Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Scott Hunter, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

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

Additional Tags:

Humor, Characters Writing Fanfiction, Teenage Cringe, Shane Hollander's crush on Scott Hunter, Hero Worship, explicit writing from a character who was underage at the time, (but no actual sex until later), Hazing, Sex Toys, the trauma dildo, Coping mechanisms that are neither healthy nor unhealthy but just kind of weird, Embarrassment, like truly nuclear levels of embarrassment you have been warned, Scott Hunter Knows About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-23 Completed: 2026-05-04 Words: 18,061 Chapters: 5/5

my momsold me to Scott Hunter, a Shane Hollander fanfiction

Summary

rpfactorfiction

Oh my god, I didn't know there were any copies of this left on the internet. For those who don't know, this is like. This is a foundational text of hockey RPF. This is from before hockey RPF was really a thing even. It's from the mid-aughts and wasn't posted to a fanfiction website. Instead, OP dropped this insane RPF manifesto onto a normal ass hockey fan forum (which no longer exists) then deleted their account like two days later. Just handed this to a bunch of jocks and hockey bros and dipped. Legendary shit. Like, I don't think this kid even knew what fanfiction was, the fucking hand of god just compelled him to write about being an MLH player's sex slave and show it to the world. I pray every day that this insane child actually made it to the MLH and got to meet Scott Hunter.

---

So maybe Shane had a little crush on Scott Hunter in his younger years. So maybe he anonymously posted online about it once. So maybe it had become an internet legend and a running joke in the MLH.

Notes

Please turn on creator's style to see mockspeed's magnificent code work on this story. (She also did the cover - be sure to mouse over!)

Chapter 1: youre my rookie now

Chapter Notes

The first time Shane met Scott hunter in person, of course, was on the ice his rookie year, only a month into the regular season. At the starting face-off, they bent toward one another, and Hunter looked him right in the eye. "Alright, rook," he said. "Let's see what all the hype is about."

It was the first — but certainly not the last — time that Shane played a Major League Hockey game with a hard-on. Montreal lost, and Hunter didn't say another word to him.

When he called his mom the next morning, she asked, her voice teasing, "So, how did it feel playing against your big hero?"

"What?" Shane said, glancing at the bathroom door to make sure his roommate hadn't silently snuck back into their room. "He's — I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, come on, sweetie. The poster is still on your bedroom wall here."

"Oh, God. What?" He hadn't slept in his childhood bedroom since Christmas. Went straight from Kingston to vacation with his parents to training camp. "Mom, you have to take that down. What if someone sees it?"

"Shane," she admonished. "Who's going to see it?"

He thought, perhaps absurdly, of Rozanov finding out about it, and then he was thinking about Rozanov and about sucking dick, and part of him felt like his mom was going to be able to read his mind over the phone, so he frantically put it out of his head.

God. Shane should have taken it down at Christmas. Instead, he jerked off to it for the millionth time, even though he knew he'd have to look the actual human person, Scott Hunter, in the eye in less than a year. If humiliating oneself was an Olympic event, Shane would be the champion of the world.

Their next game, a home game, the Metros had figured out their footing a little better, and Shane came just shy of his first hat trick. The Admirals still won, but Scott hunter passed him on his way off the ice and nodded. "Alright, Hollander," he said. "I think I get it now."

When Shane got home, he paced at the foot of his bed for maybe half a minute before pulling open his sock drawer, fishing a box out from the bottom of it, and retrieving his lube and dildo from it. He set them on the bed and stared at them, his heart hammering.

He'd been using it more often lately, though whether that was down to living alone or the thing with Rozanov, Shane wasn't sure. It wasn't the right kind for anal, he knew, the suction cup at the base not wide enough. He didn't dare put it in more than halfway and had to keep a careful grip on it the whole time. Probably, he should suck it up and buy a better one, but hadn't figured out how to do so without risking someone connecting the purchase to him.

This one was a gift, of sorts. More like a prank. Shane's first year in juniors, a few of the older boys decided to teach him humility and gave it to him wrapped in pink wrapping paper, then made him suck it in front of them or else they would tell the whole team they found it in his bag. It was just one of a hundred awful memories from those years, but at least he'd gotten a souvenir out of it.

Shane pulled up that night's game on the ESPN website, stuck a piece of sticky tack over his laptop camera, and fucked himself until he came before the first intermission.

Rookies hardly ever got voted in for All Stars, but nobody was surprised when Shane and Rozanov made the list. It was a relief that it would be Europe vs. North America. The thought of sharing a locker room with Rozanov after what they did after the commercial shoot... well, he might have faked an injury to get out of it. In fact, he was so relieved that it didn't occur to him until he got to Nashville that he would be sharing a locker room with Scott Hunter.

That was fine, though. The Hunter thing was a stupid teenage crush, and Shane could be professional.

"Ginger ale?"

Shane startled so hard at the voice behind him, he almost dropped said ginger ale, spinning around to stare, wide-eyed, up at Scott Hunter. Very elegantly, he said, "What?"

Hunter gestured at his drink. "It's All Stars, rook. You can cut loose. Have a beer."

"Oh. Um, I'm — I'm not nineteen yet. Or, I guess, it's twenty-one in the States."

With a smirk, Hunter came around the table Shane had parked himself at and leaned both hands on it. "I don't think anyone's gonna narc on you if you have a beer."

Shane grimaced, glancing around them to see if anyone was near enough to overhear. "I don't like drinking," he admitted.

Hunter lifted an eyebrow. "Hollander! I thought you were underage," he said, smiling. "How do you know you don't like drinking? Unless you had a troublemaker phase."

He was making fun, Shane realized with a flush. He fixed his eyes on the table, not sure why his pulse was thrumming so fast all the sudden. "I got drunk once in juniors," he mumbled. "I didn't like it."

Which was an understatement. He'd had a bottle of corner store whiskey duct taped to his hand by two older boys in his billet house and every time he let it touch something — set it on a table, bumped someone, brought it against his chest because his arm was getting tired — he had to take a drink. Shane blacked out at some point, woke up still drunk, and puked out the window into a garden bed. He was sick for two days afterward.

Hunter didn't respond for long enough that Shane was about to risk looking up at him. Then he tapped twice on the table and said, "Alright. Well, enjoy your ginger ale, rook."

He'd gotten it all tangled up in his head somehow. Scott Hunter and liking guys and the fucking dildo. The last night of ASG, Rozanov pressed his dick to Shane's hip and touched his asshole and said sucking dick made him gay, like he thought this was a shocking revelation. Like maybe Shane hadn't noticed these things about himself until fucking Rozanov jacked off in front of him in a shower.

So Shane, surprising himself, told him about the dildo. Not how he got it, of course. God, not that. Just admitting he had it was humiliating enough, and when Rozanov started cracking jokes about it with a fingertip still circling his asshole, it made his stomach twist, made him want to go crawl in a hole and never leave.

Rozanov pulled him back, whining pathetically enough that it made him relent. "I want to fuck you," he said. Something about it, maybe the 'want,' settled Shane.

He rolled over. Traced the curve of Rozanov's jaw with his gaze. "Not here," he decided. "Not with fucking Scott Hunter right next door." Because it was stupid as fuck, but he still felt his childhood hero's presence on the other side of the hotel wall like a spotlight he needed to dodge.

"He is hot," Rozanov observed, and Shane settled even more, embarrassed but feeling oddly included by the comment. How many times had he listened to his teammates talk about hot girls?

And after they'd negotiated the details, the next time that made Shane feel a jolt of panic if he let himself think about it, Rozanov put his fingers to Shane's hole again and asked, "But you still let me play with you tonight, hmm? Little bit?"

Shane tried so hard to be quiet. It was tough, two fingers twisting into him, Rozanov's lips wrapped around the head of his cock. He gripped the pillow with both hands, hips twisting of their own accord. Every noise that burst from his lips, every bitten-off fuck or gasp Rozanov or wordless half-shout when his fingers curled in and up just so, Shane remembered that Scott Hunter was on the other side of that wall, and it made him want to die and made him want to come and made him want to shout again.

Then he'd look down at Rozanov's handsome face, staring up and hungry with want. Next time, he wanted to fuck Shane. In two weeks. The way he was twisted half on his side between Shane's legs, he could see Rozanov's flushed dick, curving up toward his belly. In two weeks he was going to have that inside him.

He didn't last very long.

Later, Shane slipped out of the room and got all the way to the elevator when a door opened behind him. The elevator dinged, its doors sliding open. He glanced back as he stepped inside and met Scott Hunter's eye for one brief, heart-stopping moment. The doors closed.

Chapter End Notes

Lmao so we definitely were debating if this first chapter was ready to post or not and then one of us hit post by mistake so HERE YOU GO. Anyway, this is gonna be a fun collab with my bestie mock <3

Chapter 2: it won't hurt at all

Chapter Summary

Sochi Olympics, 2014. Team USA and Team Canada bonding time.

Chapter Notes

Thank you for all your wonderful comments!! Now let's dive back into the mortifying ordeal of being Shane Hollander. Reminder to turn on creator's style!

A heavy hand landed on Shane's shoulder. "Hollander! Come on, is silver so bad?" Vaughan demanded, grinning and obviously well on his way to drunk. "You look like someone kicked your dog."

"I don't have a dog," he mumbled, though he realized a second too late that this was not the point. The point was he'd blown it on the ice today, poorly rested from the shit beds, skin itching from a lack of clean water to shower in, and still more in his head about the argument with Rozanov than he should have been. Shane had been dreaming about competing in the Olympics for as long as he could remember, and now he couldn't wait to go home.

He shrugged the hand off. "I'm just tired."

Vaughan and the rest of the room's attention drew away then as a boisterous, discordant cheer of, "Captain!" rang through the room.

Hunter rolled his eyes as he stepped into the back room Teams Canada and USA had commandeered at a local bar. "I was in the fucking bathroom," he chastised, but the Americans were drunk and still running high off their gold medal, repeating, "Captain!" at him to show him he was being a bad sport.

Shane figured it was precisely because Hunter was so bashful at their praise that the boys kept at it, talking him up.

"You're an American hero!" Sully, one of their defensemen, declared. "Hey, who knows how many people will be begging to be your sex slave now."

Beside Shane, Aucoin choked on his drink, sputtering. "What?" he laughed.

Sully's eyes went wide in delight. "Oh, man, do you not know about this?"

Hunter scowled. "Fuck, not again," he complained.

Vaughan gripped his shoulder and shook him with a laugh. "Come on, it's funny!"

"It was this internet post," Sully began.

Shane's hand tightened on his ginger ale.

"Like ten years ago," Hunter cut in.

"Not that long ago! Anyway, it was on a hockey fan forum, and some gay kid posted this, like, million-page erotic fantasy about being sold to Hunter as a sex slave."

He could hear his own pulse. Shane held very still, almost afraid to breathe.

"It was fucked up," Hunter said. "Anyway, should we even be talking about this here? In Russia?"

Vaughan said, "Relax, dude. It's not like anyone here wrote it."

One of the US forwards shrugged lazily. "So what? I mean, it's a whole thing online, teenage girls writing porn about us fucking each other. There's probably a whole library of Hunter porn."

Sully shook his head. "Not like this one. This one was, like, fully deranged. It got taken down, but — Vaughan do you have the screencaps still?"

Shane tried to think of a way to leave this room that wouldn't raise questions, but he didn't even know if he could get his legs to move.

"Yeah, let me just..." He started scrolling through his phone, and when he finally found them, he passed it over with a warning, "If you go poking around in there, it's not my fault if you see a dick pic."

Sully started to read, theatrically with a deep voice for Hunter and a fey voice for the narration:

"'Hi you must be Sidney,' said Scott Hunter. He is so hot. He doesn't have a shirt on and his muscles are huge and his nipples are hard. His tiny shorts were so tight I can see how big his dick is. It's big."

The whole room laughed. Shane made himself laugh, too.

"Also his face is very handsome, but I know that from staring at the poster on my wall. Scott Hunter smiled at me with his pecs flexing."

That had the guys howling. One of the Canadian defensemen made his own pecs dance.

"'If you come in this house you have to do exactly what I say. Do you understand?'

"I nod. "I understand, Mr. Hunter. I'll do anything if you teach me to be the best hockey player in the world."

From across the room, Scott Hunter met Shane's eye, and it felt like he knew. He could feel himself flushing, wished he'd had some alcohol so he could blame it on that.

Hunter rose from his seat and snatched the phone from Sully's hand. "Alright, enough, you fucking clown," he said. "This was hilarious when it first came out years ago, but I'm starting to think you just like reading it."

That won a chorus of Ohhh!s. Hunter passed the phone back to Vaughan, then said, "Who's got a deck of cards? I feel like winning some money off you drunk idiots."

Shane could still hear a faint rushing in his ears as he worked his way back to the bar. He'd pretended his ginger ale was empty so he'd have an excuse. The bartender, a tall, dark-haired woman, gestured at the can in his hand. "Another?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Um, I'll have..." He looked past her at the liquor bottles lining the shelf, most of the labels in Russian. "Sorry, I don't drink a lot. You can just make me something."

The woman frowned at him. A lot of the service workers around the Village spoke English, but their fluency varied wildly.

"Vodka," he decided, because that was the only drink he knew was the same in English and Russian.

She nodded and selected a bottle off the wall, drizzled a pour of it into a glass, then took his money without further discussion. Once she'd turned away, Shane tried a sip and almost spit it back up at the astringent burn. Cringing, he poured the rest of his ginger ale into the glass. Tried it again. Better.

He let his eyes drift toward the back room where his teammates and the Americans would be waiting. But he'd hardly made an impression on the room tonight. Maybe they wouldn't notice his absence. Shane wandered in the opposite direction, past bar tables and a dart board, to a wall of windows that looked out on the darkened street. Sipped his drink.

A body moved up beside him, an all-too familiar voice saying, "Hey, you alright?"

Shane looked over at Hunter, going still again. "Yeah," he said. "Just needed some air." The bar was noisy, but here at the window, they were far enough from the buzz that they didn't need to raise their voices.

"And some booze?" Hunter nodded at his drink. "I thought you didn't like drinking."

He shrugged. "Special occasion, I guess."

Hunter looked out the window, like Shane had actually found something interesting to look at and hadn't been spacing out at a stretch of darkened storefronts. "Listen, I'm sorry about that whole thing in there," he said, voice low.

God. He couldn't actually know, could he? There was no way.

"I probably should have talked to you about this earlier. After the All Star Game a few years ago. About, uh, you-know-who."

Rozanov. He meant Rozanov. Jesus, it shouldn't be a relief that he only knew about that. It still felt like he was going to die, but maybe a little less painfully. Slowly, Shane dragged his eyes sideways. Hunter wasn't looking at him, was just staring ahead, a picture of casual conversation. "I don't know what you're talking about," Shane said.

"Yeah, you do."

He thought about what Vaughan said earlier, about how dangerous this place was for... for gay guys. He'd imagined a million times what would happen if someone figured him out. He'd never imagined it happening somewhere where he could get fucking arrested for it.

"You can't take it personally, man," Hunter said. "You'll go crazy. Them making fun of that kid, it sucks, but they're not talking about you. Nobody knows."

Shane tried to remember how it was he moved air in and out of his lungs, the action no longer automatic. It maybe helped, though. Gave him something to focus on. He got just enough air to ask, "Why are you saying this?"

Hunter turned to look at him then, his brow furrowed. "Because I know, Hollander," he said, as if his meaning were obvious. "Look at me. Me, too. I know." For a stunned moment, the information didn't fit into Shane's head, but once it did, his lungs started to work again all at once.

"Holy shit," he breathed.

Maybe his face had done something weird, because suddenly Hunter was glancing around the bar, anxious. "Let's get out of here," he decided. "Ditch the drink, okay? Let's just go."

Shane put his drink on the window ledge. They went. Outside, they made for opposite directions, then drew back.

"The Village is this way," Shane said.

"We got the team to splurge for a hotel after the yellow water debacle," Hunter confided.

For a second, the rearrangement of his world took a back seat. "Wait, do you have running water?"

Hunter laughed, face splitting into a grin. "Yeah. You want a shower?"

"More than anything in the world, I think."

Two sharp knocks, and the bathroom door eased open a few inches. "Hey, I snagged a clean towel off the maid cart," Hunter called.

Shane glanced back through the clear plastic shower curtain. There wasn't a good place to set a towel down. Compared to his room at the Olympic Village, this place was paradise. By hotel standards, though, it was kind of shit. "Uh, yeah, you can come hang it up," he said.

The door opened the rest of the way. From under the stream of (lukewarm, but blessedly clear) water, he watched the slightly distorted form of Hunter skulking into the room like he was doing something wrong, head forward and down. Then, as he hung the towel on the bar over the toilet, he snuck one glance upward and met Shane's eye.

Surprising himself, Shane laughed. "Careful," he said. "I might figure out you like dick," and it felt crazy to joke about it. Crazy, but in the way that scoring in overtime felt.

Hunter looked away, seeming flustered for a moment, then purposefully looked back at Shane. He leaned against the tiny wash basin. "Have you been able to shower at all since you got here?"

Shane shook his head. "I tried... turned the gross yellow water on, got undressed... I couldn't fucking do it, I bailed. Last night, I couldn't tell if I couldn't sleep because the bed sucked or because I smelled so bad." He scrubbed under his armpits again with the tiny bar of soap.

"This place fucking sucks," Hunter laughed.

He thought about Rozanov saying, Not here. "I've been thinking about what Vaughan said the other morning," he admitted.

"Don't stress," Hunter said. "If anyone asks, you begged me to use my shower. No one's gonna think twice about it."

Shane felt himself flush at the implication that he might be here for anything else. "I tried to talk to him," he admitted.

"Rozanov?"

He bobbed his head. "He kind of freaked out at me. I shouldn't have — I don't know what I was thinking. I didn't think he'd react like that."

"Are you two, like, a thing?"

"No," Shane said, quick, because it was true. They weren't anything. "We just... it's just been a few times. It's not a big deal. I'm just not sure he wants to anymore." And that was enough, he should have stopped there, but his tongue kept tripping forward, spilling out, "And I don't know what I did wrong."

Hunter didn't say anything. He averted his eyes again. He looked like he might leave.

Though he was loathe to leave the water, Shane steeled his nerves and shut it off. He tugged open the curtain and held his breath.

Hunter looked at him. Really looked at him, eyes trailing slowly over Shane, whose skin was pebbling in the cool air. It shouldn't have been enough, just being looked at, but he felt his cock start to plump. Hunter's eyes drew there, too. He licked his lips. Through the obvious hunger on his face, he murmured, "Hollander, we don't have to..."

"I want to," Shane said, because he did. Because he'd had sex before, so it wasn't a big deal. Because he could sleep with people other than Ilya Rozanov. Because his younger self, who jacked his dick raw staring at Scott Hunter's fucking poster on the bedroom wall, would kill him if he didn't.

A hand reached toward him, steadying him as he stepped over the edge of the tub, tugging him close. The front of Hunter's shirt started to soak immediately.

Shane backed off, saying, "Sorry, I'm wet —"

Hunter tugged him in again. "So I'll have to get undressed," he said, voice low.

The kiss was slow, gentler than he expected. Rozanov tended to take control of a kiss, like he wanted to crawl down Shane's throat tongue-first, but Hunter kept pausing, letting Shane push in for a while before turning it back again. Give-and-take. They parted to peel off Hunter's now-soaked shirt, and Shane got his fly open just enough that he could slip a hand inside, get a grip around the hot, hard length of him.

It felt surreal, really, like a fantasy come to life.

"What do you want?" Hunter asked, sliding a hand over Shane's chest, the other settling at the back of his neck.

He thought for a second about getting on his knees, but a glance down revealed that the tiles didn't really look that clean. Shane asked, "Did you score any of those Olympic condoms?"

Hunter laughed, his lips split wide in a grin then parting on a gasp as Shane's hand slipped down to his balls. "Yeah," he breathed. "Kind of meant to keep it as a souvenir, but..." He shut his eyes for a second, then opened them and looked down at Shane's body. "Worthy cause."

The bed probably wasn't even a queen, but it was bigger than the cardboard ones in the Village, and the sheets felt clean enough when they toppled into them. Hunter kicked out of his pants and pulled Shane on top of him, a hand on his ass to drag their hips together with a breathless, "Fuck."

Just as Shane was starting to worry that it was too good, that he wouldn't last, Hunter pushed him up by the shoulder and squirmed out from under him. He sat on the edge of the bed and started rifling through the suitcase on the floor. A bottle of lotion appeared first, set on the bed. Then a little foil packet came flying up, hitting Shane square in the chest. He barely caught it, surprised.

"There," Hunter said, "knock yourself out." And then he settled back against the headboard, knees spread wide, and uncapped the bottle of lotion.

He sat there like an idiot, the condom clutched in both hands, and watched as Hunter brought a lotion-slick finger to his hole. "Oh," Shane said, also like an idiot. "I, um." He looked down at his dick.

Hunter hesitated, one fingertip inside. "Sorry," he said. "Did you not mean...?"

"No! I just, I haven't..."

He pulled the finger out, eyes going wider. "You haven't... at all?"

Fuck, why could he not explain himself? "No, I just haven't... topped." Shane forced the word out with a cringe, eyes squeezed shut.

Slowly, Hunter asked, "Do you want to try?"

Shane nodded without opening his eyes. "Yeah, that's fine. Sorry. Sorry, I just didn't expect it."

A hand touched his face, and when Shane opened his eyes, Hunter was on his knees in front of Shane, staring at him curious, a little curl of a smile in one corner of his mouth. "We can do it the other way if you prefer that," he said.

"No, really, it's —"

"Shane?" The name shut him up, Hunter's face earnest and kind and quietly amused. "I would be happy to fuck you." He took the condom from Shane's limp fingers, but instead of putting it on, he set it aside. He turned them, pressed Shane onto his back on the bed and crawled between his legs. His dick had, humiliatingly, flagged a bit, but Hunter — Scott? — he got his mouth around it, sucked him down with a soft, satisfied sound.

His head thunked back against the pillows. "Fuck. Fuck, that's good," he murmured, letting his eyes fall shut again. He spread his legs. A finger brushed against his hole. Gasping, he made himself look down. His teenage self would never forgive him for not memorizing what it looked like to have Scott Hunter's mouth on his dick.

It had been weeks since he did this with Rozanov, but the touches were less startling than they had been the first time, the feeling of fingers sliding into him, stretching him open. Scott sucked on his balls more than Rozanov had, didn't use his tongue to open him up, didn't spend as long fingering him. It occurred to Shane, as Hunter slid the condom on, that he probably shouldn't be comparing the two of them so much.

"You good?" Hunter asked.

Shane nodded then, remembering how intense it had been to kiss Rozanov while he pressed inside, rolled over and pressed up onto his elbows and knees.

"Fuck, you have a gorgeous ass," he said, his hand sliding over it, thumb dipping in to tease at his hole one more time before something larger and blunter pressed to it.

God, how many times had he imagined this? Crammed the dildo into his hole before he even knew how to do it without pain, breathed through it and pictured how much better it would feel if it was Scott Hunter inside him.

It was good. Shane let himself get lost in the rhythm of it, rocking back onto Scott's dick once he'd adjusted to the stretch, and he would have been happy to go longer, to let his pleasure build slowly and erupt over him before he knew it was happening. But a hand wrapped around him and started jerking him rough and urgent, chasing him toward the edge faster than he expected.

"If I pull out, can I come on you?" Scott asked once he'd fucked him through his orgasm.

Shane nodded. Let Scott flip him onto his back and lay there, watching wide-eyed and gape-mouthed as Scott Hunter tugged off the condom and jerked himself over Shane's exposed belly, striping it with his spend and then rubbing it into his skin with a thumb.

Scott flopped onto the bed beside him, panting. "Holy shit," he murmured.

"Yeah," Shane agreed.

After a moment, Scott looked over at him and laughed. "Sorry, you need to shower again now."

"That's okay." His head rolled to the side so he could take in the loose, come-drunk look on Hunter's face. It didn't look anything like what he'd pictured. On impulse, he said, "Can I tell you something kind of embarrassing?" but even as he said it, Shane remembered the guys reading that stupid story in the bar and regretted saying anything at all.

"Please," Scott said.

Now he had to say something, and Shane couldn't think of anything other than what he'd meant to say in the first place. "I kind of had a crush on you when I was younger."

Scott laughed quietly. "Yeah? You have the poster on your wall, like in that stupid fucking story?"

Shane looked away. "I told you it was embarrassing."

A finger traced up his bicep to his collarbone. "Vincent Gaultier," Scott said.

That got Shane to turn back toward him, brow creased. Gaultier had been star center for the Admirals in the 90s.

Scott shrugged. "That's who I had on my wall. Went through a lot of lotion looking at that poster." He nudged Shane's shoulder, friendly. "Go on," he said. "You shower first."

Under the stream of water, Shane felt something clench in his chest, a sudden burning behind the eyes, and he had no idea where it came from. He'd left the door open, but Scott wasn't visible from this angle, so he just pressed a hand to the cool tiles and breathed through it. Scrubbed his face harder than he scrubbed the come off his belly.

He dried off with the towel he neglected before and tugged on the clothes he'd left folded on the back of the toilet earlier. Emerged into the room fully dressed.

On the bed, Scott was still blissfully nude, his cock soft and faintly wet against his thigh. It occurred to him suddenly that he hadn't gotten around to sucking it, and it was with the thought that now he never would that Shane realized they weren't going to do this again.

"I should go," Shane explained, gesturing at his state of dress.

Scott opened his mouth. Closed it. He said, "I'll see you around, Hollander."

Shane nodded and shuffled to the door. Realized he should probably say something else and offered, "Um, thank you. For the shower and..."

"Yeah," said Scott — Hunter. "And."

Chapter End Notes

Ilya will feature more prominently in the next chapter <3

Chapter 3: I have your back Sidney

Chapter Summary

2015-2017. Ilya and Shane experiment.

Chapter Notes

Reminder to turn on creator style! Oh, and we have a chapter count now! Chapter 5 will be an epilogue, so the main story will be wrapping up in chapter 4. Oh, and this chapter is very horny, so brace yourself for that if you're reading on public transit.

"Mom, seriously, I'm fine," Shane mumbled into the phone, casting an eye toward the stairs. Rozanov was up in his room already, maybe getting impatient. Things had been better since the fight in Sochi and the weirdness in Vegas. They'd met up every time they played one another this season, and it felt easier somehow. Fun. "It was an OT loss, it's not even that bad."

"I just know you take Boston games a little more seriously," she said. "Don't blame me for worrying about my favorite son."

"I'm your only son," he said, a well-tread call-and-response. "Look, I gotta go, okay? I'm supposed to meet up with some of the guys. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Alright, alright," she relented. "Be safe. Have fun. I love you."

"I love you, too."

He hung up and set the phone on the kitchen counter, taking a slow breath. Shaking off his mother's presence before he could fathom going to get fucked. Shane headed upstairs, calling, "Sorry about that," as he rounded into the bedroom.

Rozanov sat in the middle of the bed, down to his briefs. Holding the dildo. He waggled it in the air so the soft silicone wobbled from side to side. "It's pink," he observed.

"Oh my god, were you going through my stuff?" Shane demanded, face going hot.

"I was looking for lube and condoms," Rozanov laughed, nodding at the items set neatly on the nightstand. "Found a bonus." He held it in both hands and surveyed it like an archaeologist with an interesting artifact. "It's pretty big. Not bad."

Shane stalked over to the bed and reached out to snatch it away, but Rozanov held it back out of reach, leaning away. "Fuck off," he demanded.

Rozanov squinted at him. "I don't think you want this."

"It's just a sex toy. It's not that funny."

Letting himself topple so he fell back onto his elbows, Rozanov said, "It's funny how embarrassed you are about it. Will be less funny when I fuck you with it."

His breath caught in his throat. "What?"

"Unless you don't want. But I think..." He looked the toy over again, one handed. "Could be fun."

Shane didn't have an answer to that aside from the swelling of his dick in his pants and an unquenchable sense of shame.

"Take your clothes off," Rozanov instructed. "I want you to teach me how you use it."

So he did as he was told. Peeled off his clothes, folded them and stacked them on the chair by the bed. He hesitated at his briefs only a moment, then shucked those, too. He was already most of the way hard, just having Rozanov look at him like that, eyes hungry and tongue darting out to wet his lips.

"So good for me," he murmured, then sat up and patted the bed. "On your back."

Shane climbed onto the bed and settled against the pillows, legs spreading to make room for Rozanov between them.

"How do you start," he asked, "when you use it by yourself?"

All moisture had suddenly left his throat. "My fingers," he croaked.

"Lube?"

Shane nodded.

Rozanov picked up the lube and uncapped it. "How many to start?"

His face flamed, but he made himself say, "Two. I try for two. I like how it feels."

Eyes fixed on him, Rozanov slowly slicked his middle and ring fingers, then lowered them between their bodies, touching them to Shane's hole. It took a little doing, massaging the rim, teasing in the tips, working them in to the first knuckle, then the second. He was gentler than Shane was with himself.

"Do you pleasure yourself like this or just to stretch?" He curled his fingers as if in demonstration, the pads of them brushing his prostate.

Shane gasped. Shook his head. "No, I just. I just stretch. I get too sensitive."

The fingers eased off immediately and began to scissor inside of him, efficient in a way Shane often emulated but rarely accomplished. "How many before you use it?"

"Three."

A third pushed in, just as careful. Rozanov had a way of letting his knuckles drag against the inside of Shane's hole that gave him whole body shivers.

"Fuck. Fuck, yeah, that's enough," he said.

Rozanov pulled his fingers out and picked up the dildo, slicking it with lube.

The logistics caught up with Shane then. "You can't put it in too far," he warned.

He looked up, frowning. "Why not? What is too far?"

"It's not made for anal," he explained, gesturing at the dildo. "The base is too narrow. It could get stuck. So you have to hold onto it and don't put it in too far."

Rozanov looked at the dildo again, as if it had insulted him. "It's a girl's dildo?" he asked.

"It's... it's not for anal," he repeated. "Girls can do anal."

Rolling his eyes, Rozanov wielded the dildo in his direction, a bit of lube flicking off the end. "Hollander, why do you have a dildo not for anal?"

He looked away, face burning. "I dunno, that's just the one I got, and I never bothered to get another one. It works fine — you just have to be careful."

Rozanov looked around the room like he had found himself suddenly transported to a new location. "You have — you have one million pillows. You have fancy coffee maker and don't even drink coffee. But you have only one sex toy and it's for a hole you don't have?"

"Fuck off!"

"What, you use it with women?"

"No, that's... I haven't..." he stammered. "And you're not supposed to share sex toys anyway. It's unsanitary." Shane cupped a hand over his dick, which was starting to soften. "Look, forget about the stupid dildo. Just fuck me normal, okay?"

Again, he rolled his eyes. "No," he said. "I still want to fuck you on your stupid girl dildo."

Shane's head flopped back against the pillows, eyes squeezing shut. "It's not a —"

The blunt head of it rubbed against his hole, not yet pushing. "Can I?" Rozanov asked.

Without opening his eyes, he nodded and braced for the familiar burn.

Instead of pressing it in, Rozanov knocked Shane's hand away and wrapped his own lube-slick hand around his cock, stroking him slowly back to hardness. He looked down just in time to see Rozanov press the flat of his tongue to the head, and then the dildo pressed inside like nothing, just a sudden fullness he almost didn't notice happening until it was there.

"Oh fuck," he gasped, hips jerking of their own accord. He'd always assumed there was something about the texture of the silicone, the too-harsh sting that came with the first stretch of the dildo that hadn't happened when Rozanov or Scott fucked him. Shane didn't have much time to think about it then, as another slow thrust stole the air from his lungs.

Rozanov moved up, leaning over Shane, his eyes raking shamelessly from his stretched hole to his face. "Maybe I will get you a new one," he said. "Better one. Or maybe something different. Maybe start a collection so I can see what you like best."

Shane shivered and made a noise he would be embarrassed about later.

"You would like that, hm? Letting me play with your hole how I like."

"Fuck. Fuck, I'm gonna come," he warned.

"Yes," Rozanov agreed. "Then when you are sensitive from coming, I will fuck you until you come again. Okay?"

Shane nodded a quick agreement because a second later he was spilling over Rozanov's fist and his own stomach, clenching hard on the dildo so Rozanov's hand pressed flush to his ass and he had to pull it back, then out. He was still catching his breath as the condom wrapper crinkled.

"Roll over," he murmured, nudging at Shane's hip. "On your side." He manipulated Shane's lethargic limbs until they were where he wanted, on his side with one leg straight and his top leg pulled up almost to his chest. Behind and slightly over him with one hand braced by Shane's chest, Rozanov pushed into him.

"Fuck. Fuck, it's too much," Shane whined at the first brush against his prostate, nerves singing protest.

Rozanov shifted, bringing his hand to Shane's face, a thumb at his lips. "You can take it, Hollander," he said. "You will take it for me, yes?"

Shane bobbed his head, mouth opening automatically to suck on the digit. "Yes," he said around it.

"Fuck, you're pretty like this." Teeth closed around the lobe of his ear, tugging.

"Please," he gasped, not sure what he was asking for.

Rozanov seemed to know anyway. He picked up his pace, the angle relentless and overstimulating. He didn't even think he was all the way hard, but Shane could feel himself careening up toward another orgasm, his whole body a live wire. It seemed to take ages. It seemed to take no time at all. When Shane came again, all sense fled his mind.

He rolled onto his back, vaguely aware of Rozanov tying off the condom. Shane tugged him back down on top of him without thinking about it too hard. Kissed him, was kissed back. Floated in the space between their lips for long minutes until the sweat started to cool between them.

"Fuck," Shane murmured.

"I am definitely going shopping," Rozanov decided.

Shane pulled back enough to look at his smile. "Aren't you worried about it getting traced to you?"

A lift of the shoulder. "I will go to sex shop, buy with cash. People don't recognize me in Boston the way they recognize you in Montreal."

That sounded nice. Easier. "What are you gonna get?"

Rozanov smirked and kissed him again. "I will not spoil the surprise."

Shane felt like he hadn't caught a breath since they won the cup. No, before that, because the playoffs had been a different type of breathless entirely, and there was a reason teams so rarely won twice in a row. All of those injuries racked up, all of those draft picks traded away. It had been a long, brutal season, but the Metros had dragged themselves through like they didn't know what pain was.

He received the Conn Smythe — his second now — like a sleepwalker, his head a buzz and body running on empty. He'd spend the whole summer trying to pack weight back on, hardly recognized himself in the mirror when he was getting ready that evening.

Rozanov was there, floating through the crowd with an ease Shane would never know. Their gazes caught a few times. In his pocket, Shane had a text from Lily: What's your room number? I have another prize for you. He'd sent the room number without asking for further details.

A hand clapped on his shoulder, stirring Shane from his preoccupation.

"Hollander," Scott Hunter said, one corner of his mouth lifted, almost too fond. "You're really something else, you know that?"

They had barely spoken since Sochi, more than two years ago now. Shane had his number. He could have texted. Hunter could have, too. Sometimes Shane felt like he'd imagined the whole thing.

"Uh, thanks," he mumbled, ducking his head.

Hunter twisted like he was trying to catch Shane's eye. "You deserve all of this. You know that, right?"

Shane made himself look up, flustered. Opened his mouth, but he'd already said 'thanks.' He glanced around them, nobody nearby, then at the hand on his arm, which Hunter hadn't moved. "Um, are you...?" he said, because the end of that sentence was, hitting on me in the middle of the MLH Awards party? but he really didn't want to say all of that.

Immediately, Hunter removed his hand. "No," he said quickly enough that Shane didn't think it was true. "No, sorry, of course not." He put his hand in his pocket.

Over his shoulder, Shane spotted Rozanov, watching them from over the lip of his drink. Jesus. "Okay, um. Well, it was nice talking to you," Shane lied.

"Yeah," Hunter agreed. "I'll see you around."

"What was that with Hunter earlier?" Rozanov asked, far too conversational for someone currently feeding anal beads into Shane's asshole.

"What?"

"At the party. He stopped to talk to you. You looked like you were trying to explode him with your brain. Very funny."

"No, he was just, um — fuck!" Another bead fed into him, each larger than the last. Shane pressed his forehead into his cupped hands.

Rozanov's thumb massaged his hole around the string. "Just what? Giving congratulations? This is how you look at people who say congratulations?"

Shane realized distantly that he'd probably waited to bring it up until now on purpose. That didn't stop him from struggling to come up with a reasonable response as Rozanov tugged the last bead part of the way out before letting it slip back in. "Jesus Christ," he panted. "He was — he was just being weird."

"Weird how?" The next bead pressed at him, but it was way too big. There was no way it would fit.

"Fuck, he was — I think he was making a pass at me, okay?"

The bead stopped. Retreated. Rozanov craned around to look at Shane's face, which was sweaty and probably bright red. "Making a pass," he repeated slowly, like maybe he wasn't sure he had interpreted it correctly. "Like asking for sex?"

Shit. He probably shouldn't be telling him this, but whatever. Hunter knew about Rozanov, too. It was fair. "Yes," he muttered. "He backed off right away."

"Scott Hunter," Rozanov said in the same tone. "Captain of New York Admirals. He asked you to have sex with him. Why would he do this?"

"Does it matter!" Shane demanded.

Rozanov laughed. "Yes, I think so."

He couldn't believe they were having this conversation like this. Shane reached back for the beads. "Fuck, can you..."

His hand was knocked away, easy as anything. "No. Tell me and I will put the next one in."

"Seriously?" Shane glared at him, but the self-satisfied look on Rozanov's face didn't waver. He blew out a breath. "We fucked once, okay?"

Rozanov's eyes went wide in an almost comical expression of shock. Then he seemed to remember his promise and turned his attention, intently, to Shane's ass. The bead started to press in again, huge and overwhelming. "When was this?" he asked.

"Holy fuck, it's too big."

The cold squelch of more lube. "Tell me when you had sex with Hunter. Was it good?"

"It was a couple years ago. We haven't really talked since then."

"So it was bad."

Shane opened his mouth to answer, but just then the bead pushed again, felt impossible again, but all at once his body gave way and it was inside him, sitting firm and relentless against his prostate. His legs started to tremble, and he felt himself canting forward into the bed until Rozanov's hand on his hip pulled him back. "Fuck! Fuck, please. Please, it's too much," he gasped, his hips rolling uselessly in Rozanov's grasp.

"Did he fuck you?"

"Yes!"

"Was he as good as me?"

Shane shook his head against the pillow, his hands gripping it on either side. "No. No, you're better. Fuck, please, Rozanov."

"You want me to fuck you before or after you come?"

"Before." He was already so overwhelmed, he couldn't imagine trying to come a second time tonight.

The beads felt crazy coming out, and he almost came anyway when the largest one tugged free of his hole. Rozanov went slowly, making him feel every single one. Then, when the the last slipped out, he pressed inside, plastered himself to Shane's back, and drove him down into the mattress until he came.

Rose asked about a lot of the same things that Shane had been asked about his whole life, but she said it completely differently. She never asked, How does it feel to be the first player of color to win the Conn Smythe? but she would ask, "What was it like, being an Asian kid in hockey growing up?"

And Shane skirted the question. Downplayed it. Didn't mention the slant-eyes they made at him in travel league or how the guys in his billet house made a big deal out of him being 'dumb for an Asian,' or how he'd first heard the phrase 'tiger mom' out of the mouth of a coach in Timbits, moments after his mom left from dropping him off, and he'd heard it a million times since then.

Rose never asked, What pressure do you feel to set an example for Asian-Canadians who want to play hockey some day? but she asked, "And what's it like now? Did it get better?" like she'd heard everything he didn't say anyway.

"Yeah," Shane said, throat too tight. "You know, the locker room's the locker room. But guys are more focused on the game now. The rest of it doesn't matter as much."

She didn't ask, What are you, a faggot? She asked, "Was it different with a guy? Was it better?"

The second Hunter gestured toward the crowd, Shane's breath caught in his throat.

His phone buzzed against his leg.

From Lily: What is he doing?

At All Stars that year, he ran into Hunter on his way back from a run early one morning. Gave an awkward nod. Hunter had said, "You and Rozanov seem to be getting along better," and Shane flushed and cast his eyes across the mostly empty beach.

"Yeah," he admitted, quiet. "We're trying to."

"I'm sorry about the awards last year," he said, cringing.

"Nothing to apologize for."

Hunter shook his head. "No, really. I was going through a break-up, and I was being a creep."

"I'm sorry," Shane said, and found that he meant it.

"We got back together. So, uh, I guess we're trying, too."

Shane let himself smile. "Well, here's hoping we figure it out."

To Lily: I think it's his boyfriend

He couldn't take his eyes off the screen. The guy hopping the boards looked as startled by the whole thing as Shane felt, like maybe his heart was hammering out of his chest, too. But Hunter — Scott — was smiling.

They kissed.

The next month, in the safety of the cottage, Ilya asked, "Did you know Hunter would do that?"

Shane almost said no, but it didn't feel true. "I hadn't really thought about it," he said, "but I think... I think maybe I hoped he would. Not that exactly, but..."

They were in bed, Ilya's head pillowed on his chest, eyes closed while Shane's fingers carded through his hair.

"This is gonna sound dumb," he said, "but when I was in juniors, I was kind of obsessed with him? Had his poster on my wall and shit. And I used to imagine him standing up for me when I had a hard time." His heart raced, even coming that close to talking about it. "So I had no idea he was gonna do that. I don't even think he did. But I saw him wave, and I just kind of knew."

Ilya's face tipped up to look at him, his eyes half-lidded. "That he was standing up for you."

"For us," Shane corrected. Then, wary, added, "He knows about us."

Ilya's brow furrowed. He suddenly looked much more alert. "For how long?"

Averting his eyes, he admitted, "He heard us fucking at All Stars our rookie year."

"Shane!" Ilya sat up, shoving lightly at his shoulder. "And for how long did you know he knew?"

"Since we fucked?" Shane peeked at him, cringing. "At the Sochi Olympics."

His eyebrows shot up. "You fucked him in Russia?"

"It was stupid," he agreed. "You and I had that fight, I was feeling messed up about a lot of stuff."

"So you had terrible sex with Hunter."

Shane rolled his eyes. "It wasn't terrible. It was perfectly fine sex."

Ilya looked dubious.

"It was just..." He shrugged. "Like I said, I had a dumb crush. I didn't even really have it any more by that point. It was just kid stuff, and I thought that was what I wanted from him, but it wasn't."

Studying his face, Ilya murmured, "You just wanted him to stick up for you."

Shane nodded. "Yeah. I guess so, yeah."

Chapter End Notes

Thanks as always for reading and commenting!

Chapter 4: This is YOUR night, buddy.

Chapter Summary

Ilya figures some things out.

Chapter Notes

This is the end of the main story! I expect the epilogue to be up soon <3 Reminder as always to turn on creator style and be sure to mouse over the art at the end of the chapter!!

"Shane!"

Shane looked up from the cutting board to see Ilya in the bedroom doorway, hanging off the door frame by one hand, the pink dildo wobbling in the other.

"Why do you still have this?" he asked. "It is one million years old."

Fighting off a smile, Shane ducked his head and focused on slicing the cucumber in front of him. "Fuck off. There's nothing wrong with it."

"It's not even for anal!"

"It still works. I don't have any others that are flexible like that."

Ilya crossed the living space, stopping on the other side of the island. He set the dildo down with a splat, the suction cup adhering to the marble. It waggled in place.

Shane gestured at it. "We eat here," he protested.

"We fuck here, too," Ilya stage whispered.

Shane flipped him off.

Ilya leaned forward on his elbows and flicked the dildo back into motion. "You never told me how you got it. You always make me get the toys."

"It was before I got drafted," he evaded.

"I am picturing baby Shane sneaking into sex store now." Ilya snatched a piece of cucumber off the cutting board and popped it into his mouth. "Would they even let you buy it? Or maybe you stole it! Is moy lyubimii secret criminal?"

Shane laughed and tipped the cucumber into the waiting mixing bowl, started in on peeling the daikon next. "I didn't steal it." Which would have been enough, the most plausible explanation implied. Ilya would have let it go, probably. Shane glanced up, considering. They had made the same promise this summer as the last: when they were at the cottage, they were honest with each other. "I didn't buy it either," he admitted.

Ilya lifted an eyebrow at him, curious.

"You have to promise not to laugh," Shane said, though that was never a guarantee with Ilya. "It's embarrassing."

"I promise," he said in his best attempt at solemnity.

Shane set the peeler aside and started chopping the daikon. "When I was in juniors, some of the older guys in my billet house decided I was getting a little too much attention. They gave it to me as a — as a joke. They wrapped it and gave it to me on my birthday so I'd be like, 'Oh, they got me a present,' and then I opened it and, you know. Probably the look on my face was pretty funny." His throat got tight unexpectedly. Shane kept his eyes fixed on the daikon. "They said they'd tell everyone they found it in my bag if I didn't suck it in front of them. So I did it, and, you know, I was awful. I choked and drooled all over it. They laughed at me, and then they all forgot about it." He spared a glance at the dildo, which had gone still on its perch. "But I kept it."

Ilya said nothing for long moments. Shane finished dicing the daikon and tipped the pieces into the mixing bowl before he looked up, braced for a bitten-back smile.

He wasn't smiling.

"Shane," Ilya said, voice soft, his brows pinched. "Why would I laugh at that? That's horrible."

His stomach twisted. "It was just guys being jerks," he mumbled. "That's just how it is sometimes."

"That's not how it is," Ilya said, his voice hard. He sounded genuinely angry now. "What the fuck, Shane? I put this in you. Now you're telling me it's the fucking childhood trauma dildo?"

Shane laughed, but it sounded weird even to his own ears. It never occurred to him that it was the kind of thing you had to disclose in bed, and he hadn't expected such a reaction from Ilya, whose childhood had, in every conceivable way, been way worse than his own. "It's not — I'm not traumatized."

"How old were you?"

Shane rubbed the back of his neck. "I got billeted really early. Fourteen. So I was turning fifteen."

Something hard passed over Ilya's face. "How old were they?"

"What does it matter?" He didn't like the way Ilya was looking at him. Turned to the fridge and fished out the chilled quinoa. "They were the older boys, so, like eighteen, nineteen. I dunno."

"Did they do anything else to you?"

"No!"

"Shane," Ilya admonished. "Boys don't do something like that and then leave you alone."

"I dunno," Shane repeated, shoveling the quinoa into the bowl. "They were dicks, okay? They were never nice to me. They, like. They made me get really drunk one time. They'd hide my clothes when I was in the shower. That kind of shit."

When he looked up, Ilya was in a staring contest with the dildo. "Why did you keep it?" he asked, voice weirdly quiet.

"I told you. I didn't know how to get another one."

"Back then, maybe, okay. But we have so many toys now. If you wanted one like this, I could get you another one," Ilya argued. "Shane, why are you keeping this?"

Shane stared at the dildo. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know," he mumbled, which was the truth. "There was nothing wrong with it."

Ilya rounded the island and caught Shane by the wrists, reeled him into a tight hug, chins hooked over each other's shoulders. "I want to burn it," he said.

"You can't burn plastic. It's bad for the environment."

It was funny, the way he could feel Ilya rolling his eyes without seeing it. "Flush it down the toilet like a dead fish," he suggested.

"Oh, that'd be great for the plumbing." Shane looked at the thing over Ilya's shoulder. He didn't think there was anything else to why he'd hung onto it so long. There was nothing wrong with it. Right? He clung to Ilya a little tighter. "We can just throw it in the garbage, okay?"

Ilya's lips pressed to his neck, just holding there. "What else?" he said into Shane's skin.

"What else what?"

"What else was just how it is? You never talk about juniors."

Shane closed his eyes. He didn't want to look at it anymore. "I had a lot going against me," he said. "I was the youngest. I was the only kid in the house that wasn't white. I was already getting scouted, and the guys that were close to aging out were mad about it. And... I mean, I'm just. You know how I am. I'm not good with people anyway."

Ilya didn't try to argue, and he appreciated it.

"They made fun of my mom a lot. And you know how she is. She didn't make it easier, the whole tiger mom thing. I used to beg her not to visit me because they'd make gross jokes about her. She thought I was mad at her." He expected to feel panicky, saying all of this, but it didn't happen. It was all far enough away, he realized, that it didn't hurt to think about the way it once had. "I got called a fag a lot, but I think everyone did. They would come up with all these fucked up games and if you didn't play along, you'd take more hits at practice."

A hand squeezed around the back of his neck. Ilya pulled back enough to look at him. "I'm sorry I didn't know you then," he said. He kissed Shane, very sweetly.

Shane hadn't reread the story since he got drafted. The closest he'd come was that night in Sochi when the American team read part of it aloud. But he started thinking about it. Thinking about juniors, letting himself acknowledge what it had been to him.

So he looked it up.

It had, humiliatingly, had a viral moment after he first posted it. Shane hadn't expected that, had been horrified. The original forum he posted it on was long gone, but there were screenshots floating around online. He found some on Tumblr, after fishing through a few joke posts about it. There were a chain of reactions afterward laughing about the story. His stomach twisted to see that his own name had, jokingly, been suggested as a potential author, but it seemed like nobody actually believed it.

He scrolled back up and read the screenshots.

Obviously, it was terrible. He didn't think spellcheck was a thing then, at least not in browsers, but even so, the typos and spelling were egregious. The story itself was nonsensical, bordering on delirious. The unfiltered horniness of it all made him cringe.

But there was something else in there, too. That unspoken want he confessed to Ilya last year, to be defended and taken care of. For someone to tell him that hockey wouldn't always be this way, that it could get better if he got better. For years he'd thought of this story as nothing but an adolescent sexual fantasy, but that would have been less embarrassing, maybe. In reality, it was a yawning chasm of things he wanted but could never have.

Shane minimized the screen by the time Scott started promising him that nobody would call him a fag once he was the best player in the world.

Ilya made a disgruntled noise at his phone. "Realtor is sending me contracts for the new apartment." The apartment in Ottawa, which Shane felt warm just thinking about. "Can I use your laptop?" he asked, already getting up to fetch it off the kitchen table.

Shane hummed agreement, attention on measuring protein powder into the blender.

A few button clicks, and then, "What is this?"

He looked up, and then he remembered. Fuck.

"This is that story, the weird porno about Hunter, right?" Ilya asked, sounding amused. "I never actually saw it before. You were reading it?"

Shane's blood went cold. "Uh, it's going around again on twitter," he lied. "I don't know why. I hadn't really read it either, so I looked it up." He crammed a few more leaves of kale into the blender and turned it on, letting its din drown out the rushing in his ears. It was too thick, so he measured out more oat milk, trying to keep his breathing even. Ran the blender again. Taste test. Good. Pulled a shake cup from the cabinet.

Behind him, he heard a soft hitching sound from the table, like a laugh. Bracing himself, he turned to see, but Ilya wasn't laughing at all. His eyes were fixed on the screen, and he was crying. Not loud, but there were tears in his eyes, one tracking down his cheek.

"Ilya?"

He looked up. "This is you," he said.

The air rushed out of him all at once. Shane croaked, "What?"

"This story," he said. "Did you write this?"

Shane turned away from him, couldn't look at him. His face burned. He looked at the smoothie, but didn't want to deal with it, the idea of food suddenly repulsive. "Jesus fuck," he breathed.

"Shane." His voice was closer.

"Fuck, this is humiliating," Shane mumbled, leaning forward against the fridge. He could hear Ilya's bare footsteps approaching slowly.

"I am not making fun," Ilya murmured.

No, but he was going to ask, and Shane was going to have to explain. He didn't know how. How to make Ilya understand that something so bizarre had felt natural at the time:

Humiliated by his overbearing mother, his awkward father. Humiliated by every too-sharp word or deafening silence from a coach that thought he was weird. Humiliated by his relentless teammates and their somehow crueler opponents, the word faggot inescapable. Humiliated by his own body, suffocating under the weight of desires that he'd never asked for. That, from under the weight of it all, he had sometimes — sometimes — allowed himself to imagine a world where someone perfect thought he was perfect, too, just for doing what he was told.

Warm hands wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him back off the fridge and against a firm chest. He kept his eyes closed. "Nobody knows," he choked. "Do they?"

"No," Ilya said. His arm wrapped around Shane's chest, holding him firmly in place. "I only guess because we just talked about it. Two thousand six, you were fifteen. You were in juniors."

Shane nodded, made himself breathe.

"Come here. We should sit down." Ilya leaned him against the counter and put the blender cup into the fridge. Then he came back for Shane and tugged him into the living room and onto the couch, laying with Ilya underneath him.

"It's so embarrassing," he repeated, face pressed to Ilya's stomach.

Fingers carded through his hair. "Why did you post it online?" he asked, which wasn't the question Shane was expecting.

Shane remembered that night, sitting at the desktop in the den of the billet house, supposedly working on a procrastinated history essay. "I wrote it in a word document," he explained, "but then I realized I couldn't save it — someone would find it. And I didn't want to delete it. I went on this hockey forum sometimes, and nobody would think anything about seeing it in the search history. So I just copied it over there." He never had written the history essay.

"Everyone does weird things as children," Ilya said.

He laughed, because it was a nice attempt at reassurance, but even he knew the porn story had been beyond the pale. "Sure. You would have pulled something like that, right?"

Ilya hummed. "Not quite like this, no." He was tracing something on the back of Shane's neck with the tip of his finger. "The first time I fooled around with Sasha, we were thirteen. My mama was just dead, and everyone was telling me how she would look at me from heaven, like guardian angel. And this is all I can think about after I touch Sasha, that my mama saw it."

Shane's mom wasn't even dead, and he had sometimes worried about her magically sensing that he'd been having gay sex. He looked up, chin propped on Ilya's chest.

His eyes were fixed somewhere far away. "I panicked. I realized, you know, even if it is with a girl, I don't want my mother to see me like this. I decide I can never have sex. Ever. I have to become a priest, is the only way."

He snorted, then quickly put his hand over his mouth, horrified. He would have felt awful if Ilya laughed at him. "I'm not laughing at you being afraid," Shane assured him. "Just thinking about you as a priest."

Ilya's lip curled into a smile. "Yes, it would not be a good idea. But I go to the priest at my school, I tell him I want to go to seminary. He is very confused, because I am probably worst behaved child in his whole school. So he asks and he pushes, and finally I tell him why, I tell him I can't have sex because my mama is watching."

And Ilya actually blushed at the memory, pink high in the apple of his cheeks. "He thought this was very funny. He laughed at me, he said, 'Your mama knows how to give you privacy and the church does not want you. Stick to hockey.'"

Only when he saw Ilya smiling at the memory did Shane let himself return the expression. "I wish I could have known you at that age, too, you know," he said. He squirmed higher on Ilya's body and tucked his face against his neck. "Everything felt like the end of the world back then."

Lips pressed to his temple.

"All of those things you wanted in your Scott Hunter story," he murmured, "it was not very much, Shane. It was just things you should already have had."

"Brand new GRAF G5 skates?" he joked into Ilya's skin.

Ilya's chest shook under him with laughter. "No, okay, maybe not that. GRAF skates for fifteen-year-old. You would be too big for them in a year."

"You sound like my mom."

"Your mother is smart woman. Did not want to have to sell her only son to creepy MLH player."

The patio door slid open behind him. Moments later, a shadow passed between the evening sun and Shane's eyelids.

"Get up, I want to show you something," Ilya said.

"Right now?" Shane whined.

A hand shook his knee. "Yes, right now! It's important."

Shane opened his eyes to Ilya's bright, devious expression. He smiled despite himself and heaved up off the lounge chair. "Alright, what is it?"

Ilya took him by the hand and led him back inside, through the living room to the basement stairs. The overhead lights went on automatically, motion-activated, revealing the gym, which was exactly as it always looked. Letting go of Shane's hand, Ilya gestured toward the whole of it dramatically.

"The gym?" Shane asked. "What am I missing?"

Pointing each thing out in turn, Ilya listed, "Weight machines, treadmill, bike. Everything a big gym has!"

Shane tried to remember the last time Ilya had gotten a concussion. "I know? I designed it."

Ilya groaned and rolled his eyes. He grabbed Shane's hand again and dragged him back upstairs. "No elevator, but it would probably be annoying, yes?" he commented, nonsensically. They stepped into the kitchen, and again Ilya made a grand gesture toward the espresso machine.

"Are you okay?"

"Big coffee machine," he said, and then dug his phone out of his pocket and read off it. "...like they have in cafes and can make espresso and latte." He looked up at Shane. "And you don't even drink it!"

"It's good for tea lattes," Shane insisted. "And I have decaf sometimes."

Ilya looked at his phone again. "Kitchen is... huge, yes? And really nice? And house is huge like in a magazine."

"It's a nice house," he agreed. "Look, what are you —" He pulled at Ilya's arm to peek at the phone screen and froze. It was the screenshots of the Scott Hunter story. "Oh my god, what are you doing?" he demanded, face going hot.

"And, here," Ilya went on, ignoring him. He took Shane to the back door and pointed out toward the lake. "Is not a swimming pool, but I think it's better. And!" He stopped and went for his shoes, nudging Shane's slides at him. "Come on, most important part."

"You're literally just showing me my own house," Shane protested.

Ilya grabbed his hand once more and pulled him through the back door toward the outbuilding with the ice rink. The sun had sunk behind the trees. "I think it would be very stupid if it was in second basement," Ilya said. "Especially in New York. Would be underwater, I think."

"Oh my God," Shane mumbled, finally catching on. "Are you — I didn't, like, recreate my fantasy Scott Hunter house. This is just what I wanted my house to be like."

"I know!" Ilya said. He pulled him into the outbuilding. Instead of going straight to the ice, they slipped into the small locker room, which had enough gear for the both of them hanging on the wall. The skates weren't GRAF. They were CCM, a preview of the new model he was trying out for a promo shoot later in the summer. "All of those things you wished for, moy lyubimii. Look, they are all right here."

He ducked his head, still flushed with embarrassment.

"And..." As he glanced up, Ilya tugged his shirt off and held his arms wide.

Shane grinned, understanding immediately. "And my hunky hockey boyfriend?"

"My chest!" Ilya said, pointing at his pecs. "It's huge. And so is my dick."

Leaning back against a locker, Shane laughed and let himself ogle appreciatively. "Okay, you're my dream guy. You got me."

Ilya crossed the room and pressed him against the locker, kissed the laugher off his mouth. "And I want to fuck you," he murmured. He ducked in to nip at Shane's throat. "Want you to suck my cock because you are so good at it. Want to see you naked all the time."

The flush in his face rushed downward, a whole-body thing and then very much a just-his-cock thing, warm and pleasantly aching. "Fuck," he murmured.

"Want you to practice hockey without a cup," he said, his hand slipping down the front of Shane's shorts, holding him over his underwear, "so I can touch you on the ice."

"Please," he breathed, pressing into the touch with a whine.

Ilya dropped to his knees, taking Shane's shorts and briefs with him as he went down. His mouth sealed around Shane's cock without mercy, just wet suction and a soft moan of enthusiasm.

"God I love you," Shane told him, his fingers tangling in golden curls. "You're so fucking good to me."

One of Ilya's hands had disappeared down the front of his own shorts, jerking with such hedonistic impatience, Shane didn't feel embarrassed about how quickly his orgasm was creeping up on him. His head tipped back against the locker. How had they never fucked in here before? Shane had a million fantasies just like this one, but none of them held a candle to the familiar way Ilya tongued under the crown of his dick, cupped his balls and pressed a finger just shy of his hole.

"Gonna come," he mumbled, short of breath.

He sank to the floor after, got one of his hands into Ilya's shorts just in time to feel him go off, a mess up his wrist.

Ilya leaned in for a sloppy kiss, the kind that left his lips wet with spit and mouth tasting faintly of his own come. "I have one more thing for you," he said.

"Jesus, what else did I recreate from that stupid story?" Shane laughed.

"Mm, this one is not from you."

They took their time regaining their legs, Ilya pausing to shove a wet washcloth down the front of his underwear, which left an awkward wet spot on the front of his shorts, which he seemed blissfully unconcerned about. Then, taking his hand again, he led them back outside. The sun had set while they were inside, the air cooling. They went back to the house, through the living room, into the bedroom.

"Get ready for bed," Ilya instructed, aiming him at the en suite. "Shower, wash face, brush teeth. Then get naked. No pajamas."

Shane did as he was told. Ilya didn't leave him be, moved around him in the bathroom to attend to his own nighttime routine. Smacked Shane's bare ass while he flossed. Ilya tugged on a clean pair of briefs after he showered, though, and slipped back into their bedroom.

When Shane joined him, Ilya sat leaned against the headboard, looking at his phone. He made for his side of the bed.

"Ah-ah!" he admonished, sharp.

Shane stopped short, brow furrowed.

Ilya pointed at the foot of the bed. "You sleep there," he said, "like a dog."

He flushed. "Are you serious?"

A solemn nod. "Yes. This is my bed, it is all for me. But you can sleep at the foot."

His dick stirred at the imperious tone, but he'd just come, so nothing more than that. Shane climbed onto the foot of the bed, which wasn't really big enough for the two of them to be laying like this, and Ilya didn't move his feet. Shane ended up with his face pillowed on top of one, the other perched on his back. His own feet hung off the end of the bed if he straightened his legs.

It wasn't uncomfortable at all, though. In fact, Shane couldn't think of a time he had felt more at ease.

Chapter End Notes

This story is officially dedicated to anyone who ever did anything weird or embarrassing when they were young. Growing up is difficult and confusing. It's okay if you weren't sure what to do with that.

 

Mock's bibliography: I went trawling through era appropriate live journal communities for icons so I didn't have to make my own. Thank you to 1stcomesthefall for Madmiral's bleeding hockey guy, trina_crys for slapshotking's football babe, and Wrennette for Hockey Overlord's baseball guy with his hands together. I no longer have a live journal account, so I could not comment before taking them, but i am crediting, and I am not hot linking :) so I am 2 for 3 on 2006 LJ icon etiquette.

Chapter 5: Epilogue: THE SEQUEL

Chapter Summary

The rest of Sidney's story is finally told.

Chapter Notes

"Babe?" Kip said, loudly like maybe it wasn't the first time he'd said it. "Everything okay?"

Scott looked up from his phone to the lunch forgotten at his elbow and then to his boyfriend, still tugging his shoes off by the door, brows drawn down in concern.

He looked at the phone again and shook his head. "Just deciding if I need to call the cops," he muttered.

"What?" Kip yelped, startled.

Scott held up a hand, muttering, "Joking. I'm joking. It's fine."

He sighed and closed out of his email, opened messenger.

iMessage with Rozanov

Tuesday, Jan 30

Rozanov

why are you hugging him

Scott

we scored a goal you maniac

Rozanov

sleep with one eye open

Scott

can you chill??

Saturday, June 9

Rozanov

stop looking at him

i see you look at him

you are married man

Scott

we're not married yet

Rozanov

KILL YOURSELF

Today, 2:51 PM

Scott

What the actual fuck is wrong with you

Chapter End Notes

I'm so pleased with the way this story resonated with so many of you, especially people who have shared their own embarrassing stories of being young and having too many feelings to be normal. Thank you all and of course, special thank you to code daddy mock-speed. - luula

Mock's bibliography. Thank you to Azdaema for the iMessage skin (with a couple tweaks so it would look good on dark mode/reversi) and to a combo of sunsetcurbed for the gmail skin and some anonymous coder for some tweaks -- I did some further tweaks for mobile reading. And thank you to luula for letting me be part of such a fun project. ♥