping the boy's towel away. He wrapped his hand boldly around Comrie's dick and gave it a few rough tugs before taking Mike's hips in his hands and pulling them forward, grinding himself up against him. Mike groaned and thrust into the contact, digging his nails into Ilya's smooth shoulders as lust overtook him.
They fucked the way they had fought, fast and angry and without any rules. Ilya wrestled for control, spinning them around until it was Mike who was pinned to the wall, whimpering and cursing under the assault of Ilya's sweet mouth and bruising bite. Ilya covered Mike's shoulders and chest in sharp, nipping kisses as he coated two fingers in shampoo, teasing the buds of his nipples with his teeth until Mike ordered him to stop teasing and fuck him already.
Ilya responded by tearing his mouth away and sliding both fingers suddenly into the tight heat of Mike's ass, grinning meanly as the small forward released a strangled cry. Comrie gritted his teeth and forced himself to relax, closing his eyes as Ilya's fingers moved a little more gently inside his body, stretching and teasing. Ilya withdrew his fingers as he slicked his own cock with shampoo, carefully positioning himself while Mike writhed and moaned with impatience. "Too fucking--slow--" Mike grunted, forcing Ilya inside of him with a single rapid thrust that made the Russian's eyes roll back in his head. "Just like--like--always--" Mike continued breathlessly, clutching at Ilya's shoulders for support as he fell back against the wall.
"Fuck--you--," Ilya stuttered, swallowing a few times as he adjusted to being inside of him before starting a steady rhythm.
"That's the--idea--" Mike panted. He opened his mouth to make another smart ass remark, but Ilya chose that moment to hook his hand under Mike's knee and bring his leg up, changing the angle of his thrust. Mike's head hit the tile and his face contorted in passion as he came, yelling and cursing, his come splattering Ilya's stomach. Ilya sank his teeth into the tender flesh of Mike's neck and sucked hard as he sped up his thrusts, growling in Russian as he came inside of him. He licked almost gently at the outline of his teeth denting Mike's skin, then slipped carefully out of the shorter man and leaned panting against him for several moments as both men caught their breath.
"You fight like a girl," Mike muttered quietly, wincing as he straightened up and rubbed the back of his head. Ilya closed his eyes and stepped back under the shower, sighing as the hot water rinsed him clean again.
"You play hockey like little kid," Ilya responded in the same tone. Mike grunted noncommittally, pushing Ilya aside a little to make some room under the showerhead.
"Hey, this is mine. You have own locker room, own shower." Ilya glared darkly at him.
Mike scowled, prepared to argue; then suddenly his brow cleared and a pleased, mischievous smile lit up his face. "Tell you what," he said, turning his devious smile on the unsuspecting Russian, "I'll fight you for it."