Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories:

M/M, Multi

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Scott Hunter/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Threesome - M/M/M, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Voyeurism

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-29 Words: 2,616 Chapters: 1/1

no place for the old

Summary

“So he break up with you because you are a million years old and dick doesn’t work?” Rozanov asks.

Or: Scott Hunter gets ragebaited into a threesome.

Notes

takes place nebulously around ilya's first season with ottawa since i didn't know where else to put it!

Scott is excited for the new season to start. He can tell they’ve got a good team this year, good chemistry. One final chance to run it back. Everything that happened over the summer is over; he’s got a fresh start, a clean sheet of ice.

But before he’s allowed back on the ice at the Garden, he’s got to suffer through everything leading up to it.

It’s media day. Nothing interesting is supposed to happen at media day, except they film a few awkward videos and give interviews to MLH-approved reporters. If you’re unlucky, and Scott typically is, then you end up in a promo designed specifically to haunt you every time you turn on MLH Network. 

It’s very much an obligatory work event, emphasis on work. Which means that Scott doesn’t know how he ended up here, except—

“So he break up with you because you are a million years old and dick doesn’t work?” Rozanov asks when they pass each other in the lobby of the MHL building, eyes glinting; Scott had said something about how his dick absolutely still worked, fuckhead, and—

—now he’s sitting in a hotel room armchair post-interviews watching Shane Hollander drop to his knees and wondering if Rozanov is going to make fun of him if he starts jerking off. 

“You know I have an apartment,” Scott says. League events are a necessary evil, though it helps when he gets to go back to the quiet of his own place at the end of it. He hates being in Midtown, where the offices and network studios are, and he can tell he’d hate being at this sleek, corporate-approved hotel. The gruesome twosome in front of him each have their own rooms, but he spied a Metros workout shirt tossed over the desk chair and he doubts the maple leaf toque crumpled up in Rozanov’s suitcase actually belongs to him. 

On second thought, enough of Kip’s stuff is still floating around his place that maybe it’s better they keep whatever this is to neutral ground. 

Rozanov shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Too much time for you to change your mind. We are already here.” He winds his hand through Hollander’s hair. They’re a couple feet away next to the bed, far enough that Scott would have to stretch to touch them; Rozanov is hard in his track pants. He’s only got a partial view of Hollander, but he doubts Hollander would be on his knees patiently waiting unless he wanted to be there.  

Scott had a threesome once, during an offseason trip to Spain after he’d started making real money. He was overwhelmed. The other two guys were hot. They didn’t know who he was. It was fun. And he knows Rozanov’s reputation as a womanizer was at one point fully-earned, so that’s probably not anything to be concerned about. But still, he looks down at Hollander. 

“He good?” Scott asks.

Rozanov smiles, thumb dragging across Hollander’s lower lip, then hooking in. “Yes. And if you are very good, maybe I let you touch him,” he says, and Scott swallows, pressing his hand against his stiffening dick. 

“Ilya,” Hollander murmurs, mouthing at the slick fabric of Rozanov’s track pants. “Come the fuck on.”

“Yes,” Rozanov says. “Show Hunter what you can do first, and then I will show him how much you like it when I fuck you.” Another razor-sharp smile, this time for Scott’s benefit. “If you come before me, you don’t get to try his mouth.”

“You think pretty highly of yourself, huh,” Scott says, though of course it’s appealing, watching the two of them, and of course Rozanov knows it. Hollander, too, who’s sliding a glance at Scott with an insane case of fuck-me eyes before tugging down Rozanov’s pants and sliding his mouth around the head of Rozanov’s cock. 

Scott exhales. Rozanov is big, which he knew thanks to previous all star games—they’ve shared a locker room, not to mention a hotel wall—and he’s got a guiding hand on Hollander’s head, but he isn’t trying to fuck his face. Hollander’s taking him, dick pushing past his plush lips, hand clenched into a fist at his side. Thank god Scott changed into sweats after he finished filming promos, because it’s easier to give himself a couple strokes, hand slipping past his waistband, squeezing lightly around the base of his cock while he listens to Rozanov moan. 

“You do this for him too?” Scott asks. Rozanov nods. Something to think about later, a new way to make Rozanov shut the fuck up, except for how Hollander’s hips are twitching, grinding against nothing, and Scott needs to know the sounds he makes when Rozanov is working him open on his cock. Rozanov pulls him off and hauls Hollander up, kissing him wet on the mouth. His dick is split-slick and hard, pink at the tip; Scott doesn’t want to get on his knees for the guy because he’d be really fucking annoying about it but he is curious. He jerks himself a couple more times and waits. 

Rozanov puts Hollander on his hands and knees on the mattress, angled so Scott can see his face and also his dick, rock hard between his thighs. There’s lube on the bedside table already and the sound of the cap is loud, breaking up the hum of the air conditioning. Scott’s own breath stays even. He strokes again, picks up a rhythm, and thinks, at least for now.   

The way Hollander’s face goes slack as Rozanov pushes in is fucking stunning, his mouth dropping open on a low groan. It isn’t sweet but Scott can see how the two of them probably are, when they don’t have an audience, the casual, practiced way they touch each other. Rozanov is fucking him steadily, hips slapping against Hollander’s ass, body a long line of tense muscle. His eyes flick down to the not-insignificant bulge in Scott’s sweats. 

“So your dick does work,” he says. “Wow.”

Scott laughs, slowing his hand to meet the rhythm of Rozanov’s thrusts, squeezing around the base of his cock. “Told you,” he says, which isn’t his greatest retort, but he’s losing brainpower here, hypnotized by the steady slide of Rozanov’s hips and the way that Hollander’s dick is only getting harder, red and leaking between his spread legs. Scott doesn’t know if the lack of a reach around is because Rozanov is rude, or because Hollander’s going to shoot any second, or because he can come untouched. He hopes it’s the last one.

“Shane,” Rozanov says, tapping him on his hip. “What do you think?”

“What?” Hollander’s mouth is open, and he sucks in air, looking from Rozanov to Scott and then back to Rozanov. Scott’s not gonna reach out and touch him—fuck him if all he does tonight is prove Rozanov right—but he wants to, wants to track the spread of the flush spreading down Hollander’s chest with his mouth. 

“You want something in your mouth?” 

“What?” Hollander says again, and then looks down, lashes fluttering. “Oh. Yes, please.” 

“You think he has been good enough?” Rozanov asks, movements slowing, like he’s trying to draw it out. He probably is. “I am close. He didn’t come. I think maybe, but up to you.”

“Rozanov,” Scott says, not a plea, fuck, except that he’s either going to come soon or die and Rozanov smiles, says, “Ask Shane.”

“Hollander,” Scott says. Fucking undignified, that’s what this is. Also probably totally worth it. “Please.” 

Before Scott can even think, his sweats are tangled around his thighs and Hollander is lapping at the head of his dick, tongue flat against the slit before he takes Scott all the way in, one callused hand looped around the base. Scott breathes out hard, keeping his hands by his sides. He doesn’t want to touch Hollander in a way that’s reserved for—well, someone else. His nails dig into his palms as Hollander runs a hand up his thigh, grabs onto his hip. He’s bobbing his head up and down Scott’s cock while Rozanov watches, something fond and proud on his face, before Rozanov rubs a hand over Hollander’s lower back and kneels, then pushes back in.

Spitroasting Hollander wasn’t on Scott’s agenda for the night—a few minutes ago he still kind of thought Rozanov was going to make him jerk off while the two of them watched—and he looks up, meeting Rozanov’s eyes, then raises one eyebrow.

“Yes,” Rozanov says. “I thought he would like it.” 

The angle isn’t perfect with Scott hanging half-off the chair, and he can’t imagine the hotel carpet feels great for Hollander, but he spreads his legs a little more. Hollander’s sucking him off roughly in time with Rozanov’s thrusts, and Scott doesn’t know where to look—the arch of Hollander’s back, the pursed curve of Rozanov’s mouth. They’ve both got mouths he would have fantasized about, except he tries not to think about other players when he’s jerking off, and especially not other players he finds fucking annoying. 

“Hunter,” Rozanov says, and Scott snaps back into it. 

“Yeah?”

“You can touch him if you want,” Rozanov says. “But only a little.”

“How do you think threesomes normally go?” Scott asks, but he does reach out to stroke his hand through Hollander’s hair, pulling his head in and groaning when Hollander takes his length that much further in. There’s heat pooling in his belly and a building pressure, helped along by the heat of Hollander’s mouth. Hollander’s still sucking him, despite what Rozanov is doing with his hips that’s making Hollander moan around Scott’s dick, and it doesn’t take much more for Scott to pull Hollander off so he can come into his own cupped hand, panting, Rozanov’s deep voice murmuring something low in his ears. 

“Bed,” Rozanov says urgently. “You too, Hunter, come, this isn’t over fucking yet.” Scott’s barely started to his enjoy his post-orgasm glow before he’s wiping his hand onto his stomach and following them onto the mattress, slung unceremoniously across the foot of the mattress while Rozanov presses Hollander down and starts fucking him hard, ass muscles clenched as he drives down. His rhythm is unsteady, and when he comes it’s with a groan pressed into Hollander’s neck, and what he says is clearly meant only for Hollander’s ears. 

Scott lets himself have a moment to admire Rozanov’s ass, and then Rozanov is kissing Hollander again and manhandling him over, wrapping a hand around Hollander’s dick, which is shiny with pre-come. Scott sort of wants to taste it, wants to touch them again.

Rozanov has moved onto sucking a bruise onto Hollander’s pecs, and he’s stroking Hollander absently, no real intent yet, while Hollander shudders and moans, the timbre of it sending a jolt down Scott’s chest right to his dick. 

“Can he come untouched?” Scott asks.

Rozanov looks at Hollander, who shrugs. Rozanov shrugs back before opening his mouth. “Sure,” he says. “But unless you can get it up again right now, I don’t think you will find out.”

Scott doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Obviously he can’t, and he doesn’t think Rozanov has the stamina this quick either. “Does he want—” he says, and waves his hand around in the air. 

“If you’re offering,” Hollander says, while Rozanov smirks, and Scott rolls his eyes and crawls up the bed. Hollander’s so hard he doesn’t think it’ll take much. He can feel how Hollander tenses up when Scott sucks him down, the salty taste of pre-come on his tongue, one hand wrapping around the base of Hollander’s dick. And Scott wants to be good about it, get Hollander off hard in return, but he startles when fingers run loosely down the back of his neck, skip over the bumps of his spine before tangling back in his hair, and then there’s a wet noise above him and he realizes Rozanov and Hollander are kissing again, this time over his head.

“Jesus, the two of you,” Scott says, and Rozanov raps him on the top of his head. “What the fuck, Roz.”

“You are getting distracted,” Rozanov says, and so Scott wraps his lips back around Hollander’s cock while Rozanov kisses him through his orgasm seconds later, swallowing until Hollander twitches weakly underneath him, wrung out. 

Scott gets off him and looks up. The two of them are still kissing, and he slides down so he’s back on the edge of the bed where he can politely wait them and their PDA out. To both of their credit, it’s only another long moment, and then Rozanov presses a final kiss to Hollander’s forehead and takes a few steps into the bathroom. He comes back with two glasses of water, one of which he takes a sip from before handing to Hollander. The other makes its way to Scott, who drinks deeply. 

Rozanov watches him, not reacting when Scott raises an eyebrow at him. He takes the glass when Scott’s done, then frowns. “You are old, but not so ugly,” he says. “We could fuck again if Shane lets me.”

Scott looks over at Hollander, who flips them both off, still lying flat on his back with his dick tucked up soft against his thigh.  

“Maybe,” Hollander says. His other arm is thrown over his face and his mouth looks swollen. “I’d have to think about it.”

“Plenty of people think about my dick,” Rozanov says. He shrugs. “Now Hunter will. Is nice, next time we play. Nice reminder for him when I win.”

“You actually think Ottawa’s going to beat us?” Scott asks, genuinely curious. Every pundit has Rozanov’s new team coming in second-to-last in the division. 

“If you are distracted,” Rozanov says, and Scott does laugh at that. 

“Well,” he says. “This was fun, but I’m not sure I’m invited to round two.” He has faith the two of them will get it up again, but he doesn’t think he has anything to contribute. 

“There’s a shower,” Hollander says, waving generally in the direction of the bathroom. 

Rozanov slaps at him. “Is not your room,” he mutters.

“Uh, thanks, but I’m a 15-minute cab ride to my apartment.” Scott’s mostly dressed, though he takes a minute to run a hand through his hair and scratch his stomach. Hollander’s not wrong; a shower is definitely necessary. He grabs his suit bag and shoves his feet into his slides. “This was fun.”

“We will get back to you about a repeat,” Rozanov says, and kisses Scott on the cheek, one loud smack, before holding the door open for him. “OK. See you later. Or maybe not.”

“Sure,” Scott starts to say, and before he knows it the door is shut firmly behind him and he’s staring down a thankfully-deserted corridor. He fishes his phone out of his pocket to call an Uber, then heads down to wait in the hotel lobby for the ride to get picked up, hoping no one spots him and tries to shake hands.

He’s safe, and no one has to know he jerks off in the shower to the way Hollander looked when Rozanov was fucking him and he wrapped his mouth around Scott’s dick. 

A couple weeks after the season starts, Ottawa, with Rozanov their shiny new top-line center, crosses the border to play New York. Rozanov winks at him from across the faceoff circle. “Shane is thinking yes, by the way,” he says. “His turn to watch.”

The puck drops. Scott swallows hard. The Admirals don’t lose the game—they’re too good a team, and Ottawa, despite Rozanov’s efforts, is not good at all. 

But he loses the faceoff.