Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

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

Additional Tags:

Sexual Coercion, Internalized Homophobia, Slurs, Episode: s01e02 Olympians (Heated Rivalry), Minor Kip Grady/Scott Hunter

Language:

English

Collections:

Candy Hearts Exchange 2026

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-15 Words: 3,668 Chapters: 1/1

do unto others

Summary

Clean hands, that’s him. All-American, good mentor, generous, easy with the rookies, liked by the vets, great in the room.

Notes

I hope you have a wonderful candy hearts, hiljainen. Drive by readers, be warned that this is not a feel-good story.

Las Vegas, Summer 2014

Hollander and Rozanov are reckless—that’s what kicks the whole thing off. 

It’s not that he doesn’t win the Mark Messier. Really. The Admirals didn’t make the playoffs; Scott wasn’t expecting to win anything in Vegas. Maybe next year. It’s not because Hollander called him old, or even because Kip told him they needed a break. Hollander and Rozanov just can’t control themselves.

If Scott can tell, then other guys will notice it soon, too. Those fucking idiots are that close to ruining their careers, their whole lives, because they can’t stop fucking flirting on the ice, can’t stop making eyes at each other across the ballroom and sneaking off together. It pisses him off.

By the time he’s put back five shots, it pisses him off a whole lot more.

###

“Hey, before we give out next award, can I get a selfie with you?”

The crowd—old fucks, upper management, players drunk off their asses, and the wives or mistresses they brought—laughs, rote. It’s a clown show, is what it is. He’s embarrassed to even have to watch this scripted shit and pretend he’s happy to be here. The open bar is the only thing that makes it worth showing his face in front of the organization that’s both sucking the life out of him and grinding his body down to sinew and bone.

Scott waves the bartender over, asks for a shot, then another. Rozanov is taking a picture with Hollander on stage with a shit-eating grin. His hand’s on Hollander’s back. Blatant.

Scott’s not stupid. He’s fucked other players, too, few and far between and discreet, arranged with burner phones and cash in motels where no one was likely to recognize them. Never anything like whatever-the-fuck Hollander and Rozanov have going on. He leans back against the bar and eyes the stage. Hollander hunches in on himself under the crowd’s attention, so maybe he, at least, has some idea what’s at stake.

The crowd is packed close, velvet and silk and shimmering diamond collars and cuffs. Scott edges his way towards the door and wonders how many of those diamonds were apologies for what these men do to their wives: on the road, after wins, losses, in nightclubs and VIP lounges and hotel suites. 

Things that are a thousand times more forgivable than what Scott wants.

Las Vegas is mild at night. Scott pulls out his phone and opens his texts, finds Kip’s name. Happy birthday. Three months ago. Last time he’d worn this tux, Kip had spilled those ridiculous bruschetta appetizers all over it. The cleaner had suggested tossing the shirt. Faint yellow grease stains like faded bruises. It’s at the back of a drawer now, wrapped around the banana socks, buried.

He’s buzzed by the time the awards are coming to a close and he has to put in time mingling with the crowd. Scott congratulates as appropriate, shaking hands and clapping shoulders and grabbing champagne off passing trays. These men are his friends. These men stand in the locker room and call each other cocksuckers for laughs, or find a guy bent over stretching, mime fucking him up the ass: hilarious. Kip asked him what the locker rooms were really like, once. Scott had lied.

Scott sees Hollander across the room. He comes in a few minutes after Rozanov, pristine in his tuxedo except for his swollen lips. Everyone cheers for Rozanov when he wins MVP, or half-heartedly claps, depending on how much they want him to shut up and fuck off. Hollander’s face scrunches up like he’s constipated and then goes pink. Heart on his sleeve.

Heart on his sleeve, red lips, right in front of the managers and commissioners and anyone who matters, in front of men who would spit on him and call him faggot and take everything away from him—

Scott grabs an extra glass of champagne and brings it over; slides it across the small high table. Up close, Hollander’s eyes are red-rimmed. Maybe he was sucking Rozanov’s dick backstage, where anyone could walk around the corner and see them. Idiots.

“Congrats on the Art Ross,” Scott says.

“Thanks,” Hollander mumbles.

Halfway through the champagne, Hollander stops pretending not to stare at Rozanov. Maybe he can’t help himself. Scott switches Hollander’s mostly empty glass out with a full one while Hollander is distracted, then watches Hollander catch himself and turn away sharply. He looks up at Scott out of the corner of his eye and flushes. Drinks for something to do. Was it this easy for Rozanov? Scott wonders. They’ve been fucking since the 2011 All-Star Game, he’s sure of it. Probably earlier. Hollander got too defensive when Scott asked where his boy was. He is still so young, fresh-faced, sweet, open. 

One look at the two of them in a room together, and Scott knew.

Hollander’s eyes find Rozanov constantly. He’s lucky Scott’s there to guide him around, start conversations with other players, draw him in. Otherwise, Hollander might have crawled over to Rozanov in front of everyone: humiliated himself, the Metros, the league. Scott introduces Hollander to one veteran player, then another. Guys he should know how to talk to already. Hollander is one half-step off, always.

Scott pushes shot after shot into Hollander’s hands and watches them disappear down his throat. By the time Hollander’s eyes are glassy and half-lidded from something other than tears, he’s almost laughing at the right cues.

Hollander fails to hide both his screen and his smile when his phone goes off:

It’s from Lily. Blatant. Obvious. None of the guys around them sees, but that’s just dumb luck. The futures of the league, the best on the ice—of course they think they’re fucking untouchable.

“Tired,” Hollander says, under the music. “Gonna head up.”

He takes a step away from the bar he’s been propped up on and stumbles into Scott’s side. Scott catches him by the elbow, and then Hollander’s a long line of heat draped against his body.

“Champagne before liquor,” Smith says knowingly. The other guys laugh. Not the first time a player has gotten too drunk to stand at one of these things, and won’t be the last. If anything, it’ll be good for Hollander’s reputation: letting loose a little. Better if he’d get seen with some girls once in a while, but Scott can’t help him with that.

“I’ll get him settled,” Scott says. Responsible. Paternal, brotherly. Scott’s been playing that part for a long time. Scott can half-carry Hollander into the elevator and not raise any eyebrows. Scott has taken many players back to their rooms, made them drink water, turned them on their sides with a trash can at the edge of the bed. Scott’s a good guy, and everyone knows it.

Rozanov makes eye contact with him before the elevator doors slide shut. Hollander’s face is slack against Scott’s shoulder, turned into his neck, woozy. Scott’s hand is slipping into Hollander’s pocket, but only for his keycard. Rozanov’s eyes narrow.

The elevator is all beige marble and clean minimalist buttons, soft golden light. An isolated little world where Scott can smell the liquor on Hollander’s breath and his sweat and cologne underneath. Hollander is trying to fumble for his phone, coordination shot to hell.

Scott is a good guy. Mostly. “What’s your room number?”

“Uh—I’m, uh, I was supposed to—”

“You have to lie down, man, come on. Sober up a little.”

Hollander mulls this over, face transparent. He is drunk, he does need to sober up, he’ll get rid of Scott and run off to beg for Rozanov’s cock as soon as he can walk straight. It must be so easy for Rozanov to read him, to fuck him. It’s almost enough to make a man feel guilty. 

“4014,” Hollander says, eventually.

Scott holds Hollander up against the elevator wall with one hand and hits the button. The elevator lurches up, and Hollander wobbles. He’d fall, if not for Scott’s hand.

Scott lets himself look, really look. He slides his eyes over Hollander’s pretty high cheekbones, full lips, built shoulders filling out his suit, his lean hips, like this boy isn’t his professional peer, isn’t on track to leave Scott in the dust and become a legend in his own right. Is already halfway there. Hollander will be in the MLH Hall of Fame unless he gets injured or outed. He should know that. Doesn’t he know that? Doesn’t Hollander understand that he has the world at his fingertips, if only he can stop getting his dick wet in the most fucked up, dangerous place imaginable?

Maybe not. But—and Scott looks, flexes his fingers in the sweat-damp fabric of Hollander’s shirt—he is pretty.

It’s more or less the same as any other time he’s taken care of a drunk kid when the elevator decelerates and the doors open, when he heaves Hollander down the hall and to his door, when he uses Hollander’s keycard and closes the door behind them. Hollander goes where he’s put, easy under Scott’s arm. He noses along Scott’s collarbone and towards his throat. Confused, or drunk enough for it not to matter. If anyone else but Scott saw, Hollander would be ruined.

“Roz,” Hollander slurs.

Drunk enough to give himself away.

Scott tips Hollander onto the bed and starts the usual routine: shoes untied, slipped off socked feet, belt off, then pants, tugged down with some semblance of cooperation from the wasted player in question. He’s captain. He’s trustworthy. He has done this before for many rookies: put them into bed and not touched at all. Left them safe and warm. Because he would never take advantage of the straight boys he’s responsible for.

But when Scott brings his fingers to the tiny pearly buttons on Hollander’s dress shirt and undoes them, when he spreads the white cotton open to reveal the round swell of his pecs and his lean stomach, built like men get when they’re working hard in the prime of their lives, he knows: Hollander is not a boy. Is not straight. Hollander is hard in his boxers, pawing at Scott’s hands. Makes a pretty picture laid out on the bed like this, pliant and soft in nothing but an open shirt and boxers and socks.

Hollander is lucky that his phone starts to vibrate.

The phone is somewhere in the pile of crumpled clothes on the floor next to the bed; Scott gets it, looks at the screen. Lily, again.

Scott slides his finger along the screen. “Hello?”

There’s nothing from the other end. Scott pictures Rozanov pacing with his tongue pressed to his teeth, sharp, the words he might be stringing together to explain why he’s calling Hollander, checking on a rival, and ha ha, Lily, Hollander thinks he is so funny—

“Hollander’s a handsy drunk, Rozanov, did you know that? I bet you already knew that.”

Rozanov hisses out a breath.

“What was it you said? It’s more fun if I’m there? Come up to 4014, Rozy. Better hurry.”

Scott hangs up the phone and sits on the edge of the bed, hip pressed against Hollander where he’s sprawled out and lax with half-lidded eyes. The shirt should stay on, Scott decides. And the boxers. Rozanov can take them off, if he wants. And anyway, it’s—it’s almost more lewd, with the boxers still on and Hollander tenting them so very obviously. Scott hasn’t even touched him. No more than he’d do for anyone else under his care. Rozanov might not believe him. But Scott hasn’t done anything to Hollander, and he’s not going to, either. Clean hands, that’s him. All-American, good mentor, generous, easy with the rookies, liked by the vets, great in the room. The Admirals are on the upswing. He’s probably got a cup in him yet.

He opens the door when Rozanov knocks, locks it after he comes in. Rozanov is winded, holding himself stiff. His breath catches when he steps further into the room and sees Hollander laid out like a treat. Hollander’s gone mostly soft, probably halfway asleep. Scott studies the broad hard line of Rozanov’s shoulders.

“I haven’t touched him,” Scott says, leaving off the yet. Rozanov will hear it anyway. Scott doesn’t have any real plans, but Rozanov must know the shape of what he’s here for; the play taking shape. “He was asking for you.”

Rozanov visibly braces himself. “What do you want?” he asks, turning towards Scott. Flat face, flat affect. It’s a pretty good performance, except for the way he ran here, desperate and afraid.

Scott’s been afraid for a long time.

“I want to get off,” Scott says. “Not picky about how. I’d be fine watching, if someone gave me a show.”

“Hunter—”

“I’d like to keep this quiet,” Scott says, placidly. He holds Rozanov’s glare until Rozanov looks away.

Rozanov starts stripping. “If you are not picky,” he says, words harsh, bitten out, “I will suck your dick.”

Jacket draped across a chair, fumbling fingers on buttons, Rozanov angrily yanking at his own pants. Scott doesn’t give a shit if Rozanov is angry at him: this situation is Rozanov’s own damn fault, his and Hollander’s. And there’s nothing Rozanov can do about it, which he must know. Rozanov’s good-looking, Scott thinks. Haughty, too. Big fucker, mean on the ice. He’d look great crying with Scott’s dick in his throat. And he’d take it, too, to protect Hollander. Funny, that he wants Hollander bad enough to risk his career and citizenship and life, but won’t touch him now, just because Scott’s there.

Scott licks his lips. “You were planning on meeting up, right? Do you fuck him, usually?”

“No,” Rozanov says.

“Were you going to, tonight? Celebrate your win?”

Rozanov stands there in just his underwear, douchey black satin, silent. Must know nothing he says will help him,. Passive, but not like Hollander, who is simply too drunk to fight. Soviet stoicism. Whether he’s lying or not doesn’t really matter. Scott settles in the chair next to the bed and waves towards Hollander. “Wake him up.”

He takes a second to get moving. Running through options, maybe. What he could do, whether he could stop this now that it’s started. Rozanov jerks into motion, finally, kneeling on the navy bedspread and putting a hand on Hollander’s shoulder. His eyes keep flickering to Scott, like he expects Scott to call it off any moment now. Just joking, boys, go about your night.

Scott rubs his dick through his soft wool pants. He didn’t go through all the trouble of getting them here to pussy out now.

“Mm,” Hollander says, soft. “Rozy?” He looks up at Rozanov with dreamy, happy eyes, stupid smile stretched wide across his face. “Hey, you came!”

“Yes,” Rozanov says. “Hollander, do you remember how you got up here?”

Hollander reaches up and hooks his hands around Rozanov’s neck. His grin fades when Rozanov doesn’t get closer. “No. Maybe? I think Hunter helped me.”

If looks could kill, Scott thinks. Hollander follows Rozanov’s glare after a moment, rolling his head to the side syrupy-slow. He shakes his head, confused. “Scott?”

“Don’t stop on my account.”

“I don’t—Rozanov? What’s going on?”

Rozanov rubs a thumb over Hollander’s cheek, apologetic. He should be sorry. Fucking around in front of everyone: they brought this on themselves. “You were gonna get caught eventually,” Scott says. “This way, you know I won’t say anything.”

Rozanov looks over at him, gorgeous lips pressed thin, and says, “Please.”

Even three sheets to the wind, Hollander must understand something is wrong. For a given value of wrong, anyway. Scott is doing them a favor, here, one fag to another. He understands the consequences; the trade-offs. They’ll learn a valuable lesson about discretion without getting kicked out of the league. It could be worse. And Scott’s not touching them, even though the wet sheen of Hollander’s eyes makes his fingers itch and his dick twitch. He wouldn’t mind seeing more tears.

“How about this: he blows you, you jerk him off. It’ll be like I’m not even here,” Scott says generously. “Final offer.”

Rozanov closes his eyes and leans down, pressing his forehead against Hollander’s, breathing the same air. Hollander melts into it even in his confusion. Comfortable with each other’s bodies, obviously. They can’t see each other more than a couple times a year. Infinitely harder than Scott has it—had it. No possibility of weeks waking up next to each other to make the separation worth it. They must get hours at most, snatched from the jaws of the MLH before airports and training gobble them back up.

And yet. Here they are; here Kip isn’t.

They kiss. Rozanov tilts Hollander’s face away from Scott, angles it up, holds him in place. Hollander’s noises go from confused protests to hungry little whines quick as anything. No wonder Rozanov cornered him backstage, or whatever the fuck it is they were doing. Scott gets his dick out and gives himself a couple dry strokes. It’s tempting to get some spit on there, but he doesn’t want to come fast. Just to take the edge off, enjoy the show.

And it is a good show. Hollander is trying to rub his hard dick against Rozanov’s hip, grasping desperately at Rozanov’s chest, arms, shoulders. Is panting, wet mouth open, chasing Rozanov’s mouth. Is, Scott thinks, either too drunk to remember that they have company or too drunk to care.

Rozanov cares, though. He pushes Hollander down, angles his hips away, pulls back. But he’s hard anyway, like anyone would be with Hollander squirming under them. His boxers cling to the head of his dick.

“I need,” Hollander says, and Rozanov is already shaking his head, but Hollander soldiers on. “I need you, come on, it’s been—”

“Shh,” Rozanov says, “just—okay.”

He wraps an arm around Hollander’s waist and pulls Hollander on top of him. Hollander shifts down the bed, fluid, all long lines of muscle and smooth skin as he kisses down Rozanov’s chest and stomach. Rozanov doesn’t let him linger, even though he could. Even though Hollander obviously wants to, and is burying his face in the crease of Rozanov’s hip, licking and moaning. Rozanov is too busy giving Scott hateful little glares to enjoy himself. Not a mistake Scott would make, if he were Rozanov, getting to touch the man he cares about. He’s wasted enough time. Scott catches his eye next time he looks over and spreads his own legs a little further. Palms his dick again, thumbs the wet tip, and throws Rozanov a wink.

Rozanov can’t hold his gaze after that, but that’s probably because Hollander has started sucking his dick.

The hottest thing, beyond Rozanov’s wide shoulders and built pecs and heavy biceps, beyond the arch of Hollander’s back and the dimples above his ass and his thighs spread open on the bed, is the way Hollander so obviously loves it. His eyes are closed; there’s spit shining on his mouth and sliding down the shaft of Rozanov’s dick. Hollander can’t fit it all in his mouth, but that’s fine—a better visual, even. Scott squeezes himself in time with Hollander pressing slutty open-mouth kisses to Rozanov’s dick, to Hollander rubbing it all over his face. Scott can almost understand why they’re willing to take the risk, if this is what it’s like with them. If Hollander is always like this: so hungry, so desperate, nursing at the head like a starving man.

Rozanov looks away from both of them when he starts to come. His hands tear at the covers, his muscles clench and release. He stays silent.

Hollander pulls off, lets Rozanov’s dick slip out of his soft red mouth, sucked clean. “Was that okay? Is everything—”

It makes Scott lightheaded. Makes his dick leak, wet like Hollander’s eyes, slick like the corners of Hollander’s mouth. Rozanov can’t even look at Scott, the same way a child refuses to check under the bed. If you don’t see it, it can’t touch you. Scott’s half-tempted to touch anyway. Tear them apart, hands on Hollander’s skin, fuck him in front of Rozanov, twist the knife. This is what it means to be queer: this is what it feels like to lose. You cannot have hockey and have this man, and you should know that already, and—

But Rozanov has his hand on Hollander’s dick, moving fast. Hollander is whimpering into the thick muscle where Rozanov’s neck meets his shoulder, and this is enough of a lesson for them. Probably.

Scott finishes to the sight of Hollander’s come dripping over Rozanov’s fingers, Hollander’s bitten off gasps. It’s the hardest he’s come in months, since—since. Better than any porn. Rozanov might even be close to crying, he thinks. Whiny fucking pussy.

Scott wipes his fingers off with a tissue and buttons his pants back up. He tosses the dirty tissue on the bed and waits to feel bad about some of it, any of it. The feeling doesn’t come. No room in him for anything except hockey. He’ll take a vacation, fuck and get fucked, and fly back to his beautiful, empty apartment and clean sheets that only ever smell like him. Scott checks himself in the wall-mounted mirror. Shirt neat, straight, bowtie undone but intentional. The right amount of relaxed. He looks just fine.

Rozanov has Hollander half-hidden behind his body. Hollander might actually be asleep, this time. Good for him. Scott meets Rozanov’s eyes in the mirror. And—Scott has to hand it to him. On the ice, off of it, he takes his beatings, gets back up. Waits for the next one. He took it well. No need to rub it in.

“Congratulations on the MVP, man. You earned it,” Scott says, and turns to leave. He’s still loose and warm from his orgasm, and they’re still expecting him downstairs. He’d hate to disappoint.

Works inspired by this one

golden rule by randomnickname

kairos by Anonymous