Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Trans Shane Hollander, Trans Male Character, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, but not actually as much as you'd think, variations on the theme of episode one hookups, canon-typical sex telepathy

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-12 Words: 3,949 Chapters: 1/1

rooms

Summary

"I am surprised, Hollander," Rozanov said, and Shane felt a twist in his stomach at the pronunciation of his name, the way it changed to fit Rozanov's mouth. "I thought you were boring. But all this time you were just weird."

"I'm not weird."

Rozanov smiled, a shiny, white-toothed grin that made him look younger, more playful. Like during the photoshoot, that fleeting moment when Shane realized that this was what it would have been like to have a friend.

"So you are boring?"

Or, every risk Shane takes is a calculated one. Some calculations are easier than others.

Or, Rookies but make it trans.

Notes

thank you lydia for making this fic possible and yelling about it with me every day for months. <333

please do not share to social media but please do find me on tumblr and say hi!

Click here for additional content notes (contains mild spoilers)

Requires moderate-to-high levels of suspension of disbelief re: trans professional hockey players. A little bit of body dysmorphia/internalized transphobia. Various gendered anatomical and descriptive terms used (in service of happy and affirming queer sex).

i.) locker

"You do not shower?"

Ilya Rozanov stood dangerously close to Shane, his towel barely clinging to his hips.

Perilous, just like everything else in Shane's life. Even the locker room was a risk, but it was just the two of them, and Shane could at least admit to himself that he wanted more of Rozanov. Another glimpse, one more small crumb.

Predictably, Rozanov overdelivered. He reached to adjust his towel like he wasn't sure Shana had gotten a good look at the cut of his abs or the coarse, dark hair below his navel.

"I do." Shane began to put on his sneakers after minutes of sitting with his socks pressed to the tile floor for the sake of plausible deniability. "Just uh, separately."

Rozanov raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Perfect is too good for team showers?"

"No," Shane scoffed, barely concealing a laugh at the absurdity of the thought, the dark, dingy showers he had suffered through for years to avoid moments exactly like this one. "I just… can't."

Rozanov propped a leg up on the wooden bench, his towel gaping wide to reveal the curve of thick, muscle-bound thighs, the shadow of his cock. Shane didn't even pretend not to look.

"I am surprised, Hollander," Rozanov said, and Shane felt a twist in his stomach at the pronunciation of his name, the way it changed to fit Rozanov's mouth. "I thought you were boring. But all this time you were just weird."

"I'm not weird."

Rozanov smiled, a shiny, white-toothed grin that made him look younger, more playful. Like during the photoshoot, that fleeting moment when Shane realized that this was what it would have been like to have a friend.

"So you are boring?"

"Fuck off."

With a click of his tongue, Rozanov repositioned himself. Back against the lockers, thick, muscular arms folded over a somehow even thicker chest. Shane followed Rozanov's movements with his eyes, moth meeting flame.

"Not very polite," Rozanov said, that flame flaring. "It was my idea for you to come to this photoshoot."

"Really?"

Rozanov nodded and the moth in Shane's stomach translated the movement into a wild fluttering of wings.

"What was your plan after that?"

"Up to you," Rozanov said with a shrug. His hand went for his towel, ready to drop it to the floor. Reflexively, Shane raised a hand to stop him.

"Wait." Shane pulled back his hand, scorched by the flame. "I need to… wait."

He winced as he heard himself say it, braced himself for the easy joke that Rozanov could make, that anyone in any locker room would have made. But Rozanov just waited, serious and patient. Like out on the ice earlier, when he'd called Shane pretty but nodded with that same seriousness when Shane had said no, not that.

So when he looked into Rozanov's eyes again and saw only curiosity, his whole body sagged with the relief of a held breath finally exhaled. Now all he could hope for was that Rozanov would understand what he was trying to say without saying it, which was, Please make this easy.

Rozanov's gaze dragged over him again, this time in a way that raised the heat on the back of Shane's neck.

"What room are you in?" Rozanov asked.

Shane told him.

---

ii.) 1410

He had a whole speech, cobbled together from internet advice. He'd practiced it in front of the mirror, awkward and stilted: it seemed better to be prepared than not, even though the whole thing made his stomach churn. Too messy, too complicated.

He rehearsed it in his head while he waited for Rozanov to arrive—or not, which seemed more likely with every passing minute. Cycled through every piece of clothing he'd packed, adjusted the lighting, finally convinced himself to fucking sit still so it wouldn't look like he'd been caught in the middle of a nervous breakdown.

The knock at the door was nearly enough to make Shane jump out of his skin. Rozanov stepped inside, real and close and smelling of sharp cologne layered with cigarette smoke, each scent making the other more pleasant than it would have been otherwise.

"We should talk," Shane heard himself say above the roar of blood pumping through his veins.

"No." Rozanov moved forward, and Shane allowed himself to be backed into the wall. "We shouldn't."

And then Rozanov erased every worry about messiness and complications with a kiss, his mouth hot and urgent against Shane's, his tongue slick and seeking. It made Shane fucking weak at the knees, which was the excuse he gave himself for swaying forward, chasing after Rozanov's lips with needy desperation.

"Sorry," said Shane, his gaze fixed on Rozanov's chest, unable to rise any higher. "Sorry, I—"

"Stop." Rozanov grabbed Shane's chin and tilted it upward until their eyes met again. "You want this, yes?"

Shane nodded. "Yes."

Rozanov slid his hand back along Shane's jaw, his thumb resting teasingly at the corner of Shane's mouth. "Yes what?"

"Kiss me again."

It was the easiest thing in the world for Shane to say, rewarded by lips on his neck and fingers in his mouth and a gasp of surprise from Rozanov, like he was the one who couldn't believe this was happening. When Rozanov stripped off his jacket something collapsed, a critical failure in the dam that separated the things Shane was allowed do from the things he wasn't, a rushing wave of want crashing down, wild and alive.

His hand found its way to Rozanov's fly, a fumbling of buttons and zippers and then the heft of Rozanov's rapidly hardening cock. Unbelievably, Rozanov mirrored him, tugging at the drawstrings of Shane's pants, frantic fingers sliding along his waistband, Shane's blood thrumming viciously in his veins. I want and I can't in an endless loop, escalated to a fever pitch by Rozanov's groans in his ear.

"I don't need—" Shane stuttered, lying through a clenched jaw as he tried to get a hand around Rozanov's wrist before he reached the point of no return. "Please, just let me…"

"Let you what?" Rozanov relented; Shane mourned the absence of his hands immediately. "Suck my dick?"

Words failed then, in spite of all the practice. Better to show, probably, than to try and fucking tell. So that was what Shane did, pushing down his sweats and underwear in one swift motion, too focused on trying to decode Rozanov's expression to be embarrassed about standing half-naked in the dimly lit alcove.

"So?" said Shane, when the silence became unbearable.

"So what?" Rozanov still seemed like he was starving for it, that simmering locker-room desire now boiling over. "You want me to suck your— your dick first?"

"You want to?"

Rozanov answered the question by crowding in for another kiss, his tongue in Shane's mouth and his hand sliding up Shane's thigh slowly and steadily, plenty of time for Shane to change course if he wanted to.

Shane wanted no such thing. He was starving for more messy kisses, for the feel of Rozanov's skin beneath his fingertips, for the slip of Rozanov's fingers between his folds, slick and throbbing with a need so strong he couldn't help but rise up to meet it, grinding and gasping and clinging to Rozanov's golden curls with greedy fingers.

It was Rozanov who finally managed to extract himself with a vague groan of regret, which Shane found himself echoing in a sort of petulant protest.

"Come to bed," Rozanov said, his eyes still dark with a wild desire that made Shane dizzy. "Let me do this."

Their clothes dropped behind them as they went, until Rozanov was naked on the bed, sweaty and hard and hairy and looking up curiously to see what would happen next. Shane stood frozen, stumped by indecision about whether to strip down all the way, remove his socks and binder, appalled at himself for letting this be the thing standing between him and his very fucking urgent desire to have sex with Ilya Rozanov.

Eventually Rozanov decided for him, saying "Come," and patting the mattress beside him.

Shane obeyed with relief, and smiled back when Rozanov rewarded him with a toothy grin. The distance between them collapsed again, an implosive loop that left a gaping void of hunger in its wake. More kissing, Rozanov bearing down and Shane rising up to meet him, the push and the pull and the sudden gasp as Rozanov's fingers brushed against Shane's slick cock, as sure and steady and relentless as the rest of him.

"Fuck," Shane groaned as he let his head crash back into the pillow, eyes closed tight at the too-muchness of the feeling, at the half-whispered Russian words tumbling out of Rozanov's mouth like drops of water. A rapid awakening as Rozanov's mouth moved down Shane's body, the electric shock of spit-sloppy lips on his stomach and eager fingers lapping up the wetness of his cock and cunt.

"Open your eyes," Rozanov instructed breathlessly. "Fuck, Hollander, look at yourself."

Shane moaned regretfully at Rozanov's abrupt withdrawal until he craned his neck to see the reason for it: Rozanov proudly displaying two fingers slick with strands of translucent liquid.

"You get this wet for other men?" Rozanov punctuated the question by kissing Shane's hip, sliding his fingers back into the heat of Shane's folds. "Or just me?"

"You're—" Shane tried to bite off the confession but of course Rozanov was too sharp for that.

"I'm what?"

"Fuck off," Shane said but there was no heat behind it, or maybe just the wrong kind.

Rozanov slowed down to an agonizing pace, holding Shane's hips down when he tried to pick it up again, until finally Shane said, "Please."

But Rozanov was too fucking stubborn. "I'm what?"

Shane had no choice but to close his eyes again, a hand over his face for good measure, the flush in his cheeks from any number of sources.

"You're my first," he said on an exhale, the sentence somersaulting over itself. "My first guy."

Rozanov froze. Shane craned his neck to look at him again, stormy blue eyes and the promise of a lightning strike.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Shane asked, because he felt like he was supposed to.

"No," Rozanov replied, nipping lightly at the inside of Shane's thigh, sharp teeth on sensitive skin. "Do you?"

"Not really."

"Ok."

Shane nodded, hardly trusting himself with words. "Ok."

And then Rozanov's head dipped back down between Shane's legs, slow kisses replaced by the sliding of a tongue, Shane's breath hitching as he spread himself open, hungry and desperate in a way that he was finally able to name. As Rozanov—fuck—as Rozanov sucked him off, Shane was able to pull a single desire from the dizzying constellation of pleasure above and around and inside his head.

"Inside," Shane gasped.

It was all he could manage but Rozanov understood perfectly, sliding first one finger and then a second into Shane's cunt as he canted his hips and clutched at the covers. Rozanov was unrelenting, a thirsty, needy thing as much as Shane, every movement and moan a question Shane's body was eager to answer.

Sooner than Shane expected those ripples became a wave, and all he could do was let it carry him as it crested. Awash on the shore, white sand and a sun so bright and warm it felt like something that could hold him in its hands.

Even as the borders of Shane's body settled back into place it was still warm, Rozanov still there between his legs, now looking up with sex-drunk eyes and wet red lips, now haloed by the dim hotel room lamplight as he made his way back up Shane's body.

"Taste," Rozanov instructed, holding his fingers up to Shane's lips so Shane could smell the musk of himself mingled with stale cigarette smoke and salty sweat.

Shane wasn't sure if Rozanov was testing him, expecting this to be the thing that made him balk. Fat fucking chance, if that was the case: Shane met Rozanov's gaze and held it as he took both fingers in his mouth, slid from tip to base and back again. Felt a twist of satisfaction low in his stomach as Rozanov's lips fell open, pink and plush, hips grinding slowly but purposefully against Shane's thigh, pulling his fingers from Shane's mouth and moving them to his own stiffening cock.

"Give me a minute," Shane said, the hazy afterglow light filtering through the gaps where he'd pillowed his face in the crook of his arm.

Rozanov groaned, burying his face in Shane's belly. "Ok," he said. "One minute."

Shane allowed himself to smile now that Rozanov wasn't looking, blaming it on the chemical high and the still-steady throbbing of pleasure in his groin. His thoughts drifted back to Rozanov in the shower, whether he'd have been able to say no to any of this with Rozanov wet and hard and desperate the way he was now.

"Did you wait for me?" Shane asked as he twisted his fingers into Rozanov's hair. "In the shower?"

"Fuck off," said Rozanov, which was not a no.

"How long?"

"Hollander, your minute is over."

Shane ignored him. "Did you touch yourself thinking about this?" He pushed his leg up and Rozanov began to rut against it in earnest, precome smearing across Shane's thigh. "Thinking about me?"

A string of Russian curses from Rozanov, and then a single word in English: "No."

"No?"

Rozanov looked up, shook his head. Trying to stop himself from saying something, it seemed, but Shane recognized a losing battle when he saw one.

"I was waiting for you," he confessed. "Waiting for this."

"And you were so sure this was going to happen."

"Yes." Rozanov crossed his arms and propped his chin up on Shane's stomach. "I was."

Shane rolled his eyes. "Asshole."

"I was right, wasn't I?"

The moment of smug victory was all Shane needed to catch Rozanov off guard, flip their positions and pin him securely to the mattress. Like some specimen to be studied: look all you want, but don't touch.

Except that Shane was allowed to touch now, so he did. Rozanov struggled gamely underneath him, groaning when Shane held down his hips, when Shane allowed his cheek to press up against the stiffness of Rozanov's cock.

A string of Russian syllables that sounded like a prayer, or maybe just wishful thinking on Shane's part.

"Fuck," said Shane, his own vocabulary sheared down to a single word before vanishing completely.

His tongue was too busy dragging slow strokes up Rozanov's shaft, taking the tip of it in his mouth. A few fumbling attempts at more and then Rozanov's deft, guiding hand on his head, echoes of the movement of his stick to redirect a stray puck on smooth ice, an almost imperceptible shift multiplied over time and distance.

"Da, Hollander," Shane heard Rozanov say, the words registering in a far-off but somehow still functional corner of his brain. "Like that."

It was obvious when the whole thing clicked into place, Rozanov as hungry for it as Shane was, the hand on the back of his head a frantic and furious mirror of the thing curling up between their bodies, a rabid animal, some biting and scratching beast beyond hope for a cure.

Not that Shane would even want one, so full of the taste and the scent and the feel of Ilya fucking Rozanov. Rozanov's fingers twisting and pulling on the short hairs at the back of his head, his mouth making sounds that Shane couldn't have imagined even in his wildest dreams.

When Rozanov tapped his shoulder to urge him off there was a moment when Shane considered ignoring him, dizzy at the idea of being cum-drunk and full, wrecked and dripping with it and absolutely no say in the matter.

But Rozanov said "Come here," so Shane slid up to him, fierce, sloppy kisses and new wetness between his legs as he notched himself onto Rozanov's hip and rocked in rhythm with Rozanov stripping his own cock. When Rozanov came so did Shane, the feeling unfurling inside him so strong that he pressed his face into Rozanov's shoulder and bit down.

"Fuck, sorry," Shane said as he examined the impressions of his teeth in Rozanov's skin, red indentations just shallow enough to avoid drawing blood.

"Don't be." Rozanov craned his neck to kiss Shane, hard and certain. "It's good for my reputation."

The prospect of locker-room gossip made Shane sit up straight, suddenly clear-headed. "You're not actually going to tell anyone, right?"

"Of course not. It's my secret, too."

"No, it's not." Shane shook his head, jaw clenched, mouth drying out. "It's not the same."

"Hollander." Rozanov sat up now too, eased his way back on top of Shane, ignoring the mess between them. "Why would I tell when I can have you all to myself?"

"Fuck," Shane exhaled as Rozanov kissed his neck and groped at his chest, some previously undiscovered spark ignited.

He put his hand over Rozanov's to keep it there, pressing down, still not enough thanks to the fabric of his binder. An inconvenience now, Shane huffing in frustration until Rozanov came back up and pressed his mouth to Shane's chest, hot and wet, his teeth grazing the stiff peak of Shane's nipple. Some muttering in Russian that Shane barely noticed: he was too busy inventing a language of his own, a wordless collection of gasps and moans as Rozanov's fingers pushed inside him and beckoned him toward the edge again.

---

iii.) 1221

Scott Hunter's room was right next door, but Shane didn't really care because he was an All-Star and Ilya Rozanov was kissing him like it was the beginning of the world. Everything he'd planned to say, all his questions were swallowed up by Rozanov's tongue, no room for any of the doubts that had scrabbled and sought purchase in his mind over the past six months.

And at the end of the day it was easy: easy to sink to his knees for Rozanov, easy to let himself be picked up and then dropped on the bed, easy to let Rozanov strip him down and put him on display.

"This?" Rozanov asked, his fingers sliding up under the edge of Shane's binder.

Shane nodded and raised his arms and braced himself for a regret that never came, only a rushing need as Rozanov shamelessly drank in his body and said, "Fuck, Hollander."

And then Rozanov's hands on his chest, pushing him back onto the mattress, nothing between them now but a dizzying sense that anything was possible. Shane gasping as Rozanov's mouth found his nipple, his hand anchoring itself in Rozanov's hair, his body arching up into the buzzing sensation of Rozanov's tongue on his skin.

"Rozanov," he managed to gasp out, "please…"

Rozanov lifted his head but let his hand continue the work of his mouth, working over the stiff bud of his nipple. "Please what? Fuck you?"

Shane's body bloomed with heat as the sharp edge of his want cut him to the bone. "Yes," he replied instantly. "I mean. Fuck, I don't…"

A full stop from Rozanov, who propped himself up on his forearms and looked up to meet Shane's eye with that piercing gaze that Shane was still getting used to.

"You have not done that before," he said, which both was and wasn't true: everything with Rozanov felt like the first time.

"I have," Shane protested, but heard in his own voice even less certainty than he felt.

"It's okay," Rozanov said. He kissed his way down from Shane's neck to his belly and back up again; Shane felt the invisible thread between them vibrate and then go taut with anticipation. "I have a compromise. If you want."

Shane nodded, swallowing hard. He was wound too tight, desperate for anything Rozanov would give him. Knew it was obvious in his eyes, on his face, in the way he was breathing. But somehow he didn't mind that with Rozanov, didn't bother trying to cover the deep well of want at his core. Maybe they could both fall, drown in it together.

"Lift up your legs," Rozanov said.

Shane complied, sliding his feet up on the bed, dizzy at the sight of Rozanov between his thighs. A shiver and a stoked furnace as Rozanov's hand slid down his ass, fingers barely grazing his rim.

"Has anyone ever…?" Rozanov asked.

Shane shook his head, shifted his hips to give Rozanov a better angle on what they were both after. "Not yet."

"Fuck," was the only English word Shane made out before Rozanov lapsed into Russian.

Shortly after that he lost his ability to understand any language at all apart from the one being spoken by their bodies, Rozanov's slick fingers in one hole and his tongue in the other and Shane greedy for all of it, ready to give as good as he got. He came with a groan and a slack mouth that was filled almost immediately, rode out his own aftershocks with Rozanov's cock between his lips and a white-hot brightness in his brain, more powerful than a punch to the jaw or the crack of a helmet on ice.

Maybe it was a little bit Shane's fault that Rozanov didn't quite pull out in time, his come tracing a telltale path from Shane's lips down to his chest. Maybe Shane pretended not to notice the thirsty look from Rozanov as he wiped the thick strands from his lips, slid his fingers into his mouth to lick them clean. But the gasp of surprise and sizzling pleasure when Rozanov buried his face in Shane's chest to lap up the remainder of his come was, maybe, the hottest thing Shane had ever experienced.

"You never told me," Rozanov said, dazed and breathless, sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead, "that you have such great tits."

Shane let out a barking laugh of surprise. "You never asked."

"Shh, Scott Hunter will hear you."

It had occurred to Shane that he might be more paranoid about Hunter's proximity, after. But even now, all he could do was shrug. "Scott Hunter probably took his melatonin and turned on his white noise machine three hours ago."

Shane looked over to Rozanov, expecting a laugh or at least a smirk, but instead found him frowning. "What?"

"I have a white noise machine," Rozanov confessed. Elaborated, upon seeing Shane's poorly disguised amusement: "For my beauty sleep."

Shane hummed a vague acknowledgement. "It seems like it's working."

Rozanov let his eyes roam across Shane's body, the kind of casual sizing up that Shane normally shied away from. But not this time.

"What?" Shane finally prompted, allowing a smile to curve up the corner of his mouth.

"Nothing," Rozanov said, unconvincingly, so it wasn't a surprise when he added: "You are hot. And you think I am hot."

Shane didn't bother with an answer, just rolled over to cover Rozanov's body with his own and place a kiss on his pink, parted lips. It was the first time the kiss felt like the point, he realized with a flutter in his stomach, instead of a stop on the way somewhere else.

God, he was well and truly fucked. Gasping for breath by the time Rozanov finally pulled back, looking equally breathless.

"Two weeks?" Rozanov asked, and Shane nodded. It didn't seem that long, after all: the time would pass in a blink.

"Yeah," said Shane, and craned his neck so Rozanov could plant a kiss there, right over the rapidly throbbing artery that led directly to his heart. "Two weeks."