Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

Winner's Room (Sports RPF), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Possessive Ilya Rozanov, Oral Sex, Fuck AI, Anxious Shane Hollander, Autistic Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, POV Shane Hollander, Internalized Homophobia, Character Study

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Birdy's Boys In The Room

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-20 Words: 1,757 Chapters: 1/1

Rules For Picking

Summary

“When we play Boston…” The first star had gone to Shane or Rozanov all four games this season, despite them playing on the second line for three of them, but that couldn’t always be the case, and if the excited rumblings of teammates in the Metros locker room about “putting that bitch Rozanov in his place” were mirrored on the Raider’s side—Rozanov’s snort cut through the thought.

“Then you are mine. Easy.”

Shane's not freaking out about The Winner's Room

Notes

Set during Shane's rookie season.
The Winner's Room is a sports RPF concept where the game MVP takes a chosen member of the opposing team to a room where they are obligated to perform sexual favors (or anything really but the default is oral sex)

The Room had rules, which should mean it was easy for Shane. The rules themselves weren't easy—in fact they were staggeringly complicated and contradictory and barely half of them were written in the twelve-page addendum to Shane’s ELC titled “Individual Post-Game Incentive Waiver”—but with an entire year to observe while his teammates gloated or cringed in the locker room or whispered in booths at the backs of bars while Shane sat silently sipping his obligatory single beer, Shane had pretty solidly figured all of them out. It wasn’t even that much worse than Juniors, really. If he thought about it. Not that he enjoyed thinking about it. Probably better, with the structure. No one signed waivers about what happened in Juniors.

It sort of made sense, in a twisted way, that the ego and violence and hyper-masculine drive for dominance was so baked-in to the fabric of the league that they made it official. As much a part of the game as his playoff bonus or post-game media availability or the airport dress code. That meant getting it right was important. But you couldn’t get called to The Room as a rookie, so Shane had let the problem drift to the back of his mind for a while.

It was probably impossible to overstate how important gaining and keeping the respect of your teammates was as a rookie, especially a good rookie. Even the best center couldn’t do shit without people to pass to or defenders to cover them. Shane hadn’t been new to a team in years, but it was always the same. Some people would be welcoming to anyone who was new. Some people needed to be gently shown that Shane wasn’t coming for their spot on the team through purchased drinks and food and endured hazing (with exactly the correct amount of humility). Some would never come around, but that’s where the undeniable talent and unmatched dedication to winning came in, Shane supposed. If anything it was harder on the Metros than normal, there hadn’t been international news coverage to tell his teenage teammates that Shane was already better than they ever would be before he stepped into their locker room. But the season was almost over, and Shane’s system had worked. The Metros liked him enough and respected him more, so there was time to start thinking about the next thing. Thinking about The Room.

Shane didn’t have a system for The Room, but he needed one, and it had to be perfect. Waterproof. Airtight. Fucking unquestionable. Shane was going to be the next captain of the Montreal Metros and this last hurdle of MLH culture was not going to trip him on the way.

But as much as Shane trusted his systems when it came to hockey, he wasn’t perfect.

Shane once overheard his mom while she spoke with his fourth-grade teacher.

“Shane just needs a bit of help reading the room,” she had said. “He doesn’t get people intuitively.”

And maybe that was true, in some ways. Shane did always feel a little off-kilter in most social situations, but you don’t become captain of your OHL team or lead a group of internationally-competitive boys to World Juniors gold with only the talent in your own skates. So even if Shane couldn’t “read the room” at nine years old, he’d learned by now. At least a bit. Enough to figure out the rest of the rules, and know why they were there. The why part was obvious, even if no one said.

So it should have been simple, really. The Room was about dominance. About sealing the victory you earned with sweat and blood with one final humiliation for the other side. And what could be more humiliating than being on your knees and covered in cum. Some guys were a little more creative—if the whispers were anything to go by—but not too creative. If you thought about what you wanted to do too much that was gay. Of course. Which would be even more humiliating than blowing whoever got first star that night. What happened in The Room wasn’t gay, because no players in the MLH were gay. Of course.

Shane’s overthinking problem wasn’t even about what went on in the room, per se. A blowjob was a blowjob was a blowjob. They were all the same. Well… they were pretty much all the same, save for less than a handful given by Ilya Rozanov that felt like nothing Shane had ever experienced before. And another handful given to Ilya Rozanov that were maybe even better. But overall, Shane figured getting a blowjob from some Tampa left-wing really wasn’t much different than getting a blowjob from the girl Shane would maybe take home from the bar after the game. It’d probably be better, actually, since there’d be no awkward touching or stilted conversation beforehand (Shane was getting better at the touching, he had a bookmarked folder of articles about how to improve and was rapidly seeing the results). And Shane was reasonably sure that he wouldn’t have the same problems on the giving end of The Room as some of his teammates (“It’s such a nightmare dude, I’m no good at it and then they take forever to get off even with the mags because they don’t wanna give up and just use their hand and it’s just so awkward,” Hayden had told him once, after a 4-2 loss to Seattle). Shane would have to tone it down (being too good was gay, obviously) but if he could have Rozanov shooting a load down his throat in less than five minutes even when girls on Twitter said he was a “stamina god” (not that Shane had looked) he was probably fine.

So suffice to say the problem for Shane’s system wasn’t the blowing or whatever. It was the picking.

People talked less about the rules for picking. Probably because no one really got to pick enough for it to be relevant. Enough to approach an observable pattern. If the team observed. Did they? They probably would. And they’d talk about it. If there was one thing Shane knew about the Metros room it was that they were fucking gossips. And when they ran out of shit to talk about they always brought it back to The Room. Even though no one was supposed to talk about it. This was Shane’s problem. Because staying out of The Room as a rookie didn’t stop the building anxiety that came with the mounting tally of times Shane earned first star that season. Who would he have picked? Of course, his winnings were passed off, taken by the Captain and distributed to the guys, penance for being a rookie (penance for taking the A from Jones after three months, penance for dropping Kaper down to third line center and Heiser down to the AHL, for being better. Shane was used to it). But the numbers were undeniable. Shane would have to pick. A lot.

Rozanov wasn’t nearly as bothered when Shane asked him about it at the end of March.

“Hollander it’s not like big deal,” he said, laughing. “Spin wheel, pick out of cap, whatever.” He waved a hand dismissively. “I pick who’s prettiest, I think.”

Shane huffed in response. “You can’t just pick out someone pretty on every team Rozanov! That’s exactly the shit that gets noticed.”

“Who cares about notice? They looking at you anyway. And more gay to eev- mmm… look at—”

“Evaluate?”

“Evaluate options every time, no?” He shifted onto one elbow to look directly at Shane then, eyebrows raised.

Shane didn’t meet his gaze. “Maybe,” he said to the popcorn ceiling of the hotel room. Rozanov was right, probably. It’s all about how much you think about it. It should be almost none. Shane shouldn’t even need a system. The guys would notice if he was overthinking it. Shane should stop thinking about it and just pick. He didn’t need to think about it not looking gay because he wasn’t fucking gay. Simple. He could pick favorites.

Who would Rozanov’s favorites be? He had had more first stars so far. Had he already picked them out for next season? Surely they weren’t prettier than—no. Absolutely not. What the fuck.

Maybe Shane would just spin a wheel. Or keep passing his turns off. He honestly would rather get back to the hotel or his apartment an hour earlier than have anyone in Dallas or Brooklyn suck his dick, god they were fucking ugly-ass teams. But you couldn’t pass too much. Probably. No one else had had enough turns to even consider passing. But Shane probably could. Just not too much. It was gay to not want your dick sucked. Even if it’d be by Evan Keller, who genuinely looked like a deflated basketball.

Still, that wasn’t really why Shane had brought it up. There was still the elephant in the room. He turned to face Rozanov, who looked like a painting in the low lighting, golden curls rumpled where Shane’s hands had gripped earlier in the evening. He took a breath and forced the words past his tongue.

“When we play Boston…” The first star had gone to Shane or Rozanov all four games this season, despite them playing on the second line for three of them, but that couldn’t always be the case, and if the excited rumblings of teammates in the Metros locker room about “putting that bitch Rozanov in his place” were mirrored on the Raider’s side—Rozanov’s snort cut through the thought.

“Then you are mine. Easy.”

Shane’s stomach flipped violently. “What?” He choked. He could feel the flush in his cheeks.

“I think so, yes? My rival mm? Can’t have Hammersmith ruining your pretty freckles.” Rozanov grinned, wolfish, rolling half onto Shane. “I am the best Boston has ever seen, and you, second best in the league, are for me only. At least in my house.”

Shane’s dick twitched, but he probably hid it as he shoved Rozanov off.

“First best, asshole.”

“Ah, first best asshole yes probably.” Rozanov waggled his eyebrows as he rolled off the bed, gathering his underwear from the floor.

Was it really that easy? Shane guessed so. He’d heard of stuff like that before. Guys who really hated each other calling dibs. Probably the Metros would let him. Maybe. And then it would be easy, this thing with Rozanov. Because it would just be in The Room. Where there are rules.

Shane smiled. “Yeah okay.”