Ilya Rozanov was Shane Hollander’s bitch.

A bold statement, but.. a true one, in a way. If Shane directed him to do something, Ilya did it. If Shane sent a look Ilya’s way, the Russian knew to reel himself in. If there was someone pissing Ilya the fuck off, he didn’t act on it unless Shane said he could. It was their dynamic. Shane talked, and Ilya listened. But not in a soft way, no. In a weird.. dog and owner way.

It was sexy, sometimes.

“Get my shoes.” Shane waved towards the corner of the locker room, sat down and unlacing his skates. Most of the men had left by now, but Shane had no issue bossing Ilya around even when the team was nearby. The Centaurs were far more accepting than the Metros, as unfortunate as it was. Ever since their outing, Shane hadn’t felt the need to hold himself back.

He stared at Ilya returned, still bulky in his pads and sweaty jersey. The man still had his skates on, but he knelt down and finished unlacing Shane’s skates for him. He was careful with how he slipped them off and slid the blade protectors on, gently placing them into Shane’s duffel.

He held Shane put on his sneakers, tying them once, because Shane didn’t want them double knotted after any games. It was easier for him to kick them off when they got home that way. He looked up, awaiting approval. Some sort of reassurance that he did the right thing.

“You’re driving.” Was all Shane said, standing up and moving to pack his bag himself as he sent Ilya to go change out of his uniform.