Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Carter Vaughn, Shane Hollander/Original Male Character(s)

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Carter Vaughn

Additional Tags:

dub-con inherent in the premise but not the event, Enthusiastic Consent, no infidelity, Hand Jobs, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Winner's Room (Sports RPF), I guess sex work technically?, what do you call sex you're expected to have at work even if it technically isn't part of your job, Mildly Dubious Consent

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of On My Knees I Think Clearer

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-21 Words: 4,031 Chapters: 1/1

both end in trouble and start with a grin

Summary

It's one thing to fuck in the winner's room.

It's entirely different to fuck outside of it.

Notes

Set vaguely in the later half of the 2015 season.

Full notes on the consent and infidelity tags at the end.

Thank you to Lizzy and Tina for betaing! I'm on Tumblr at hedgerose.

Shane gets out of going to the rooms as much as he can, now that he's captain. It's a little harder, now that they're on the right side of .500 and a solid playoff team, because people expect the captain to take what he's due. He still goes sometimes, when he's had a great night.

Or when they've won against Boston.

He thinks it must be obvious on his face sometimes, the way he asks for Ilya. And it doesn't matter if they meet up in the winner’s room, because even if Shane's already gotten off once in the arena, Ilya loves to make him come again in his penthouse or Shane's condo.

But tonight they're in New York and Shane did in fact score the game-winner. He'd also had an assist earlier in the game on Hayden's goal, and even though it was after the whistle he'd still gotten in something resembling a fight, so: this is probably the closest he's really going to get to a Gordie Howe. It's been a few months since his last visit to the winner's room, and Hayden had slapped his ass on their way off the ice and asked Shane point-blank if he was going to try to fuck Scott Hunter again. After what Hunter had said to Shane before Shane had started swinging, there was no way in hell that Shane was going to ask for Hunter.

But it's still his turn to choose, so.

Carter Vaughn's laughing when he comes into the room.

"Bro, what the fuck did you say to Scotty?"

Shane shrugs. "I, uh. I told him I hoped he showed up next time we played?"

Vaughn throws his head back, cackling. "Man, fuck you. Rozy fucked with him after the game yesterday. You just added insult to injury."

Shane shrugs again. He'd chosen Carter because he wasn't super likely to be an asshole, and based on what he knew of Carter, he probably wasn't intensely homophobic. That was always the worst to run into in the rooms. "I didn't think he'd take it so personally," he confesses.

Vaughn shakes his head. "Nah, man, he's fucking going through something. He's super sensitive about, like, everything right now."

"You probably shouldn't be telling me this," Shane points out.

It's Vaughn's turn to shrug. "Whatever. We're not playing each other again until like April, and whatever this is will have blown over by then. It's not like I'm giving you privileged information."

"Uh. Okay?" No, this is the worst part: they're supposed to have sex now, but Shane's still thinking of Vaughn by his last name and it's always so goddamned awkward–

"So, handies or blowies okay? I'm usually up for fucking, but I have a gnarly bruise on my ass right now and there's no way I'll be able to sit on the plane to Tampa if we fuck."

–or, you know. That works.

* * *

The Ilya Thing is becoming a problem.

You're not supposed to say who you go to the rooms with. Your team knows, obviously. Their team knows. But it's not like– you're not supposed to tell anyone else.

But every time, Shane tells Ilya. Sometimes, Ilya tells Shane.

They see each other four or five times a year: half in Montreal, half in Boston. More, with the All-Star game and awards. Sometimes NHL events and sponsorships. It's maybe eight times a year, if things work out– if they're matched up in the playoffs, maybe two or three more nights. It's enough that Shane knows that Ilya's been smoking less, that his English has gotten better, exactly how Ilya likes to be kissed. It's enough that Shane's sure Ilya knows more about him than he's really comfortable with.

It's not enough to be anything close to friends. It's not enough for Shane to know anything deep about Ilya. It's not even enough to call each other by their first names. That's not what their relationship is like.

But it's enough that Shane aches for Ilya a little bit, the day after he's visited the winner's room. He always thinks of that first time, when Ilya had chosen him against tradition and it'd been– it'd been so good. He'd coasted on the calm that Ilya'd given him for a full week before his anxiety had crept back in.

The Ilya Thing might be less of a problem if Shane, you know, took a minute to think about it. But in some ways it's like a breakaway: as long as you keep skating, as long as you have the puck, you don't have to think about anything else. You get the puck to the net, try to slip it past the goalie, and only once it's in can you turn around and see what's been chasing you.

Shane's got a good game. Commentators call him a playmaker, a real 200-foot player. He can see things on the ice, look for caroms and remember where grooves have been cut. He knows almost exactly how each player on his team skates, where they like to shoot from, which defensemen can be trusted to block shots and who's honestly a better offensive player. There's a reason that Montreal's in a playoff position and a lot of it has to do with Shane. It's not pride, it's not boastfulness, it's the truth. He is the best player on the team.

He just needs to keep skating so that he can keep ahead of the Ilya Thing. He'll be fine.

* * *

Two weeks later he and the team land in Boston. He's been texting Ilya on and off for the past day or so, and he's looking forward to meeting up with him almost more than tonight's game.

They meet up a few times in the faceoff circle, trade smiles and sneers. It's a good game– both teams are having strong seasons, with Shane's Voyageurs having the edge in the divisional standings. Rozanov shoulders him off the puck a time or two, but Shane returns the favor. Shane's on a five-game points streak, and he feels satisfied enough when he gets a primary assist on Hayden's goal midway through the first. Rozanov's on a streak of his own, nine games in, and he answers with a sweet backhand on the power play at the beginning of the second.

They enter the third period tied 2-2, and stay that way until Theriault pulls Drapeau with ninety seconds left in the game. Shane hops over the boards as soon as Drapeau reaches the bench, and he's off like a rocket. It's nearly sixty minutes into the game and by all rights he should be exhausted (and there's an ache in his left knee that he's ignoring, but whatever) but instead Shane flies, plucks the puck off Johansson, passes to J.J., and is in position to slam the rebound in.

They win.

It feels good, and Shane rides the buzz of the win back into the locker room. Strong win against a strong team– close enough that it was tight, but not enough to make him panic. J.J. ruffles his hair in the locker room before Shane can strip off his sweaty pads. "Mon capitaine!" he shouts. "Beautiful goal."

"Thanks," Shane says, and smiles.

"Fuck Boston!" J.J. shouts to the room at large, and the team echoes him.

It's a good night, and Ilya's going to be in a good enough mood because even with the loss, Boston's still in a playoff position and he got a goal.

Well. They both did.

For a minute, Shane thinks about giving the winner's room to Hayden for the first goal or to Piet Schneider for the second, but fuck it: he scored the game-winner. He's earned it. "I want Rozanov," he tells the visitor's locker room attendant, and puts enough meanness in his grin that hopefully people won't think twice.

"Gonna fuck him up a little extra, eh?" Hayden says. Shane lets his smile look a little more like a shark's (maybe he's practiced the smile in the mirror at home, but no one needs to know that).

"Fuck yes," Shane responds. He unlaces his skates, pulls them off. Unsticks his sock tape. He pulls off his jersey, his chest protector. Same order, every time. Each piece of his uniform that he takes off is a centimeter closer to Ilya's skin. He showers and changes back into a white t-shirt and black joggers.

He doesn't rush through media, but he maybe doesn't talk as much as he does sometimes. Yeah, they got pucks to the net, they kept pressure up the whole game, yeah, Boston's always a great team to beat. Yeah, he's happy with how the season's going. His team is great, everyone worked together. He's happy about his goal and Hayden's and Piet's, because it's a team effort every night. Yeah, thanks.

Then he's free.

The hallway to the winner's room seems shorter when he's the one who's won. It's the same in every arena: a king bed, white sheets, nightstand with lube and condoms. There are no cameras in the hallway or in the room. The trainers have a few rooms on the same hall, along with some office spaces.

His slides make a slapping noise as he walks down the hallway. He's clean from his shower. He knows who's going to be on the other side of this door.

And yeah, there's Ilya, lounging naked on the bed, fucking around with his phone. He looks up when Shane enters the room. "Hollander," he says, and gives Shane a long look up and down. He waves a hand at Shane. "Your turn to get naked."

Shane lets out a quiet huff of laughter, but strips like Ilya asked. He folds up his clothes and puts them on top of the nightstand, then drops himself into the bed next to Ilya. It should be more awkward than it is, maybe, but really all Shane can think about is Ilya's skin, warm from the shower, and the way that he reaches for Shane as soon as he's within grabbing distance. They trade kisses for a few minutes before Ilya pulls back. "Good game, Hollander," he says. "I think I want to open you up while you blow me."

Shane reaches up and tweaks one of Ilya's nipples, ignoring Ilya when he squawks. "Asshole, I won."

Ilya just smirks at him, bats Shane's hand away from his chest. "And is what I want different from what you want?"

Shane shrugs. "I mean–" he doesn't really have a comeback. Ilya's right: it sounds awesome. Maybe a little awkward in terms of positioning, but also fucking hot.

"So no, it is not. Come on, Hollander, suck my cock."

They take a minute to reorganize– thankfully, the king-sized bed is just big enough for the two of them– and then Shane's face is in front of Ilya's mostly-hard dick and Ilya's hands are on Shane's ass. The lube on Ilya's fingers is cold at first but warms up pretty quickly when he starts touching Shane, petting at his hole and kissing the base of Shane's dick. Shane knows what his job is, here, and god he loves it: he lips at the tip of Ilya's dick, gets his tongue out, and opens his mouth.

Ilya's big, bigger than most of the dicks Shane's sucked in winner's rooms. It's not helping the Ilya Thing that Shane misses Ilya's dick, compares it to every other dick he sees and aside from one defenceman on the Nomads; no one's is as nice as Ilya's. (And besides, that defenceman is married and they only play the Nomads twice a season, so.) But Ilya fills his mouth and the edges of his throat perfectly, and Shane is caught between the way Ilya feels and the way Ilya's sliding two fingers into Shane's hole.

The stretch is delicious– Ilya's fingers are just this side of too big and Shane moans around Ilya's dick. Everything feels so much, but in the way that Shane can just get out of his head and focus on the sensations, not on what he should be doing or thinking or feeling. He can feel one of Ilya's hands on his thigh and the other moving in and out of his hole, catching on his rim and getting deeper and–

God, fuck. Ilya's so–

He gets his mouth on Shane's dick and that's it, between his hands and his dick in Shane's mouth– Shane doesn't even care that it's only been minutes since they started, he's coming, he's–

Ilya sucks him down, taking everything Shane's giving him as his hips shake and stutter. Ilya's twitching in his mouth, but not like he's going to come yet. Ilya pulls off just before Shane's dick gets oversensitive, but his fingers are still in Shane's ass and Shane's still twitching.

"Fuck, Hollander," Ilya pants. "I will take you home and–"

Shane pulls back. "God, Rozanov, you'd better fucking fuck me–"

Ilya laughs. "Of course, Hollander. What do you take me for?"

He breathes out a good more than he says it, dives right back in on Ilya's dick. Now that Shane's come he can focus on Ilya, the way he fills Shane's mouth, the sounds he's making. He's nose-deep and so, so, content. He hums around Ilya, tongues the bottom of Ilya's shaft, waits for the noises he knows (and loves). Ilya's still fingering him, scissoring his fingers and pressing just a little against Shane's prostate, and Shane knows that this is going to be so–

So–

"Fuck," Ilya says, and he's coming in Shane's mouth, down his throat. Shane hums again, and Ilya's hips jerk forward but Shane takes it, takes it, takes it–

(Loves it, loves it, loves it.)

* * *

Hayden's waiting in the visitor's locker room when Shane comes back through. Shane knows that he's still red-faced and sleepy-eyed. Hayden laughs a little. "Maybe I should ask for Rozanov next time if he can make even you look like that."

Shane forces himself to chuckle in response, even though there's a zing of something that goes through him. He doesn't look close enough at the feeling to identify it as jealousy, possessiveness, or a fleeting that would be hot. Not that he's into Hayden, not remotely, but he has eyes. "I mean, he's a dick on the ice. Off it…"

Hayden laughs again. "Whatever, man, I'm sold."

"Anyway. Uh. Thanks for waiting– I'm going to head–"

"Yeah, I know where you're going. Say hi to Lily for me!"

Shane thinks hysterically about telling Ilya that Hayden says hi. He can't imagine what Ilya's reaction might be. "I'm not–"

"You fucking are, whatever." Hayden rolls his eyes, stands up to walk out with Shane. "You had a great game tonight. You deserve to celebrate. Again."

Shane shoves his shoulder. "You had a great game. That goal was a beaut." He's so glad that he has Hayden, even if right now he kind of wishes that Hayden hadn't stayed for him. He can still feel where Ilya's fingers pressed inside him, and he wants to get going so that Ilya can finish the fucking job. Job of fucking. Whatever.

Then, later, in Ilya's penthouse: he sinks down onto Ilya's dick and rides, rides, rides. He's a little tight after the drive over from the arena, but he loves the stretch and the hint of an ache.

"God, fuck, this is so–" he's not even sure what he's saying. He won, he beat Ilya. Since they've been fucking, every time they play against each other is like lightning. Honestly, in some ways, it's extended foreplay. Shane's played more games that were almost like edging than he wants to think about, this far into his career.

"You want more?" Ilya asks. Shane arches his back and tilts his hips and– fuck, yes, there. Ilya's lighting him up from the inside. They've both come once already tonight, so this is lasting longer than it usually does with them.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck," Shane chants. Ilya's hips are thrusting up, and Shane is moving himself up and down, and it's all hot and sweaty and if he thinks about it too much, kind of gross, but he throws his head back and breathes in, big gasping breaths. Ilya's below him, swearing in Russian and shaking against him, and by now Shane knows what Ilya feels like when he comes inside Shane. He gets a hand on himself just once– twice– and he's coming too, panting and shivering.

The comedown is a little slow. Shane levers himself off Ilya, wincing at the loss of Ilya's dick and the twinge in his knee that's getting to be a bit more pressing. He lies back, trying to regulate his breathing while Ilya does the same next to him. Their shoulders are pressed together. In a few minutes, Shane will have to get up and shower so he can go back to his hotel. For now, they breathe in sync.

* * *

Houston.

The game ends 5-1, and it's not in Montreal's favor. Shane's pissed at himself for not scoring or even assisting, pissed at Drapeau for letting in two easy goals at the start of the second, pissed at fucking Nic Keane for getting his first career hatty.

"Hollander," the attendant says. "You're up."

"Fuck," Shane says. "Gimme five minutes."

He's already showered and back in his sweat pants and slides. Hayden's still in the shower, and JJ's talking with Schneider, so Shane lets his head thunk back against his cubby for a minute and breathes in deep. He rolls his shoulders– right one's a little tense, he'll have to keep an eye on that– and stretches out his neck. It'll probably be Keane.

Second-line left wing. 10 goals and 7 assists on the season, and three of those fucking goals are from tonight. Third year in the league, puts up decent but unimpressive points. Favors glove-side when shooting, a little selfish with the puck.

Asshole on the ice.

Shane has no idea what he's like off it. The fact that Keane asked for him gives him a little bit of an idea, and there's nothing good about it. Rookies, goalies, captains: the players who get asked to the winner's room by assholes with something to prove.

And yeah, when he gets to the room Keane's standing tall. He's an inch or two taller than Shane, but not quite as built. "Fuck yes," Keane crows when Shane walks in. "Gimmer bet me fifty that you'd pussy out."

Shane rolls his eyes. "I do my job," he says.

"Yeah, whatever," Keane replies. "C'mere, on your knees. I want to fuck your mouth."

Shane resists the urge to roll his eyes. He knows guys like Keane. He wants to get his dick sucked by Shane Hollander, get his ego boosted. Nothing special, nothing Shane hasn't done a dozen times since he started in the league. He hopes Keane doesn't have much of an imagination to make this truly humiliating.

It doesn't seem like it. Shane walks up close to Keane, kneels down. Keane's wearing team-issued sweats and a white undershirt; when Shane pulls his sweats down he's bare underneath. His dick's on the smaller side and half-hard, so Shane tugs at him lightly with his dry hand.

"No," Keane says, grabbing Shane's hair. "I told you, I want your mouth."

This time Shane does roll his eyes, but he goes in for it, taking Keane in his mouth. "Fuck," Keane says, and his dick swells up to hard in Shane's mouth. After that's it's routine, moving his mouth up and down until Keane starts to buck into it. He never gets huge, doesn't shove his dick down Shane's throat, but when he comes he shoves Shane's face into his pubes and holds it there. Shane breathes through his nose as best he can until Keane lets go, then inhales deeply and slowly.

"Fucking hell, Hollander," Keane says. He runs a hand through his hair and pulls his sweats back up over his softening dick. "If hockey ever doesn't work out for you–"

"Fuck you," Shane says, shooting up from his knees fast enough that they pop. Keane's taller than him, but Shane is broader, more of a threat. His page on hockeyfights has more entries than Keane's, and he's won most of those.

"Dude, it's a fucking compliment," Keane replies. "Whatever, fuck."

Shane exhales. Fine. "See you next season." He walks out.

He didn't think about Ilya once.

* * *

They lose to Boston in Montreal five weeks later, on the second night of a pair of back-to-back games. Shane's gassed, smarting from being crunched into the boards in the waning minutes of the third period while he chased a puck. It's Connors who gets the winners room pick, not Ilya, which is– fine. It's whatever, and Connors chooses Laine anyway.

He's still seeing Ilya after. He takes an Uber from the hotel to Ilya's apartment building, tries not to be too anxious in the elevator up to the penthouse. Maybe he's not doing as well at the Ilya Thing as he thought– he hadn't even tried to come up with an excuse for Hayden before leaving. It's almost midnight by the time he knocks on Ilya's door, and he knows it's a bad idea.

He knocks anyway.

Because the thing is– the thing is, it's one thing to fuck in the winner's room.

It's entirely different to fuck outside of it.

Fucking in the winner's room isn't gay. No player alive will tell you that handjobs, blowjobs, or even full-on anal sex in the winner's room makes him attracted to whoever he's doing it with. It's about dominance, blowing off steam, one more inch of victory over an opponent. Players who Shane knows have been on their knees in the winner's room with someone else's dick in their mouths are the same ones who call him cocksucker on the ice.

But what Shane does with Ilya is outside the room. He goes to Ilya's penthouse or they go to Shane's condo and they fuck there. They fuck on sheets that aren't white and use the lube they like, not whatever's provided by the league. They take their time. They don't think about who won the game and who lost when it comes to their positions or actions.

Fucking in the winner's room isn't cheating on your wife or girlfriend or whatever. Shane doesn't kid himself that he and Ilya are the only players who actually like guys in the league, but he can't imagine that there's many others who also fuck outside the rooms. The winner's room is just… part of his job. He plays every night, he fucks sometimes, he showers, he sees the trainers, follows his meal plan, whatever.

But there's a reason that every time Shane can get away with it, he chooses Ilya. Marlow's tall and built and yeah, sometimes Shane wants to feel that beard burn between his thighs, but he chooses Ilya. Not every time they play Boston, but when they win and Shane has a few points or a game-winner and he gets to make the choice? Yeah.

It doesn't match the way that Ilya loves to pick Shane up and make out with him in the kitchen, Shane sitting on the countertops and Ilya's feet planted on the floor. It doesn't match the way they are with each other, even if one of them always leaves after they're done. It should just be fucking,

It has to just be fucking.

And Shane laughs into Ilya's mouth, there in Ilya's penthouse, miles away from the arena and the winner's room.