Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Scott Hunter

Characters:

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

Additional Tags:

POV Shane Hollander, Crack Relationships, Crack, secret hookup, scott picks up shane at a bar, accidentally, scott and shane find out about each other, Accidental Coming Out, scott and shane run into each other in a gay bar

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Hockey and Melodrama

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-01 Completed: 2026-05-08 Words: 9,106 Chapters: 2/2

Well, ugh, this is awkward

Summary

It took a lot of courage, but Shane Hollander finally did it. He walked into a gay bar, somewhere where no one would recognise him. He got a drink. He was ready and he was admitting to himself he was into guys and he was going to get laid.
He did not expect, here, out of all places, to run into Scott Hunter.
Especially since neither of them had any inclination the other person might be... you know...

Notes

If my best friend is reading this (yes, you), it's up to you if you want to continue, but please, please don't tell me if you do.
xxx

This story is based mostly on the books and set in the period before Kip came on the scene or Shane and Ilya began developing feelings for each other. As both of the characters are mentioned to find some hookups out of the country, the chance of them meeting might be tiny, but tiny does not equal zero ;)

Chapter 1

It took Shane three nights of pacing around the club's entrance to finally walk in and order a beer. The bartender, who looked barely out of his teenage years, smiled when he took his order. Then winked as he opened and slid a bottle to him. He also refused to let Shane pay. His smile and the trajectory of his eyes told Shane he understood why he was there, and that he didn't need to look further if he liked what he saw.

The invitation only made Shane nervous, for a million reasons. The way the man looked barely old enough to be allowed into the bar, yet far more confident in what he wanted and what he was than Shane ever managed to be. The way his transparent shirt and sparkly makeup made Shane confront his own appearance and the fear of doing anything about it. And how it made him realise that although the man was undoubtedly beautiful, Shane had, in course of his limited experience with men, developed a very particular taste. It was embarrassing, really.

So Shane nodded politely and walked away from the bar. He was really trying to break his self-destructive habit of fucking his rival, find some nice, beautiful man and expand his experiences. Instead, he found himself comparing everyone to him. Too short. Too skinny. Shane was willing to admit he had a type. Someone big, strong, someone who he didn't need to be gentle with. The type was not Rozanov, but it did fit him to a tee. Which was precisely why Shane needed to find someone else and confirm that it was the case, that it wasn't Rozanov himself. That, and the fact that Rozanov would now be in Moscow, and the occasional texts did nothing for the hunger that hadn't been fed since before the playoffs and will remain at least until Shane's first game in Boston. In October.

Which is how Shane found himself now in Mexico. At a club called Manhole. The place was exactly as he imagined — ignoring how little was left to the imagination once he was done looking through the venue's intense social media presence.

He knew, theoretically, that he was among his people. What should be his people. In reality, he stuck out like a sore thumb — not wearing make up was, apparently, not a popular choice at this venue. He was in his mid twenties, younger than many of the patrons around him, but in his grey t-shirt and cargo shorts, he probably looked like someone's dad. Maybe he should have been embarrassed about it, but it seemed to get him noticed, appreciated, even, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that.

So he smiled, and even laughed a little when people around him laughed, and tried not to jerk away from hands reaching to brush against his arms (discreetly) and grabbing his biceps (not so discreetly). He wasn't sure why he'd ever thought this was a good idea. Why he thought he could walk into a bar and pickup — or get picked up by — some guy. He should have used an app. Or admitted to himself that he was a coward and waited for October.

But he was in a bar now. And while he was very much trying not to run away, the part where he was getting noticed did not feel all bad. The crowd had grown as the evening turned into a night, and Shane's edges were mellowed by the beer. He enjoyed — or was learning to enjoy — talking to the men around him. He was also really trying to work on his flirting, but his body seemed to be doing the talking better than his mouth could. It was clear that it was what the men were approaching him for anyway, which was a comforting thought given the situation, as his body, unlike his mind, didn't have the tendency to blurt out terribly stupid questions.

With the help of his beer, he managed to relax enough to let his body do the talking, although it was still a very limited kind of conversation. Beautiful, colourful, jovial men were crowding him, dancing and unafraid to take space, and show what they liked and didn't like and try and grab it when they did. Shane had to do the same. Find someone he liked — someone strong, rugged, accent welcome — and make a move.

So he had a type. He'd show everyone (himself, mostly), it didn't need to be a sexy hockey player for him.

With that goal in his mind, Shane took a sip of his beer as he scanned the room. The pink umbrella, which he originally thought would be a good way to signal his intentions and inclinations, was now poking him in the eye. It was also completely unnecessary, as he realised his presence in this place was just enough to give all of that out.

So Shane flirted. Enjoyed the attention. And kept looking.

Then a man at the bar caught his attention. Tall, impressively built, with muscles straining against a white t-shirt stretched to the full extend of its potential over his chest. From the profile, which was all that Shane could see, there was something about his face that intrigued him. The man was hypnotising his beer, with an intensity Shane knew intimately, and very few people could match.

He was certainly handsome, in a rugged way where his body was perfect and his face was not and it was better for it. His chin was covered with stubble and light sunburn darkened his cheeks and nose, his hair messy and too long to stay out of his eyes, strands sticking to his brow with sweat. He reminded Shane a little of another player he knew, Scott Hunter — not that the legendary player with a perfect sweetheart reputation would ever be found in a gay bar, or looking anything short of camera ready.

Shane had to chuckle. And he had to move before his mind forced him to confront the fact that maybe the admiration he had for the man when he joined MLH might have been a little too close to a crush. But it didn't matter now. So what if he was a little too impressed by the player who'd been his role model since MLH and draft started seriously entering the conversation for him? It wasn't like Scott was into guys, or Shane would even consider starting up something with yet another player, even if that was an option. That was, after all, why he was here. Different country, different men, anonymity. His life was already complicated enough as it was.

Before he had time to think about what a terrible idea it was, Shane crossed the room, deciding to pull the one move he had learned over the couple of evening he'd spent in a similar bar last summer, unsuccessfully searching for the courage to talk to any man. The move consisted of Shane drinking what was left of his beer before walking over to a man at the bar and setting the empty bottle right next to him, hoping the man would then initiate a conversation.

So Shane did just that. Finished the beer. Plopped his ass on the next stool. Tried to flag the young bartender who gave him a wink as he mouthed be right there. And stole a quick glance at the man besides him before the man had a chance to look back.

He was just as impressive up close. Shane could imagine being crushed under that chest. He didn't avert his eyes when the man took notice of him and invited Shane to watch as he turned to him, dragging his eyes leisurely up his body. The moment his eyes reached Shane's face, recognition sent them both staring down into their drinks.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! Shane looked up, once more, just to be sure, because this really couldn't be. Because there was no chance that actual, perfect, clean-cut Scott goddamn Hunter was sitting at a gay bar in Mexico. No chance that of all bars, he'd be in the same bar as Shane. And certainly there was no chance in hell Shane would somehow manage to pick him of all the people in the establishment.

Except the man next to Shane, who most certainly was Scott Hunter, turned to him, red in face and grinning in a manner that showed he was out of any sensible reactions.

'Well, ugh, this is awkward.' Scott Hunter was laughing, or trying to, but the sound that accompanies his words was closer to choking. Shane glanced over and confirmed that Scott Hunter's face had turned exactly the same shade of red as his own.

Shane tried and failed to come up with a response, but there was none. So he did the next best thing. Ordered a stronger drink. Hunter followed suit. And Shane's mind was running fast, trying to explain his presence in this place, come up with an imaginary friend he was there to support, who just happened to disappear on him…

'You're… not going to…' Hunter turned to him, his words fighting with his mouth.

'Of-of course not. And you…'

'Of course not.'

'Okay.'

'Okay.'

And Shane thought their conversations in his rookie year, when he was so impressed with Scott he could barely get a word out, were awkward. It was nothing compared to this one. Shane was still processing the fact that he had found himself sitting next to Scott Hunter in a gay bar in Mexico. Where he only came because he was sure no one there could possibly know him. Certainly no one from MLH would be there. Not in a gay bar in fucking Mexico.

Shane dared to steal a look at Scott, who seemed too fascinated by his drink to catch him. He was trying to process what this meant. The answer was obvious, but that didn't meant he could actually believe it. That Scott was here, that Scott was, like him, maybe? Was he? What was Shane like, then? Did he even know?

Shane ordered another drink, even though the first one was disgusting and still burning down his throat. He really wasn't sure what to think. He came here to figure that out, for fuck's sake. To try and separate sex and hockey and instead here he was, drinking next to Scott goddamn Hunter in a gay bar and… and was Scott goddamn Hunter checking him out, just now?!

There was certainly a look. And there could have been many reasons for a look. It could have been a is-this-real look? An is-he-gone-yet look? It didn't feel like either of those looks. It hovered on Shane's chest and arms and made Shane too aware of his body and made him want to flex his muscles and also have a look himself. And before he could think, Shane caught himself taking that look.

He took in, up close, the fitted shirt and the spot where it disappeared into tight linen trousers, and the brown leather belt that held it all together and a zipper and probably a button behind the belt clasp and the knowing that that is not where his eyes should be before they hastily continued lower, where the trousers finally released the massive thighs, high above knees, higher than Shane would ever dare to show but now when he was shown he couldn't look away and couldn't not think about those pants, and...

Realising what he was staring at, he continued down, quickly moving his gaze to his own feet and not looking back up. He shouldn't — couldn't, really — look back up. As if he wasn't embarrassed enough, he caught himself thinking that yeah, Scott was hot, except the thought sounded in his head too much like when Rozanov had said it, when they were hooking up in a hotel room that was next to Scott's back in their rookie year, and now Shane was thinking of not one but two hockey players he most certainly shouldn't be thinking about, not like that.

He only lifted his eyes from his shoes to find his drink and bring it to his lips. He could see, on the periphery of his vision, Scott doing the same.

'So, uh, you're, ah…' Shane wasn't sure where he found the courage to start the question, or how to make it last long enough to finish it. But he was dying to ask, dying to know he was not alone. Not the only one. Not wrong, not completely. Because he knew, whatever he and Rozanov were, they were not the same thing. But maybe, maybe someone else was like him.

'Uh, yeah, yep, I am,' Scott replied after emptying his glass and setting it down a little too hard. 'You?'

'Yep.'

'Right.'

They returned to their silence. Scott was scanning his empty glass but he wasn't ordering another drink yet. Maybe he was going to leave. Shane hoped he was going to leave. There was no chance he would have the courage to try and pick up a guy with Scott fucking Hunter watching. And it certainly didn't help that Scott was clearly the hottest guy in the room either.

'Fuck,' Shane murmured under his breath, a small release for what was piling up in his head. It would take an actual, proper, fuck to clear up the mess inside, but that was probably not happening tonight, not now.

'Yeah, I… I'll probably get going,' Scott spoke at last, barely audible over the music, surprising Shane. 'Yeah, uh, back to my hotel.'

He wasn't looking at Shane, or anyone in particular, but there was no one else within earshot, so Shane nodded. Scott certainly didn't owe him an explanation, or a goodbye. Was he supposed to say something back? Good night? Have a safe trip? Or maybe, why are you telling me this?

Shane said nothing. And Scott was still lingering. Maybe Shane really was supposed to say something? He was realising he was not ready for this kind of interaction. He probably should have looked up the appropriate slang or something. But he didn't expect to be talking much tonight, with his intention being what they were and his Spanish being rather poor. He certainly wasn't planning on speaking to an American hockey player…

Shane nodded again, because it was better than nothing. Scott could probably see the gears in his head spinning, because he was still waiting around. Those seconds felt infinite to Shane. Was Shane reading too much into them if he thought it might have been something from him he was waiting for? Maybe Shane really should say something back. He was deciding between good night and it was nice seeing you, although it wasn't, almost settling on the former, when Scott turned and finally left.

Shane watched him leave. It wasn't intentional, it was just, impossible not to. The crowd parted for him, reluctantly, before swallowing him so that only his head remained visible. And Shane was realising he was disappointed when Scott finally disappeared from his view.

So he walked towards the exit too, even though he knew it was a horrible idea and it was probably too late anyway. But he got out and there was Scott, about to round the corner of the street. He must have heard the bar door open and close, must have been listening for it, with how fast he turned around to look. His eyes landed on Shane before quickly snapping back.

Maybe Shane shouldn't have followed him. Fuck. Scott was probably trying to get away from him, from this embarrassing evening and here was Shane, following him like a fucking creep. Fuck. He was a fucking idiot.

Except Scott was, once again, lingering. He should have been behind the corner already, gone from Shane's view, but for some reason, he was just… standing there. Shane looked around himself. Once again, there was no one else there. If Scott was waiting for someone, it had to be Shane. It would be wrong, very wrong if that was who Scott was waiting for. Shane knew that. He followed anyway.

He almost reached Scott, but then Scott started walking again. Not running away. Leaving a few paces between them, but checking over his shoulder that Shane was still there. Which was when Shane had no choice but to admit to himself. That he was, in fact, following Scott Hunter to his hotel.

Terrible idea. Terrible, exciting, idea. Because Scott was another player. Hot, and, obviously, hot for other guys, but still a player. Scott, whom Shane never called by his first name, not to his face anyway. It's not like they ever really talked, and when they did, it was about hockey and it was rarely nice. Plus, Scott Hunter was a legend. He used to be Shane's role model. When Shane got the courage to talk to him in his first years in the league, he always called him Mr Hunter. But that would be awkward now, right? Or would he — Scott — would he think it was hot?

In his mind, Shane landed on Scott, and even that only if completely necessary. No names would be better. But if he needed to say his name, it would be his first name. Shane was only a couple of years younger, no matter how he and other players liked to tease him about the length of his career. And he'd hate to have Scott look at him like he was a star-struck kid or something, both because he was far from a kid and very much the better of the two players already.

Shane wished he had the guts to ask where and how far they were going, but the silence felt like a mutual deal, like any conversation they might have wouldn't be appropriate for the open world around them. Maybe, Shane could walk up to him with an appropriate topic. He could ask, hey, how's the off season? Could — should — he ask about the fucked up playoffs, how the Admirals got kicked out by a much weaker team right in the first round? Would that be… appropriate? That was the issue with Shane's frame of reference being one person. Because that one person would definitely get the right kind of bothered about chirps like that. The hot kind of bothered.

The kind that Shane should not be thinking of right now, following Scott to his hotel. Scott, who's pace had picked up to almost running speed. Who's hair was all sweaty with the summer heat, and a droplet was running down the back of his neck, disappearing under the collar of his shirt. Who was, just now, looking a little lost, just as Shane was pretty sure his own hotel was just around the intersection that had stopped Scott.

Shane didn't let himself think long enough to come up with a reason not to say it. 'I'm this way. Like, uh, just around the corner.' He pointed down a street to his right. The shops and cafés were long closed at that hour, but the main street with its charming buildings and touristy establishments still buzzed with life as people were returning to their hotels or heading out for a drink. Shane was wishing he'd thought of that when booking his place and chose somewhere most discreet.

'Right. I'm… fuck,' Scott was trying to say something, rambling, before finally giving up and following where Shane pointed, which lead to them walking side by side for a moment and Shane wasn't sure what to do with that. For a brief, terrifying moment, he considered reaching for Scott's hand, a thought so bizarre and insane he could feel the realisation of what he'd almost done lodge in his stomach and rake his back with cold shivers.

He was so glad the walk wasn't long from there. He practically bolted for the  revolving door of the hotel lobby, changing directions so fast Scott overtook him by good three steps before realising they had arrived. Praying no one would stop them or spare them a second glance, now that they were, for the first time, in a lit room, Shane had to focus all of his energy on keeping himself from running through the lobby. On not turning around and checking that Scott — who was probably trying to pretend they did not walk in together just as much as Shane was — was still behind.

He didn't even know how he made it to the lift. How he survived the agonisingly slow ascent to the fifth floor, with Scott pressed as far from him as the small cabin allowed. He wasn't forcing himself to slow down anymore as they got out and the floor seemed empty. The allure of a locked door, an actual barrier between himself — them — and the word was too strong. Shane practically ran for it.

When the door finally closed behind them with a snap, Shane didn't hesitate to turn the lock twice. He was aware, standing in the narrow opening of his room, how close Scott was. Scott, who, equally nervous in the open space of the hotel, had followed into the room right behind him, his chest almost touching Shane's back. Scott, who had been Shane's role model, competition, and one of favourite rivals. Scott, who was, standing very, very close, looking absolutely terrified, and yet still absolutely hot. Scott, who didn't seem like he was going to make any move.

Shane considered offering Scott a drink. Or a tour of the room — all fifteen square meters of it. Because Scott seemed even more nervous than Shane felt. Which, fucking hell, was not something Shane knew how to handle.

He knew, reasonably, he could not expect a man he'd just picked up to know what he wanted from him, that communication was important. But it was not Shane's strong suite. And it was not part of the experience he was hoping for, to have to ask. And, and Shane hated his mind for going there, Rozanov had always known, and given him what he needed, without needing to ask.

Fuck it. Okay, maybe Shane could not communicate what he wanted. Not with his words. His body would have to do then.

He tried not to think of how much he was copying what had worked on him as he put his hand on Scott's chest and pushed him against the wall. His lips followed, crushing onto Scott's. For a moment, there was no reaction and Shane worried that somehow, he had misinterpreted the situation that lead to Scott following him to his room. But then Scott's lips began to move, first opening slightly to let out a sign stuck inside, then falling into a rhythm with the advances of Shane's tongue. His body followed soon, hands placed on Shane's hips, barely touching. It wasn't enough. Not even close.

'You want me to slow down?' Shane broke the kiss. He was praying the answer was going to be no. But he couldn't ignore the fact that Scott's response didn't come close to matching his… enthusiasm.

'You sure this is what you want?' Scott asked, as if there weren't million moments before when Shane could have changed his mind, not followed him, not invited him over, not pressed him against the wall and kissed him… Shane wasn't even sure what emotion he was supposed to feel at that, so he just stared at Scott, face blank.

 'Okay, stupid question.' Scott still sounded nervous. Shane fought the urge to roll his eyes.

'You can leave if you've changed your mind.' It would definitely be better than the half-hearted touches and mixed signals.

'I haven't,' Scott assured him. As if trying to prove he meant, he put some force into his grip of Shane's hips. It wasn't enough. It still wasn't enough. He was being careful. Shane didn't know if he was unsure of himself, or if he was trying to take it slow for his sake. The last thing he wanted was Scott treating him like a fucking kid. But he hoped he could snap him out of it, show him he really meant it when he kissed him, that he could handle what came next.

'Then touch me like you mean it, I won't fucking break,' Shane issued the challenge before using the full weight of his body to press Scott into the wall. He kissed him, again, pinning him with his hips. This time, Scott's mouth returned the pressure, while his hands grabbed at Shane's shirt. Shane let out a loud breath as he was forced to break the kiss to let Scott pull his shirt over his head. The shirt dropped to the floor. And Shane found Scott's eyes fixated on his chest, mouth slightly open, throat bobbing.

Shane was really feeling himself. A look like that made him forget everything outside the room. He took a step back, opening his arms, inviting Scott to do with his body as he pleased. He did not need to repeat the invitation. Scott pulled his own shirt over his head as he stepped forward, pressing their naked skin together as his lips descended on Shane's neck.

'Fuck,' Shane mumbled, pleased by the initiative. Then Scott found a spot below Shane's jaw that made his knees go weak, and Shane gave in to the feeling, letting his legs go soft and dropping down, his face aligned with Scott's crotch.

'At least invite me to the bed first,' Scott tried to sound cocky as Shane worked on his belt, but he did not make a move to step back. And when Shane looked up, he was watching. But the bed did sound like a nice idea.

'Make me,' Shane challenged as he pulled his trousers down, leaving Scott in nothing but his white, already slightly wet boxers. Shane's eyes hypnotised the wet spot, and when he managed to tear them away, he could take in the whole sinful image of the white on Scott's tanned skin.

His vision went blank when Scott trailed his fingers over his scalp and dragged him to his feet by his hair. He heard himself moan before he realised he was making a sound.

'Make that sound again,' Scott groaned as he buried his face into Shane's neck, leaving a wet trail as his lips and tongue continued down.

Shane dragged him back up, lips to lips, before replying as they broke for a breath between the kisses.

'You're going… to have to… fuck me real good for that.'

Scott pulled away to look into Shane's face. He looked startled. Fuck. Was that not where he thought this was going? Was that too far? They didn't have to go that far, although with how things were going, Shane did think…

'You. Want me to… you?' Scott was visibly out of breath, which only added to the confused stumbling. He took a step back.

'I'm sorry, what did you assume was going on here?' Shane did not understand what was happening. How was this happening? Scott was just pulling his hair, dragging him to the bed. He was not good at social clues, but that was a pretty big one.

'Sorry,' Scott chuckled. He reached out to place his hands on Shane's hips, pull them together maybe, but Shane took a step back. It was becoming too much. Too much guessing. Too… confusing. He was not ready for confusing. Hotel room. Sex. It was supposed to be simple.

'I just, didn't expect, that's how you'd want this to go, you'd want be the one that… fuck,' Scott was just as uneasy with having to put it in words as Shane was. 'I just assumed we'd do it the other way around,' he finally managed to say.

Shane choked on an involuntary laugh. He had to admit, that had not even crossed his mind, but Scott couldn't have known that. Known his preference. Obviously.

'I mean, I don't mind either way,' Scott spoke again, seeing as Shane wasn't going to. 'Or we could just, do whatever you want. I mean, if you still do want.'

'Yeah, of course,' Shane replied, automatically, before shaking his head to dispel the thoughts and forcing a smile back on his face. He wanted this, just a minute ago, he really, really did. This didn't have to change anything. So Shane took a step forward. Pressed his mouth to Scott's neck and pulled the skin with his teeth enough to make him yelp. And sank to his knees.

_______

Three months later. New York.

Scott told himself he was watching the match for research before their upcoming games. He wasn't rooting for Montreal, not really, he was just rooting for Rozanov to lose. And if he was rooting for the Metros, it was only in solidarity with their captain. He was not looking for a repeat of their encounter, even though the Montreal captain certainly knew how to blow a man.

Scott laughed, reminded of the rollercoaster experience as the camera panned to Hollander warming up on ice before switching to the commentators. The fans shouted and whooped as Hollander stretched his lower body, spreading his legs, and he gave them the same shy smile he had given Scott couple of months back. The smile that made him look very young and made Scott wonder if he'd even kissed a man before.

Clearly, Scott was very, very wrong about that. And other things, when it came to the Montreal captain's desires. He came into his room, thinking, maybe, if Hollander didn't change his mind last minute, it would be some quick fun. Then, he thought he was getting fucked within the inch of his life. And in the end, he was forced to settle for what was probably the best blow job of his life. What a fucking evening.

It did make him wonder, even though he really, really didn't want to think about it, what kind of experience the young captain had and with whom. Who could keep up with the expectations Scott had clearly failed to meet.

It didn't matter. He should watch the game and focus on the hockey, think about the players' positioning on the ice, not their sex lives.

The game had started and Scott cringed, feeling the impact in his own ribs as he watched the Boston captain smash Hollander into the plexiglass from behind. The impact made sound that echoed, but both players bounced back and continued their fight with sticks and elbows as if nothing had happened. Then they were smushed against the barrier once again before more players finally reached the fight and a Boston wing left with the puck, followed by the rest.

Scott laughed. He should have realised, with how obsessed with hockey Hollander was, he fucked the same way he played. He wondered, if he was even aware of it himself. And what it said about Rozanov, seeing how much he seemed to enjoy crashing his rival into the boards.

Ram! There it was again, Hollander, sandwiched between the glass and Rozanov. It made Scott wonder. Rozanov had to be doing it on purpose, right? Had to be… enjoying it, as much as Hollander seemed to be?

 

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

After Shane lets it slip that there was another player, Ilya is on a mission. He needs names. He needs details. And mostly, he needs to know that this will never happen again.

Chapter Notes

Sorry for the confusion for anyone who already read the first part. This was not supposed to have a continuation, but then some people asked nicely and I also had too was thinking about how Ilya would take it.
I really was hoping we'd get a fist fight, but Scott was just not having it. Oh well.

Ilya was seething. He was also on a mission. He had to know. He had to know who. It didn't matter that it made him a fucking hypocrite. It didn't matter that it meant nothing. Hollander let it slip that he had hooked up with another hockey player, at some point and no matter how many times Hollander said it didn't matter, that it wasn't serious, and not even that good, he couldn't let it go. Even when Hollander reminded him they were not anything, and Ilya had his own share — a much more extensive and a public one — of hookups.

He couldn't explain why it was different, even though he knew he had no right to think about it that way. But something about it being another player, that was their thing. He felt entitled to it. He wanted to own it.

When Hollander first slipped, he was adamant on not telling him who it was. Not outing the other player. Which was fair. Ilya understood it. Respected it. It didn't mean he didn't need to know. And break said player's face. And maybe boast a little bit that he never received anything other than perfect satisfaction from Hollander.

It was such a fucking ridiculous situation. He'd just let Hollander spend the night — or not as much let as fucked him to the point of exhaustion where he'd fallen asleep in Ilya's hotel room while Ilya was in the shower. But he didn't kick him out. He was even nice, tucked him in, put a water bottle at his nightstand, plugged his phone in and set and early alarm on his own to give him enough time to sneak out in the morning before anyone else woke up. He lied down next to him and barely got any sleep as Hollander spoke in his sleep, hogged all the covers and even tried to cuddle him, which Ilya knew they'd both regret in the morning, but he had no strength to resist.

And how was he rewarded for his kindness? His sacrifice? When he finally managed to fall asleep, the alarm rang what felt like minutes later. And Hollander, startled by the sound, sat up straight. He looked around, look down to the bed where Ilya had dragged a pillow over his head to keep the noise out, and called out, 'Hayden?'

It opened the floodgate. Ilya threw the pillow he was clutching somewhere into the room. He was exhausted, slightly pissed about loosing the game the night before, and Hollander had confused him with Montreal's most annoying player?

'Hayden? Do I look like fucking Hayden to you?' he could not be hearing right. He did not look anything like boring little Hayden. Hayden? Of all the players?

'Fuck. Sorry. No. Of course not. I was still asleep for fucks sake, I didn't—' Hollander was flustered, completely red, sitting up now, clutching the sheets to his naked form as if it was something Ilya wasn't familiar with to the last muscle.

'You often wake up naked in the bed with your friend Hayden?' Ilya teased him. It didn't even occur to him before, Hollander seemed too scared of his own shadow to start something with a teammate. But now, he realised he really needed to know. Not that they were serious or anything. Of course they weren't. It was just sex. But it was their secret. He did not want another player in on it, even though he knew Hollander wasn't his to lay claim to.

'Fuck you.' Hollander shuffled away from Ilya, so close to the edge of the bed for a moment Ilya thought he might fall off. 'He's married! And I would never, not with a teammate! He's got the same alarm sound, that's all.'

'And you hear his alarm because?' Ilya didn't know why he was pushing. It wasn't like teammates didn't live most of their lives in close proximity to one another.

'We share hotel rooms sometimes?' Sh—Hollander raised his eyebrows, intrigued by Ilya's questions. Fuck. Ilya had asked too much. Revealed too much. He had barely slept and he was being stupid.

'Rozanov. Are you jealous?'

Ilya forced his most careless expression to combat Hollander's grin.

'Don't be fucking stupid,' he defended himself quickly.

'Would it bother you if I was fucking another player?' Was Hollander teasing him now? He was definitely smirking. What the fuck had his life come to?

'Fuck who you want. I do. I expected you did too,' Ilya shook his shoulders, the picture of perfect indifference. Hollander didn't seem to be buying it.

'Fuck, it really would?' His face sank, slowly revealing how shocked he really was by the confession Ilya unwittingly made. Ilya was too, to be honest. It shouldn't bother him. Especially now that Hollander was starting to look guilty. Fuck. Seriously? He really was, wasn't he?

'I should really go.' Hollander stumbled out of the bed, looking for his clothes. He dressed quickly and without a word, except to thank Ilya for charging his phone.

'It was just once,' he almost whispered as he aimed for the door. His own confession replacing a good bye.

Ilya stared at the ceiling. It should not bother him. It was none of his business. They were not, they were not serious, right? Of course not. They couldn't be. It would never work. And they only see each other a couple times of year anyway. He wasn't willing to go months without sex, waiting for Hollander. Of course Hollander felt the same. He didn't blame him for it. He had assumed he did get something in between, that the quiet was not because it wasn't happening, but because wasn't ready to admit it was only with men.

It should not matter if his in-between was another player. It really, really shouldn't. Except Ilya couldn't get it out of his mind. He knew Hollander would never tell him who it was, not just because it was none of business, but he was definitely not outing another player to him. But the though, that maybe Ilya knew him. Maybe he'd shaken hands, had a chat even, with a guy who had fucked his Shane?

Fuck. No. No no no. None of his business. It was Hollander. Just Hollander. Not his and not Shane. Hollander. Who had right to fuck whoever he wanted.

Ilya was planning to forget it. To let it go. To think about anything else than this. He tried. He really, really tried. But, naturally, by the time he got dressed and cleared out the hotel room, he had a list of potential candidates rummaging through his head. It wasn't a long list and it was probably all wrong anyway. He didn't even have any confirmation about any of the players being into other guys. He had some… observations, but nothing concrete. So he stashed the list, somewhere in the back of his mind. He'd fill it with more observations, and maybe, with time, he'll figure it out. Or maybe he'll stop caring.

The list grew and shrank over the next months. Years. He'd tried to forget. He became obsessed instead. He'd tease Shane about it sometimes, and Shane would never tell, but Ilya could read his reactions pretty well. He marked them onto the secret list. He'd mention players sometimes, commenting on games they'd watched, and look for change of colour in Shane's face. Change of breathing. Anything. He didn't think it was anyone in Montreal — Shane had said his own team would be too risky and Ilya had to agree — and Boston didn't make any logistical sense. That only left them with the rest of the league.

It shouldn't matter. Ilya knew Shane was not going back to him, whoever that was. He made it very clear. But the promise went only that far in curbing his need to know. Shane was not his. It was as clear as ever, nothing has changed and nothing could. Except he was much less comfortable with that than before.

'I better be the only person you do this for,' Ilya huffed, slapping Shane's ass as he walked into his bedroom, dressed in nothing but Ilya's jersey and a pair of white socks. It was a bet they had made, and since Boston ended up eliminating Montreal, Shane was now falling to his knees in front of Ilya, with the Raiders logo plastered on his chest.

He didn't seem to think Ilya's remark required a response. Smiling and familiar with Ilya's taunting, he buried his face into Ilya's crotch, letting the rough fabric of his trousers pull his lips open as his mouth trailed over the stiffening bulge. But Ilya really needed to hear him say it. He needed it so badly, he sank his fingers into Shane's hair and pulled him back, even as his body screamed for him to get closer. The sound that escaped Shane as his mouth came back empty settled deep into his stomach.

'This is only for me, yes?' he growled, his grip tightening, pulling Shane's head back to look into his eyes. Shane's lips trembled, his throat bulged as he swallowed. Ilya could feel the tension under his fingers as Shane tried to nod, but his grip was too tight for Shane to move his head far enough to do that.

'Say it,' Ilya commanded him.

'Only for you,' Shane promised, his voice shaking. 'Only for the best.'

Oh, Ilya liked to hear that. Shane thought he was the best. Even when Shane took his words back tomorrow, he'd remember. He'd live of this. But it didn't mean he was done taunting him.

'So you wear my jersey when we win, and when we don't?' he asked, pulling Shane up to stand in front of him so he could use his second hand to grab his chin. Keeping him steady. Looking into his eyes. Shane was eating his words like a starving men, struggling against his hand, not to free himself, but to let out the sounds collecting in his mouth. Ilya knew that if he let go now, he'd be rewarded with the most delicious please. He was tempted, but he didn't let go. He would let the desperation ripen like a most delicious of fruits.

'Will you be looking this pretty, kneeling at Hunter's feet if they beat us in the next round?' Ilya snapped at him, provoking him further. The Admirals were their next opponents and with how their respective seasons had gone so far, the predictions were not kind to the Raiders.

Shane tried to free his face from Ilya's grasp, tried to reply to the accusation. He looked desperate. Needy. Almost scared, as if unsure if Ilya was really just teasing. His cheeks turned a darker shade of pink and Ilya remembered the list of names stashed at the back of his mind. He moved Hunter's name to the top. Then he dragged Shane to the bed and made them both forget he existed.

_______

Ilya had been mulling over Hunter's name, still on the top of his list, for a while already when he sat down to watch the MLH finals. He'd tried his name in front of Shane couple more time, and it always got some reaction out of him. Sometime he'd blush. Sometimes he'd look away. Sometimes he'd drop to his knees and make Ilya forget the question.

It didn't help that Hunter wasn't bad looking. Or that he was never seen around with women, although he was never seen with men either. Of course he wasn't. He wasn't stupid. But Ilya was pretty sure it had been him. If he knew this about him for sure, that would be enough for Ilya to be certain.

So he watched the game, too interested in Hunter and not enough in the hockey. He rolled his eyes as the TV showed Hunter smiling for the cameras as he entered the ice, grinning as a man who would probably lift the cup that night should be.

Fucking ancient Scott Hunter. It had to be him. Also, it couldn't. It didn't make any sense. Ilya never asked Shane what was his type, but he had made some assumptions. He had seen him beg and thirst for him in the most delicious way over the years. Did he really do the same for Hunter? He couldn't imagine it.

His sour mood wasn't improved when the Admirals hoisted the cup and Hunter's smiling face was everywhere. He knew Shane was watching. It was hockey, of course he was watching. Was he attracted to Hunter now? Now that he was, at least for this season, the best? Lifting the cup, all smiling, all sweaty? Ilya remembered how hot Shane was for him after each victory and he was very close to ruining his expensive TV by smashing a beer bottle against it.

Then, Hunter dragged a man onto the ice. Kissed him. The world stopped.

Ilya wasn't aware he left the room. He wasn't aware he was clutching his phone, wasn't sure how he managed to pull up Shane's contact and call. But the phone rang —barely. Shane's voice welcomed him almost immediately. The world began spinning again.

'I'm coming to cottage,' Ilya forced out while he still had words. Before Shane changed his mind. Before he could think too long, about Hunter. Before Hunter made a similar call to Shane, however unlikely that was.

_______

Ilya thought knowing would help. It would make him feel better. He though it would make his mind shut up. But his mind was even louder than before.

He watched Hunter talk about his cute boyfriend on TV and he hated him. He should have been relieved, knowing the man Shane had history with was in love with someone else. But Ilya was also pretty certain he was himself in love with Shane and they were still allowed to hookup with anyone — not that Ilya would want to do that now — so why couldn't Hunter and his boyfriend have a similar arrangement?

There was no other way of shutting his mind. Ilya had to speak to him, make sure Hunter knew Shane was off limits. He wasn't sure how, without telling him more that he ever wanted Hunter to know, but he'd get the message through somehow.

The nearest chance to talk to Hunter presented itself at the MLH awards, an annoyingly long ceremony Ilya was already not excited about. But with Hunter being the biggest star of the evening, the captain of the cup winning team, the season's MVP, and as of recently, the only openly gay player, it was impossible to get him alone. Plus, there was no privacy anywhere, even if Hunter wasn't crowded by a mix of protective circle from his teammates and stream of people congratulating him on the cup and his MVP award.

The second opportunity, the after party Hunter was planning at a gay bar where he cordially invited all of the audience, wasn't much better, even though Ilya doubted many would come. They should, and some might even want to, but most would be too cowardly to show their faces. Ilya knew he would have gone, regardless of the personal matter he and Hunter had to talk about.

The truth, which Ilya hated to admit in the midst of his jealousy, was that Hunter had done something incredible and brave. Started something. And Shane or not, Ilya really wanted to be there, be part of it, make sure it wouldn't fizzle out before a meaningful change could happen.

Which put him into a really awkward position of wholeheartedly supporting Hunter while very much wanting to pummel his face into the ground. For strictly non-homophobic reasons. For very, very homosexual reasons actually.

Ilya wasn't surprised, but he still was disappointed, at the meagre attendance. It didn't escape his notice he was the only player outside from New York that came. Hunter's team seemed like a good bunch. But with them not leaving Hunter from their sights, and Hunter being practically glued to his boyfriend, Ilya didn't get the chance to speak with him there either.

It should have been enough for him. Seeing Hunter with his boyfriend. In love. Happy. Blasting the fact to the whole world. Ilya should have taken that as a proof that Hunter was definitely not thinking about Shane. But that would require Ilya to believe in good things actually happening to him and people like him.

So he was glad for the next morning, when he ran into Hunter and Kip back in the hotel, heading for the breakfast. He would have really liked to get Hunter alone, but since this was the first time he saw Hunter without Vaughn, Huff and Bennett standing behind him like his bodyguards, it was probably the best chance he'd get.

The reception from other players really must have been something, because Hunter seemed actually pleased to see Ilya fall into step with them as they were crossing the hotel lobby.

'Still Hunter's boyfriend, yes?' Ilya turned to the man Hunter introduced to him last night, who was holding hands with Hunter and leaning towards him as if Ilya might bite.

'Last time I checked,' Kip replied. Not coldly, but certainly keeping his distance. In the daylight, he looked young, and very pretty. Ilya could say Hunter was lucky without any jealousy.

'Is serious, then?' Ilya asked non-nonchalantly, playing with the cigarette case in his pocket. Maybe if it was, he could worry less.

'I mean, yes?' he replied, definitely a little surprised at being questioned, but not unfriendly. Hunter said nothing, but he was clearly watching the conversation, ready to step if Ilya crossed a line.

'How long?' Ilya pointed between Kip and Hunter.

This time, Hunter answered for him, raising eyebrows, 'What's with the interrogation, Rozanov?' Just as Kip started replying with something that sounded a lot like six months. Fuck. That was not very long. Not long enough to put Ilya on ease.

'Nothing, making conversation,' Ilya replied all innocent. They were not alone in the lobby so he didn't say more.

'If I didn't know better, I'd think you have some arbitrary motives here,' Hunter chuckled and winked. Ilya had to admit he'd never seen him this relaxed. Was this how he was with Shane? Would Shane still like him if he saw him like this again?

'You can keep your dad. Sorry, boyfriend,' Ilya turned to Kip because he was easier to speak to, especially if he couldn't really speak his mind around the people there. 'My calendar is full.' It was Ilya's turn to wink back at Scott. Even though the statement was a lie, unless he counted his dates with a bunch of old photos in a password protected folder named jane.

'I think I'll skip breakfast after all,' Ilya said, shaking the cigarettes at Hunter. 'Join me?'

'I don't —' Hunter started to protest, as if it anyone would ever think he smoked. But Kip pushed him, both with a look and with a light elbow to his side, to follow Ilya anyway.

Outside, Ilya still offered him a cigarette, just to see his face scrunch at the thought. It reminded him of Shane, but these days, everything did. He still didn't understand what Shane saw in Hunter. They were too similar. Equally boring. Terrible match.

'What do you want, Rozanov?' Hunter sounded tired just asking, but he did come after him, so he had to be curious.

'Just checking,' Ilya shrugged his shoulders. 'You are, uh, serious, yes? With your boyfriend?'

Hunter looked at him like he was an alien. Maybe he was. Or maybe he was just an idiot, who should have thought about what he was going to say before he came here, but words were never a problem for him before.

'Seriously, Rozanov. Tell me what you want or I'm going to think all those years chirping me was you trying to flirt with me.' Hunter was laughing, like he meant it as a joke, mostly, but it still rubbed Ilya wrong.

'This is what you do, yes? Go around, collect pretty players?' He was mad about the wrong thing, about the thing that was actually solving his problem, but how could he fuck Shane and not think he was special?

'I don't, I don't do that, that is your thing, fucking around,' Scott sounded confused by the accusation, as if it took him a moment to realise he was supposed to be angry. Ilya had just realised how bad it sounded.

'Actually,' it finally hit Scott too, 'fuck you, you asshole! Are you calling me a slut, just because I'm gay? With your history?' He looked like he might hit Ilya if he didn't stop talking. Ilya should stop talking. Or he could say something really stupid and get the satisfaction of punching Hunter back afterwards.

'So you never fucked another player, huh?' Fuck, Ilya was really going to get himself beat up, or declared the biggest homophobe of the league. He didn't give a fuck. Okay, maybe a little. But only about the second thing. But he also needed to know, more than anything, that Hunter and Shane were done. For good. Because this, this thing happening right now was killing him. Knowing Shane could never be his, but not wanting him to be anyone else's. He could almost imagine Shane in Kip's place, sweet and holding Hunter's hand, the perfect poster boys. Sure, it wouldn't be completely easy for them, but he'd definitely get less hate than if he did that with Ilya.

'What do you want from me, Rozanov?' Hunter repeated his question, ignoring Ilya's last quip. He was refusing to let Ilya drag him into a fight. Of course he was. His precious, perfect image. Ilya laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh. It was barely a laugh at all. He was hungover, he was vulnerable, maybe that's why he confessed his fears to Hunter, knowing fully all that he was revealing.

'I know there's been another player. So please, just tell me. Is this serious? You are not going back to… him?'

He couldn't say the name. If there was any chance he was wrong about Hunter, even though he didn't think there was, he'd be outing Shane.

Hunter looked at him as if he was seeing him for the first time. 'Yeah, I am very much serious about Kip. Nothing to worry about there.' The words stumbled out of Hunter's mouth.

Ilya nodded. He focused his attention on the unfinished cigarette in his fingers. He should probably get out of there.

'For what it's worth,' Hunter spoke as Ilya turned to leave without a goodbye, 'me and the other player? Completely incompatible.'

Ilya only nodded. The words seemed to follow Shane. He was secretly glad for it. Shane was not meant to be compatible with anyone else. He was only meant to be his.

Walking away, Ilya could hear Hunter mumble something under his breath. It made Ilya chuckle when he caught the meaning of the words.

This makes so much sense.

And to Ilya, it did. It was insane, it was impossible. It made all the sense in the world.