Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Scott Hunter, Scott Hunter & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

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

Additional Tags:

Minor Kip Grady/Scott Hunter, 2017 MLH All-Star Weekend in Tampa Bay (Game Changers), Scott Hunter Knows About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, POV Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Anxious Shane Hollander, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Angst and Humor, Not Beta Read, POV Outsider

Language:

English

Collections:

Brain Twin Collabs, StormVandal's Heated Rivalry works & reclist

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-27 Words: 2,831 Chapters: 1/1

More Careful

Summary

Scott Hunter wishes that a lot of things about his life were different, and right now one of the main things is that he really wishes he didn’t know exactly what Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov sound like when they’re fucking each other.

Notes

Scott Hunter wishes that a lot of things about his life were different, and right now one of the main things is that he really wishes he didn’t know exactly what Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov sound like when they’re fucking each other.

Either he has the worst luck imaginable, or he’s being fucked with. He has no idea why else he would have been assigned the room next door to Rozanov again. The last time this happened, he heard things that he could never unhear and which have haunted him ever since. He’d tried his best to dismiss it as a one-off not worth dwelling on, driven by some kind of lingering adrenaline or aggression from the game and never repeated or spoken of again. But now he’s lying here, a full six years later, desperately staring at his headphones as though that will make them charge faster (who had the stupid idea to make headphones wireless, again? Whoever it was, Scott wants to fight them) while Shane Hollander moans out Ilya, fuck, that’s so good, so clearly that Scott might as well be watching porn on surround-sound in his room. At least they’re at the end of the corridor so no one else is hearing this. Probably. Scott hadn’t thought to check the soundproofing in the hallway itself.

He thinks about getting up to see if they’re audible out there as well, but staying frozen on the bed is all that’s keeping him together at this point. He can tell from the way they’re talking to each other — which, it must be stressed, he actively does not want to hear — that this can’t possibly be only the second time they’re doing this. He’s rapidly reevaluating every time he’s seen them talk about each other to the press, and every time he’s seen them interact — the All-Star games they’d all attended (though blessedly Scott had been sleeping nowhere near either of them) and the awards nights. How have they been getting away with this for so long? They’re unforgivably sloppy (Scott desperately tries not to think the word ‘sloppy’ in connection to what’s happening in the next room but fails) but somehow it’s all worked out? He’s never heard so much as a suggestion of a rumour that Rozanov and Hollander are involved. Scott is out here having to travel to other fucking countries to get laid, but these idiots are just happily moaning and gasping to the whole world. Maybe that’s a perk of being Hockey’s Chosen Ones, Scott briefly considers, but then he remembers what hockey is actually like and quickly revises his guess to “pure dumb luck”.

Not even Hollander and Rozanov have infinite stamina, though, and eventually Scott is able to feel like he can breathe again. He hadn’t even been aware of how tight his chest was, but the way Hollander and Rozanov were flirting with discovery made him terrified that somehow he would be discovered, too. That someone would find out that he had heard it all and the gay accusations would be contagious. And sure, the idea that he’s gay for unwillingly overhearing gay sex doesn’t hold a lot of water, but he’s mostly worried that he wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny, if for some reason he were to be scrutinized.

After what feels like hours of gazing at the ceiling, Scott realizes he’s going to have to do something about this. He’s the only person who can.

Rozanov won’t listen to him, Scott’s sure, but Hollander will. Hollander is normally a level-headed, extremely responsible guy, and yes that makes it pretty baffling that he’s taking such a gigantic risk with Rozanov, but it also means that maybe Scott can get through to him. Breakfast is the only opportunity to catch him before they all head out for flights, and Hollander is happy enough to meet him in Scott’s room before they head out, although he definitely seems confused at the request. Fair enough, since they’re not close and Hollander did famously have his first career fight against him.

They make somewhat awkward small talk on the way to his room, chatting about how the weekend had gone and the results of the skill competitions on Saturday. Scott’s sure that basically everyone Hollander’s talked to this weekend has asked him some variation of the question, “How was it playing on a team with Rozanov?”, and maybe it’s suspicious that Scott’s not asking that, but he can’t trust himself to bring up Rozanov before they’re in private. Hollander visibly tenses when they turn towards Scott’s room from the elevator, and by the time he unlocks his room, Hollander’s breathing is shallow.

There’s really no way to go about it except ripping off the band-aid, especially since Hollander is already panicking. “Okay, I’m about to say something, and you cannot freak out, okay? Don’t run out of the room, don’t yell, don’t punch me. If you really want to punch me, then you can do it once I finish explaining.”

Hollander gives a tiny nod, staring wide-eyed over Scott’s shoulder at the wall. Scott feels terrible for what he’s about to do, but Hollander needs to know. It could’ve been anyone assigned to this room. Anyone could have overheard. The fact that it was Scott — maybe the one person with incentive not to say anything to anyone — was nothing but that pure dumb luck Scott was miserably reflecting on last night.

“You and Rozanov have got to be less obvious,” he says, trying to sound both firm and kind.

Hollander swallows, but when he speaks, his voice still sounds a little raspy. “Less obvious about what?”

In a perfect world, Hollander would have just nodded, taken that critique on board, told Scott they’d see each other in two months’ time for their next game, and never fucked in a hotel room again. Well, in a perfect world they’d never have to have this conversation because Hollander would be sensible enough to never fuck in a hotel room in the first place, but still. It’s unfortunate that this is how he’s decided to play it — it means that Scott is going to have to actually get into it with Hollander.

“Look, I don’t know what you are to each other, but you’re not being careful enough. Fucking in hotels is not careful. If I can hear you, so can someone else.”

The blood drains from Hollander’s face so quickly he sways a little with the blood loss, and Scott reaches out to steady him. Hollander doesn’t seem to even notice. “What?” he whispers. He’s completely pliant as Scott walks him over to the bed and gets him to sit down — as helpful as it would be for the Eastern Conference for Hollander to get injured from fainting in a hotel room, it would invite questions. Also, Scott’s not a complete dickhead, and doesn’t actually want Hollander to get injured.

He doesn’t sit on the bed next to him, because that seems… overly intimate, or something. He just kind of leans on the dresser instead. Hollander looks like he’s about to cry, and Scott feels terrible. He would prefer if Hollander had just punched him and left.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Hollander says, still whispering. “Please, I’ll do whatever — I don’t know what you might want but please—” His voice cracks on the last ‘please’, his eyes welling up, and Scott thinks for a moment that maybe he shouldn’t have said anything.

“I’m not gonna tell anyone. You don’t have to do anything for me, I promise. Look, just — one sec,” he says, before going into the bathroom and filling up the glass in the cabinet with water. When he returns and gives it to Hollander, Hollander just holds it in his hand as if he doesn’t know what to do with it.

There’s something Scott could say right now that would probably calm Hollander right down — or at least make him understand that Scott’s not a threat. But he’s not sure that he can. Like, maybe he needs to run it by Kip first? Although he could also just say he’s gay without mentioning who his boyfriend is.

“Hollander, I promise I won’t tell anyone,” he repeats. “Listen, I probably shouldn’t even tell you this, but I have the same secret. Well, mostly. He’s not a hockey player.” As much as he wants to add because that would be monumentally stupid and reckless as hell, he doesn’t. It already feels a bit like he’s kicking Hollander while he’s down.

At least Scott’s successfully stopped Hollander’s spiral. He’s staring at Scott directly for the first time since they entered the room, and his eyes are still brimming with tears, but they haven’t started falling.

“You — what? Really?” Hollander asks; his voice is a little steadier, but still has a raw edge to it. “For how long?”

Scott can’t help but huff out a laugh. “How long have I been gay? My whole life, Hollander, I think that’s usually how it works,” he answers, keeping his voice carefully quiet.

Hollander’s cheeks flush (which is probably good, getting some blood re-circulating in his head). “Well, I just figured it out,” he mumbles defensively, looking away from Scott again, and Scott would probably feel bad (again) if he weren’t so confused.

“That's not the impression I got after the last time I roomed next to Rozanov at an All-Star Game,” Scott says. “Unless Rozanov is also fucking another Hollander who really, really sounds like you. Like I said, you guys have got to be more discreet.”

Hollander looks a little green at the knowledge that Scott has known for years, but to his credit, he’s still capable of speech: “I thought it was… I don’t know, I thought it was just something I was doing with Rozanov until I found the right girl.” He bites his lip, and Scott’s heart breaks for him. “That would’ve been easier than this.”

Scott doesn’t know what to say to that. He thought his situation was fucked, but he’s not even holding a candle to whatever these two have going on.

“Are you… are you going to keep him a secret forever?” Hollander asks, before the silence can stretch on too long.

“Until I retire, at least,” Scott says. The words feel hollow — it was all well and good to say it when he was just fucking strangers on vacation, but now he actually has someone he could see a future with. If only he could imagine a future for a man like him in the first place.

Hollander nods awkwardly and doesn’t press for more details, which is probably good, because Scott’s suddenly dying to talk to someone about Kip, and that really isn’t a good idea. He clears his throat and stands up a little straighter against the dresser. “Anyway, uh — just wanted to, y’know, give you a heads up. You okay?”

“Not really,” Hollander says, but he wipes his eyes with his sleeve and downs his glass of water before standing up, much steadier now.

“Look, let me give you my phone number. We can go for a drink next time we play each other,” Scott says. Not that he’s going to have anything useful to say, but maybe Hollander just needs someone who knows, if nothing else.

Hollander hands his phone over and says, “Thanks,” quietly when Scott hands it back.

“We should head down before the bus leaves without us,” Scott says.

“Yeah,” Hollander says. Just before he opens the door, he says, “Thanks again. For not saying anything.” He doesn’t look Scott in the face, instead only managing to get as far as Scott’s shoes, but Scott gives him a hopefully-reassuring smile anyway.

“Of course. Take care of yourself.”

Hollander nods and goes out, leaving Scott to sit on the bed and let out a sigh. He’ll follow Hollander downstairs in a few minutes, when he’s had a chance to collect his thoughts and his luggage.

Scott has not been looking forward to this game against Boston. You’d think that overhearing Rozanov’s sex noises might make it less intimidating to play against him (like, isn’t ‘picture the audience naked’ supposed to be a technique against nerves?) but that’s really not the case. The Admirals have an excellent core this year, but they’re still working on their depth, and Boston isn’t going to be an easy opponent.

The first period proves him right — they spend way too much time in their own defensive zone. Their d-men do an impressive job of restricting the number of shots on goal Boston gets, but just can’t get the puck over the blue line back to neutral ice. Eventually, the relentless pressure gives way to a Boston goal, and the whistle signalling the first intermission is a blessing.

The second period is better. Vaughny gets a goal on a breakaway so beautiful it should be in textbooks, and by the time Rozanov skates up to him during a commercial break, Scott thinks they might have a chance to win this after all. In fact, when it becomes clear Rozanov is skating directly towards him instead of just wandering the neutral zone, Scott’s even feeling generous enough to smile at him.

When he comes to a stop in front of Scott, though, Rozanov just glowers at him silently for a very long moment. Scott’s really trying not to be intimidated — sure, Rozanov is big and tough, but so is Scott — but he’s failing.

“You scared him,” Rozanov finally says, his voice low, and Scott doesn’t have to ask who he means. On the ice is a ridiculously bad place to talk about this, but to be fair, where else would he and Rozanov talk? Bad location aside, though, it’s… sweet or something, Rozanov jumping to Hollander’s defence.

“And you scared me with how fucking loud you were being,” Scott says. He tries to keep the concern out of his voice, but he’s not sure he succeeds.

“Makes sense, old man scared of loud noises,” Rozanov says, grinning as if they’re discussing the latest video game or something. “Trying to sleep at nine o’clock on a weekend.”

It’s hard to remember to be sympathetic when Rozanov is so set on being the player least deserving of sympathy. Does he even get how much this could ruin him? Ruin Hollander?

Just as Scott’s really heading down that train of thought, though, Rozanov’s expression turns more serious. “Thank you for warning us,” he says, fiddling with his tape so as not to look at Scott. “We thought we were being careful. We didn’t realize.”

If that was them being careful, Scott would hate to see what they would define as reckless.

“Take care of him, alright?” Scott says on a whim. Hollander isn’t a small man by any means, or someone who seems to need taking care of, but seeing him curled in on himself and pleading with Scott that he’ll do anything to keep it secret makes Scott feel a little ill every time he remembers it. Rozanov obviously already knows that Scott freaked Hollander out, but he wasn’t there and didn’t actually see it.

Rozanov still doesn’t look up, but he does smile a little. Unless Scott’s completely imagining things, it’s almost wistful. “I always try,” he says, and skates away just as the ref blows the whistle to signal the end of the break. He doesn’t sound like someone casually fucking a friend (rival?) with absolutely no feelings involved. In fact, he sounds kind of smitten.

When the clock runs out with New York squeaking out a 2-1 win off what even Scott can admit was a lucky bounce, Rozanov finds Scott’s eye and nods at him before skating off. He doesn’t even throw in a chirp about the lucky bounce, so he really must be grateful.

Maybe Scott should feel relieved that the whole situation is settled. But mostly he just feels pretty bummed out. It’s depressing that Hollander and Rozanov have… whatever they have, and that they’ve been sneaking around for however long, and Scott had had to tell them to sneak around more. It’s fucking depressing that Scott has the love of his life waiting for him at home but his entire team has no idea. He doesn’t host team gatherings much anymore, and when he does, he has to tell Kip to stay away, like he’s something shameful.

And how long is he going to do this? As long as he doesn’t have any catastrophic injuries, he hopes he has another five years in him at least, but the plan had been to wait until he’d faded from the public consciousness before he came out. He can’t ask Kip to wait another ten years. He’s not sure he can wait another ten years.

As he stares at the ceiling of his bedroom that night, he wonders if Hollander and Rozanov are doing the same, two hundred and fifty miles apart.