Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

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

Characters:

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

Additional Tags:

POV Outsider, Threesome - M/M/M, Exhibitionism, Showing Off, Voyeurism, Jealousy, Possessive Ilya Rozanov, Protective Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Scott Hunter Knows About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Time Skips, 5+1 Things

Language:

English

Series:

Part 8 of Inty's Gay Hockey Boys (Heated Rivalry fics)

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-15 Words: 6,637 Chapters: 1/1

It’s Always Hollander and Rozanov, Right?

Summary

Five times Scott Hunter thinks about Hollander and Rozanov together, and the one time he gets to watch.

Notes

This fic is dedicated to my dearest Dragonmuse, and their slideshow mentioning all the times people assume Scott and Ilya are sleeping together.

1: FALL 2010. NEW YORK 

The first time, it’s not that Scott thinks there’s actually anything going on. It’s just that it feels like he can’t turn around these days without seeing Hollander and Rozanov’s larger-than-life faces glaring at each other from maybe half an inch apart. So it’s sort of impossible not to think about them together. It’s not that he blames MLH for running with it. Having two players like that—brilliant, generational talents, and photogenic as hell—in the same draft, let alone with a rivalry already established in the Juniors? It’s damn good television, the kind of stuff that the ratings wonks have wet dreams about, and hockey is always struggling in that area, fighting desperately to justify its funding despite taking a distant fourth place to the other major league sports. 

And anyway, it’s hardly the first time that the League has played up a rivalry between two of its hotter players. It’s just that there’s something about the way Hollander and Rozanov stare at each other in that picture that catches Scott’s attention. All that passion, that intensity, that chemistry, and yet… There’s a hint of tenderness there. A shared glint of humor, maybe? As if the two players are laughing over some secret joke together instead of fighting for the puck. 

So yeah, maybe Scott spends the odd ten minutes here and there, over the next couple weeks, thinking about them putting that youthful energy to a better use than driving up ratings. It’s not hurting anybody. Scott’s got a firm grip on reality, he knows it’s just a fantasy—and really, he’s got to find something to get himself through the long nine months of celibacy every year. Right? 

Anyway, he pretty much gives it up after his first game against Rozanov. The little twerp might be hot, but god he’s a fucking asshole. 

2: JANUARY 2011. NASHVILLE

It’s not until the All-Star Game that Scott realizes there’s actually something there. The heated looks the two players exchange at the warm-ups are bad enough, but then, the way they both lean toward each other while sitting on opposite benches? Not snarling or shouting, like two players shit-talking each other would sound, but with hushed voices, incomprehensible over the screaming crowd. Even then, Scott would have shrugged it off, except… When Rozanov leans over to Hollander, on his way out to take part in the next competition, Scott very audibly hears him say, “One-two-two-one.” 

Which, again, if it had been any other string of numbers—or if he’d shouted it, instead of lowering his voice, as if he had something to hide—Scott would have shrugged it off, figuring it for some kind of… What’s the opposite of an in-joke? Anyway, some kind of private oneupmanship. After all, they do play each other four, five times a year. It’s not actually that weird that they would have developed a kind of secret chirp code. And even as it is, he gives it even odds that he’s wrong, but… 

But Scott’s in room 1223, and when he went to bed last night, he spotted Rozanov going in to Room 1221, right next door, drunk off his ass. So… He gives Hollzy a little friendly tip-off. Just a word to the wise. He doesn’t really think the kid would be stupid enough to sleep with a fellow player, let alone Rozanov. But if Hollander is tapping that douchebag, he damn well needs to be more subtle about it! And, for that matter, even if he isn’t, it’s pretty clear from the looks he’s been stealing at all the hotter players—Scott’s rather flattered to have been included in that—that he’s attracted to guys. And he definitely needs to get a better grip on that, before someone who might choose to take a more negative kind of notice… notices. 

Honestly, Scott’s a little tempted to ask the kid what his room number is, for himself. He could give him some far more pointed tips on being a closeted gay superstar, in private… And the rook sure is cute, as well as being everything that Rozanov isn’t: kind, polite, with the kind of lips that would look damn good wrapped around a man’s… 

But Scott isn’t stupid enough to sleep around in the League. And there’s still a chance that he’s reading things wrong. Or that Hollander simply wouldn’t be able to keep a secret, no matter how bad it would be for both of them if anything got out. So he lets his subtle little hint stand alone, figuring that the kid’ll figure things out. 

Unfortunately, that’s not what happens, as Scott learns all too well that evening, wrapping his hand around his painfully hard dick with the sound of the two boys moaning each others’ names echoing through the thin hotel walls. 

At least Rozanov sounds as into it as Hollander does. The poor kid is cruising for a bruising, but Scott can take some comfort in thinking that he’ll take that asshole with him. 

3: SUMMER 2011. LAS VEGAS

The third time, Scott’s kind of lost patience with it. He almost, almost, washes his hands of it entirely. But seriously, what the hell is he supposed to do, when he sees Hollander sneaking away from the party—from his party, given that he just won Rookie of the Year, for chrissake—not forty minutes after Scott had given him a significantly more pointed warning that he really needed to stop staring at Rozanov like a dog in heat? 

So Scott goes after him. All he’s thinking about in the moment is getting the kid into a dark corner and explaining some things to him, very slowly and loudly. Like the fact that if he keeps on with the way he’s been going, he’s gonna end up a vegetable! There’s a simple reason that hockey is the last sport without a single openly queer professional player: in hockey, you depend on your teammates to keep you from getting your bell rung on a regular basis! A guy who pisses off his entire locker room—especially as a star forward, the kind of player who needs his defensemen and his enforcers to be running interference for him on the ice—is likely to find himself grounded with a career-ending injury real quick, and only just that if he’s lucky. 

Scott likes to think that his team respects him enough to still have his back, even if he came out, but… He’s not confident enough to put it to the test. And Hollander is a good four inches shorter than him, relying on his quickness and intuitive stickhandling, where Scott gets by on his reach and the power and accuracy of his slapshot. The kid will be an easy target the second his team stops covering him. He needs someone to protect him from himself. 

Okay, and fine, yes. Look, Scott’s had three shots on top of two beers already, okay? So yeah, maybe he’s also thinking about what he might do once he’s got the kid in that dark corner… But any such thoughts fly from his head when he cautiously pushes open the door of the broad roof deck and spots Hollander and Rozanov not twenty feet away, making out messily against the penthouse wall. 

Damn, but they look good together. The lines of their dark bodies against the starry sky and the glimmering glass of the penthouse windows, the intensity of their clenched muscles as they push against each other, the hunger of their hands as they paw at one another’s shoulders and faces… Scott watches, hypnotized, as Hollander pulls away—the two of them exchanging words that the wind whips away from Scott’s ears—and then pushes Rozanov up against the wall in his place. He’s certain, for a second, that they’re about to start again—he wants them to, with every twitch of his dick in his tight suit trousers—and so it takes him by surprise when Hollander turns to leave, instead. Scott barely has time to bolt down the stairs to the next landing and slam the metal door behind him, before he hears Hollander’s feet pounding down the stairs just on the other side. 

Fuck, that was hot. 

And, of course, Scott is still in a public hallway, in a fucking tuxedo, so it’s not like he can whip his dick out and rub one off without risking making headlines himself, and not the good kind. Groaning, he wrenches open the door and goes to leave—

—Only to run straight into Ilya fucking Rozanov. 

They both freeze for a second. Then, Rozanov’s eyes flick down to Scott’s crotch. Which is, unfortunately, still visibly tented. Scott fights the urge to put his hands in front of the betraying bulge—it would only be confirmation, at this point. 

Rozanov’s eyes come back up to his face. Slowly. The motherfucking asshole is grinning. “See something you like, Hunter?” he asks, and winks. 

Scott is still standing there, unable to move, as Rozanov goes galloping down the stairs. 

These damn rookies are gonna be the death of him. 

4: FALL 2013. MONTREAL

Okay, but he hadn’t thought that they might be the death of him literally. And if he had considered the possibility of getting into a fight with one of the young stars, he would have assumed it would be Rozanov he’d drop gloves with—not golden boy Hollander, who’s never gotten into a fight in his career. 

He feels kinda bad about it, honestly. He hadn‘t meant to… Hollander hit him at a low point, that’s all. He’d thought he finally had his mojo back, was riding high on the victories and those incredible nights with Kip. It used to be that getting laid that well and often would carry him for months. And so the acute loneliness of his first night on the road catches him off guard, and Rozanov’s fucking chirps make it even worse. 

(Because, really? Throwing around dangerous shit talk like that as if it means nothing? As if Scott hadn’t seen him sucking face with Hollander two years ago? Where the hell does he get off, sleeping with another player—making out with him in public, no less!—and then making that crack about Scott being there when he fucks himself as if… As if… 

As if he has no fear at all that people might think he’s gay. Might know he’s gay.  

And meanwhile, Scott can’t even go out in public with a guy without having a fucking panic attack.)

So, then, when Hollander chirps him, with that odd echo of Rozanov from the night before… How can Scott not think about the two of them together? Maybe in bed together, making fun of over-the-hill Scott Hunter, who can’t even keep it up for a whole season any longer, if he ever could… But he never meant Hollander to take it as a threat, for fuck’s sake! He’d assumed that Rozanov would have told him that Scott knew, that Scott’s also… on their side of the blue line, so to speak. 

He throws out an apology, when the reporters ask him about it, afterward—says he was out of line, taking his frustration on the loss out on the younger player, and figures word will get back to him. 

So the last thing he’s expecting, when he answers his phone late that night—kind of hoping it might be Kip, even though he doesn’t recognize the number—is Rozanov’s snarling voice in his ear. 

“The fuck you think you were doing?” the Russian demands, his accent heavier than the last time Scott heard it. 

“Listen, Ilya—” Scott says, attempting—perhaps unwisely—to take a mentorly tone. 

“You do not call me this,” the younger player interrupts immediately, sounding even angrier. “We are not friends—” 

“Fine, look, Rozanov—” 

“I did not tell anyone your secret, even though we are not friends—” Rozanov interrupts him again. 

It’s getting on Scott’s nerves, despite his guilt. “Hey! In case you forgot, I have quite a story to tell myself—” 

“And then, Hollander makes one little chirp, is not even that bad, and you threaten to—” 

“It wasn’t a threat!” Scott yells. To his surprise, Rozanov doesn’t come back at him immediately, and after a second, Scott goes on, quieter, “I was trying to warn him. You two are so obvious, it’s like you don’t even realize—” 

“This is lie, we are not obvious,” Rozanov objects immediately. “You walked in on us, this is not… No one else has guessed—” 

“Do you know that for sure?” Scott demands. “Because I already knew when I saw you guys, on a public roof. I’d guessed even before I heard you, fucking in the room next door to me, six months before that.” 

There’s a long silence, and then Rozanov swears, quietly—Scott’s played with enough Russians to recognize it—and hangs up. 

5: FEBRUARY 2014. SOCHI

Scott really thought that after that, the two of them would cool it a little. And he certainly doesn’t expect to see them doing anything in fucking Russia. He almost doesn’t go, himself—not that he plans to do anything that would get him into trouble, but it has every hallmark of being a complete shitshow, and it’s not like he hasn’t done the whole Olympics thing before. Twice, in fact. Most of the other guys his age are giving this year a pass, leaving it to the younger, hungrier players. But after Scott saw some of the news reports coming out of Russia, he decided that he wasn’t going to let those same young players—boys he mentored and trained, who look up to him as a role model and a hero—go out and face all of that alone. 

So then, when he sees Rozanov following Hollander—like a fucking duckling, always fifty to a hundred feet back, as if that was going to fool anyone, with that damn lovesick expression in his eyes!—Scott is fucking furious. It’s one thing to do that kind of shit in the US or Canada. At least there, the worst he’s probably going to face is the end of his career, and Hollander’s. But Rozanov, of all people, should know how stupid it is to do it in Russia! Does the man have a death wish? 

After a quick stop at a gift shop, Scott leaves Cartman and Hollzy on their way back to the Village, saying he changed his mind about getting something, and doubles back to catch Rozanov in the act. As the Russian player passes him—utterly oblivious, his eyes intent on Vaughn and Hollander’s backs—Scott grabs his arm and yanks him into an alleyway. Rozanov fights him, at first, a look of wild panic in his eyes. Scott has to slam him up against a brick wall, using every ounce of his strength to keep the Russian from squirming free. 

It’s interesting, though, that even then, Rozanov doesn’t shout or do anything that might call attention to them. After a few seconds, he seems to recognize Scott, and he subsides under his arm, breathing heavily. 

“The fuck do you think you’re doing, Rozanov?” Scott growls. 

“Is not what you think,” Rozanov says, attempting, again, to wrestle himself free, “I just want to make sure he is okay—” 

“He’s fine, no thanks to you,” Scott snaps. Rozanov’s attempt to justify his actions, despite the clear guilt painted across his face, just pisses him off more. “When the fuck are you gonna learn, Rozanov? You’re fucking dangerous, do you get that? You’re going to ruin him if you keep this up.” 

Obviously, he shouldn’t have said it, and he regrets it the second that he sees the devastated, suddenly vulnerable expression on Rozanov’s face. It’s not as if he’s in any position to lecture someone on healthy relationships, after all. It’s just that… Well. He can’t see how this thing between Hollander and Rozanov is going to end in anything other than disaster—either they break each other’s hearts, or they destroy their careers. And he misses Kip so much. And he’s angry, because dammit, he was perfectly clear when they started that he didn’t know if he could ever come out, let alone any time soon. He’d thought Kip understood that, that he was fine with it. Granted, the second it got serious, it was always going to end in disaster. But Scott only got a few months! And here, rubbing salt into his broken heart. are Hollander and Rozanov, still together after—how long has it even been now, three, maybe four years? How is that even fair?

“Look, Rozanov,” he mutters, groping for words to communicate an apology without explaining why—

But the second his grip loosens, Rozanov wrestles himself free and is shoving him away, hard enough that Scott almost stumbles and falls as he staggers several steps backward, and has to catch himself on the wall on the other side of the narrow alley. 

“Fuck off, old man,” Rozanov says, his accent stronger than Scott has heard it in years. 

And before he can think of another thing to say, the Russian is gone. 

+ 1: SUMMER 2016. LAS VEGAS

Another year, another award ceremony.

Scott used to love these things. As a young player, he was overawed by the opportunity to brush shoulders with his heroes, excited to drink and have fun with them in one of America’s best party cities; in more recent years, he valued the opportunity to pay those men forward by celebrating with the up-and-coming players, mentoring them; and perhaps, he also enjoyed the hero worship, a little. 

But now, all he can think about is everything that all the men in this room cost him. He and Kip are in one of their off phases again, and all he can look ahead to in the near future is a long, endless stretch of summer during which he won’t have the man he loves in his bed, but he doesn’t dare leave the country to get laid elsewhere, just in case that man comes back. And he doesn’t even have hockey to distract him. 

And then Ilya Rozanov is there, looking even hotter than usual, his jacket hanging open to show off a close-tailored shirt with some kind of translucent stripe. As a sharp pang of guilt shoots up from Scott’s gut, Rozanov takes a spot next to him and leans backward, propping his elbows up on the bar. 

“Having a good night?” Rozanov asks, scanning the crowd. 

“Not so much now,” Scott mutters, then sighs. “Look, I’m sorry about what I said in Sochi—” 

“Did we speak in Sochi?” Rozanov asks, miming surprise. “It has been two years, I must have forgotten.” 

“Look, asshole—”

“No, you look, asshole.” Rozanov pulls a slightly wrinkled napkin out of his pocket and puts it on the bar, then puts his cocktail down on top of it. “My room number is on this. At the Flamingo.” 

Scott blinks. Wow. This was the last thing he expected. “Uh. Sorry, man, I’m flattered, but…” 

“Is not for me,” Rozanov says. “For Hollander.” 

Scott’s mind goes even blanker. “In—your room? I don’t under—” 

“He and I, we have an agreement, yes? Whichever one of us wins the better trophy, the other does whatever he wants, that night.” 

“Wow, Rozanov. That’s way too much information—” 

“And this year, he wants me to fuck him while you watch.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Scott hisses. He jerks around, trying to see if anyone was within earshot. Rozanov leaned in and whispered it, but all it would take is one person close enough—

“Relax, I checked first. I am not so careless as you think.” 

“Yeah, believe me, you could be a tenth as careless as I think you are and still be way too fucking careless for comfort, asshole,” Scott says. “Jesus.” He picks up his beer and chugs half of it, his mind spinning in circles. 

“Okay. So, I will see you there in about an hour, then,” Rozanov says. He picks up his drink, leaving the napkin sitting at the bar. 

“No, you won’t!” Scott squawks, whipping the napkin off the counter and into his pocket, before anyone else can see it. “I’m not—” 

“Yes, you are.” Rozanov tosses a smirk over his shoulder along with the prediction, and then he walks away. 

And sure enough, here Scott is, an hour later, doing possibly the stupidest thing he’s ever done in his life. 

He did actually try to say no. He went with some of the other guys after the award ceremony venue shut down, figuring he’d just get drunk like any other year. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Hollander and Rozanov and the offer they’d made. Of what he’d seen between them on that rooftop, years ago. He couldn’t stop imagining seeing their bodies coming together again, under strong light this time, fully naked, sweat beading against their fevered skin… And with every sip of alcohol, the semi he’d been sporting since Rozanov floated this insane idea got a little harder, and his skin prickled a little bit more, and his heart pounded a little bit faster, and when he glanced at his watch and realized that they were expecting him in less than ten minutes… Well. 

He knocks on the door with his heart in his throat. When Ilya answers it, he’s shirtless and barefoot, wearing nothing but the suit trousers from his tuxedo. They’re obscenely tented—Rozanov is apparently either hung like a horse, or massively turned on already. Or possibly both. 

Fuck, but he’s even hotter than Scott realized. 

“I thought you weren’t coming?” That fucking smirk is even more infuriating this time. 

“Fuck you, Rozanov.” Scott steps in quickly, glances up and down the hall to make sure no one saw him, then shuts the door firmly behind him. He turns around and freezes. 

Hollander is lying on the bed, his hands clasped behind his head, his legs bent and spread wide. 

He’s completely naked. 

“Hey, Hunter,” he says, smiling almost shyly. “I’m glad you decided to come.” 

Scott’s jaw is hanging open. He didn’t completely believe that Hollander was actually in on this until this moment, he realizes. Had thought that maybe it was all a prank, or that Rozanov was planning on talking his boyfriend into it after—hell, if—Scott actually showed up…

Rozanov walks back toward the bed—Scott doesn’t blame him; Scott can’t imagine how he ever left—unbuckling his belt as he goes. On the way, he diverts from the straight path to grab a chair from a little social grouping in the corner. He drags it behind him until it’s positioned at the side of the bed, in front of the large bay windows. 

“Sit,” he orders peremptorily, waving Scott toward the chair. 

Scott sits. 

“You don’t move from here unless one of us tells you, mm? You are here to watch, not participate.” 

“Yeah,” Scott rasps, so turned on it hurts. “Yeah, I got it. Um, can I…?” He waves his hand toward the front of his suit trousers. 

“I don’t know,” Rozanov says, grinning wickedly as he glances back toward the bed. “Should we let him touch himself, Hollander?” 

Jesus, are they not on a first-name basis, after all these years? That’s so messed up. But Scott supposes they must be worried about screwing it up in public—or god forbid, on the ice—if they start doing it in private… 

“I mean, it would be kinda mean not to,” Hollander says, aiming a dopey smile up at his lover. 

“Yes, exactly,” Rozanov says. “Although really, it might be kindness. He is probably too old to get hard, we would be sparing him embarrassment by making him keep it in his pants—” 

“Fuck you, Rozanov,” Scott snaps again. He doesn’t have the brain power to come up with any more creative chirps—he’s not sure how the hell Rozanov is doing it. As Rozanov smirks at him again, Scott wants to just yank his pants open without permission. Or at least, tell them that he’s not gonna stay if they won’t let him jerk off, for fuck’s sake. 

He doesn’t do either. 

“Hey,” Hollander says, tugging at Rozanov’s pant leg. “C’mon. My big night, right?” 

The look that Rozanov wears as he looks down at his lover is terrifyingly tender. “Yes, your night. Fine. If you want to be charitable to the elderly, we can let him get tiny pencil dick out and wave it around.” 

He doesn’t bother to look around to see Scott’s reaction to this latest chirp—instead, he just pushes his suit pants and underwear down past his knees and steps out of them in the same motion, climbing naked onto the bed with Hollander. 

Holy mother fucking hell, that ass needs to be gilded. Holy fucking shit. 

Given everything they’ve said already, Scott expected Hollander to be in charge. But Rozanov’s attitude is utterly dominant as he pushes Hollander onto his belly and lies on top of him, peppering his back and shoulders with kisses. Hollander is insanely responsive, shivering and squirming beneath his lover, letting out small moans and whimpers as Rozanov grinds down into his ass. Every sound goes straight to Scott’s dick. 

“Look at you,” Rozanov murmurs, just barely loud enough for Scott to overhear. “You are so eager to show Hunter how well you take my cock.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, just fuck me, Rozanov,” Hollander begs, completely shameless.

“Oh, yes? You want me so badly, you are going to beg me for it?” 

“Yes,” Hollander says, writhing around as Rozanov pins him down to the mattress, and oh, Scott was wrong, there were new levels that Hollander hadn’t reached before—now he’s completely shameless. “Please, Rozy. I need you.” 

Scott groans underneath his breath and runs his hand down to his crotch, rubbing his dick through the fabric of his trousers. Despite the permission, he doesn’t dare unzip, not yet, or he’s afraid he’ll come embarrassingly fast. It’s been months… 

At least Rozanov seems equally affected, staring down at Hollander with the same expression he wore on TV when he lifted the Cup. “Get up on your knees,” he orders. “Or do you want to ride me?” 

“Let Hunter decide,” Hollander says, after a minute of reflection. “I want…” 

“To put on a good show? You always do.” 

That wins him another breathtakingly open smile from Hollzy. Scott’s never seen the kid beam like that, not even when he’s just scored a big goal, or won a trophy, or beat a record. Scott’s so lost in it, it doesn’t occur to him to answer the question until they’ve both been staring at him for a minute, and Rozanov starts laughing. 

“Shut up,” Scott mutters, flushing. “Uh… fuck. They both sound good.” 

Rozanov rolls his eyes. “If neither of you fuckers will choose, I will.” 

As if he’s being deliberately contrary—which, well, he probably is—he turns Hollander back over onto his back, instead, and pushes his knees up to his chest, in a position that looks frankly painful, but just makes Hollander arch back and let out another of those pretty moans, as he grabs onto his own fucking ankles and holds them up. 

Fuck, this is going to be how they kill him, isn’t it? Scott’s going to die right here, of insane, unconsummated lust. 

And then Rozanov slides down Hollander’s naked body and buries his face in his ass. 

“Holy shit, Rozy—” Hollander yelps, his legs going up even higher. “Fuck—” 

Scott wonders, giddily, if this is the first time they’ve done this. It’s sure as hell making Hollander lose his fucking mind—but then, Scott remembers the few times he’s gotten his ass eaten, and figures it could really go both ways. Without taking his face away from Hollander’s ass, Rozanov reaches a hand up between Hollander’s legs and begins kneading at his chest. Scott groans and shrugs off his jacket—it’s fucking hot in here—then strips off the bowtie and unbuttons his shirt, letting him run his hands over his own chest, taking a little of the edge off, making it last longer. He’s not sure whether he’s imagining being the one feeling up Hollander’s chest, or the one getting felt up by Rozanov. Maybe it’s both at the same time. 

Rozanov continues to eat Hollzy out until the kid is a boneless, weeping mess, letting out breathless curses between his frequent moans. Scott’s not doing much better—he’s not sure he can open his pants now without getting his fucking dick caught in the zipper, it’s so fucking hard. 

If he comes in his fucking pants, Rozanov is never going to let him forget it. 

Finally, Rozanov pulls away, letting Hollander put his legs down as he grabs a bottle of vodka from the nightstand and chugs some of it. Climbing off the bed, he walks over to Scott and offers it to him. 

“I’m good,” Scott says, shaking his head. He’s always been more of a whiskey man—and he’s had more than enough tonight as it is. 

Rozanov nods, but doesn’t immediately head back to the bed. “You okay?” he asks, before taking another drink, a small sip this time. 

“Uh, yeah,” Scott says, weirded out by what’s going on. “All good here.” Is Ilya Rozanov actually checking in with him? And leaving Hollander naked on the bed to do it? What the fuck bizarro world is Scott living in?

“Rozanov,” Hollander growls. He’s sitting up on the bed now, staring at them. “Get back over here.” 

Rozanov grins. “So impatient,” he chides, as he turns back toward the bed. “So needy.” 

But his own face is just as needy as he pushes Hollander down to the mattress and crawls on top of him again. Their mouths meet in another messy, desperate kiss as Rozanov snatches up a condom from the mattress and works it onto his dick. The multi-tasking is impressive, honestly—Scott’s not sure he could manage to do that with someone as hot as Hollander naked and eager beneath him. 

And then he wraps Hollander’s legs around his waist and buries himself balls-deep with one powerful thrust. 

“Holy fuck,” Scott grunts, feeling as if the wind has just been knocked out of him. Groaning, he finally sticks his hand down his pants, grabbing his dick for just long enough to rip open the fly with his other hand. The relief is immediate, the pleasure shooting live adrenaline through his veins. “You better have used some fucking lube earlier, Rozanov.” 

Rozanov turns his head to look Scott in the eye. “Strawberry,” he says, grinning widely. “My favorite.” 

It’s never been clearer that this is a regular activity between them, although Scott can’t imagine how the fuck it works, with them living five hours away from each other. How often can they even fuck, five, six times a year? Unless they have some kind of secret getaway halfway between them… But however they manage it, Rozanov clearly knows the exact angle and rhythm that will get Hollander clutching at the sheets. In no time at all, he has him moaning and crying out even louder than he was before—so loud that Scott can’t imagine their neighbors don’t know exactly what they’re getting up to in here. At least the two of them wised up and got a hotel a little ways down the strip from where most of the other MLH players are staying. 

Scott groans almost as loudly as he finally gets his fist around his dick. To his surprise, it catches both Hollander and Rozanov’s attention, despite their ongoing activity—their faces swivel toward him in creepily identical unison, and Rozanov’s thrusting slows and then stops, and it’s not like they didn’t invite him to do exactly this, but somehow, Scott feels caught out, with both their eyes on him and his swollen dick sticking out from between his fingers. They all freeze for a second, and then Rozanov slowly grins. 

“Don’t even fucking say it, Roz—” Scott begins. 

Too late. “I guess, is little bigger than pencil,” Rozanov says, eyeing up Scott’s dick. 

“You should know that he says you’re hot, like, all of the time,” Hollander says, his voice entirely factual and serious, and how he can talk like that when he was getting pounded into the mattress just a minute ago, Scott really isn’t sure. 

“I do not!” Rozanov says immediately. “This is lie—Shane Hollander is liar, and asshole—”

“C’mon, you’ve been riding him all night. He should know how much you’ve always wanted to do this—” 

“No, I wanted threesome, you are one who wanted this—” 

“Oh yeah? You’d be totally fine if I went over and sucked Hunter’s dick right now?” 

They’re back to staring at each other now—well, glaring, really—so Scott dares to tug on his dick again, thinking of Shane’s lips wrapped around it. The pleasure shooting up his spine sends his eyes slamming closed, and he has to bite his bottom lip to keep from coming. When he reopens them—it can’t be more than three seconds later—the boys have somehow gotten over their spat. Or they’ve just decided to fight it out in a different arena, because the kiss that they’re locked in now does seem considerably more combative than it was before. So does the fucking—as Rozanov starts up again, he’s going fast and shallow, making Hollander’s chest jiggle, and Hollander is fucking him right back, working his hips to try and get Rozanov deeper, clawing his nails across Rozanov’s back. 

“Fuck, Hollander,” Rozanov says a couple minutes later, finally dragging his mouth away from Hollander’s lips. “You feel so good—” 

“Yeah?” Hollander challenges. At least he finally sounds out of breath, throwing his head back and gasping between every couple of words. “Good enough—that you won’t—let Hunter—fuck me?” 

“Never,” Rozanov growls, picking up his pace even more. Holy shit, he has stamina. “No one gets to fuck you like me. No one can fuck you like me. Say it.” 

“No one—” Hollander pants. “No one can fuck me like you, Rozanov—” 

Rozanov groans and pulls out. He rolls up into a sitting position, his legs splayed out with bent knees in front of him, and—with a bravura display of strength—manhandles Hollander onto his lap, facing out, and brings him back down straight onto his cock. 

“Oh, shit,” Scott moans, strangled. 

Like this, he has a perfect view of Shane Hollander in all his naked glory: his dick standing out proudly against his belly; his back arched to show off his smooth, sculpted chest; his hips undulating endlessly as Rozanov thrusts up into him; his head lolling back against Rozanov’s shoulder. Scott lets his eyes linger over the beautiful sight, his hand whipping up and down on dick faster than it ever has before. He usually likes to tease himself, edging his orgasm as long as he can—but right now, he’s lost all but a thin veneer of control. His other hand is fixed on the arm of the chair, fingers gripping hard enough that they are starting to cramp, to keep himself from springing up and going over there. 

As his eyes slowly run up the beautiful line of Hollander’s neck again, his gaze catches on Rozanov’s eyes, glinting at him from over Hollander’s shoulder. Despite the alluring sight that awaits him lower down, Scott finds himself stuck there, unable to pull his own eyes away. They stay like that, locked together, until Hollzy arches back even further, crying out, and comes between them, untouched. 

Both other men’s attention snap back to him—fortunately, the orgasm is a long one, his dick twitching over and over, cum shooting out into the open air between them. 

“Fuuuccckkk, Hollander—” Ilya groans, between gritted teeth, and then devolves into a long string of Russian. 

Scott has played with a lot of Russians over the years. He knows what the word for love sounds like. From the dazed, clueless look on Hollander’s face, he doesn’t. 

The linguistic distraction is Scott’s undoing. His hand pauses on his dick as he stares at them, his heart aching—for Ilya Rozanov, what has his fucking life come to—and Rozanov digs his teeth into Hollander’s neck and comes with a series of rattling thrusts that milk a few additional spasms out of Hollander’s softening dick. The two of them collapse sideways, falling down to the mattress with their bodies still entwined, and Scott is… still hard, his dick caught in his fist. He feels about a half-second from coming, but as the two younger men slump together on the soft bed, cuddling around each other like puppies, it starts to feel like it would be… impolite… or at least, unsatisfying as hell, to just tug himself to an awkward conclusion. 

He’s just about to stuff himself back into his pants, precome streaking down his dick and all, when Rozanov leans over and whispers something to Hollander, and then the two of them both crane their necks around to look at him. 

“Uh…” Scott says. “So that was… great. Um, I guess I should just… go?” 

Hollander shakes his head. “Yeah, okay,” he says, but it’s clearly directed over his shoulder—to Rozanov, not to Scott. 

Rozanov disentangles himself from his lover and climbs off the bed, walking over to Scott entirely unselfconscious about his nudity. This is the first time Scott has seen him from the front since he took his pants off, and he can’t keep his eyes from flicking up and down the man’s sweat-strewn skin. 

And then Rozanov drops to his knees. 

“Is okay?” he asks, bracing his hands on the chair arms. 

“Shit,” Scott swears. “I thought I was just here to watch?” 

Rozanov’s eyes laugh at him. “I take pity on you. But if you do not want—” 

“No, I want!” Scott scrambles to get out. “I want you to, please, Roz, I—oh, fuck—” 

Rozanov’s mouth is just as good at this as it is at the usual uses he puts it to—hot and wet and sucking perfectly, coaxingly, pulling wave after wave of pleasure from Scott’s dick. As he bobs his head teasingly, Scott has to clutch the back of his own skull to keep himself from grabbing the younger man and pulling him back down, fucking his throat. As he leans back, arms bent sharply behind his head, he catches Hollzy watching him from his reclined position on the bed, sprawled out on his belly. Hollander’s eyes are half-lidded, his thumb caught lazily between his teeth as if he started chewing on his nail and then forgot. 

It’s to that sight that Scott comes, throwing his head back and letting Rozanov swallow him to the hilt. 

Rozanov stands up as Scott groans, the aftershocks of the strongest orgasm he’s had since the first time Kip fucked him still running through his body, and slaps him companionably on the shoulder. 

“Now you can leave,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Fun time, Hunter, even with how old you are. Maybe we do again, some time.” 

And he turns back to the bed without a backward glance, falling over on top of Hollander and nestling into his chest like he plans to hibernate there for the rest of the winter. 

“Uh—thanks, Hunter,” Hollzy says awkwardly, even as his arms wrap around his lover’s shoulders. 

“You’re welcome, I guess,” Scott says, and laughs, even as he starts to pull himself together. “Any time, Rook.”