Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble & Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander/Other(s)

Characters:

Hayden Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Patrice Drapeau, Victor St. Simon, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Magical Pussy Acquisition, Hockey-Typical Violence, (just at the beginning), Hazing, Group Sex, Blow Jobs, Double Penetration, Shane Hollander in Subspace, Kinda, Showering Together, Dacryphilia, Sexual Overstimulation, Breeding Kink, Aftercare, Winner’s room, Dubious Consent, Gangbang

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Shane Hollander and the Magical Pussy Curse

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-09 Words: 8,965 Chapters: 1/1

you’ve got my body, flesh and bone

Summary

“Why are you doing all this?” His heart hammered in his chest. He wanted to drink the coffee but wasn’t sure he could keep his hands from trembling.
“Only two things keep Shane Hollander from a spiral: being too hard or being too soft. Team took option one from me, I do option two.”

My take on the winner's room and magical pussy curse tropes, with added pussy-obsessed Ilya Rozanov.

Notes

So this is definitely not a "true" winner's room but I could not get the concept of the hockey pussy curse as hazing out of my head after reading this fic by HeartOfDecember.

Title is from The Summoning by Sleep Token.

Boston, Massachusetts — November, 2014

The loss was humiliating. 

Every single one of the Metros was out of sync. No one knew the puck from their own asshole. Shit offense, shit defense, shit goaltending. 2-1 with six minutes left in regulation, and the fresh-off-the-championship Raiders skating circles around them. Winning seemed a far-off possibility, even only down one, but they could keep it only as bad as it was. Maybe eke out one more goal, force overtime. One more intermission could be what it took to get it together. 

Shane was pissed off at his team, pissed off at the refs, and just about ready to drop gloves and break whatever part of Rozanov’s face he could get his hands on before getting ejected. As number 81 intercepted yet another pass out from Shane’s shithead pathetic right wing to get him one away from a hattie, something snapped. He swung his stick in fury. Yes, it was high, but not enough, it shouldn’t have been enough for a whistle. He was vaguely aware St-Simon was behind him, and almost in slow motion he realized what was going to happen. He found he really didn’t care if it did. The butt of Shane’s stick crashed hard directly into his teeth. By the time St-Simon spit a wash of red and a shiny wet tooth on the ice at Shane’s feet, Shane was already being dragged screaming to the penalty box. 

A major. Shane fucking Hollander does not get majors. Five minutes off the ice, the final five minutes of this game his team was already determined to lose, was worse than death. He hung his head, forcing himself back into his body. This would be the topic of every podcast, broadcast, tweet, and blog post by 7:30 tomorrow morning. He could see it now: “Hollander Hit with Major After High-Sticking Call Some Are Calling ‘Dirty.’” “St-Simon Toothless, Hollander Helpless as High-Stick Costs Metros the Win.” “Shane Hollander Evil?? Let’s Discuss!”

It wasn’t long before Rozanov took the hat trick. 4-1 and Shane couldn’t even leave the box to help. His stomach sank as the Boston captain did a lap around the rink, hoisting his stick up and screaming in victory. 

Two minutes left. He barely wanted to watch as Drapeau left the ice. Empty net. Humiliating in and of itself. This wasn’t the playoffs, they could afford to keep a goalie. Shit call from the coach. He could practically hear the announcers. “Empty net? Odd choice, playing like they still have a chance!”

He wanted to watch even less as Cliff Marleau slipped the puck from Berkes and shot a clean, precise goal from the opposite side of the blue line. 

5-1 Raiders. 

And everyone knew what a four-point loss meant.

Normally the Metros were on the winning side of a four-point differential. When was the last time Montreal lost by four? Shane’s rookie season, four and a half years ago, also to the Raiders. JJ had gone that time. He was off for weeks afterwards.

The away team locker room was absolutely silent. In the middle of the floor, coach’s shattered Microsoft Surface Pro stood as a reminder of how brutal their dressing-down had been. With the kind of sigh that restarts time, Shane pulled his playbook from his equipment bag. 

“I’ll do it.” 

Every eye turned to him. 

“Shane…” Hayden murmured, but notably did not volunteer in his place. No one else dared risk a sound. 

“The major cost us. It’s my fault. Hayden, you’ll have to read. JJ, the water.”

JJ clapped Shane on the shoulder as Hayden took the playbook and opened to the dogeared page near the back. 

During the mid-60s, a particular phenomenon sprung up in men’s hockey. No one could say for sure why, but occasionally a player would wake up after a rough night or finish a brutal practice or game and find his cock and balls replaced with a pussy. It was easy enough to get rid of with a few orgasms, or could clear up on its own in as little as a week, and common enough that there were pamphlets in most locker rooms and players could get a vibrator each season from the equipment team no questions asked. 

No one could say for sure, either, when the first time someone figured out how to do it on purpose was. All Shane knew—all he cared to know—was that when he got the C on his jersey he also got a playbook with a special page near the back, containing detailed instructions for how to force the change using an incantation and a bucket of cold water. He’d have sworn it was bullshit if he hadn’t seen it used on JJ.

Around the same time it was discovered “the curse” could be induced, teams started using it for hazing. Though forbidden for use on rookies, a particularly brutal loss—of four points or more—would send an affected player off to the winning team’s locker room after a game.  An additional motivator, to keep teams from just giving up halfway through a beating. 

Shane stripped down to nothing and stood in the showers. Hayden spoke in an incomprehensible but rhythmic tongue, doing his best not to stumble on the words. The only thing that came through as language was “Shane Hollander.” Shane could feel the heat pool in his belly. Everything in his body burned red-hot, and when his knees started to shake uncontrollably and he worried he’d pass out JJ tipped a Gatorade jug of frigid water over his head. That did get him to black out for a second, the conflicting sensations of hot and cold short-circuiting him. When he came to, he was on his hands and knees on the floor, and he knew it had worked. 

Drapeau handed him a towel and stood by with his clothes while Shane dried off. His boxer briefs felt so foreign he almost took them back off. A touch of momentum returned to the room now that a victim had been chosen, but still no one spoke. Shane sighed again. He carefully packed up the rest of his belongings, and slipped only his cell phone into the pocket of his Reebok sweatpants. 

“Do… you want us to wait for you?” Hayden asked quietly, shouldering Shane’s bag along with his own. 

“Absolutely not. The captain will bring me back. That’s the rule.”

Hayden winced like he’d been punched, thinking of Ilya Rozanov alone with Shane in his current state. It was clear he wanted to argue, but he nodded, motioning to the rest of the team to file out. At the locker room entrance, he corralled each player to the right, to the blissful freedom of the open night, while Shane squared his shoulders and walked further into the stadium’s underbelly. 

~

“Who do you think it’ll be?” Carmichael asked, scrubbing his hair with a towel. 

“Doubt they’d send Boiziau again.” Hammersmith replied. 

“Drapeau played like shit, probably him.” Johansson. 

“I dunno, you see that pass Roz stole from Pike? I’d be mad.” Marley.

“No way, Pike’s got twin toddlers. I feel like he’s got to be exempt.” Connors.

“How the fuck do you even know that?” St-Simon.

Ilya was hardly listening. He stared down at his phone, finger hovering over the Jane text thread, debating what to say to Hollander. They were supposed to meet up tonight, but that possibility slipped by each second their player of the night wasn’t in the locker room. 

He knew who it’d be. Shane Hollander’s first major, costing the team five minutes of 5-on-4 and ultimately the game. No way Mister Perfect Prince would let another member of the team take the fall for the shit show that followed. 

“I will wait outside,” he said, pushing up from his seat in his locker and silencing the rest of the team momentarily. He pulled his own dirty jersey from the hook behind him and grinned. 

“No peeking.”

~

Shane turned the corner towards the locker room and nearly bit his tongue in half when he saw Ilya Rozanov leaning against the doorway. The Boston Captain looked up from his cell phone and scoffed, just a bit. 

“I knew, yet I’m still surprised.”

“I couldn’t let anyone else take the fall. The loss was my fault,” replied Shane as he stepped up to meet Rozanov. 

“Mister Wildcat. You’ll get name for yourself now. Been workshopping. What do you think of ‘Dentist?’” 

“Ha-ha.” Shane deadpanned. “Hilarious and original.”

Rozanov smirked at him, stepping forward and cupping his hand on Shane’s crotch. “Have to check. You know rules.”

He did know the rules. He also knew that the incantation made him more sensitive than if he’d been struck with the curse naturally, but that didn’t stop the immense wave of pleasure that spread from his core at Rozanov’s touch. He bit his bottom lip hard, and kept himself from moaning but not from his knees buckling as Rozanov’s massive fingers dug in. 

“Oh. This will be fun.”

Shane glared up at him, flushed.  

“Roz!” Cliff Marleau screamed from inside the locker room as Shane practically jumped out of his skin. “Is he here?”

“Yes, he’s here,” Rozanov called back, fingers massaging Shane’s clit through his sweatpants. “Hold on, Marley, he’s a little shy. Just a minute.” 

He pulled Shane into the small vestibule between hallway and locker room by the cunt and leaned forward to kiss him, hot and needy. Shane pulled back almost immediately and slapped his palms on Roz’s chest. He couldn’t act like that. Not even with no cameras, not fucking here. Not now. 

“Th-they know not to—“

“Yes. Rules. No kissing. No anal. Now take all your clothes off.”

Shane nodded vigorously, and carefully pulled off each item. Rozanov held out a hand for the pile of neatly folded clothing. 

“Can I leave my socks on?” 

Rozanov snorted. “Of course. Arms up.”

Robotically Shane lifted his arms, and a sweaty jersey slid over his head. He looked down and his eyes went wide. Number 81.

“You can’t be—“

“Hush. And try not to follow orders like you’re desperate for it, mm?” Shane bit his lip hard at that. 

“Roz!!!”

“Oh my god, Marley shut up!” He disappeared into the locker room, carrying the pile of Shane’s clothes. “Gentlemen, we have a very special treat tonight. Come in.”

Ilya felt like he was on fire. He put Hollander’s clothes into his cubby, up on the top shelf where no one could see that he already had nine texts from various Metros. The hand he’d touched Hollander’s cunt with burned hottest of all. He’d never had the curse, or if he had he’d certainly not told Ilya about it, and he was so turned on it was hard to form words. 

Shane walked into the locker room like he was being marched to his own execution. His face flushed bright red, though whether from shame, fury, arousal, or embarrassment it was impossible to tell. Ilya was proud of the touch of putting Hollander in his jersey. An extremely obvious marking—he belonged to Rozanov, even here in this locker room where Ilya wouldn’t touch him if his life depended upon it—but everyone would think it was part of the hazing. Hollander looked good in black. It didn’t bear thinking about to picture him coming to Boston, but he could almost imagine being on the same line. Mostly he could conjure the memory of Hollander drooling and crying into the jersey while they fucked, and palm at his cock through his track pants. 

“Holy shit…” Marleau whispered. 

“Everyone knows rules,” Ilya announced, sitting down heavily in his cubby. “Metros have early flight, I’m told. Let’s be, ah, efficient.”

No one moved. 

“Sh-shouldn’t you go first, Cap?” Connors asked, wringing a hand towel with enough force Ilya was surprised it didn’t tear. 

“No. Marley, you got winning goal. You first.”

That was that, Shane guessed. Rozanov had spoken. Marleau turned on Shane like he was a choice steak, pointed at the two benches that had been dragged in from the weight room and pushed together. There was a pile of condoms on the floor next to the benches. 

For the first time Shane comprehended what was actually about to happen to him. His cunt had been throbbing since walking out of the Metros locker room, but he’d been strangely disconnected from the meaning behind it. Now as Cliff pulled off his wifebeater and tossed it to the floor with his shorts, he realized his cock would be inside him. All of them would. 

“Don’t look so scared, Hollander,” Marleau said with a grin.

“Is this first time with pussy?” Rozanov asked from what might as well have been five thousand miles away. 

Shane hesitated, wincing. 

“Shit. Well, how fun for all of us.” Marleau tugged up Rozanov’s jersey and spread Shane’s legs. 

He didn’t want to see it. He hadn’t wanted to see it the actual first time he’d been hit with the curse and he didn’t want to see it now. Freshly nineteen, he was so terrified he didn’t even try to touch himself to make it go away early. Nine days of absolute misery, horny and soaked the whole time. 

But he was expecting to see Rozanov. He knew everything was trimmed neatly, barely there. 

“All shaved.”

“I have… plans tonight,” grunted Shane. “Had.”

“Aw,” Marleau said as he shoved two fingers roughly into Shane’s pussy. “We’ll make sure you have fun anyway.”

The feeling was electrifying. He gasped, unable to help himself. 

“Yeah, just like that. You can tell it’s your first time. Don’t fight it.”

Cliff pulled out his fingers and wiped them on the outside of Shane’s thigh. Shane bristled and grimaced, and from someone behind him a towel slapped into one of his hands, held above his head. Rozanov. 

“God, shut it Marley, we’ll fall asleep before we get a turn!” Hammersmith griped from the line forming behind Marleau. 

The tips of Shane’s ears were red. He was trying desperately not to look at Rozanov, but would have burst into flames making eye contact with Marleau. Rozanov made no such pretense. His stare bored into Shane’s soul, and he had his hand around his cross necklace so tight Shane wondered if the skin or the necklace would crack first. 

“Okay I’m bored. Open up, Hollander.”

Shane turned his head, and when he opened his mouth to say something, Carmichael stuffed his cock in all at once. Not to be shown up, Marleau finally did the same. 

It reminded Shane of Las Vegas. Rozanov fucking him with a brutal efficiency, no regard for Shane underneath him, chasing his own pleasure in domination. This was different, of course, but if Shane closed his eyes he could pretend well enough. No point trying to fight what was happening. 

“Shit, no gag reflex. He’s a natural.”

“Fuck, I want a turn, hurry up.”

“Let’s give him a girl name like we did with Detroit.”

“Shane… Amy? No, Jane?”

“Cute.”

“Stop talking.” Ilya shut down the noise in the room. He could tell Marleau was looking at him, trying to rub his only two operational brain cells together to make a connection between Shane Hollander having plans in Boston that required shaving and the Montreal Jane in Ilya’s phone. If he avoided eye contact, maybe he could keep Cliff from intuiting any more pieces of that particular puzzle. 

Carmichael came with a loud groan. He pulled out of Hollander’s mouth and tucked his cock back into his track pants. 

“Keep that pussy, and with a mouth like that you’ve got a new career when hockey stops working out, Jane,” he joked. 

No one but Ilya seemed to notice that Hollander had swallowed without fanfare. 

Shane was too busy cycling through the torrent of emotions and sensations to notice himself. The second Carmichael stepped away another player took his place, and he was once again filled in two places. He and Rozanov had done this once—Rozanov throatfucking Shane like it was the last thing he would ever do while Shane fucked his dildo against the wall of his shower—but it was definitely different with two real cocks. By the time Marleau came he’d decided it really wasn’t so bad. He was too overstimulated to continue being pissed off, and let the sensations in his body carry him along, stretch in his throat, in his cunt. 

When Connors sat him up, turned him around, and said “Let’s see how she rides,” Shane locked eyes with Rozanov again. His cock was a steel beam through his pants and he made no effort to hide it. Seeing Rozanov was anchoring in a way that honestly annoyed him. Shane was still wearing the dirty 81 jersey, and no one seemed inclined to take it off, probably so as not to be reminded the pussy they were all fighting over who was next to fuck didn’t have a nice pair of tits attached. He wanted Rozanov to come over to him, pull the jersey off and play with his nipples. He would probably pinch too hard, and it would hurt but hurt like he wanted it to hurt, and then he could slap Shane around a little bit and—

When he was gripped at the waist and sheathed fully on Connors’s cock, Shane came. It was nothing like what he thought it would be. The rush of heat pulsing from his center hit him like a bus, and his thighs shook uncontrollably. His eyes slammed shut and he was forced to cut eye contact with Rozanov, trembling a bit on his own. Before he could fully come down, another player gripped his panting mouth and shoved in his cock. 

“Jesus Christ, man,” sputtered Connors, barely lasting two minutes longer under Shane. “You’ve all gotta try that.”

Another player took his place, then another. He was practically on fire, trying not to come again so soon, but eventually the point became moot. Time started to fade for Shane, catching Rozanov’s eye when he could but mostly staying trapped in his own body. Sensation after overwhelming sensation anchored him over and over. 

“I want to fuck his ass,” St-Simon said, finally stepping up. 

Most of the team had cleared out. A few guys were milling around, some hoping for a second—or in Connors’s case, a third—go. 

“No. You know rules. No anal.” 

“No anal unless—“ St-Simon said from behind Shane “—he says it’s okay.”

“Will it get this over with faster?” Shane asked, turning to look at him. His thighs burned from the exertion of everyone deciding he should ride them, and the sheen of sweat covering his body was starting to bother him. He needed to shower, badly. 

“It’ll certainly get me to forgive you for these two fucking crowns,” snarled St-Simon, flashing the hole in his mouth where one whole and one half tooth no longer filled the space. 

Shane grimaced, turned back to the rookie fucking him from underneath. “Fine, whatever. Not like this hasn’t been degrading enough.”

“Hell yeah.” St-Simon slipped a condom on and pushed the head of his cock against Shane’s hole. “Get ready, bit—“

“Stop.” 

Everyone, not just St-Simon, stopped. Rozanov walked forward, pushed St-Simon aside. Shane bit his tongue to keep from a reaction of any kind. 

“If you’ve never fucked someone’s ass you can just say so,” he joked, uncapping the mostly-empty bottle of lube the players had been using. “You don’t just stick your cock in. It will bleed. Be a bitch for days.”

“I… know that.”

Rozanov grimaced at him. “And you were going to do it anyway? Hurt him on purpose? I should send you home without a turn.”

“Look what he did to me!”

“So what? That is game! Who in this room doesn’t have fake teeth?”

“Th-that’s—“

“Fuck, Rozanov, it’s fine, just get it over with. I want to go home before playoffs.”

Two of Rozanov’s giant fingers slipped into his asshole. Shane gasped, trying to compartmentalize the sensation of something in both his holes. Finally, he was starting to feel the way he was used to. The way he should. 

Ilya fucked Hollander’s hole slow and steady, stretching and adding a third finger until he was shaking again and had come loudly on Kovalev’s cock and his fingers. Stupid slut, his brain was too fried to remember he walked in here ready to take Ilya’s cock, which was much larger than St-Simon’s. He pulled out his fingers and slapped Hollander’s ass, reveling in how he shook. 

“Okay, all ready.”

St-Simon looked annoyed, but still stepped up and shoved in his lubed up cock in one go. Hollander’s arms buckled. 

The feeling was almost too intense. His mouth, swollen from too many cocks shoved inside, had finally been left alone for more than a minute, and he panted openly, each exhale a choked gasp. He could feel himself starting to slip after so much abuse to his body, into the blissful floaty place outside himself where he sometimes went when Rozanov pushed him past every limit he thought he had and then some, and knew he shouldn’t. Focus. Stay present. In the moment, in the body.

St-Simon didn’t have nearly the cock Rozanov did. He was fucking into Shane like an animal, constantly slipping out and cramming back in, but the stretch and burn he always felt when Rozanov pressed into him wasn’t nearly as intense. Probably for the best, all things considered. The kid fucking into his cunt from below was one of the better endowed of the team, and he could feel them both, stuttering movements from the logistical nightmare of trying to find a rhythm while not speaking about what they were doing. If Shane could feel them both so close together, they probably could feel each other, and god forbid anything about this come off as gay. 

It took a minute, but it happened. St-Simon fucked hard into Shane’s prostate at the same time the player below him came, grinding his pelvis against Shane’s sore clit. The world went white. Every muscle in Shane’s body went taught, and fuck, there was Rozanov, and—he spilled over the edge into the bright soft place, screaming from the pleasure and trembling from the exertion before it all churned together into pure electric sensation. 

When Hollander started to scream and moan and writhe, Ilya stood. The Raiders were a brutal team, known for putting up big points and getting lots of players sent to their locker room, but he had never participated in this particular post-game ritual after becoming captain. His captain before him didn’t, so it felt like the right example to set, but here he couldn’t help himself. Needed to feel Hollander, his mouth or his hand, anything. Barely had his dick out before coming all over Shane’s face in hot, wet stripes. Hollander looked up at him, horrified but so openly wanting it made his stomach do a backflip.

“Oops.”

Ilya smirked, reaching out to smear tears and come over Hollander’s pretty, red face and fuck his fingers into his pretty, swollen mouth, before remembering where they were and how horrible of an idea that was. 

“Shit, Roz. Get after it,” Cliff joked from his cubby, cracking open a Red Bull. 

Then he saw Hollander fade, pull away from his body and the room and the earth itself. Shit. Not now. Ilya reached out and pinched his earlobe hard, digging his nail into the flesh in a way he knew would make Hollander come back. Hollander hissed with pain, shaking his head but unable to loose Ilya’s grip. 

St-Simon pulled out with a sucking pop and Hollander collapsed on top of Kovalev. Ilya grabbed him, guiding him off Kovalev and to seated, looking deep into his eyes to make sure he was still with them as he closed Hollander’s fingers around the towel so he could wipe off his face. Too far. He shouldn’t have let Victor fuck him like that. Bad. Bad. 

Hollander looked up, glassy-eyed but present, and a weight dropped from Ilya’s shoulders. 

“That hurt,” he whispered, barely more than a breath. Ilya wanted desperately to rub away the crease between Hollander’s brow with his fingers, but turned to grab his clothes instead. 

“Okay, I think we are all done. Everyone have turn?”

The group nodded. Several Raiders were already leaving, bags over their shoulders and hoods up in anticipation of the January night. 

“Marley, can you finish up here while I take our guest home?”

“Course man, anything you need.”

Shane stared down at his pile of clothes and his phone, steadily vibrating with texts from his team (mostly Hayden). His stomach churned at the thought of putting them on. 

“Can I shower first?”

“You don’t want to shower here,” replied Rozanov, yanking his sweaty jersey over Shane’s head and tossing it with the laundry. 

“I promise I do.”

“Longer you stay, longer you’re fair game. Shower later.”

Goddamnit. The idea of being in this locker room any longer than absolutely necessary forced Shane back into his clothes. The sticky feeling of fabric on sweaty flesh made his skin crawl, but he dressed himself without another word and walked back to the Away locker room for his coat. 

Rozanov was waiting for him, rattling his keys in his pocket while tapping away at his phone, when he walked out. 

“My place?”

Against all logic, he nodded. 

~

Rozanov’s Jaguar was completely impractical for Boston winter, but the heated seats worked and he kept the volume down on the stereo. Shane tapped his feet on the carpeted mats and watched Rozanov’s profile from the corner of his eye. After a few minutes of silence, texting back as many players as possible but only telling Hayden he was going to a friend’s place (and pretending he didn’t know how to use his phone to share his location), he looked at Rozanov fully. 

“Are you, um, angry with me?”

Rozanov cut him a glance without turning his head from the road. It had started to snow and even hours after the game the weekend traffic was awful. A pickup truck slid through the intersection in front of them, painfully slow. 

“No. Why would I be mad?”

“Well you didn’t—“ 

“Do you, when you get one?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Me either.” 

Shane honestly hadn’t considered that Rozanov wouldn’t participate in the winner’s rite, but giving it some thought, it made perfect sense. Despite his attitude, Rozanov was a meticulous captain, a born leader. This wasn’t the example he needed to set for his team, so he would sit back and monitor, let them have fun, and keep things safe. Just like Shane did. 

Rozanov placed his hand high up on Shane’s thigh, squeezed. “Besides, hard enough to watch them fuck you wrong without them finding out I am the only one who can fuck you right.”

Shane’s brain was suddenly full of television static. His entire lower body was raw with overexertion of all kinds, but feeling Roz’s touch set him aflame all over again. 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” He finally managed to choke out. 

“They fucked you hard because they think you won’t like it. I fuck you hard because I know you like it. But you did very well, and you’ll get a nice reward when we get back. Your little pussy is treat for me too, you know.”

More static. Jesus, Rozanov had pushed his hand further up Shane’s thigh, was grinding the edge of his pinky finger and knuckle into his clit. Shane hissed out a tiny breath, tried to focus through the roiling storm of building pleasure. 

“You almost went somewhere, didn’t you?” Rozanov asked after another few minutes of quiet, pulling his hand from Shane’s cunt, back to just his thigh. “Where you go, when we fuck sometimes.”

Shane nodded, licked his lips, tried to clench his thighs against Rozanov removing the touch altogether. “Yeah, I—I don’t know, it was all so intense and then you came on my fucking face and all I could smell was you and I guess I felt—“ Safe. 

“Mm.” Ilya drank in Hollander’s pause. He’d heard what he hadn’t said as loud as if it had been shouted. “Don’t ever do this again.”

“Huh?”

“You are Captain, I don’t care if you kill somebody on ice you can make someone else go.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean don’t go to a locker room again. You want your cunt fucked, you call me, I will bring my playbook home. Where you were going can be a very dangerous place to go if you’re not somewhere safe.”

“Oh, and you’re somewhere safe?” 

“Yes.”

Rozanov had finally turned to look at him, and his expression was so sincere Shane bit down the snarky comment he wanted to spit at him. He must have noticed how it sounded as well, because he quickly added, “Safer than MLH locker room, anyway. I’m serious. Don’t put yourself in this position again.”

Shane barely remembered to breathe. “Okay.

Rozanov nodded, took a massive breath, then turned back to the road, pulling his car up the final stretch into his driveway. 

~

Rozanov became another person once his garage door closed. The second Shane was inside the house, he was pushed up against the door, his mouth captured in a rough kiss, and Rozanov’s knee crammed between his thighs. 

“I’m all gross, fuck, can we please—“

It was hard to think again. Shane’s traitorous hips were grinding on Rozanov’s thigh, but the rest of him still felt like his clothes were made of nettles. In lieu of a verbal response, his clothes were piece by piece yanked from his body until he was once again only in his socks. Rozanov picked him up and carried him, still attached by the mouth, to the bathroom. 

Ilya felt like a kid on Christmas morning. Hollander naked in his bathroom. Hollander with a cunt. If only there hadn’t been such a long detour, if Hollander had been hit with this naturally, and he could have had him all to himself even longer. Didn’t matter. He was ready. 

In the cabinet under his bathroom sink, Ilya kept a bottle of body wash Svetlana left at his house because she hadn’t liked the smell. He liked it though, lemon and eucalyptus. Feminine, but not too much, not enough to scare him off. He pulled it out and put it in the shower, turned on the water to heat up. Even with the newness of the house, his water heater had to put in overtime on nights like this. 

In his bedroom, he pulled the lube and condoms from his nightstand drawer and threw them haphazardly on the bed. Hollander was right where he left him, seated on the toilet, back ramrod straight, hands pressed into his knees. Still in his socks. 

Ilya knelt in front of him, pressed a kiss to his fingers on each hand. Kissed again down the line of his shins until he pulled his socks off with a final kiss to the top of each foot. He loved the mewling noise that escaped Hollander’s lips, his meaningless protest that he was gross and shouldn’t be kissed like that. Pressing his lips down over and over, entranced by soft skin and the smell of sweat and sex, he lost himself in Shane Hollander’s thighs.  

“The water’s gonna get cold,” Shane murmured above him. 

“Mmm.”

It was agony to pull away, but he did, holding out his hand to guide Hollander into the shower. Ready to slip into routine, he reached for the loofa.

“Ah-ah. I take care of you.”

The smell of citrus filled the shower as Ilya opened the body wash, pumped a healthy amount in his palm, and began to run his hands along Hollander’s body. He pressed himself to the other man’s back, so he could feel his hard cock on his ass. 

“Smells nice,” whispered Hollander, tipping his head back to rest on Ilya’s shoulder. 

“Yes, I like this one. The best for pretty Jane.”

Hollander wriggled against the name, in that delightful way he did when he was turned on and not actually angry. Ilya was finishing up his hands, massaging the body wash into each finger, dragging his hands up to squeeze his tits and play with his hard nipples. The sensation made Hollander’s legs buckle, and he leaned even more heavily on Ilya. 

“Having pussy makes your tits more sensitive, yes?”

“D-don’t call them that…”

“Yes?” He pushed, ignoring Hollander’s protest and twisting his nipples harder.

“Fuck—yes I think it does. It’s hard to tell after earlier.”

Ilya smiled into the crook of his neck, kissed his soft, damp skin and then bit down. Not enough to leave a mark, but enough to make the man beneath his touch shudder and moan. 

“Nobody touched your tits earlier, remember? You had my jersey on. Only I touch your pretty, sensitive tits.”

Another delicious shudder, another bite to the shoulder. Ilya finally lathered up his hands again, moving in front of him to continue down Hollander’s chest and to his legs, making sure to kiss and then bite each nipple as he passed. Even though he was desperate like a man starved to touch him between the legs, Ilya focused on massaging each muscle from hip to toe. 

“You have nice legs. Very sexy.”

The look Hollander cast down at him made Ilya wish he had a camera. If he could freeze this moment, that blissed out, perfectly relaxed and content look and keep it forever in his pocket he would do it in an instant. Hollander was propping himself up on Ilya’s shoulder, barely able to stand anymore. Now. With two fingers, he tapped the round knob of his ankle, and without comment or protest Hollander’s legs parted. 

“Is this really your first time?”

“No,” breathed Shane, “I was nineteen. But I didn’t do anything about it.”

“You didn’t touch yourself? Get someone to fuck you?”

A quick flash of memory, Shane grinding on his pillow to try and relieve the ache, but getting spooked whenever his cunt twitched with pleasure. 

Hollander shook his head. He was starting to pant, spitting out shower water. Ilya ran his fingers up and down the inside of his thighs, a featherlight touch all the way to the apex and back down, avoiding the true spot he wanted to touch. 

“How long did it last?”

“Nine days.”

Ilya swore in Russian. English was rapidly failing him. “Long time. Must have been hard, so wet and needy.”

Hollander whined, and it went straight to Ilya’s dick. Instead of breaking down and jerking himself off all over his legs, Ilya leaned up for his first taste of Shane Hollander’s cunt. Below the noise of the shower and his own blood rushing in his ears Ilya could barely hear fuck and holy shit and oh my god, Rozanov don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop. 

He didn’t stop. Didn’t stop when the grip on his hair became painful, didn’t stop when Hollander twisted his body in some unknowable way and a torrent of water splashed into his eyes, didn’t stop when Hollander came with a strangled shout and half-collapsed on top of him, thighs clenched so tight around his head his vision was starting to go black at the edges. 

Shane had learned a long time ago that there was a certain level of overstimulation Rozanov provided which he not only enjoyed but actively craved, the likes of which he could achieve on his own only by taking his body to the absolute limit of what he could do—miles upon miles of running, benching more weight than his teammates thought was safe, pushups and sit-ups and pull ups and lunges. The sparkling agony of the perfect machine of his body meeting and exceeding and meeting and exceeding the threshold of possible. It wasn’t uncommon for him to come two, three, or four times in a single night under Rozanov’s touch, but anything after two typically involved crying and begging and the type of exhaustion and pain that could only come with a forced, dry orgasm. 

This was different. After St-Simon had pushed his way into his ass, Shane wasn’t sure he had stopped coming until the whole thing was over, and before that there had been at least three. Now here he was, propped up by nothing but the man beneath him in Rozanov’s shower. Every part of him lit up, weak in the knees and lightheaded, yet he knew he could handle more. Would have more. 

Rozanov pulled back, his lips and chin coated in a fine sheen that Shane knew instantly was not water. His tongue swept out in a slow, wide circle, cleaning himself off. 

“Take me to bed.”

The shower was turned off immediately. Rozanov pulled a big fluffy towel from under the sink and wrapped Shane in it, drying off each limb and digit, ruffling his hair until it no longer dripped. Shane was surprised by the comfort he felt, here in Rozanov’s house being pampered. He was honestly a little disappointed when Rozanov threw the towel on the floor and pulled him by the wrist into the bedroom.

“I have lotion,” Rozanov was saying, “to make you all soft. But we will shower again and I will do that then.”

As Shane let himself be pushed into the center of the bed, he huffed. “You do this with all your girls?”

“No.”

Another soul-piercing stretch of eye contact. The possessive look Rozanov swept down his body made Shane feel like a hunted animal. If he’d still had his cock he knew it would have jumped, in that way it did only with Rozanov, that would make him grin like a wolf. In its wake his cunt felt like it was throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Not obvious, but Rozanov still smiled like he knew exactly what was happening to Shane. He swallowed so hard his throat clicked, and looked away to the pile of objects next to him on the bed. Condoms, lube. Familiar sights. Grounding. 

Ilya reached for the condoms. “Do you want me to fuck your pussy or your ass?”

“I think you’ve already decided for yourself.”

He grinned down at Hollander, flushed all the way to his collarbones and trapped beneath him. “Yes, but it is polite to ask.”

Hollander scoffed. “How gentlemanly.”

When Ilya didn’t say anything, Hollander’s face warped. This was when Ilya liked him most, when he was forced to cross some arbitrary line he had in his head, to say or do something exclusively in the service of getting what he wanted, rather than having Ilya push for him. 

“F-fuck my—here.”

Watching Shane Hollander spread the lips of his cunt with his fingers was so singularly erotic Ilya gave up on forcing him to say pussy out loud. He fumbled with the condom, excited like a teenager during his first time. Even after coming in the locker room he knew this wouldn’t last long. 

“So eager,” he said with a chuckle, lining himself up. He threw one of Hollander’s legs over his shoulder. 

Hollander was so wet Ilya didn’t bother with lube, or even with fingers. He slipped in easily, all the way in one push. The wet heat around his cock was so intense it nearly made Ilya come right there. Hollander’s cunt had been fucked by no fewer than nine Raiders earlier in the night, and yet he was so tight around him. 

“Oh my god, Rozanov,” whined Hollander, his mouth a red wet O of pleasure. 

Ilya pushed one hand down on his chest, groping and pinching as he kept Hollander pinned to the mattress, the other hand clawing hard into Hollander’s leg. With each snap of his hips he made sure to grind hard into Hollander’s pelvis, pubic bone against clit, eventually barely pulling back at all. 

“Open,” he commanded, pushing his thumb into Hollander’s pretty mouth before cramming the spit-soaked digit between their bodies to rub even harder against his clit. 

The sight before him was truly incredible. Drool slipped from the corner of Hollander’s mouth, tears from his eyes. Even knowing full well the induced curse made the body even more sensitive than it would have otherwise, Ilya was still struck by how quickly Hollander’s entire body tensed, how pretty he was as he came on Ilya’s cock. 

Hollander writhed and moaned underneath him as Ilya kept up a relentless pace. He hadn’t moved his thumb, and the tendons in Hollander’s neck strained as he tried to keep another orgasm at bay. 

“That’s it,” Ilya cooed, feeling his own orgasm roaring up. “Good boy. Taking it so well for me.”

“Come inside me.”

Ilya froze mid-thrust, desperately trying to keep his vision from whiting out. Hollander was completely red faced below him, looking up with more tears gathering in his eyes. 

“Oh Hollander, you are going to kill me one day.”

The man beneath him clearly took this as a refusal. With a choked sob, he tangled his fingers into Ilya’s hair. 

“Please—fuck—Rozanov, I need to feel it. I want it so bad, you have to. You have to. I need it, I—“

Ilya watched his lip tremble as he prepared the kill shot. “Please come in my p—“

Before he could finish, Ilya pulled his hand from between their bodies and slapped it over Hollander’s mouth. His eyes flicked over every inch of Ilya’s face, pleading and desperate, tears running down Ilya’s fingers. 

“If you keep talking I am going to come right now. Did I say no?”

A lightning-quick shake of the head. 

“Of course not. How could I ever say no to my Jane?”

The whimper against his hand almost took him out again. Ilya pulled out, just long enough to get a grip on the condom and peel it off, tossing it aside to be dealt with later. Giddy again, the unrelenting high of Shane Hollander clouding all sense of judgement. 

Shane didn’t understand the long string of Russian that slipped from Rozanov’s mouth when he pushed back into Shane’s cunt, but he didn’t need to. All of the mind-numbing pleasure he’d felt all evening slammed into him double time. He’d never been fucked without a condom before, they were both far too careful for that normally, but knowing he wouldn’t have a cunt come morning made him drunk with the thought of Rozanov finishing deep inside him. Rozanov roughly shoved Shane’s other leg over his shoulder, and bent forward so that Shane’s knees were almost at his ears. With their bodies pressed so close together, Shane could do nothing but moan into Rozanov’s ear as the deep angle of his cock made him see stars. 

“Is good?” Rozanov panted, finally in English. 

“Yes—so fucking good.”

“Good,” was all Shane comprehended before Rozanov lost his second language again. 

“Fuck, I’m about to come again,” Shane moaned into Rozanov’s mouth. 

“Yes,” Rozanov nodded so vigorously it knocked their foreheads together. “Say it. From before.”

As much as he would have liked to protest, the burning in his thighs from the press of Rozanov’s body and the tunnel vision of his impending orgasm pulled all the fight from him. Made him pliant to Rozanov’s will. 

“Please come in my pussy.”

Rozanov choked out a sound somewhere between a snarl and a moan, bit down hard on Shane’s shoulder as he came, and oh fuck Shane could feel it—and there he went. The tidal wave of his own orgasm crashed down on him, a loud cry of pleasure erupting from his mouth. Some distant part of him was grateful they were at Rozanov’s house—there would have been no shortage of noise complaints no matter the hotel. 

From behind the curtain of haze in his mind, Shane watched Rozanov pull out, cock slick. He’d opened his mouth before being asked, and the weight of Rozanov on his tongue, taste of their come mixed together grounded him. Anchoring. Perfect. Through the curtain, Rozanov shoved his fingers back into Shane, lifted them to his own mouth, and sucked like a man possessed. 

“Fuck,” Shane whispered, practically inaudible. 

Then a kiss and arms around him. They lay on the bed for what could have been years before Rozanov helped him to seated, then standing. Back to the bathroom. The warm steam and Rozanov’s hands on his body while still blissed out were a kind of heaven that would have made Shane say something he’d regret if he thought he could have spoken at all. Again, years passed. Rozanov whispered to him, soft-sounding Russian words punctuated with kisses on each part of him until he’d been scrubbed clean. Hair washed too, and they’d sat on the floor for that, because the second Shane felt long massaging fingers in his hair, his knees buckled so intensely he’d collapsed into Rozanov’s chest. 

By the time the water turned off, Shane almost felt normal. The exhaustion of the day (he could barely entertain the fact that he’d played hockey on top of everything) came crashing down as Rozanov lifted him from the shower floor and wrapped him in another towel. He kept his eyes closed, languished in the gentle caress of being dried off. Before he knew it they were back in the bedroom, and Rozanov had uncapped a bottle of sweet-smelling lotion, running his hands again on every inch of Shane’s body. 

“I have to leave,” he murmured pathetically, making no attempt to get free.

“What time does your team leave for the airport?”

“Eight-thirty.”

Rozanov massaged the muscles of Shane’s inner thigh, working out a tightness he didn’t realize he had. “I will call car in the morning. Stay. You’re practically asleep anyway.”

“Hayden—“

The bitter rise of Rozanov’s eyebrow shut him up. 

“Okay. I’ll stay. Just let me text him.”

Ilya placed Hollander’s phone in his outstretched hand, watched as he typed out a short text, then another. Hayden Pike would get a nice boarding next game for taking Hollander’s attention away from this room. 

“Enough,” he said, taking the phone back after Hollander grimaced at his screen. “You’re still mine right now, not Metros.”

A slip. Hollander couldn’t understand when Ilya called him his (among many, many other things) in Russian, but now he looked up from his phone, and his tongue darted out to coat his lips in that way it did when he was nervous. It took all of Ilya’s willpower not to break eye contact first. He held out his hand, and Hollander put the phone back without comment. 

“You need to sleep. Lay down.”

He did, curling into Ilya’s body when he held out his arms. Ilya’s stomach clenched when he realized if he died in this exact instant he would be happier than he had been holding the cup. 

Shane wanted to stay awake, to catalogue every piece of this memory so he could hold it close. But he smelled like chamomile and lavender, and the warm weight of Rozanov’s body and his easy breathing as he slipped into sleep filled him with so much peace that he fell asleep faster than he had in a long time. 

~

Shane was woken up the next morning not by his alarm, but by the trace of hands along his body. The sun was yet to rise, and the black of the bedroom disoriented him. Lips brushed his ear. Rozanov. 

“My friend is back.”

Rozanov’s hand slipped across Shane’s hips to grip his cock, already half-hard. 

“Wh—don’t call it that you weirdo.”

“Ah, let me have fun, I missed him!” 

Rozanov lifted up the blanket and called out. “Hello Hollander’s cock! Nice to see you again!”

“You’re such an assh—“

By the time Rozanov was done sucking Shane off his alarm was blaring. His phone pinged as he shut the alarm off to let him know he’d be getting picked up in 30 minutes. 

“Said I’d get you a car.”

“Thanks,” Shane replied, searching for his clothes. 

“You can borrow clothes if you want.”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll change at the hotel before we leave.”

Shane pulled his shirt over his head. He heard Rozanov pad out of the room, and a coffee grinder whir to life. He wanted the clothes. He wanted to smell Rozanov on his flight back to Montreal, to settle into that tactile reminder of last night. But Rozanov didn’t smell like nice lotion and soap, and his cologne was so distinctive that Shane could have found him blindfolded in a crowded stadium. He settled for his cold, dirty clothes and went into the kitchen. 

Rozanov held out a thermos full of fragrant coffee. He also slid a red box across the counter into Shane’s hand.

“For you.”

Inside the box was a red silicon sex toy that looked like a flower, all the petals pointed towards the small hole in the center. Shane had a vague idea what he was supposed to do with it. 

“For next time, if you’re alone.” 

Rozanov wrapped his arms around Shane from behind, bit the edge of his earlobe. “But I expect video.”

If he wasn’t so exhausted, wasn’t still so turned on, Shane would have scoffed. Would have thought it was a little weird, if he’s honest, that Rozanov bought something just for Shane. They’d been doing this for years and had never even eaten in front of each other, much less done gifts. 

“Why are you doing all this?” His heart hammered in his chest. He wanted to drink the coffee but wasn’t sure he could keep his hands from trembling. 

“Only two things keep Shane Hollander from a spiral: being too hard or being too soft. Team took option one from me, I do option two.”

Shane turned to look at him. Rozanov shrugged, hands still around Shane’s waist. 

“Last night was not your night. You needed distraction, so now you can think about the game with a clear head instead of your typical… you-ness.”

Horrifyingly, Shane’s first instinct was to tuck himself into the crook of Rozanov’s neck and weep. The sheer weight of knowing bore down upon him. 

“Thanks,” he murmured as Rozanov tilted his chin to kiss him. 

His phone pinged, a notification that his driver would be there shortly. He sighed into Rozanov’s mouth, relishing in the last few kisses and the warmth of Rozanov’s arms before he had to slip out into the freezing morning. 

He spent the short walk to the nearby street corner where the car would pick him up and the entire ride back to the hotel with Rozanov’s words on repeat. Last night was not your night. Only two things keep Shane Hollander from a spiral. You needed distraction. 

Sipping his coffee, he knew Rozanov had been right. He did feel better, his head clear. Every moment from last night’s game was stark in his memory, but the torrent of self loathing and fury he would normally feel after a loss of that magnitude was absent. He replayed the night from a distance with a clinical eye. 

Hayden shot out of his bed like a missile when Shane entered their hotel room, but didn’t speak. Shane drank the last of the coffee while he pulled fresh clothes from his bag and went into the bathroom to change and brush his teeth. 

As they packed the last items into their bags, Hayden caught sight of Rozanov’s gift. 

“Oh man, Jackie has one of those. Lo-o-oves it. Is that uh, from your friend?”

Shane shoved the box deep into his suitcase. “Yeah. It is.”

“That’s nice of her. Did you end up—"

“I don’t want to talk about it, please.”

Hayden stepped back, surprised but not hurt like he normally was when Shane snapped at him. 

“Right, yeah of course. Totally get it.”

~

Shane boarded the plane last. Made sure every single player was seated and ready to listen to him as he stood in the aisle. He cleared his throat, and the plane fell completely silent. 

“I’m fine. That’s all I’ll say there."

A few players visibly relaxed, some looks were exchanged, but not a sound was uttered. 

“But this will never happen again. I take responsibility for last night as your captain, but we all know that every single one of us is at fault. Nothing worked, and we can all do better. 

“We play Tampa Bay in—“ Shane looked down at his Rolex. “—nine hours. And each and every one of you is going to spend this flight thinking about the game you played last night and how to improve it. When we get to the rink you’ll tell me your plan for that game never happening again. If I don’t like your plan, we’ll come up with one together. But trust me, none of you want to hear my unfiltered opinion right now.

“We’re not fighting for a wild card spot this year. We’re not going out in a first round sweep. We are the Metros team that will win the cup. But not like this. Does everyone understand?”

“Let’s do this!” JJ screamed from the back, snapping the thread of tension. A chorus of cheers went up from his team.

Shane grinned, and threw himself down in his usual aisle seat next to Hayden, who leaned in close. 

“That was really impressive, Shane,” he whispered. “Proud to call you my captain.”

“Thanks, Hayd. You’re still not exempt from what I said.”

“Yeah that’s fair—dude, you smell great.”