Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Winner's Room (Sports RPF), First Time Bottoming, Bottom Shane Hollander, Top Ilya Rozanov, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Not Canon Compliant, Explicit Sexual Content, a touch of internalized homophobia, Light Dom/sub, POV Shane Hollander, Anxious Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Collections:

Winner's Room

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-12 Words: 6,360 Chapters: 1/1

Echoes

Summary

Shane turned Ilya Rozanov down in a dingy locker room once. Today he chooses him for the room.

Notes

Not canon compliant. Ilya did not knock, and Shane did not answer. Set some nebulous time after that.

No betas, no kings. We are in the pure id stage of fandom despair. I have read exactly one winner's room fic before writing this so please excuse, well, everything. I just thought we deserve more of them.

Shane forgets to expect it. He knows how it goes; he’s not a rookie anymore. He scored the goal. He was in the disgusting puddle of players after a game, pooling sweat and spit on the ice, cheering so loud they could barely hear the echoes from the stands. He got thumped on the back so hard it rattled his jaw, already sore from the grin that threatened to split his face, his throat sore from shouting.

Still, he’s caught off guard when the coach snags him in the hallway, catching him by the trailing edge of his jersey.

“Who?”

“What?” Shane’s head is fuzzy with victory. He takes another automatic step toward the locker room, where the buzzing hum is swelling.

“Hey.” A rap on his shoulder, drawing him back to the present. “Who, Hollander. Winner’s room.”

Shane’s stomach drops out. Of course. He knows how this goes. He’s never had to do it before, not on either side. Rookies don’t go to the room. It’s a sign that Shane’s real now, he’s earned his place on the team with his blood and sweat and a final, jubilant goal, a victory.

He says the first name that comes to his mind.

The room is tucked away in a back corner of the stadium, down a hallway that smells like bleach. He gets there first.

It’s bigger than he expected, maybe half the size of their locker room, sparsely decorated and windowless. There are a few cabinets against one wall, and a locker for his phone that whirrs when he closes the door. He tries it, but the latch doesn’t open again.

There’s a minifridge stocked with a few types of soda, a couple of bottles of beer. He grabs a ginger ale. His mouth feels strangely dry.

He closes the next cabinet as soon as he opens it, his face burning. He knows what happens here, but it’s different to see it in visceral color. Toys and condoms and lube. He takes a step back and a careful breath, pulling air into his overheated lungs.

It’s part of the game. It’s a privilege, he reminds himself. The gladiatorial prize given to him. 

It’s not gay.

They were clear on that in the locker room as the older players ribbed him while he shucked his kit. It’s taking what you earned. His ears are still burning from some of the suggestions he got. Don’t use too much lube and finish on his face. His stomach is fluttering with a mixture of an agonizing, bone-jarring arousal and jitters building up his spine and down his arms, settling in his trembling fingertips.

He clenches his hands into fists.

The door slams behind him.

Shane turns slowly, his arms crossed. He hopes it makes him look, if not cool, at least something other than terrified.

Rozanov doesn’t look terrified. He saunters in like he’s the one that won the fucking game and not the privilege that Shane earned with the loose tooth on the right side and the bruise blooming on his cheek. He barely looks at Shane. He takes in the room, the lack of decor and its plain gray floor. The walls are painted in Montreal blue. Rozanov’s lip curls in something that might be disappointment, and Shane, who has never seen this room before, who didn’t even know where it was until this evening, is filled with a sudden urge to defend its shabby glory.

“Is ok,” Rozanov finally allows. He’s been smoking, probably right before he came here. The smell is overwhelming. “Bed is big.”

Shane has been avoiding looking at the bed, for all that it is the undeniable focus of the room. It sits dead center against the opposite wall, king sized at least, and swathed in sheets of that same vivid blue. There are no pillows and no comforters. It is not a bed for sleeping. It has one distinct, unavoidable purpose.

“Hollander,” Rozanov says, and Shane’s name trips over his tongue, taking on new meaning as Rozanov’s chin tilts back. “You did not want this before.”

Shane didn’t know if he would bring it up. “I want it now.”

“Do you?”

Shane knows what Ilya Rozanov looks like under those clothes. He knows what Ilya Rozanov looks like with his hand stroking his cock under the too-hot spray of a locker room shower. He knows what he looks like when he’s turned down, the little shrug, the too bad. Shane doesn’t wonder what it would have been like. There’s no need. He’s been happy. He’s had—there have been girls. He’s had the team, which is the important thing right now.

“I’m going to fuck you.” It takes all Shane’s conviction to say it.

Rozanov laughs, his face crinkling. “Oh yes, big man. Show me, then.”

Shane feels wrong-footed, nearly woozy. Rozanov isn’t in charge here. Shane is. “Take your clothes off,” he says. Rozanov shrugs. He can’t disobey a direct order here.

Rozanov drops his clothes where he stands, the shirt puddling by his feet. He makes a show of hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his pants to shimmy them down his legs, and then pins the fabric with one foot to step out with the other. His hands come out to his sides, palms out. “Ta da.”

It’s nothing Shane hasn’t seen before. Rozanov was pretty comfortable in that locker room, his hand on his cock as he looked Shane over, Shane who was torn between turning away and staying. He wanted to watch. He wanted to walk over there and replace Rozanov’s hand with his own and see what that stretch of soap-slick skin felt like in his hand. He can do that now. There’s nothing to stop him.

Shane is frozen. An ice statue made flesh, or flesh turned to ice. He should do something. He should do something. He doesn’t know what. All the suggestions he got bend him over, fuck him vanish from his head. He knows the mechanics. He’s not a prude. He’s watched porn, and plenty of it. An ass is an ass, and he knows where the pieces slot. It’s easy. 

He just needs to tell Rozanov to bend himself over the bed and Shane can have his way with him and it’ll be over. He’ll leave Rozanov here, humiliated. He’ll have taken what Shane wants to give him, exactly as much as Shane wants to do. He’ll be full of Shane’s– fuck, his come. Shane can come in him, or on him, or make Rozanov suck his dick with that pretty pink mouth.

Rozanov doesn’t look humiliated. He stands there with his hips jutted forward like a dare.

“You have not been in here before.”

“Neither have you, asshole.” Shane doesn’t keep track, but people talk. Rookies don’t get chosen, and Rozanov is like him, freshly available for the taking. He hasn’t been picked before. People are probably afraid he’ll break their collarbones for asking. Shane isn’t afraid of him.

“Is that what you think?” Rozanov is baiting him.

“I know it.”

“You keep track. Is, how you say? Flattering. Big fan. I will sign autograph for you.”

“I fucking don’t.”

“Then you do not know.” Rozanov says it with finality, as though they’ve agreed on this point. Shane wants to strangle him. He can, if he wants to. No permanent harm, nothing that can impact him beyond a few awkward practices. Wrapping his hands around Rozanov’s neck is not out of the question. Shane keeps his thumbs tucked in his pockets.

He doesn’t know what Rozanov’s game is. Maybe it’s the same as it always is. Bait your opponent into making a mistake. Frustrate them and take advantage. Maybe he wants Shane to hurt him, so he can run to management and tell them that Shane Hollander, straight-laced good boy Shane Hollander, broke the rules. There are penalties for going too far, real ones that go beyond an evening of humiliation. He could lose his place if he rises to the bait.

Rosanov’s smirk is something special. Shane got this far playing clean. He’s precise. He knows what he’s doing and what he’s going for. This doesn’t change that, even if Shane isn’t sure he knows what he’s doing at all.

“Lie down on the bed,” Shane orders. The tone is unfamiliar in his mouth, sour. He doesn’t like it.

Rozanov goes. He flounces onto the bed like it’s nothing, landing on his back and propping himself up on his elbows. He juts his chin out toward Shane. “You must take your clothes off, Hollander.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yes, that is what I said. You cannot do it with your clothes on. Unless?” There’s expression Shane can’t parse. “What is it they do in America, with the sheet between? You want to do that? Keep your clothes on and pull your dick out.”

Shane can feel himself blushing. He hates it. It’s a weakness here, when Ilya Rozanov is looking at him like he knows something about Shane that even Shane doesn’t. 

“You know how it works?” Rozanov has mock concern in his voice. “You use your dick to fuck. I can suck it if you want.” He twists himself around, eyes hot, so his head is closer to the foot of the bed. To Shane. “I will suck your dick, Hollander. You have to take it out. Come here.”

Shane nearly does. It’s seductive, not just in the way that Rozanov is practically throwing himself at Shane, his lip drawn between his teeth. It would be so easy to do exactly what Rozanov said, to stick his dick between those pink lips and thrust down his throat.

It’s a trap. Shane can’t do what Rozanov says. If he does, Rozanov wins. It means Rozanov is in charge. Shane doesn’t understand all of the rules around this, the unwritten lattice of meaning behind the winner’s rooms and the forfeits offered up in them, but he knows this is his prize and he can’t let Rozanov ruin it for him.

“No.”

Those expressive eyebrows raise. “No, you will not take your dick out? This will be easy for me. Maybe I just–”

Rozanov rolls over again, this time onto his back. He’s grinning, an easy, careless thing. His head is tipped over the edge of the bed so he can watch Shane. He grabs at his cock which is thickening in his hand and gives himself a few strokes. “I do this,” he says, and his breath catches when he does something he likes. “You can watch. You are very good at watching when I win first place.”

“I won the game, you asshole.” Shane doesn’t tell him to stop. Rozanov’s chest moves as he strokes, the movement of his arm tugging at all the muscles up and down his body. He’s still damp from a post-game shower, gleaming slightly under the light.

“The game, yes.” Another stroke. Rozanov is watching Shane. “Is all you wanted to win?”

“Stop,” Shane says finally, and Rozanov does. He’s unbothered. The expression, the languid sprawl make him look like it was his idea to show up here. His idea to start stroking his dick and his idea to stop. Shane hates how confident he looks in this moment, when Shane feels anything but. Shane feels as though he is going to break in two, or three, or more, pieces of him breaking off to shatter on the floor.

“Is ok, Hollander,” Rozanov says. He’s toying with a nipple now. He’s the picture of insouciant sexuality. “Is just sex.”

“How can you say that?” How can you say that when you lost, is what Shane wants to ask. 

“Is true. Is just sex. Hollander.” Rozanov moves one more time, flipping himself up to sit cross legged and look at Shane seriously. “You are virgin. Is your first time?” He sucks air and lets out a little wow noise. “Like Samson. You lose powers if you fuck?”

“That’s his hair, asshole,” Shane says, and runs a hand through his own shorn locks for lack of anything else to do. “No, I’m not a fucking virgin. I just need a minute.”

“Ok, ok. Take minute.”

Rozanov seems to mean it. He waits while Shane collects his thoughts. It doesn’t last.

“Is complicated? I will tell them you could not, uh, get it up. Is fine. I will go.”

“Sit the fuck down," Shane snaps.

Shane lets the anger pull him through. He strips quickly. Shirt first, then the sweats. He doesn’t have anything underneath. He’s used to being naked around other men. It’s not sexual, unless a Russian manic is eyeing you up and stroking his dick in the shower. Or on the bed in front of you.

“No, no. Go on. Tell me how you will do this. You will put your dick in me, then.” Rozanov smirking, it’s there again, that look. “Is that all you want?”

“What is your problem, asshole?”

“No problem.” Rozanov beckons with two fingers. “Come here.”

“Fuck you.” Shane does anyway. He takes the endless three steps over to the bed to loom over Rozanov.

Shane isn’t hard. He’s too nervous for it. That’s going to be a problem soon enough. It’s a problem now, with Ilya Rozanov staring at his soft dick. Shane can feel the weight of that stare on his skin.

It’s weird to be there like this. Ready to fuck. Shane wants it. It’s part of the game. He’ll be on the other side soon enough, now that he’s no longer a rookie. Fresh blood for the room. It’s part of the game, and Shane loves the game. He lives for Hockey, and all its weird traditions. 

Rozanov is attractive. Objectively. He’s got soft lips and a hint of stubble and a razor sharp jaw and tongue. Shane wants this, more than he’s ready to admit to himself. He wishes he hadn’t said no those years ago sometimes. He wishes, in this moment in particular, though he’s had the thought every time they’ve played, that Rozanov weren’t such a spectacular asshole.

That fact is proven again when Rozanov opens his mouth. “Good, you are learning. Now I touch you.”

He doesn’t wait for Shane to agree. There are hands on his hips and Rozanov is pulling him closer. It startles a gasp out of Shane. He’d thought about this before, of course. 

“Stop,” he starts to say, but then Rozanov has a hand on Shane’s cock and an assessing look on his face. 

“Is ok,” he says. “Not great. Thought maybe you are hiding something. Just a dick, after all.”

“Fuck you,” Shane says, but he doesn’t shove Rozanov away. This is the point of it, after all, even if Rozanov is more eager than he’d expected. He strokes Shane’s soft cock, coaxing him to hardness. His head tilts to the side, like he’s sizing up his options.

Rozanov doesn’t ask before he puts Shane’s cock in his mouth. He’s all in. He’s done this before, Shane knows immediately. There’s no hesitation and no teeth, no awkward fumbling for the right angle or how to manage his teeth. Rozanov guides him to the back of his throat and swallows, and Shane doesn’t know how he wasn’t hard before, or how he’ll ever not be hard again because this is the best feeling in the world, it has to be.

He’s gotten blow jobs before. He knows what it feels like. This is better. Maybe it’s just that it’s Rozanov doing it, because it’s him specifically, who Shane’s thought about so many times.

Shane pulls Rozanov off his dick by the hair before Shane can thrust his way to an early end in his mouth.

Rozanov pouts. “Not good?”

“Very good.” Shane can’t lie about this. He’s a terrible liar anyway, and he can’t disguise the sweat that’s prickling along his hairline and under his arms. “You’re not getting out of it that easily.”

“Oh no.” Rozanov wipes his mouth, smearing spit across his chin. “My evil plan. Suck Shane Hollander’s dick. Fine, what will we do? You will fuck me? Not as good. You will not like so much.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Shane’s too nervous to really snap it properly.

“Lie down, Hollander. Let me suck your dick properly. I will not let you come.”

Shane swallows thickly. “Ok.”

The mattress is firm under Shane. He braces his shoulders against the headboard, his legs spread wide. Rozanov slithers between his thighs, broad and muscled.

“You want this?” Shane tries to shove the incredulity down, but it bubbles back up into the space between them.

“Yes.” It’s an easy admission, easier than anything going through Shane’s head. Rozanov doesn’t seem to feel a lick of shame about any of it. Not about his nudity or his obvious interest or the way he already knows how to suck dick even though no one’s chosen him for one of these rooms yet.

“Why?” Shane doesn’t mean to ask it.

Rozanov makes an expressive shrug, his whole shoulder moving with it and tugging the muscles of his back into compliance. “Why not? Is fun. You are hot. I think you will like.”

“I’ll like what?”

“Shut up, Hollander.” And then Rozanov is sucking his dick in earnest, bobbing up and down. He hums like he’s enjoying himself and it goes right through Shane, a zinging pleasure. He’s already close. It’s everything he dreamed the victory could be, but nothing like it at all. He doesn’t feel in control at all. He feels like Ilya Rozanov has him by the dick and Shane will go along with anything he suggests, anything at all, to stay in the hot glow of that swaggering confidence.

Rozanov’s finger brushes between Shane’s legs and Shane freezes. All of his muscles lock up except for the curl in his toes. His mind works overtime trying to figure out what he thinks he’s doing and if Shane is going to let him. “What are you–”

Rozanov pulls off with a wet sound. His mouth is a crushed rose pink. He pats at Shane’s thigh like a startled animal. “Relax. Is good.”

“That’s not how this works, Rozanov.”

“Yes, yes, you fuck me.” Rozanov sounds entirely unconcerned, almost bored. “Do you not touch yourself here? Is too gay for Shane Hollander? To touch his asshole. Girl can do this to you, too.”

Shane doesn’t need to justify himself. He doesn’t need to tell Ilya Rozanov about the dildo in his bedside table. How he knows exactly how much he likes that feeling.

“Come on.” Rozanov’s tone has gone wheedling, like it’s all just a game they’re playing. “You fuck me after. I want to feel. I will make it good, Hollander.”

Shane nods, quick and jerky. Rozanov fishes a little bottle from the table by the bed and tears the foil seal with his teeth. His fingers are cold when he puts them back between Shane’s legs, caressing the muscle. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling. Shane has done this before, but this is the first time anyone else has touched him there. It’s the edge of a precipice.

Rozanov has big fingers. He starts with one, pressing it just inside Shane, just his fingertip, gauging him. Shane shivers. He arches slightly, trying to draw him closer.

“You can go faster thant that,” he says, when Rozanov hasn’t made any move to put a second one in. He’s teasing around Shane’s hole, that single finger dipping in and out.

“Impatient,” Rozanov chides, but he adds another anyway, and sweetens the sting with his mouth back on Shane’s cock. It’s like that for a bit. Rozanov playing with Shane’s ass while his mouth does sinful things, sucking Shane down and then pulling back so he can lick the slit and mouth down the side. 

He reaches in with those two fingers, deeper than before, and Shane can feel the muscles of his hand flexing before–

“Oh, fuck, Rozanov, fuck that’s, I’m gonna–”

Rozanov pulls his mouth away and stills his fingers. Shane is very still, startled like a prey animal. He can feel each breath as it shudders through him. He can feel his own heartbeat where he’s stretched around Rozanov’s big fingers.

“Not yet.”

“Not yet,” Shane agrees. He’d agree to anything right now. Rozanov rewards him with another twitch of those fingers, curling up and setting Shane’s vision sparkling.

“I will fuck you,” Rozanov says.

The moment hangs on a knife’s edge. Shane fights the dual needs of should and want, because he wants. He wants so badly that it hurts. He wants Rozanov to show him this thing that he’s never had, that he’s thought about over and over, turning it over in his mind like a constant touchstone.

“Yeah,” says Shane.

“Not yet,” says Rozanov, and Shane feels like he’s been plunged in cold water.

“Fuck you not yet. I won. You’re my fucking forfeit. You think you get to call the shots here, Rozanov? You don’t.” Shane is aware that he’s arguing for his own fucking, for Rozanov to put another one of those fingers in his ass and open him up.

Rozanov looks like he’s been waiting for Shane to finish talking. He pulls his fingers out of Shane and wipes them on the bed leaving a greasy smear. “First you suck my dick.”

“Like hell.”

 

“If you like.” Rozanov shimmies up Shane’s body, covering him. The man is big, and he blocks out the world beyond him. Shane’s mouth is dry. Rozanov’s face is close to Shane’s and he studies Shane’s face, lingering on the freckles that dust his cheeks. “You are very pretty.”

Shane is sure he’s blushing. He has been since he walked through the door. Since he was awarded the prize, probably. Hot pink all the way down. It has nothing to do with the way pretty sounds in Rozanov’s stupid accented English.

“Get on with it, then.”

Rozanov kisses him. That’s not something they do in the winner’s room, Shane doesn’t think. He doesn’t know. Maybe they do. He certainly does, when it feels like this, when it tastes like vodka and stale cigarettes.

Rozanov kisses like the force he is on the ice, taking no quarter, asking no questions. He’s good at it, his mouth moving and his tongue tracing Shane’s lower lip. They kiss for a while, long enough that Shane’s nerves flicker out, replaced by a hot flush of want.

“Is good,” Rozanov says, and his thumb traces Shane’s mouth. “Easy.”

Shane’s still leaning against the headboard and Rozanov straddles him with his knees by Shane’s shoulders. Shane has to shimmy down a little to make the angle work, and then he’s giving the first blow job of his life. To Ilya Rozanov. Ilya Rozanov who smells like aftershave and sweat and the tang of hockey that never scrubs out, and whose dick is big in Shane’s mouth, hard and soft at the same time as it presses down on his tongue. Rozanov slides it back and forth, rocking his hips.

It’s not easy. The angle is awful. Shane’s arms are pinned at his sides by Rozanov’s thick thighs. He can’t do anything but keep his mouth open and breathe through his nose. He can feel himself getting impossibly harder. It shouldn’t make him feel this way, floaty and perfect and exactly where he wants to be. It’s not better than when Rozanov was sucking him off, but it’s not worse. It’s different, something new. 

Shane wants to be good at it. He’s good at a lot of things, has spent his life honing a specific set of skills and now there’s a new one that he needs to learn because this isn’t going to be the last time he gets to feel this way, not if he gets a say in it. It’s like opening a door and finding a hidden room, a whole world.

Rozanov is jerking in small, careful thrusts, trying not to overwhelm Shane. Shane shoves his head forward, taking more in, heedless of the way it makes him gag and his eyes water. His mouth aches from the beating he took on the ice and the way he has to hold his jaw just right. If he uses his tongue–

Rozanov pulls back and looks at him incredulously. His mouth is curled like he’s got something biting to say, and the swell of shame starts to build up in Shane’s stomach in advance, preparing for it. 

But Rosanov doesn’t say anything. He sticks in cock back in Shane’s mouth and fucks harder this time. It’s still not hard. Shane knows that. He can imagine how much harder he could take it, how much more of Rozanov he could fit under his skin. He knows that trying that now would only end in disaster but he wants it so badly it hurts, he needs to know what it would be like to have Rozanov down his throat so far he’s cutting off Shane’s air so that the only source of truth in Shane’s life is the man holding him down and using him.

Rozanov pulls out again. His breath is coming in pants and grunts, and he has to wrap a hand around the base of his cock to stop from coming. He groans and the sound rips at something inside Shane, a deep well of pride unstoppering.

“Too good.” He strokes Shane’s cheek, looks at him like they’re lovers and not rivals stuck in this room for this stupid tradition. Shane wants to sink into that feeling.

“You still want?” Rozanov is climbing down Shane. He has an easy sexuality, kissing down Shane’s neck and chest and biting gently at the tickling curve of his ribs. He has a lot of sex. That much is obvious. He’s used to it. He knows what he wants. He knows what Shane wants, too, has some sixth sense for looking through him. If he hadn’t gone into hockey maybe he would have become a whore, slathered in pearls and diamonds and sucking men’s brains out through their dicks.

He’s back on Shane’s now, shamelessly showing Shane another thing Rozanov is better than him at. First pick at the draft, first to hold the Stanley Cup, first to take Shane’s cock to the root and hold it there, his nose pressed up in the wiry curls.

He opens Shane up ruthlessly. It was slow and gentle before, but now it’s thick fingers moving inside Shane, scissoring apart, bullying his body into compliance, all while Shane is breathless and writhing inside that hot, sweet mouth. It’s only better for the thin flicker of pain as sandpaper stubble tugs at the inside of his thigh.

“Do not come yet,” Rozanov says, and dives back in. Shane’s only closer for being told not to come, and he twists his hands in those curls, pulling, pulling Rozanov off. It takes effort, and Rosanov’s grin is malicious.

“Is too good? American problem. No control. Sloppy,” he says, and jerks the wet fingers inside Shane, and yes, Shane is sloppy and wanton and slutty and spreading his thighs wider to let Rozanov position him how he wants him. There is no room left in his brain for thought, only a casual obedience that he didn’t know he possessed.

“Is easier face down,” Rozanov says, and Shane nods helplessly. He’s all muscle himself yet none of them are cooperating and he has to pull himself over with his hands fisted in the sheets. He settles with his mouth pressed to the back of his forearm, hair tickling his nose and sweat dripping into his eyes. He hasn’t even done anything and he’s sweating. It’s nerves and lust all mingled together.

There are no phones in the winner’s room. If there were, he might ask Rozanov to snap a pic. He wants to know what this looks like, if he looks as wanton as he feels with his legs wide and the clenching muscle of his ass exposed to the air. Rozanov trails a finger down his crease, fingertip catching.

“You are ready?”

“Yes.”

“Ask me for it.”

“Please,” Shane says, his voice breaking.

Rozanov doesn’t ask stupid questions. He doesn’t ask how Shane’s feeling and whether he’s comfortable. He spreads Shane wider with his two hands pulling the halves of his ass apart and then there’s a blunt pressure that subsumes him. 

Shane has to remind himself to breathe. People do this every day. It’s a cock and a hole. He’s stretched and wet and Rozanov’s cock is sliding inexorably into him and Shane is going to split into two. He remembers, late, to bear down, and Rozanov slides the rest of the way in, grunting as he bottoms out. He's curled above Shane, skin pressing together sacrum through spine, his breath damp at the base of Shane’s neck.

“Fuck, Hollander.” Shane nearly misses it. He’s consumed with the new sensation coursing through him. It feels like more of a victory than anything he’d come in expecting to get. 

Shane has had sex before. Not a lot of it, if he’s honest with himself. He doesn't go for casual usually, it's not his thing, and it's… fine. It's always been fine. 

This is anything but fine. Shane is so full. Full of wonder and want. Rozanov is in him, so deep that it’s pressing on Shane’s lungs, snagging his breath. There's no room in his body between that blunt pressure and the yearning desire that courses through him. 

Rozanov pulls out slowly, pushes back just as gently. His body rolls with it. His hand is on the back of Shane’s neck, not holding, just present. He’s being gentle, and Shane wants to scream.

“If you’re going to fuck me, do it properly,” Shane says, into the bitten skin of his arm.

“So needy. Needy little boy who needs cock. Now you know what you want.” He punctuates his words with sharper thrusts, his fingers digging into Shane’s hips. It’s going to leave bruises. People are going to notice them. Shane wriggles back against him to force him to dig those fingers in harder. He wants to bear the marks of this night. There will be no going home to drink sour beer and wash it away; he’s learned things about himself and he can’t forget them. A truth indelibly excavated.

“So tight,” Rozanov murmurs above him. “Like a girl.”

“Fuck you,” Shane says. It’s the first thing Rozanov has said that really needles. It’s not wrong to want this, he doesn’t think, except maybe it is.

“Is ok. Tight like a man. Like a strong man.” Rozanov’s hand sweeps around Shane’s hip on an unerring path to where his forgotten cock is bobbing against his belly, just brushing the furred ridge of his abdomen with each thrust. “Man,” Rozanov says, like Shane’s forgotten that he is.

Shane might have forgotten. Everything is fuzzy. He’s hazy with lust and the hot spike of desire that coils inside him. Rozanov doesn’t hit his prostate with every thrust, but it’s enough of them that Shane would have agreed to anything, been anyone for it to keep going, just like this. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows there’s an hourglass ticking down the time, and there’s a league contract that’s put them here together, but none of that matters when he feels this good. It’s a high alcohol can’t touch, or the weed he smoked one time in the hallway at summer camp. He hasn’t tried anything else, but there’s no reason to now, not when he knows how high he can get from the bare touch of Rozanov’s hand on his cock.

“Oh fuck,” Shane murmurs. It comes out quiet, almost lost behind the slap of skin on skin. “Fuck, Rozanov. Fucking shit. I’m going to come. I’m going to come.”

“No,” Rozanov says against the back of his neck, and Shane shudders just once, everything coalescing into a bright burst of sensation that shivers through him, top to toe, and then settles in his stomach, in his cock, in the burst of heat that explodes out of him.

“Hollander, did you?” Rozanov’s voice is throaty and low. It makes him harder to understand. “No manners.”

“Fuck off,” Shane says, too breathless to mean anything by it. Arguing back is worn into him by years of hockey, on the ice and off it, but he doesn’t want to bother with that now. Rozanov is still moving in him, steady thrusts in and out while Shane feels ready to collapse into the wet spot he’s left on the bed.

“You will like the wait,” Rozanov says into his ear, ticklish against the skin. “Next time you will ask nicely. You will ask me to please, please let you come. To make you come.”

Shane doesn’t know if it’s possible for him to get hard again so soon. He doesn’t think so. Refractory periods and all that. He’s willing to bet it’s happening anyway. He doesn’t want to ask Rozanov for anything. Rozanov is an asshole and Shane doesn’t owe him shit, but he wants to. He wants that. He wants Rozanov to hold his orgasm over him, to make Shane beg for it while Rozanov ploughs him just like this.

“Roll over,” Rozanov says. Shane winces when he pulls out. The soreness is creeping back in now that he’s come. He can feel the places where he hurts again.

Rozanov catches Shane’s knee in the crook of his elbow and bends it up to his chest and Shane moves the other to follow so he’s bent nearly double. Rozanov guides himself back into Shane with his free hand. “Is good,” he assures Shane, and winks. “For me.”

“You’re awful,” Shane informs him, but it’s through a bitten breath because Rozanov is thrusting into him again with all the force that Shane wanted before. The movement jolts Shane’s entire body. The bed quakes underneath them, shuddering from the force of Rozanov’s movement. Daring, Shane lifts a hand to twist it in the sweat-damp curls at the back of Rozanov’s neck. The man’s face is a soft pink, his mouth tight and his face intent.

“I am going to come,” Rozanov informs him, and his face is tight. “Fuck, Hollander. You are so good.”

Shane lets him ride out his pleasure in Shane’s body. There’s pleasure in that, too. Not physically, necessarily: Shane is exhausted, and everything is sore, pleasantly and not. He’s acutely aware that this is his first time having sex like this, and how much it’s going to sting tomorrow. He doesn’t feel weak. It's him, his body and his compliance that brought Rozanov to this wrecked state, chasing his orgasm, sweat-damp, blinking.

“Kiss me again,” Shane commands, and it’s the first one that’s felt right all night. 

They’re kissing when Rozanov finally comes. His whole body shudders and he groans into Shane’s mouth, an exhale that Shane wants to keep inside him, tucked away inside his alveoli until he needs it, some lonely night.

The bed is big enough for both of them to flop side by side. Rozanov doesn’t have to go far to find the warming bin with the damp towel, and he tosses one to Shane then comes back with another and wipes Shane’s belly clean, erasing the evidence of his pleasure. He lingers on Shane’s cock and between his thighs, rubbing gently.

“Night is over,” he says, and the tenderness in his movements is nowhere to be found in his voice. He’s matter-of-fact again, the unbothered version of Rozanov that Shane is used to seeing.

“Yeah.” Shane swallows. There are a thousand things he wants to say.

It didn’t have to be good. Shane hadn’t expected it to be good. He had expected the routine animosity to carry over into this room, to settle into a perfunctory fuck and another thing to grit between his teeth the next time they face off against each other. Something to snarl. A see you tonight with new meaning behind it.

He doesn’t know how to say any of this.

He turns his head to watch Rozanov pull his clothes on.

“When I win,” Rozanov says, words muffled as he tugs the shirt over his head, “you will show me how you fuck yourself. I will get you toys.”

It’s so unexpected, so easy, that Shane can’t help but laugh. “Dream on, Rozanov.”

“Then I take you dry?” Rozanov shrugs. “Is ok for me. You prefer?”

“You're such an asshole. What about when I win?”

Rozanov pulls both of their phones from the locker. He taps his against his chin thoughtfully. “No. Will not happen.”

“We beat you today.”

“Lucky goal.”

Shane stretches. He feels like a cat, contented and warm. He wants this again. He wants this over and over again, and if he has to win a game to make it happen he intends to. 

“Maybe I choose Pike next time,” Rozanov says. 

“You won’t.”

“No? Maybe he asks. You will not tell him how good I am? How sexy? What good cock?” Rozanov cups himself through the thin fabric of his sweats.

Shane doesn't intend to tell anyone about this. “You can’t tell anyone.”

Rozanov has never seemed to think the rules apply to him, but Shane can see assent in the little shrug. “Who to tell?”

“Maybe I won't pick you,” Shane says.

“You will not choose.” Rozanov winks. “Enjoy second place. I will give you consolation prize. Maybe I will let you come.”

Shane’s mouth is dry again. “Maybe.”

Rozanov tosses him his phone. “See you next game, Hollander.”

Their next game is an age away. Shane can wait. Really he can. 

Rozanov doesn't look back on his way out of the room.

 

It’s two days later when Shane’s phone buzzes. He doesn’t know when Rozanov managed to put his number in, but there it is. A Boston area code under the name Lily.

Shane’s alone. He doesn’t have to fight the grin creeping up his face.