Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Mutual Pining, Sharing Clothes, Lingerie, Light Angst, Hand Jobs, Praise Kink

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of Hockey boys 🏒

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-16 Words: 2,578 Chapters: 1/1

Don’t know if I’m gonna make it out alive

Summary

He runs his palms down over the one-size-too-big Bears jersey with Rozanov written in large letters across his shoulders and 81 underneath, whispering encouragement to himself. “You can do this. You’re Shane Fucking Hollander. He’s not going to laugh. Stop being an idiot and go out there.”

Notes

Had this idea so wrote it.
It’s inspired by the couch scene in episode 4, but different.
Enjoy 💜

(Title from Teeth by 5SOS which is a very hollanov song)

"Hollander, where you go?" Ilya's voice echoes in the large, spacious living room; confusion thickening his accent, and Shane nervously smooths his hands over his outfit, from where he's hiding in the guest bedroom.

He'd wanted to do something nice for Ilya as it had been his birthday a few weeks ago (Shane hadn't known himself, he just saw a post from one of Ilya's Boston Bears teammates - the knowledge that Ilya hadn't told him because this was just sex, hurting more than he thought it would), and they were always meeting in secret; scraping together fragmented scraps of time here and there like the shittiest of tapestries and Shane had just wanted to have a memory he could cling to in the future that wasn't just him in some embarrassing position with either his mouth or his ass stuffed full of dick. 

(Not that he doesn’t love Ilya fucking him and taking him apart, and making him feel safe while he does so, because he obviously does. Too much, if he’s being honest. It borders on dangerous).

And sure, he knows this will lead to sex. Pretty much everything does with them, but if there was a chance that Shane will make Ilya surprised enough that he'll drop those high walls and look at him with that soft dopey smile he has occasionally, then if you ask him, the risk is worth it.

"I-I'll be out in a minute!" He runs his palms down over the one-size-too-big Bears jersey with Rozanov written in large letters across his shoulders and 81 underneath, whispering encouragement to himself. “You can do this. You’re Shane Fucking Hollander. He’s not going to laugh. Stop being an idiot and go out there.”

He'd pilfered the jersey from Ilya's clean laundry pile; wanting the scent of his detergent and that thing that was uniquely Ilya clinging to the fabric to help calm his nerves a little.

His fingertips brush over the bulge of his half-hard cock and Shane whimpers. The delicate material of his underwear making everything seem more sensitive than usual. Because yeah, he’s not just wearing Ilya’s jersey. He’s wearing lace boxer briefs too - a black lace that stretches across his hips and cups the pouch of his cock and balls to perfection. No hiding anything.

”Why you in guest room?”

Shane can hear the slap of Ilya’s bare feet on the wooden floor getting closer, too close, and he shakes his hand in panic at the door, even though that will do jack shit. “No! Wait. Please.” The footsteps stop. “Just give me a sec, okay? Sit on the couch, and I’ll be out in one minute.”

There's a long moment of silence, where he can picture Ilya’s handsome, sharp face scrunching up in confusion, before he hears a gusty sigh of defeat and footsteps becoming quieter. “Fine. But if you don’t come out, I break down door.”

It’s not even locked, he thinks hysterically. Though the concern Ilya has for him wiggles its way in between his ribs to settle next to that traitorous organ that flutters and stutters whenever he looks at Ilya Rozanov. Even if this is just sex, he does know they are friends. They kind of have to be, because Shane is more open and honest (in some ways if not everything) with Ilya, than he is anyone else in his life. If they’re not friends, then he’s not sure what he’d do. “Okay, thank you. You don’t need to worry. I’m fine, by the way. Just…I have a surprise for you.”

”Oh? A surprise? Okay. I wait on couch and see what you have for me, Shane Hollander.”

A big hard-on that’s not just physical?

He shudders out a breath, combing his hair back from his face.

”Be sexy,” he mutters to himself. “Just go out there and Be Sexy.”

Taking one last steeling breath, Shane opens the door and steps into the open-plan living room. Stops a few feet in front of Ilya. Holds his arms out to the side, like an un-sexy idiot. “Ta da,” he says awkwardly.

Ilya stares at him intensely. Not a single muscle moving where he’s sat on the couch, legs spread in invitation. The dark-grey fabric of his sweatpants sits low on his hips, exposing that line of fuzzy hair and the moles dotted on his chest and belly that Shane loves pressing kisses to. “You wearing my shirt?” he asks, voice a low and thick. His accent rolls over Shane making his cock plump up between his thighs, wetness beading at the tip behind its lacy prison.

”Uh…yes.”

Ilya’s throat bobs up and down where he swallows. Shane aches to put his lips there, breathe him in. “What you have on underneath? I see hint under bottom of jersey, but not sure.”

Shane looks down and heats all over, noticing that the jersey has ridden up where his arms have lifted it. “Oh. Um.” He drops his arms, fiddling with the hem of the black, gold, red and white jersey. “I, uh - can I just show you? It’s kinda embarrassing to say.”

Ilya gestures at him to go ahead. Shane notices Ilya’s cock straining in his joggers. The knowledge that Ilya gets hard just from looking at him, even when he’s fumbling and nervous, bolsters his confidence enough to drag the jersey up up up, until the lacy boxer briefs are fully exposed.

"Fuuuuuck." Ilya groans; rubbing his fist over his chest like it actually hurts to breathe from looking at him. "Hollander. You are trying to murder me." Ilya is giving him that dopey smile, just like he’d hoped for. 

Shane huffs out a laugh, feeling more and more confident by the second. No matter what parts of his life Ilya keeps hidden - his family, Russia, what he truly feels about Shane - he's always honest in his reactions to Shane and his attraction to him.

It’s the one thing he can count on. Even more than hockey.

"You like it then?"

"Don't ask stupid question, Hollander." Ilya holds out his hand, crooking his fingers at him. "Come here and sit on my lap. I show you exactly how much I like it, kotenok."

Ilya's gaze feels like it burns. Shane steps closer; slotting his hand in Ilya's.

"Ah!" Shane yelps, as Ilya tugs him closer so he falls on his lap. "The fuck?" Shane splutters out a laugh. "I could've just climbed on your lap, y’know. No need to drag me.”

"Taking too long." Ilya palms his ass; kneading and squeezing the fat swell of it with greedy hands, while Shane struggles to push himself up to actually straddle his lap, like they both wanted. 

"Little help here? Not exactly making it easy, Rozanov."

Ilya just smirks at him.

"You can manage. My hands are full." Ilya squeezes his ass hard enough, Shane knows there’ll be bruises.

(Thank fuck).

Shane rolls his eyes, but somehow manages to finagle himself into a comfy position sprawled across Ilya's thick thighs, without disrupting the entitled pawing from Ilya and without falling over from dizziness from how hard his dick was, at the manhandling.

He's surprised he's not torn a hole in the fragile lace of his underwear, because he feels like he’s hard enough to pound nails.

“Ok, I’m in your lap,” Shane huffs. “Now what?”

Ilya cups the base of Shane’s skull and slots their lips together; sipping from his mouth sweet and slow, until Shane is squirming in place, whining and leaking into his underwear. No doubt the lace will be absolutely ruined by the end of whatever Ilya has planned. Ilya trails kisses along the line of Shane’s jaw, down his throat. Buries his face in the crook of Shane's armpit and inhales.

”This is my jersey, da?”

”It does have your name on it.”

Ilya tuts. “No, I see that. I mean, it’s actually mine. Not one bought from store.”

Shane’s cheeks flush pink. “Oh, uh…yeah. I grabbed it from your laundry.” He bites his lip, worried. “Is that okay?”

”It fine. More than fine. I like you be clothes thief. My name looks good on you.”

”I’m not a thief!” Shane says; running his hands up and down Ilya’s bare chest; trailing his fingers over the moles dotted about that he secretly loves. “I’m borrowing it. It’s different.”

Ilya shrugs, unbothered. “You keep it. I have plenty.”

”I—“ Shane gapes at him. “I can’t keep your jersey! Are you insane?” He doesn’t mention the fact that the thought of keeping it, of getting to roll around in his bed or while he’s in a hotel on the road, and have a piece of Ilya with him, when no one is allowed to know they even miss each other, wraps around his heart like the snuggest of blankets.

”Why not? Told you, my name looks good on you. Plus, I not take it back anyway. I refuse.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “You’re such an asshole.”

Ilya grins at him wolfishly. “Asshole whose name you are wearing. Along with pretty, girly panties.” He tickles the pads of his fingers down the cleft of Shane’s ass; pressing at the taut stretch of lace just over the puckered furl of his rim. Shane whimpers; fingers spasming over the firm swell of Ilya’s tits, catching on the fine, gold chain of his cross pendant. “Why you dress up so sexy anyway? Is special occasion I don’t know about? I kicked your ass last game, so it can’t be that.”

Shane flicks Ilya’s nipple, enjoying the way he squawks. “You got lucky.”

”Pfft. I never get lucky on ice. Only with you.” Shane blushes even harder; can feel the tips of his ears burn. “I like when you blush, but I miss seeing your cute freckles clearly.” Ilya thumbs at the bridge of Shane’s nose, and the tenderness of it makes Shane ache.

”Shut up, Rozanov,” Shane whines, unable to come up with a better rebuttal.

Ilya smirks. “You’re avoiding my question, Hollander. Be good boy and tell me, hmm?”

Shane will deny the pathetic wailing mewl he makes at being called a good boy until the day he dies, but Ilya’s smirk gets even more lethal and Shane knows he won’t forget it. Knows he’s just given Ilya ammunition to use against him whenever he sees fit, but Shane can’t bring himself to care.

”Your birthday,” he gasps bashfully; tucking his chin against his chest. “I didn’t know the date before - but I saw the post from one of your teammates and I … I thought you might like, uh, me. I mean me wearing this.”

“I do like.” Ilya cups Shane’s cheek; dragging the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip. Shane sucks it into the wet heat of his mouth, swirling his tongue around the tip. Ilya groans, brushing the spit-slick digit down over Shane’s chin, his throat. “Sorry I did not tell you about birthday.”

”It’s okay.”

”No, is not. You are friend even if we don’t fuck. Friend should know birthday.”

”I didn’t tell you mine either,” he whispers, ashamed. Because he hadn’t. Had been scared to. Scared of what it might mean that he wants to tell Ilya everything even when his mouth struggles to form any words at all. Scared that even though he’s open and honest with Ilya it’s still not enough, he’s still not giving enough of himself, and he’s not sure he ever will. “May 10th, is, uh, when it is. My birthday, I mean.”

”I will remember for years to come.” Ilya says it like it’s nothing. Like it’s easy for him file that away and make an effort to acknowledge, maybe even celebrate, Shane’s day of birth. Ilya pushes the hem of the jersey up Shane’s thighs to bunch around his waist. Tugs the waistband of the panties out and over the straining length of Shane’s cock, snapping the elastic under the heavy pouch of his balls. Shane gasps as the sting, precum blurting from his slit. Ilya swipes it away, sucking it clean with a wink. “Spit,” he orders; holding out his palm, pulling his own cock free from his sweatpants with his other hand.

Shane gathers saliva on his tongue and then spits into the centre of Ilya’s palm.

”Good boy,” Ilya purrs; wrapping his large hand around both their cocks. Pumping his hand up and down. Shane digs his nails into Ilya’s broad shoulders; legs twitching where they’re spread around his hips.

”Fuck, Rozanov,” he pants; feeling close already and they’ve not even done anything.

”Thank you for birthday present, Shane Hollander. You are perfect gift to unwrap.” He shoves the Bears jersey higher up Shane’s torso, exposing his chest. Grabs a rough handful of his tit, holding tight, like he can’t bear to let go.

”Please.” Shane nuzzles his cheek against Ilya’s blinking back tears of desperation, needing to be close, closer. Rolls his hips, chasing the tight twisting grip of his fist as he jerks them both off. “Please, Rozanov. Wanna come.”

”You beg so sweetly, kotenok. If only your teammates know how pretty a slut you are for me wearing my name.”

Shane shakes his head; smudging their lips together. Sharing breaths. His cock leaks a steady stream of precum, balls pulsing in earning. “Only for you.”

Ilya’s blue eyes flash with something Shane can’t quite parse out, and he captures Shane’s mouth in a biting kiss. Kissing him until Shane’s feels like his lungs are burning, and still doesn’t stop. Shane lets Ilya’s devour him; grinding up into Ilya’s fist, chasing his release.

”Say my name when you come,” Ilya growls; voice rough and thick with desire, hand pumping them faster, harder. “Say name of man whose jersey you wear, Hollander.”

Shane bucks his hips, once, twice. Then his whole body pulls taut and his release rips through him. “Ilya!” he yells as he comes, covering Ilya’s hand and his belly in wet, sticky streaks. Ilya follows him over the edge a second later, sounding completely wrecked.

”Shane. Bozhe moy, Shane.”

Their ragged breaths are loud in the spacious room. Shane blinks away sweat.

Looks Ilya in the face. A smile starts to form before the last few moments catch up with him and he remembers.

He said Ilya’s name.

Not his surname. His name.

Ilya had said his too.

Shane sits there frozen in panic, even as his dick begins to soften in the loose circle of Ilya’s palm. His heart thumps wildly in his chest and his eyes widen; gaze flitting all over the lines and ridges of Ilya’s handsome face.

Neither of them say anything.

Neither of them can pretend the last few moments didn’t just happen.

Shane’s feet twitch against the leather of the couch, the urge to run bubbling under his skin. Ilya grips his waist tightly, refusing to let him go.

They look at each other. And look. And look.

Shane doesn’t blink. Ilya doesn’t tear his gaze away.

Their future held in the balance of that fragile moment.

It tips.

Shane’s hands clench and unclench against the meat of Ilya’s shoulders. His chest feels tight.

Ilya still doesn’t look away from his face, concern furrowing his brow.

He inhales. Exhales. Considers grabbing his stuff, walking out the door and hiding from Ilya forever. His heart exposed right there on his metaphorical sleeve, waiting to break.

He thinks about leaving.

He stays.