Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Dallas Kent, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Background Scott Hunter/Ilya Rozanov, Sexual Coercion, Oral Sex, Alternate Universe

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of Proving Ground

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-15 Words: 4,648 Chapters: 1/1

Tenderloin

Summary

“We’ll start easy. Just a blow job.”

Notes

You know the Proving Ground drill. Not nice, feel bad fic ahead. CNTW does not mean none apply.

Smug, Freya, thank you dearly for your betaing, reining in my semicolon abuse, debating the proper verb tense for limited flashbacks, general support of my perversions, and so on.

Kent’s house in Toronto isn’t totally pristine, but he has, he tells Shane, moved in recently. Shane is Kent’s first prospect since he got traded to the Guardians; before this, he was living in an apartment downtown.

“I was already looking for a place,” Kent says, and shows Shane the stainless steel kitchen, the dining room, the decked out entertainment room. “This just moved my timeline up a little. Downtown was fine for a bachelor pad, but that’s not how I wanted you to live.”

Shane nods while trailing behind Kent. He shifts the strap of his carry-on against his shoulder. The carry-on is new, along with its larger, matching duffle bag. His old backpack from school, the one he had been using on flights, was left behind at his parents’, back in Ottawa. He insisted on it; his mom agreed. You have to dress for the job you want, she said. And what he wants is a spot in the MLH.

They’ll drive the rest of his stuff down soon, but not until Shane has settled in. Prospects do best if they fully immerse themselves in the MLH: this is what the handbook says. Shane has two copies.

“Gym is in the basement,” Kent continues. “We can check that out later. Fully kitted out—it’s sick. You’ll love it. I’m through here,” he says, pointing to the left. “And this is your bedroom.” He pushes open the door at the end of the hallway.

It’s a normal bedroom. Nice. Half bath en-suite, Shane notices. “This is great,” he says. “Can I leave my bags—?”

“Wherever, man. The place is yours,” Kent says. “Shower is down the hall, but if you want to soak in the tub or something, you’ll have to use mine.”

Which must be a joke, Shane thinks, and forces a laugh. He shrugs his bags to the floor. Maybe it wasn’t a joke. “I don’t think I’ll need the tub, Mr. Kent.”

Kent laughs. “Jesus, kid, call me Dallas. You make me feel old. Oh,” he says, and waves a hand at the door. “I was going to put a lock on, but I didn’t get to it last week. Let me know if you want one, okay?”

“Okay,” Shane says, dutifully. “Dallas.”

Kent grins at him. “We’ll talk more later. For now, just chill out. Happy to have you, dude,” he says, and turns. When he goes, he leaves the door open behind him.

They—all the prospects—move into their mentors’ houses on the same day. It’s been on Shane’s calendar for months. The third Sunday in August. Shane unpacks his suitcase into the closet, the white dresser against the wall. His charger goes by the bed. It’s a nice bed. Big. More space is good, Shane supposes. The sheets are too-smooth microfiber: they’ll make him sweat at night. He can buy new ones, maybe, or ask Kent to do it with the stipend. Not that he doesn’t appreciate what Kent has done already; his mom would tell him to thank Kent sincerely for his hospitality, so Shane will.

His bed at home was smaller, firmer, with a perfect dip in the middle, a well-worn quilt that he left, folded neatly, for his mom to pack away.

It’s close to dinnertime. Kent probably has a meal schedule already, something for Shane to slot himself into. On the nightstand, Shane’s phone buzzes.

Did you know?

Shane opens the text thread. Sees the previous message: Hey Jane, see you next month ;) xo Lily.

Know what? Shane sends.

About the FUCKING, Rozanov replies.

He stares blankly. How could he not know? How could Rozanov not know? Rozanov must have known. Everyone knows. Shane has known since U-14s, since everyone realized he was beyond the other boys, leaving them in the dust. That he’d be going pro eventually. There were rumors, whispers, and then: Bet you’ll love being a prospect, fag. Want some practice? But those boys would have broken Shane’s leg to get his chance at MLH, fucking or no. Shane knows they would have: they tried.

Shane taps out a message. Did Hunter do something?

He said prospects get fucked, Rozanov sends back.

You can report it if he’s too rough, Shane sends. Did he hurt you?

An hour later Shane is eating chicken and pasta with Kent, and Rozanov still hasn’t answered. Shane shoves his phone back into his pocket and keeps his eyes on his plate.

“Checking in with your mom?”

He shrugs, says, “Just a buddy,” and takes a sip of water. Kent has beer; he’d offered some to Shane, too, and then he’d laughed when Shane had said, shocked, that he was only eighteen.

Kent doesn’t treat him like a guest. He’s always telling Shane to make himself at home—mi casa, su casa, he says, in badly-accented Spanish.

On the wall, blown up and framed, is a poster of Kent himself from some magazine photoshoot he did a couple years ago. In it, Kent is almost entirely naked, skates and gloves only, stick in hand. He’s angled to the side with just the curve of his ass visible, grinning over his shoulder at the camera. Shane remembers the lurch in his stomach the first time he saw the magazine. Shoved in his face in a locker room in juniors, with the other boys laughing, making fun of Kent—too cold for full frontal, I bet—but admiring too, because they all knew Kent got crazy pussy. That women loved him; thought he was handsome, hot shit. That’s why he was in a magazine in the first place. At the time, Shane had thought it was really fucking stupid to skate around naked, even if it was just for pictures. But his eyes had caught on Kent’s bare thighs and lean core and his smile, a little conspiratorial, sly. I know you want to look, it said. Shane pushed the magazine away, rolled his eyes. Said, “What a douche,” just like the other guys.

The way Kent tells it, some of the guys on the Guardians got it printed and matted for him and put it up while Kent was out. He’d come back to it mounted in his living room and Kent had protested, said it made him look like an asshole, but then of course it had to stay. Kent laughs, so Shane does too. For a second, the real Kent’s expression mirrors the one in the poster exactly. Shane’s laughter catches in his throat. The real Kent has already turned away, talking about dinner. And Poster Kent doesn’t know anything, anyway.

It’s not that Shane really looks, but it’s hard not to see it. Every day. From the couch and the entryway and the dining room. After a couple days he thinks he notices it less, and then that huge, naked man on the wall will catch his eye again. Obliques and serratus anterior lush and well-defined. Shane, like most of the other guys his age, is strong but not yet built. His chest hair still comes in sparse. Kent—his stubble is thick. His tattoos make him look older, Shane thinks. It’s possible that his sponsors don’t care about the tattoos, that Kent has one of those casual deals. But maybe the brands like them. Maybe it’s part of Kent’s image: the hair, the tattoos, being naked in a magazine in the first place. That kind of thing gets asses in seats. Kent’s name sells jerseys. He’s got a ton of fans. Girls who will pay a lot of money for glossy magazine pages printed with Kent’s bare body and smiling mouth.

They would pay even more, Shane thinks, to have his view. In the kitchen, while Shane is making an omelet, Kent relaxes in white boxer briefs and rummages around in the fridge. Kent works out in compression shorts or a muscle tank or no shirt at all. Kent is damp from the shower with a towel slung low around his waist, lounging on the couch. Real Kent and Poster Kent are casually confident, lazily showing off. Shane never feels that comfortable in product shoots or promos or his own skin. Wonders if everyone else can see it too: if he looks as vulnerable as he feels, even fully clothed.

It’s not that Shane expects Kent to live his life differently just because Shane is in his house. It’s still Kent’s house; he’s an adult, a star. Shane is an adult too. Shane isn’t a pussy or a virgin or anything.

The thumping across the hall starts up again.

The truth is, Shane should be asleep. It’s Thursday night and they have training in the morning. Gym time and skate and shooting drills. He was almost asleep an hour ago, lying in the dark and doing breathing exercises, when he heard the front door slam closed and giggling in the hallway. The low rumble of Kent’s voice, indistinct and then getting clearer, talking to someone else. Outside his room something thumped against the wall, and then a woman moaned, throaty and shockingly loud.

“Shh, baby,” Kent said. “Don’t want to wake the kid.”

The woman laughed again, whispered something Shane couldn’t make out, and then gasped, muffled. Steps continued down the hall; another latch opened and closed. The light cut a white slash under the bedroom door.

It’s gone on for a while, that’s all. The noise will quiet and Shane will drift off, and then someone will shriek, or moan, or swear. It objectively makes sense that Kent has better stamina than Shane does: he’s older and has more experience. Probably Shane will get there eventually. But an hour seems like a long time. Guys in the locker room brag sometimes about going all night—she couldn’t get enough, they say. But Shane has heard other boys jerking off in shared hotel rooms, late at night. They don’t last that long. He figured everyone was exaggerating, just like they exaggerated how big their dicks were, said seven inches when it was only five, said they had a girlfriend but you couldn’t meet her. Shane really had a girlfriend at the time, but he maybe overstated how far they’d gotten. It was usually enough to let the guys make their own assumptions.

It had felt wrong, staying with Jessica during his prospect year. Some guys made it work. But it was a natural ending point, Shane figured. One less thing to balance. And it’s not cheating when you’re a prospect. It’s not even really sex, Shane knows. It’s about humility, not desire.

Kent probably won’t take that long, once he decides Shane is ready. There won’t be any kissing or giggling. It’s not the same sort of thing as what he’s doing with that woman at all.

Eventually Shane buries his head under his pillow and resolves to buy earplugs next time he’s out. The breathing exercises help, but it takes him another half hour to fall asleep.

He stays late at the practice rink doing agility drills with the rookies and farm team call-ups fighting for a spot on the roster. Drills aren’t optional for Shane, even though he’s already faster than most of the other guys. Kent offers to stay late with him on Wednesday and Thursday, more perfunctory each time; on Friday, he tells Shane to call a car over his shoulder while he walks away with Barrett.

Shane takes the metro instead. Keeps his Guardians hat low, facing the window. Mostly, he stays anonymous and works his way through protein bars. Mostly, he ignores the stops flying by as they get closer to Yorkville. He walks the last blocks to Kent’s place with his duffle strap digging into his shoulder and the breeze on his face.

Kent’s car is gone, but his stuff is dumped right inside the door. Shane’s bag and shoulders slump. There’s a post-practice shake with his name on it, literally, in the refrigerator. And a nap waiting for him, and a TV, and—his laundry.

He’d never had a billet family, even when he was in the O. There didn’t seem to be a point: by then, managing his schedule and career and sponsorships was full-time anyway. His mom had moved with him down to London. Some things he’d never had to learn. But she made sure, after they got the letter, after he was assigned to Kent, to take him through housekeeping basics. How to load and run the dishwasher, how to clean the toilet. How to read fabric care tags, and what to add to the washing machine to get the sweat stench out of base layers and compression gear. You never mix ammonia with bleach, Shane, she had said, like he was stupid, like he couldn’t read a warning label. But he’s doing his own laundry now, at Kent’s house, and doesn’t mind it so much. He prefers unscented products wherever he can get them: not often.

The laundry on the dresser is stacked and sorted by type and smells distinctly chemical-fresh. The socks are rolled instead of folded. The door had been closed, so someone—came in, probably.

Later that night, while Kent is mixing a drink and Shane is searching for his trail mix, he says, “Did the cleaners come through?”

“They’ll be through Sunday, I think,” Kent says. He looks at Shane sideways. “Did you need something cleaned?”

Shane’s face goes hot. “Uh, no. I was—I had some laundry—”

“Oh, I washed those,” Kent says. “I needed to run some darks, figured I could do you a favor at the same time.”

In the silence, Kent’s eyebrows start to climb. “No—yeah, thank you,” Shane says finally. He shakes himself, he blinks hard. “I appreciate it.”

“Man, if you don’t want me touching your laundry or something, that’s totally—”

“No, it’s—okay. Really. Thanks.”

And Shane does appreciate it. Kent’s gone out of his way to make Shane feel comfortable. It’s probably not easy for him, either.

Training with the Guardians is more intense than the training in juniors, but structurally the days are the same. It’s just that the players are better. They read the ice almost as well as Shane, are stronger, occasionally faster. They hit harder. But they welcome Shane in, too, his fresh meat and promise. Not every guy on the Guardians was a past prospect, but there are a few—anyone who was a first round pick in their draft year. We’re already betting on whether you’ll go first or second, one of the guys says. They believe in him. They clap him on the shoulder and put him to work.

That first Saturday, almost a week in, Shane gets lost in his book on the habits of high-achieving athletes. There’s a rap on the door; he looks up and Kent is raising his eyebrows, half-smiling.

“What happened to off-day training? You taking a rest day?”

Shane blinks, drops his book, looks at his watch. “Oh my god, I’m sorry,” Shane says. “No, I want to.” Kent is already dressed for the gym, sneakers on. Water bottle in hand, chewing on the straw. “Just let me get dressed?”

“Go ahead,” Kent says. “I didn’t know whether you were a rest day guy or not. Figured I’d ask.”

“No,” Shane says, “active recovery, usually. Yoga and mobility work.” He’s up, rifling through the dresser, when it clicks for him that Kent is still talking because he’s still standing there. In the doorway. Shane glances over his shoulder.

“For sure, yeah. You know, when I was your age, I would spend the whole day hungover and useless,” Kent is saying. He’s not looking at Shane, really. He’s not moving either.

Kent has already seen it, Shane thinks to himself. His hands clutch at the bottom of his shirt; they hesitate. Kent has seen him naked in the locker rooms. Kent will probably see him naked for prospect duties. It would be weird to say something about it. It’s not a big deal. The shirt comes over his head and he tosses it into the hamper. He puts his workout tank on his head and tugs it down over his face. Kent is telling him about a party, about sneaking out of his own mentor’s house to hang out at the university in downtown Boston. Shane mmhmms at the right places and drops his joggers. Turned towards the wall, with Kent in between sentences, it’s almost like he’s alone. His shorts go on and he turns around.

Kent’s eyes are steady on Shane’s face. “Ready?” He asks.

Shane grabs his shoes. “For sure,” he says.

“I’ve always found that schedules make it feel so… clinical,” Kent says. He leans forwards, elbows on his knees.

“Clinical, like—”

“Like you can’t say no,” Kent says.

Shane shifts. Mirrors Kent and chews on the inside of his own lip. “Right, yeah. But we do—I mean, I have to, right?”

Kent spreads his hands. “There are requirements for the program. You can always drop out if it’s not working for you,” he says. “But within those limits, I would hate for either of us to feel forced. So I like to be a little more spontaneous. When the mood strikes, you know?”

“Yeah, sure. Definitely,” Shane says. Kent’s mood, or his? But it was a nice reminder, that he could say no. He appreciated it; that Kent wasn’t going to be an asshole about it, especially if Shane was sick or something. Mentors usually weren’t dicks about it, he’d heard. Both sides have obligations. “Do you want me to, um. Right now?”

“We’ll start easy. Just a blow job.”

Shane tries looking at the TV, off, at the wall, makes eye contact with Poster Kent, inadvertently, and settles on studying the tips of his shoes. Just a blow job. “I haven’t—I don’t think I’ll be very good at, uh. That.”

He flinches when Kent’s hand settles on his knee. Kent raises an eyebrow and squeezes. “That’s fine, Shane. No one expects you to be good at it.” His thumb rubs the top of Shane’s knee, the ridge of bone.

Shane swallows, he nods. Kent nods back. His eyes are warm, and all of Shane’s skin has begun to prickle. His ears are hot; his mouth tight, impossible to open. Kent tosses a pillow to the floor between his feet.

“So, you kneel here,” Kent says, which is enough for Shane to know that he has to peel himself off of the couch and take a step closer, then another, for Shane to stand in the narrow space between Kent’s body and the coffee table and drop to his knees. “A little closer,” Kent says. “I know what you’ve heard, but it’s not that big.”

It being Kent’s dick. Kent’s dick that Shane is going to suck. Shane’s knees stick to the leather pillow, sweaty, when he shuffles forward. His hands go where? He twists them together in front of his own crotch and finds them clammy. Kent’s not doing anything; Shane looks up and can’t avoid the bulge in Kent’s sweats. Kent’s hard-on. Shane jerks his eyes away and meets Kent’s eyes instead, which should be safer.

Gently, Kent says, “I’ll do all the work.” A finger brushes against Shane’s bottom lip and catches on the dry skin there. “Open up and keep your lips over your teeth.”

At first, Shane doesn’t understand what he means. Kent’s pointer finger is salty and big; it rubs against Shane’s wet inner lip and pushes in, in, bumps against his teeth before Shane realizes that he has to tense his lips and relax his jaw. Kent’s finger, further in, strokes Shane’s tongue, pets through the saliva pooling in his mouth, wet all over. The finger slides out, slides deeper.

“Suck a little,” Kent says, and then, “That’s perfect, Shane.”

Kent’s staring. His eyes are dark. Shane’s tongue keeps twitching, pressing up against Kent’s finger erratically. His finger feels bigger now that Shane’s sealed his lips around it and hollowed his cheeks, but that can’t be all that he’s supposed to do. That’s not all Shane’s girlfriend had done. It’s not a regular blowjob, though. It’s not like he’s supposed to be giving good head. It would probably be gayer to try to make it good. He’s just supposed to let Kent do it.

There’s movement in his peripheral vision, and then a hand is in his hair, threading through and cupping the back of his skull. He freezes. Can’t figure out how to move. Can barely think over the blood rushing in his ears. Kent’s finger pulls out of his mouth and smears wet against his face, then it goes to the waistband of Kent’s sweats. The light catches on Shane’s saliva. Shane’s saliva on Kent’s finger, Kent’s big-knuckled broad hand tugging down his sweatpants, no underwear. Kent’s dick springs up. Shane flinches and Kent’s hand holds his head steady. It looks huge. It’s crazy that they’re doing this in the living room, in the afternoon, with all the lights on, but doing it in a bed would definitely be gayer. It’s crazy that this is Kent’s dick. It’s the closest he’s even been to a hard dick, except his own, which doesn’t count. Shane tasted his own precome once on a dare in juniors—but that also doesn’t count.

The tip is shiny; Shane feels his eyes cross when he tries to focus on it. Kent laughs. Kent looks at him with big blue eyes, full lips. Guys chirp him for being so handsome. Shane has heard it. He gets it. A lot of women have been in this position, Shane guesses. But it’s different for them.

“Keep your mouth open and don’t bite,” Kent says softly. “That’s all, okay?” He pauses, and Shane nods, choppy: that’s all. “Put your hands on my thighs. Breathe through your nose. If it’s too much, just tap my leg and I’ll stop. You ready?”

All the saliva flooding Shane’s mouth is gone. He has to clear his throat to speak. Has to force his hands up, rest them carefully on Kent’s thighs, feel the heat of him through his sweatpants. Kent’s dick will be hot. Kent’s dick is going in his mouth. He’s going to be sick. He feels like he’s going to be sick. In his—if he’d thought about it—if he’d wondered how it was going to go—it hadn’t been—

“Ready,” Shane says finally.

Kent tugs him in. Shane goes, swaying, knows he has to open his mouth. He can take a hint. But it seems—impossible. Strange. Somewhere between his brain and his body, a wire has severed. Keep your mouth open and don’t bite. His ears are ringing. When Kent’s dick bumps against his lips, they part; his jaw, limp, hinges open, and then it’s in. Shane’s fingers flex on Kent’s legs, slipping against the fabric. It’s huge in his mouth and salty on his tongue, which is pressed flat, pinned down. This is just the tip.

“Relax,” Kent says. The hand not on Shane’s head is wrapped around his dick. He holds it steady, pushes forward while he keeps Shane close. He opens Shane’s jaws wider and wider until Shane’s lips meet his hand.

Shane’s not choking, but the corners of his mouth sting, and the hinge of his jaw hurts. Kent’s hand flattens, just his pointer and thumb in a loose circle; his fingers tighten in Shane’s hair; he thrusts. When Kent’s dick bumps into Shane’s soft palette, he gags. He chokes and jerks his head back, and is stopped by Kent’s hand. “That’s okay, that’s fine,” Kent says. His voice is rough. He’s turned on. Bitter precome in Shane’s mouth, slippery. Is it fine? Kent says, “Suck.” There are tears gathering in the corners of Shane’s eyes and his stomach roils. “Suck,” Kent says, and gives Shane’s head a shake.

He listens. He sucks. There’s nothing to think about except trying not to puke. There’s an all-white buzzing in his mind, circling around, claustrophobic. Kent’s voice comes from a distance: “Lick it.”

Kent fixes Shane in place with both hands, thumbs pressing in on his face. He tilts Shane’s head. “Breathe in,” Kent says, warning. Then he’s thrusting. Kent had been going easy on him, Shane realizes: now he chokes. The head of Kent’s dick wedges Shane’s throat open, slides deeper, until Shane’s nose is full of Kent’s pubes. He pulls out.

“Good, Shane. Great.” Kent strokes gently over Shane’s cheekbones, and, when Shane blinks his eyes clear, smiles. “Let’s try that again.”

He can’t hear anything over his own pulse and the thick, wet sounds of Kent fucking his mouth. His teeth are covered, out of the way, a good thing too; he jerks and twitches when Kent’s cockhead pops in and out of his throat, when his stomach heaves, rebelling. It sounds—it sounds like porn. Like shit he’s seen on someone’s clunky laptop in hotel rooms after travel games, boys laughing around him, a girl on her knees with messy mascara and smeared lipstick gagging on some guy’s fat cock under bright studio lights. He must look like that. He must look like he wants his throat fucked. Kent must think so, too, because he drags Shane in close, balls smushed to Shane’s chin, grinds in deep.

Shane’s throat convulses. Kent groans; he’s not pulling out. Kent rolls his hips. Shane actually—he really—he can’t breathe at all, and—he taps at Kent’s leg twice in quick succession. Kent’s saying something, still thrusting, and Shane can’t hear anything over the wet nasty sound of his own strangled gasps and racing heart. Kent’s hand is tight on the back of his neck now, scruffing him, tilting his head back further, so Kent’s dick can fit that much deeper. He pulls out a little and Shane sucks in a breath, heady salty hot air. Maybe he doesn’t have enough oxygen and his muscles aren’t working right. Like at the end of a set when you try to lift a weight and it just won’t move; maybe Kent didn’t feel it. Maybe Shane didn’t tap hard enough. Kent’s dick is back, and his hands; Shane tries to cough and can’t. His whole face is messy, snot and spit clogging Shane’s airway and matting down Kent’s pubes. He taps again, again. “Just a second, baby, almost done,” Kent says, and pets through Shane’s hair. His fingers grab, twist, hold Shane down. His dick gets harder in Shane’s mouth; he thrusts rough into Shane’s face.

His thumbs trace the delicate skin under Shane’s eyes. “So good, baby,” he says. His nails scrape over Shane’s scalp, bright starbursts of pain pinning him in place.

He lets Shane go. Shane chokes immediately, coughs deep and painful, come thick and disgusting dripping down his throat and stinging his sinuses. There’s a half-empty water glass shoved under Shane’s nose. He drinks it, then grabs the bottom of his shirt and tries to wipe his face. He flinches when the corner of a washcloth touches his mouth. Kent follows, dabbing at spit, mucus. Tears.

The late summer sun shines in through the big windows. Kent’s hair is golden, his skin flushed and dewy. He smiles beatifically down at Shane. “It takes a couple tries to really get the hang of it, in my experience,” he says. “It’s a skill.”

“I—okay.” His voice sounds like shit. It hurts coming out. Shane can’t meet Kent’s eyes.

Kent’s hand comes down on Shane’s shoulder and squeezes. “Good hustle, Hollzy.”

From the kitchen, the sound of Kent opening the dishwasher and putting his cup inside, and then Kent’s footsteps in the hallway. Distantly, Shane hears water running. He gets to his feet. Shane figures that Kent would know best. Next time won’t be as hard.