Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Established Relationship, Canon Compliant, Top Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Shane Hollander, POV Shane Hollander, Soft Dom Ilya Rozanov, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Hotel Sex

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of Betting on the 2026 Stanley Cup Play-offs, Part 2 of Incremental Gains

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-16 Words: 2,135 Chapters: 1/1

How to Get Laid in New Mexico

Summary

Because Rozanov craved being in charge as much as Shane craved letting it all go, but neither of them could resist each other for long. That’s why they were both here, in this hotel room, in a state that didn’t even have a hockey team anymore, but some bullshit legal loophole the NHL had forgotten about meant the All-Star Game had to happen here this year. And hadn’t that made for bizarre advertising tactics.

Notes

May 3, 2026: Round 2 - Game 1 - Minnesota/Colorado - 6-9

It was the best part of the All-Star game.  Players could come from any team.  Be paired together on the same team.  And even if they were still playing against each other, the NHL demanded enough civility from its players that everybody could be put up in the same hotel and not murder each other in the hallways.

Nothing about Rozanov would make anyone think he was a small man, but Shane was still surprised by how big his hands felt.  How well they fit over his hips, the mid-season callouses of a dedicated player dragging deliciously over his bare skin.  A strong grip that was used to hanging onto a stick, or an opponent, or a Hail Mary shot in the bottom of the Third keeping Shane exactly where the other man wanted him.

That quiet voice breathing a command next to his ear.  “Get on your knees.”

He didn’t drop - much as he’d like to, they both had to play tomorrow and Shane wasn’t willing to risk sore joints just to feel good for a few minutes.  To feel fucking great.  But he got to knees quickly all the same.  Shivering as Rozanov’s hands dragged over his skin as Shane obeyed him, one hand coming to rest on his shoulder while the other carded fingers through Shane’s short cropped black hair.

“Such a good boy,” Rozanov murmurred.  “A good teammate, hm?  Always do what’s best for others?”

Shane glared up at him through a veil of lust, earning himself a satisfied smile for his trouble.

“Is a good quality, in hockey,” Rozanov went on.  “Putting others first.  Playing for the group.”

“Shut up,” Shane mumbled.

Rozanov’s cock bumped against his lips.  “Make me.”

It wasn’t like he’d had a lot of experience before that first night Rozanov had come to his room.  He’d surfed the web, watched videos he begged the internet gods his mother never knew about, but Golden Boy Shane Hollander couldn’t be caught with some other hockey mom’s kid.  Couldn’t risk everything his parents had worked for, the career he’d worked for, just to know if something felt as good as strangers in chat rooms claimed it did.

But Rozanov didn’t seem to mind.  And Shane had learned young that a good work ethic made up for a lack of experience every time.

Somewhere, there was a quote about the drive to succeed that probably fit here.

But with Rozanov’s hand in his hair and his cock on his tongue, Shane couldn’t care less what it was.  Couldn’t care less about a lot of things so long as Rozanov kept making that sound low in his throat.  His hips held still by will power alone, and as much as Shane wanted to do what he was told, he wanted Rozanov to give in.  To give back, just a little.

Rozanov’s hand slid back to cup the back of Shane’s head.  “Take your time, Hollander.”  When Shane looked up to meet those blue eyes, Rozanov continued.  “Take your time with me, and later, I’ll take my time with you.”

Shane’s eyelid fluttered closed as he moaned.  Memories of being pinned down and fucked against cool sheets doing almost as much as Rozanov’s hands on his skin.  Sending his pulse racing even as Shane slowed his pace, his tongue dragging along the underside of the cock in his mouth as the man above him groaned his name like it was profane.

“Hollander.”

He heard guys talk about their hookups.  How good it felt to get laid.  The bragging rights that came with the hottest girl, or the curviest one, or taking home more than one in the same night.  And he’d never really cared, because who cared if a stranger thought he looked good in his sweater or in some underwear commercial he’d fought not to blush his way through.  What was there to brag about, really, when all his teammates had ever done was get their rocks off with some pretty face and then made sure everyone knew they wouldn’t even remember her name.

Ilya Rozanov was hot, as fuck, and distracting in his gear or standing naked in Shane’s living room.  And he knew so much more about sex and trysts and giving orders than Shane thought he ever would.  And this was the man Shane could drive to distraction.  This man whose focus never wavered, who could flirt one second and snipe a top shelf shot passed the goalie the next.  Who was as careful as Shane about not getting caught and yet never, never, controlled how loud either of them got.

He had Shane on his knees, dictating how this evening would go, and right now Rozanov’s head was tilted back as his hips just started to move.  Chasing the very sensations he’d told Shane not to give him.  Muttering something in Russian because English was something he had to think about.

And Shane had done that to him.

No flight of cocktails or legally controlled substance was ever going to feel this good.

The hand in his hair tightened into a fist, pulling Shane to a stop but not causing pain.  Rozanov’s breaths short and irregular.  “Fuck, you’re good at that.”

Shane panted as he looked up at the other man.  “Learned from the best.”

Rozanov hummed, the hand on Shane’s shoulder coming up so Rozanov could drag this thumb over Shane’s lips.  Shane tried half-heartedly to chase it, but he didn’t want to break eye contact.  Not for something Rozanov would give him in a little bit anyway.

“Mozhet byt', teper' u tebya eto poluchayetsya luchshe,” Rozanov said, and Shane felt the familiar spark run up his spine at the words he didn’t know.  At the language that sounded like so many things when it was Rozanov speaking it.  That sometimes sounded like dangerous things neither of them were supposed to want, and that Shane knew would cost him these hotel hookups if he ever even thought about bringing up.

The softness in Rozanov’s expression hardened, his voice commanding, his breathing even once again.  “Come.”

Shane could have, but he got to his knees instead.  Followed Rozanov to the bed, waiting as the other man flung the decorative duvet onto the ground.  Heedless of any sensible urge to fold things up or at least pile the fabric on a nearby chair.  It wasn’t one of the delicate looking ones like some of the hotels in east coast cities used.  This was the American southwest, and so everything at least looked handwoven and rustic.  Browns and yellows and oranges, with just a hint of the colors a guest might expect in a forest or by a river.

Pulling the sheets back too, Rozanov turned, his face a mask of expectation.  And Shane almost believed it, even with and except for all the years that told him it was just a mask.  That Rozanov was almost as far gone as Shane was and they’d just gotten started.  “Get on the bed.”

Shane did.

“On your knees.”

Shane rolled over, balancing on his hands and knees.

“Don’t move.”

Shane dropped his head, breathing through his nose as frisson danced across his skin.  The satisfaction of doing what he was told mixing the anticipation of being rewarded for it.

Rozanov had said he’d take his time.  But Shane had gotten here late, and they were both on early flights tomorrow, and he’d seen the way Rozanov tried and failed not to fling the door open.  The skills competition sometimes had that effect on the other man.  Even as he shot dirty looks at the other bench, pretending for everyone around them that he was furious he’d lost.

Maybe he was.  Neither of them ever liked to lose.

But Shane would be a liar if he said watching Rozanov absolutely destroy Toronto last week hadn’t been the hottest fucking thing.  No matter how determined Montreal seemed to be to prove they couldn’t do the same thing this year.

Fuck, they were having a bad year.

The dipping of the mattress was the only warning Shane got before Rozanov was behind him.  Tall body letting him lay himself over Shane’s back, his mouth almost as Shane’s ear when Rozanov spoke.  “I know I said I’d take my time if you were good.  And you were,” an open-mouthed kiss against Shane’s shoulder blade, “good.  But,” and Shane groaned softly as Rozanov rocked against his ass, “sometimes I am a liar.”

“Are you?” Shane asked, his eyes closed and his voice faint.  As eager as Rozanov to move things along.  “You sure you haven’t taken enough time?”

Rozanov’s laugh was an addictive thing.  “Impatient, Hollander.”

Pushing his hips backward, Shane groaned from frustration this time.  “Come, Rozanov.  Get on with it.”

“Maybe I should take my time.”

Shane whined.

“Make you wait.”

Shane swore.

“You were so good for me, after all.”

“I’ll suck you off so bad next time,” Shane mumbled, and again, that irresistible laugh.

“We can’t have that,” Rozanov murmured, and Shane nearly cried as he felt Rozanov’s fingers at his entrance.  Pressing, testing, teasing.  But only for a long moment.

Because Rozanov craved being in charge as much as Shane craved letting it all go, but neither of them could resist each other for long.  That’s why they were both here, in this hotel room, in a state that didn’t even have a hockey team anymore, but some bullshit legal loophole the NHL had forgotten about meant the All-Star Game had to happen here this year.  And hadn’t that made for bizarre advertising tactics.

Maybe they could have saved a few million dollars if Ilya Rozanov had just taken his shirt off and called the people who didn’t want to travel cowards.

That would have gotten Shane moving.

Not tonight, though.

Tonight he wasn’t going anywhere.

Despite his impatience, Rozanov took his time opening Shane up, and when he sank into him, it was with short, shallow thrusts.  Working his way in while Shane moaned and whined and dropped to his elbows to push his face into the mattress as he fought the urge to beg.

Once he was in, Rozanov’s magnificent hand ran along Shane’s spine.  Tracing the shapes of his vertebrae.  “Are you good?”

Turning his head to the side, Shane tried for a snarl.  “I’m good, Rozanov.  Fuck.”

That wonderful laugh and then Rozanov was moving.  Finally, he was moving.  And Shane felt his head empty out as his world narrowed even further.  From this city to this hotel to this room to just them.  Just him and this man who knew exactly how to fuck Golden Boy Shane Hollander.  And who was so fucking good at it.

They’d both fly back to their respective cities tomorrow.  Laugh and joke with their teammates about how the game had gone.  About how lame the other team was.  Inevitably, about how much Hollander and Rozanov were supposed to hate each other and the next time they’d be able to meet on the ice and prove who was the best.

Tomorrow, they’d play pretend, in more ways than one, and pretend it was enough.  That the real reason they kept such careful track of each other’s schedule was because they needed to humiliate each other on the ice.

That they hated the very idea of each other.

Hands on Shane’s hips, Russian spilling from his lips, Rozanov was pounding into him now.  Something that could be profane and could be a prayer driving him, driving them, sending them both over the edge as Shane cried out and his vision went brutally, blissfully white.

They weren’t done.  With more than a month until they’d have even a chance to see each other again, they weren’t even close to done.  But Rozanov’s arms were shaking as they braced on either side of Shane’s shoulders, and as Shane’s sense returned to him, the first thing he registered was Rozanov murmuring something too soft for Shane to be allowed to acknowledge he’d heard.  And even if they had been done, that would have been enough.

An open-mouth kiss against the top of his spine.  Rozanov’s voice gravelly when he spoke.  “Did I take enough time for you?”

Shane laughed, or tried to.  “I dunno.”  He had to stop to breathe.  “Maybe you should try again.”

And Shane hoped, foolish as it was, that nobody else had ever heard that laugh.  And that one day, he’d be able to hear the other guys bragging about the strangers they’d fucked, and know that he couldn’t because he’d already found something so much better.

But for tonight, Shane exhaled as Rozanov pulled out, inhaled as those hands ran over his sweat-slicked skin, and grinned as Rozanov gave him another command.  “Turn over.  On your back this time.”