Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Rape/Non-Con

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Original Male Character(s)

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Original Characters

Additional Tags:

Winner's Room (Sports RPF), Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, weaponized internalized homophobia, Power Bottom Shane Hollander, Dom Shane Hollander, He Really Does Not Want To Be, Dom/sub, pain play, Cock & Ball Torture, Humiliation, Verbal Humiliation, Slurs, Cock Rings, Face Slapping, Barebacking, Autistic Shane Hollander, None Of This Is Safe Sane Or Consenual, No one wants to be here, Unrealistic Hockey Capabilities, Blow Jobs, First Time, Rookie Shane Hollander, Rape Culture, No Aftercare, panopticon, shane is not having a good time, Everyone Else Is Just Having A Worse Time, Divergent Timelines, victim is aroused, Victim Gets Off, sensory issues, Refrences To Ancient Roman Homosexuality, Judgmental Shane Hollander, What Do You Mean You Don't Dream About Sucking Cock?, Why Do I Have To Make You Suck Cock When That's All I Want To DO?, He is not impressed, Crying During Sex, Not Beta Read

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Winner Takes All

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-14 Words: 10,436 Chapters: 1/1

Victory Conditions

Summary

The Winner's Room would be a mind fuck all on its own. It's just that Shane is also trying to ignore the fact that he's gay, a bottom, and submissive. All of the things he isn't suppose to be. It would be easier if Shane didn't score a lot of game winning goals, but that wasn't the kind of thing he could just stop doing. He would really like it if the Player's Association had provided the social rules of the Winner's Room along with all of the technical ones. Like everything else Shane has to figure out how to make himself fit into what is expected of him.

He learns a lot from his first three Forfeits.

Notes

This is a Prequel to The Wrong Prize, a Hollanova Winner's Room Fic. It can be read as a stand alone and is not necessary to reading The Wrong Prize. I just wanted to explore how Shane got to the position is in when Ilya moves from the KHL to the NHL.

As with all Winner's Rooms Consent is Dubious at best by the nature of the situation. In this case Shane is with men who very much do not want to be there while Shane also does not want to be engaging with these acts. It is an exploration of what you feel forced to do with societal pressures and expectations even when you can't directly talk about those things.

Shane is not a good person in this, but neither is anyone else. Please take the tags seriously and read with your limits in mind.

“If you are smart, you’ll drop out of hockey. A guy like you is going to get eaten alive.” 

 

It was a familiar dismissal, if not an unexpected one in this case. It had made his stomach drop because there was never any real way to get used to comments like that. A disappointing remark from an Old Ottawa Centaurs Captain during a chance encounter. 

 

Now, after his first goal in the NHL, his first game-winning goal, Shane figured he got the full picture of what that comment had meant. 

 

Drapeau had put one of his giant goalie blockers on his head, laughing. “Holzy is getting laid tonight.” 

 

It wasn’t that different than what a guy in high school might have said. Except everything about it was different. This was not the expectation that winning would get his girlfriend, whom he was barely interested in, hot and bothered. 

 

These were the new rules. They went like this 

 

According to tradition and the NHL Players Association, when two teams played against each other during the regular season, a player from each team would go to a special room in the area and have sex.

 

“Oakley has a good mouth,” his Captain Lavoie told him as they fought their way out of the celebration. 

 

Shane. The member of the winning team who scored the winning goal was the Winner. 

 

Oakley. The Winner would select a member of the opposing team the Forfeit. 

 

The Forfeit could not be a rookie or a goalie, and must be free of injuries that would not pass an inspection by the medical personnel. 

 

A rookie could be a Winner. They could not be a Forfeit. 

 

Shane had hands touching him the entire time he tried to cool down from the game. Trying to go through his post-game routine and failing. It left him dizzy. Unsettled. He wanted everyone to stop touching and laughing. 

 

They should be congratulating him for his win. The game he had just played. Not the fact that he was going to go take out any post game energy, or frustration or whatever on a player from the other team. 

 

The Forfeit. 

 

At least he hadn’t actually had to choose. Not really.

 

Once Drapeau had finished pulling off his goalie gear, he called over to Shane while he was trying to get his headphones out of his bag. Maybe he could sneak away for a cool-down run? 

 

“Hollander! Who do you want?” 

 

“Oakley,” Lavoie had said again from his stall next to Shane and nudged Shane, who only had the wherewithal to nod. 

 

Drapeau had nodded and left the room. To bring Oakley to the Winner’s Room. 

 

The Winner’s Room. A secret room in every NHL stadium where the Winner and Forfeit would meet after the game. 

 

All rooms consisted of a large space with a bed and an armoire, which would be full of supplies, and a bathroom with a shower. There was a list of supplies and materials placed in all the Winners’ Rooms. But members of the team could submit an equipment and materials request form with the team's assigned players' associations representative to have anything else they could want added. 

 

Shane had been given ten copies of the forum. To start off with. Because everyone expected him to win a lot. So did Shane. And he wasn’t going to stop. Even if this whole experience was humiliating. 

 

He was able to slip away for a cool-down run. But he wasn’t going to be able to avoid the room the entire evening. 

 

One of the goalies on the losing team would stay as long as the Forfeit did. The Winner could have the Forfeit as long as he liked in the room. At least until sunrise after the game. The Goalie would enter the room at sunrise or some time after the Winner had left and make sure the Forfeit was okay. 

 

Because there were rules. Rules Shane had memorized right away and repeated to himself as he forced himself into a careful jog on the treadmill when what he wanted to do was run until his legs gave out on him. 

 

The Forfeit lost his autonomy during his time in the room. He belonged to the Winner’s whim. If he disobeyed. Ran away. Refused. Hurt the Winner. The Players’ Association would get their contract terminated with the NHL and any other hockey league in the world before dumping them on their ass. 

 

The only time one could get away and retain his reputation was between contracts. Or between seasons if one was in the middle of a multi-year contract. Shane had given the impression that the Players' Association would rather not do that.

 

Lost autonomy did not mean the NHL or the Players' Association retracted their rights to the Forfeit. As such, physical damage could not exceed what would be reasonable to heal between the interaction and the Forfeits' next game. 

 

Shane had done a playoff run with a broken wrist in his junior year of high school. But someone must have realized the openness of that rule because there was also a list of things that were considered too far. 

 

It was a large list, but what was off that list felt larger. 

 

When he stopped feeling like he was going to rip off his skin if someone touched him, he went and showered. Usually, he would put on his suit so he could leave. But he had to do this first. 

 

Drapeau was back in the locker room. He had finished getting changed and showered. And he was more than happy to take Shane to the Winner’s Room. Shane’s Winner’s Room. Because until he walked out or sunrise, it and everything in it belonged to him. 

 

Drapeau talked to him. But Shane wasn’t really processing it. 

 

Something about just because it was a man didn’t make it gay if he was doing the fucking. 

 

Shane had to push back very hard against the part in his mind that knew he would much rather- 

 

The idea of being inside someone was unsettling. But a man inside of him? He had done some research. It had tried very hard to wake up something in him he couldn’t afford to be.

 

“It’s about power, Hollander. Don’t worry about it. Just enjoy the Forfeit.”

 

Maybe this would have been a comforting speech if Shane had liked girls. 

Instead, he opened the door to get away from Drapeau and shut it behind him. 

 

It was a miscalculation. At least he knew Drapeau. He didn’t know Oakley. 

 

Who was lounging across the bed like this was a familiar place for him. They met eyes for a second. 

 

He didn’t know anything about Oakley. Except for his hockey stats. 

 

His hair was buzz cut. Which wasn’t the best look Shane had seen him when he first joined the league. Smooth shaggy hair that had framed his face. Bright blue eyes that flickered at the camera like he had been telling secrets. He was big like all NHL players, but when comparing averages, he was one of the smaller ones. Lithe and fast on the ice, agile in getting around defenders. 

 

Shane remembered watching his rookie year and being able to tell the space that would open up for him, before he had moved into it. He had been seeing what the other man had. 

 

Except after his rookie season, he lost his grace. The ability to slip away. He was still fast. He had decent stats. But he hadn't lived up to his promise. 

 

‘Oakley has a good mouth.’ 

 

Oakley had been a rising star at the time, but his team had lost a lot his second year in the league. They were a solid middle team now. 

 

“Lavoie recommended me?” 

 

Shane realized he was looking at Oakley’s lips. They were nice. Not exactly full, but warm, even with the split on his lip. From this game, probably. It looked fresh. 

 

“Yeah.” Shane answered. 

 

He knew he was being awkward standing in front of the door. Not saying anything. He probably seemed like an asshole. 

 

He was here to fuck this guy or something. There probably wasn’t a way to be polite here, and any attempts to do so would feel fake, empty. 

Oakley rolled onto his back. “What a good Captain looking out for his Winner,” Oakley rolled his eyes, nothing about that sounded genuine, “first game. First goal. First Win.”

 

Shane swallowed. He should be out with his parents celebrating. Instead, he had had to text them to tell them to go home. The team was dragging him out and wouldn’t let him beg off. 

 

His mom had been delighted. 

 

Oakley wasn’t his type. 

 

Shane knew he had a type in men. Even if he refused to acknowledge it. He liked guys who were the same height as him. Maybe a little taller. But definitely more muscled. He liked seeing the proof of a man who worked just as hard as he did. 

 

Oakley was probably a little smaller in both regards. And his hands. They were long, but nothing about them looked sturdy. He didn’t- he wasn’t shrunk in on himself, but there was nothing proud about him. 

 

Everything about him just seemed like venom. Resentment. 

He wasn’t anything Shane wanted. If anything, he was the opposite. 

 

Oakley was a failure. 

 

“My captain recommended Patrick Ray for me,” Oakley offered, “that was a fun night.” Oakley rolled off the bed and stalked over. Shane stood his ground. But it was hard. The man had showered, but he was wearing some god-awful perfume, and Shane wanted it to go the fuck away. Everything had been so bright since he left the ice. 

 

“I fucked him,” Oakley added nonchalantly, and it was the most Shane had ever heard anyone talk about the Winner’s Room and what happened inside of it, but he supposed that inside the room you could say anything you wanted, “I felt like God.” 

 

Oakley put his hands on his chest. 

 

It wasn’t any different than any of his past girlfriends touching him. Well, except for the fact that he didn’t need to close his eyes to pretend like a man was touching him instead. 

 

“Do you want to feel like God, Shane Hollander?” 

 

Shane put his hand on Oakley’s shoulder and pushed him down. It was self-defense. To protect his nose. Why on earth had the man chosen such strong cologne? 

 

He had to remember who he was expected to be. 

 

“I did,” Shane answered, “when I scored.” 

 

When he had stepped onto the ice as a rookie for the first game of the season. His ascent was unheard of. 

 

He wanted to go home and prepare for practice. For the next game. Get his body in better shape now that he knows what to expect. 

 

His fingers slid down to his sweats, pulling his cock out. It was half hard. Which was better than any of his girlfriends had done.

 

“But I guess you can try.” 

 

Shane learned a lot from that blow job. 

 

First: how not to give a blow job. Jesus Christ, Oakley had a terrible mouth. Had Lavoie been drunk when he had Oakley suck him off? 

 

Second: Oakley hated this. He hated every second of it. He did it with the air of someone who had thrown up during bag skates and was being made to go again. 

 

Third: when he turned off the lights and tilted his head back and let himself wander to the part of his mind that experienced desire as he had with girlfriends before, his mind still went to the same image. Even if it was a man sucking him off now. 

 

Ilya Rozanov. When he had played against him in the World Juniors. He had introduced himself. And Ilya had been just slightly bigger. His hands were warm despite the freezing weather and rough. Strong. His eyes were bright and blazing. Challenging Shane right back. Slamming him so hard into the boards, Shane thought he might see stars. 

 

He hadn’t expected to be tongue-tied meeting him. But he had been. Stumbling over the interaction and hoping he hadn’t fucked it up. And then his biggest competitor had announced he was entering the KHL draft. In an unexpected turn of fate, Rozanov had stayed in Russia. 

His head was full of soft blond ringlets. Shane wanted to run his fingers through. But the head under him only had short bristles.

 

Probably because it wasn’t entertaining to put fingers in. 

He came at some point. Entirely unsatisfying but done quickly. Thankfully. 

 

Oakley stood back up as Shane tucked himself in, holding a hand in front of his mouth, grimacing as he swallowed. 

 

“A word of advice, Hollander.” 

 

Shane had already turned to the door, but he paused to look back. 

 

“Be careful who you choose. They might want to return the favor one day.”

 

“Thanks,” Shane answered for the advice and left.

 

It wasn’t until he was home in bed that night, rewatching game play footage, that Shane had his fourth realization. 

 

Fourth: In terms of body build and the concept of appearance, not literally, he was not that different from Oakley. Oakley had been a star in his rookie season. Shane would be as well. Oakley had not ascended past his rookie season. He was less agile and fast. He had been put in his place. In translation. He was going to be eaten alive. 

 

But unlike Oakley. Shane knew he wouldn’t hate being on his knees. And if anyone ever got their hands on both of them, he was pretty sure the difference was going to be obvious. 

 

Especially when Shane’s favorite jerk off fantasy was Ilya Rozanov pushing to his knees behind a building in Saskatchewan and letting Shane swallow him. 

 

In conclusion. 

 

Shane was royally fucked if he didn’t figure out a plan. 

 

---

 

For some reason, his teammates needed to assure him they did not think he was actually gay, while also throwing out words like faggot, pansy, homo, and fairy like an insult. 

 

Shane had never been confused by hockey’s culture of homophobia, but knowing now that every night there would be some kind of gay sex happening between NHL players did add a bit of bafflement to the situation. 

 

Suddenly, Shane could tell who said Faggot like it was just an insult and who said it like it scared them. 

 

They played in Buffalo two days later for the second game of the season.

Buffalo was a terrible team. 

 

Shane couldn’t turn off the part of his brain that wanted to score goals and knew how to do it. There would never be a good enough reason to. 

 

Shane’s brain had sacrificed his ability to do things other people could with ease, like socialize and enjoy the feeling of velvet, to give him hockey. 

 

So he wasn’t going to stop scoring. He wasn’t going to stop winning. 

It meant he needed a plan. 

 

If he could make this thing into a routine, it would be easier to get through. 

 

And there was no way he could win every game. He couldn’t score every winning goal. Being a hockey prodigy only got you so far. 

 

Except Shane wasn’t just a prodigy. It was his entire life. Every second of it. A taunt string of the need to play. And his effort was rewarded by the hockey gods. 

 

The problem with game-winning goals was that you didn’t know which one it would be. You couldn't avoid it. 

 

It could be the first goal scored, it could be the fifth. 

 

A game-winning goal is not even necessarily the last goal scored. It was the goal that put you over your opponents' goal amount. It was why that was the goal that got rewarded. 

 

Victory was for those who worked for it. Who worked for it every time. There was no way to predict these things. Even if you knew you were the better team, who would most likely win, you didn't know for sure until the end. 

 

In that game, he hadn’t scored at all. He had gotten an assist in the first ten minutes. And the game had stayed like that until the third period, when Buffalo had scored. And with needing another goal to keep from a tied game. Shane scored. Because he had groomed himself to do so. Everything opened in the way that nothing else had ever made sense.

 

His goal slammed into the net, and he immediately felt a wave of nausea. He looked up at the scoreboard. 

 

3 more minutes left. 

 

He was going to fail at hockey if he felt sick every time he scored a game-winning goal. This was not a distraction he could afford. And he couldn’t afford for it to get in the way of his games next season. Not if he had to worry about other players deciding to target him. If rumors spread that he had a good mouth or something. 

 

Someone slammed his shoulder as they skated past. “Cocksucker.” 

 

Shane narrowed his eyes, catching the name and jersey number. Taylor, 62. 

 

Was he still required to get a girlfriend he didn’t want and pretend to want to sleep with her? 

 

Probably. 

 

The game finished, and Shane wandered back into the locker room to strip down to his base set. He still couldn’t even go home. He needed a routine. 

 

What routine could he make?

 

Undress to base layers. Tell Drapeau who he wanted. Go for a cool-down workout. Shower, change, and go to the Winner's room. 

 

Go to the winner's room and do what?

 

Get his dick sucked, he supposed. Did he really have to get unsatisfactory blow jobs from men, too? How was he coerced into sleeping with a man, and couldn’t even enjoy it? 

 

When Shane got to the winner's room, Taylor was there. He was a big guy. More in line with Shane’s type than Oakley had been. But Taylor was also just mean. Nothing was challenging about him. 

 

When Shane closed the door, Taylor flinched. His eyes were wide. Shane would wish that people talked about the Winner’s room openly more, but he had accepted a long time ago that people did things he didn’t understand and would never bring it up. The fact that this was a thing that everyone openly said was taboo to talk about was kind of a relief. 

Taylor did not behave like Oakley. Who had a nonchalant air about the situation, even if it was forced. Even Shane had been able to tell it was fake, how relaxed he had tried to look. 

 

Taylor looked like a tense tiger.

 

Shane took in a deep breath. He swore his teammates didn’t wear such bad cologne. The lights in the room were so bright. And the air conditioner rattled. He could handle it. But he didn’t want to. 

 

“Fuck you, Hollander. What the fuck do you want? Don’t just stand there.”

 

His brain skipped over the words and almost flinched at the tone. Why couldn’t he just have time to process everything? He processed everything so fast on the ice. Didn’t he deserve a minute off it? 

 

Taylor was pacing. It was giving Shane a headache. 

 

“Go shower,” he ordered. 

 

Taylor stopped and looked at him. “What?” 

 

“Shower,” Shane repeated, and the realization took form in his head. 

 

Actually, he could control this room; he could make Taylor shut up and give him all the time he wanted, “you smell terrible. Go shower it off.” 

 

Taylor looked at him like he was crazy. Shane pointed to the bathroom. The man stormed inside and slammed the door behind him. 

 

Whatever. 

 

Shane took the time to study the room. He hadn’t really taken a look at Montreal’s winner’s room. He didn’t really want to look at this one. 

But he wanted- 

 

He found the light switch first. It had a dimmer. 

 

Shane loved dimmers. 

 

He readjusted the light to a reasonable level. Which was almost dark, but Taylor wasn’t going to be taking any judgments outside of this room. 

 

He found the air conditioner next and turned it off. Even if the room got hot, he wasn’t planning on being here long. So it didn’t matter. And what was Taylor going to do? Tell all of Buffalo that Shane Hollander had turned off the light and air conditioning in the winner’s room? He wasn’t going to talk about it at all. 

 

He was going to be humiliated about having slept with a man and try to never think about it again. 

 

Shane supposed he could beat Taylor. Beating Forfeits was allowed. There were pages upon pages in the player’s association handbook that detailed the acceptable ways to beat someone. 

 

He didn’t want to beat anyone. That had never been any kind of desire Shane had. He barely ever fought on the ice. 

 

Who would choose a beating over sex anyway? The sheets on the bed kind of sucked. Shane looked up at the ceiling. He let his mind wander for a moment. In privacy. In this room. About things he wasn’t allowed to want. A man’s hands in his hair. Pushing him down into a bed. Pushing his head down a cock. 

 

Technically, he could do that here. He could push Taylor onto the bed and grab his cock and suck him off. He could do whatever he wanted. Technically. But that was- 

 

It was the kind of thing that would definitely get him a reputation for having a good mouth. Shane would actually be good at it, too. He would want it. 

 

But he couldn’t afford that kind of target on his back on the ice. 

 

Taylor came back out of the bathroom. Naked. Wet. Shane glanced at him. Ugh. He didn’t want to deal with that yet. He wanted to think. 

 

Shane narrowed his eyes at him. 

 

“Kneel down and don’t talk.” 

 

Taylor sneered but did as he was told. Shane ignored him. He didn’t have to acknowledge him until he wanted to. 

 

The space to think didn’t work. It didn’t bring any clarity. Or ideas. But the time in the darker room did settle him down. Stopped the caging buzzing in his body. 

 

Shane shifted to the end of the bed, planting his feet on the carpet, and pulled his cock out of his sweats. Taylor balked at his cock and looked away, his face flushed. 

 

Shane missed when his girlfriend would tell him it was time to have sex and lead the entire exchange. It required him to be a working body instead of a working mind. Unsatisfying but easy. 

 

‘Do you want to feel like God, Shane Hollander?’ Oakley’s words reach back into his ears. 

 

Looking at Taylor for the first time, Shane wasn’t the one on unequal footing. He wasn’t the one struggling to make eye contact. Flushed and embarrassed by his not knowing. It wasn’t so much arousing as it was amusing to see someone else in that position. 

 

He patted between his thighs and stroked his cock. Taylor had a nice enough face for a hockey player. Still not Shane’s type. 

 

“Suck,” he ordered. 

 

And Taylor turned bright red, looking at his hardening dick. “I’m not-“ he sputtered. 

 

Something cruel twisted in Shane’s chest. “A cock sucker?” 

 

Taylor flinched, and Shane waited as Taylor got closer. 

 

Taylor probably hadn’t done this before. “Is this your first time being a forfeit?” Shane asked, curious, what was Taylor going to do, tell people Shane was rude? 

 

That he had asked an impolite question? 

 

He rubbed the tip of his cock over Taylor’s mouth when Taylor brought himself close enough, but seemed to be stalling. 

 

His tongue darted out and licked his lip when Shane pulled back. 

 

“Plenty of guys escape the Winner’s Room during their careers,” the implied ‘I thought I would be one of them’ was obvious enough that even Shane didn’t need to have it spelled out for him.

 

“But you didn’t,” Shane noted. 

 

It was interesting to know that it was Taylor’s first time here. 

 

“Because you were lucky before,” he puzzled out the words, “because you’re not remarkable enough to be a winner, or even get noticed." 

 

His stats weren’t bad. Taylor had probably been his own version of a hockey god in high school, but he was just an average player in the NHL. 

His fingers twisted around the back of Taylor’s neck and pulled him closer. Taylor braced his hands on Shane’s knees. Then he looked up. Nervous eyes fluttering. “I don’t know what to do. Are you going to fuck me?”

 

Shane brushed his thumb over Taylor’s pink lips. He was looking for reassurance. Like Shane might have mercy. 

 

Hockey didn’t have mercy on people. It was a violent sport. It rewarded victory and hard work and punished anyone who didn’t put everything they had into it. And Hockey took its chosen victors and slammed them into the boards so hard their minds melted when they could not go back onto the ice. 

 

Injury was not an if. It was a matter of when. 

 

And Shane Hollander, who was built for hockey and hockey alone, had the same kind of mercy the hockey gods did. 

 

“Get me off with your mouth,” he told him with the same apathy. 

   

Eventually Shane pushed him off. Watched Taylor choke and gag as he breathed. His hand went down to stroke his own cock. Wet now at least and forced himself over the edge, cuming against Taylor’s body, and face, and hard cock between his legs. 

 

Looking at Taylor’s cock it was the first thing Shane had wanted all night. And he was 98% sure that he couldn’t have it. 

 

Shane tucked his cock back into his sweats, and Taylor whimpered from his spot on the ground. He looked back down at that cock again. It was pretty. 

 

“I guess you are the cock sucker now,” Shane noted, and Taylor squirmed, tears prickling against his eyes, “At least you enjoy it.” 

 

“I’m not,” Taylor hissed, frantic, “that’s just- a bodily reaction.” 

 

Shane laughed. Not able to help himself. 

 

There had to be some kind of cruel twist of fate here. “A bodily reaction when you weren’t even touched?” 

 

Shane looked back down at that thick cock. The head was red. 

 

“Do you want to put my cock back in your mouth while you stroke yourself off?” 

 

Taylor’s face turned bright red. Shane watched him cycle through emotions he couldn’t name. His jaw clenched. “You want to watch? Faggot?” 

 

It was a really interesting insult when he was the one who was hard and covered in cum. 

 

Shane stepped back, tugging Taylor’s head back by his hair. And yes, Shane did want to watch. 

 

“That’s not a nice way to talk to someone doing you a favor,” Shane told him. 

 

Taylor watched as Shane moved his sweats back down. His eyes were wide and wet. “Go ahead,” Shane offered him, “do it.” 

 

Taylor did it with great reluctance, and Shane didn’t watch. Taylor grunted when he came. His voice was a shrill sound on Shane’s cock, and Shane pulled back while Taylor crumbled. 

 

“Yeah,” he laughed, “I’m the faggot.” 

 

It was funny that it was the truth. 

 

Then he left for real, heading back to the locker room. Lavoie was still in the locker room. For some reason. Shane tried to ignore his Captain. He tossed his clothes into his bag with maybe too much aggression. He would fold them back at the hotel. 

 

He was rooming with Hayden Pike, and Pike didn’t seem to mind that Shane was best described as neurotic. Thankfully, he was a once-in-a-generation hockey talent. That usually made his teams forgive him. 

 

“Not adjusting well to this,” Lavoie asked. 

 

Shane took in a deep breath, trying to steel himself for this. For whatever it was. Because talking about the Winner’s room wasn’t allowed, but everyone always seemed to have ways to work around the rules that Shane didn’t pick up on until it was too late. 

 

“It’s fine,” Shane answered, knowing he had to keep everything vague for a lot of different reasons.

 

Lavoie looked around the room. Making sure no one was there. 

He grabbed Shane’s shoulder and turned him. Very serious. “Listen. Hollander. We aren’t faggots, alright. But I’m just saying. Sometimes slapping them around and making them feel like faggots is a good way to get off. We’re like Roman.” 

 

Shane has no idea what Roman meant. But he didn’t engage. Just nodded once. “Thanks.” 

 

Lavoie wandered off. 

 

Later in his hotel room, after making sure Pike was asleep, he opened his laptop and changed it to a private browser setting and tried to figure out what Romans had to do with the Winner’s room. 

 

After a few minutes of reading, Shane felt like he got the picture. Wanting to penetrate a man was fine. That was dominant and in charge, and it still made you a man. If you made him less than you, it barely counted as homosexuality. The one being penetrated was weak. Less than. Slavery. Which was- 

 

Yeah. 

 

But the thought of being the penetrator. Shane really had to try not to cringe at that. And if he didn’t seem like he was enjoying it… If he dreaded it. 

 

Lavoie had already noticed. It wasn’t sustainable. And he didn’t want to spend this much time thinking about it. 

 

Shane cleared his browser history. 

 

How had Lavoie put it? 

 

‘-making them feel like faggots is a good way to get off.’

 

Which they thought was being penetrated. The nervous look in Taylor’s eyes when he asked if Shane was going to fuck him. How he was more afraid of his own desire. 

 

Oakley was resigned. Assuming his own role. Playing himself as a receiver. Because anything else was unfathomable. 

 

But Shane hadn’t been acting like a winner when Oakley had sucked him off. He had been the passive one. 

 

Sure, he was much more interested in being penetrated, but in reality, the Winner’s Room wasn’t about the sex act itself. 

 

It was making the Winner feel emboldened. Strong. Roman. And the Forfeit feel less than. Humiliated and passive. 

 

If he wanted to succeed, he couldn’t keep going on that way. He had to make sure everyone knew he was the one in control. Even if no one talked about what happened in the Winner’s Room, things would get around. In some kind of way. If Shane was passive, he was going to get eaten alive. 

 

In the next three games, Montreal won twice and lost once. Shane was spared from having to go to the Winner’s room, and it was a relief each time. 

 

But more importantly, it gave him time to think. 

 

A week after he had Taylor on his knees, it was announced that this would be Taylor’s last season. Shane looks at that development with interest on the TV in the gym, tilting his head. He can hear some of the Metros whispering behind him. Like he had somehow caused that. 

 

Maybe he had. And when he turned, there was respect in their eyes. A kind that hadn’t been there before. 

---

 

On their next day off, Shane settled himself in his apartment and carefully went through all that he knew about the players on the other teams. He wrote lists and studied the standard objects in the Winner’s Room. He forces the Winner’s Room and expectations of the room into the place hockey belongs in his head. His body and mind are conditioned to be everything hockey needs from him. So he knows he can make it this too. He has to succeed as a Winner to succeed in hockey. 

 

The part of himself that is Shane Hollander. A person. Not a hockey machine probably realizes how fucked up this is. 

 

He’s barely realized his own desires, and this is where he is thrown. But he doesn’t let himself think. He pushes the 17-year-old down. A smarter man probably would have gotten out to go get laid before the next Winner’s Room. 

 

Shane didn’t have space in his head for those kinds of thoughts. And the effort would have been too much regardless. 

 

He scored the winning goal in a game three days after Taylor announced his plans to retire after the season.

 

They are playing New Jersey at home, and Shane is confident in his plan. 

 

There are two rules about the Winner’s Room that he has figured out. It’s Roman. 

 

The Winner must be perceived as dominant and that everything is his own pleasure. 

 

The Forfeit must be perceived as submissive and have everything taken from him. 

 

As long as he kept everything to those two rules, he could do whatever he wanted, and he would be safe. 

 

Eric Sullivan had called Shane several uncreative slurs throughout the game. He hadn’t noticeably targeted Shane for hits, but he knew when someone hit him, and it was personal. Sullivan had thought it should be personal. And he had caught Sullivan staring at his lips during a stop in play. Just once. But enough. 

 

The man was pretty unremarkable. Both physical and for his hockey record. He had been playing for three years and flipped between the second and third line defense. 

 

And he was attractive enough. 

 

When he had told Drapeau he wanted Sullivan as he left his cool down to head to the Winner’s room, Shane got the impression that he wasn’t exactly picking his Forfeits in the correct way. That there was a selection criterion that other Montreal Winners had followed that Shane had not. But it wasn’t like they could talk about it. 

 

Shane had gotten himself ready in the Winner’s room. Barely. But any time he tried for something more, it had been fine, just not good. 

 

Sullivan tried to storm into the room. His body was so much bigger than Shane’s, but Shane felt comfortable in his. 

 

“What the fuck do you want, Holland-“ 

 

Lavoie had been right. Slapping a man did feel good. He had hit Sullivan so hard across the face that the man crumpled to the ground.

 

The shock had definitely grounded him more than the force or pain. Shane didn’t waste time. He stepped around the man and put his foot on his throat. Not pressing down. Just sitting there as a warning. 

 

“What did you call me on the ice today,” Shane asked before the confusion could clear from the man and the part of his mind that fight back, “a bitch, a pansy, a fairy, a pussy,” the man had a hand on his ankle and Shane carefully pushed down in warning, just a little, “a fag?” 

 

Sullivan squirmed. It was interesting. Not something Shane found naturally appealing, but it was like watching the path of a shooting lane opening up. His mind knew he was on task and would be rewarded for it. He was doing well with the rules.

 

“Since I’m an expert, I should teach you what a faggot is. Are you ready to learn what a faggot is, Sullivan?”

 

The man under him had stopped moving. Panting hard. Big frustrated breaths. 

 

“You’re going to fuck me. So what, Hollander?”

 

Absolute fact and terror. There was nothing that scared Sullivan more than the idea that Shane Hollander was going to put his dick in his ass. 

 

The part of Shane’s brain that was raised by Yuna Hollander to be kind would have recoiled at the terror below him. But that part of his brain had always come second to hockey. And this was hockey now. Just like how you might break a guy’s bones with a hit. They all got their bell rung eventually. 

 

“So eager,” he tisked, “asking to be bent down and fucked.” 

 

He pulls his foot back, and Sullivan lets go, wincing like he expected Shane to kick him. He doesn’t. 

 

“Get naked and get on the bed.” 

 

Sullivan didn’t reek of cologne. He actually smelled like he hadn’t showered before coming here. 

 

The other man didn’t move quickly, and Shane didn’t need him to. As long as they are both following the rules, it’s okay.

 

And apparently, this is one set of hockey rules everyone has the desire to follow as closely as Shane does. 

 

Shane is not particularly interested in watching Sullivan get undressed. He goes to the cabinet to pull out the lube, and when he looks back at the bed, Sullivan is braced on his knees, every muscle on his back tensed. He has his head dropped into the pillows. A child looking away from a monster. 

 

His fingers trace the line of Sullivan’s spine. The man is already full of bruises. But that’s what you get for being a defender. The muscles under him shiver, and Shane works hard to shut off the part of his mind that wonders what it would be like to be under muscles like that. 

 

It’s more interesting how Sullivan has slightly arched into the touch. “Like I said. So eager.” 

 

“Fuck you, Hollander,” there is enough venom and volume for Shane to hear the words, even if Sullivan is trying to suffocate himself on the pillows. 

 

Shane removes his hand. This position isn’t going to work,  he lets Sullivan stay where he put himself while he peels off his clothes, folding them and putting them to the side. 

 

“That’s a terrible position to be in. You’re so tense. I’m pretty sure the players' association has a pamphlet about how you should stay loose, so it doesn’t hurt. I can get it for you.”

 

He could still feel himself open from where he had stuck a few fingers inside himself, and he pushed down any feeling that was like nerves. He wasn’t expecting this to be good sex, but the hope was that it would be better than unenthusiastic blow jobs. 

 

Shane flicked open the cap to the lube and watched Sullivan flinch. He was meticulously filing away every reaction in his mind. 

 

"Get on your back."

 

Sullivan obeyed, but he was curling in on himself. Squirming like there was a way to protect himself. A beetle flipped onto its back with nothing but its soft belly on display. 

 

He didn’t bother to tell him to stop. Instead, Shane grabs his arm and pushes it down to the side. 

 

No one would believe him if he told them that this giant defender thought Shane was going to fuck him and let Shane move his arms like Play-Doh. Not quite limp but entirely too pliant. 

 

It kind of grossed Shane out. How easy the man went. 

 

If it was him- 

 

It couldn’t be him. 

 

He pulled his legs out and sat between them, glancing down at the man’s cock. 

 

“Well, that’s disappointing.” 

 

Sullivan’s fingers curl into the sheets, clearly keeping himself in place. Shane is distracted by those for a second. He likes the idea of them curled around his dick, the back of his neck, inside of him. They are thick and long and look like they would stretch him. 

 

His dick is…

 

Underwhelming. There isn’t anything wrong with it. It’s long, but thin. And it looks disproportionate to his body. They don’t match. 

 

“What,” Sullivan sneered, looking at Shane out of the corner of his eye, “you don’t like your prize?” 

 

Shane really wasn’t a fan of eye contact. It was necessary. And he wanted Sullivan to be fully aware of who was on top of him. Really, he supposed he didn’t know what he actually liked. Because looking at the soft cock made him want to put it in his mouth. 

 

But there was no way Sullivan would perceive that as Shane pleasuring himself. And perception was what mattered, not reality. 

 

He could touch him, though. 

 

Shane grabbed Sullivan’s cock, stroking it, making the man tense and jump. “Hey!” 

 

He was pushing up on his elbows and pulling his legs back. Which was not allowed. Shane tightened his grip on the cock until the man yelped. Shane raised his eyebrow, squeezing harder and watching as Sullivan fought against the instinct to jerk away and forced his body to loosen and relax. Shane eased up his hold and went back to stroking. 

 

“What the fuck do you think you are doing?” Sullivan asked. 

 

Shane let him prop himself up slowly so they could both watch Sullivan’s cock fill out as he hardened. 

 

Well, he wasn’t so pencil-thin when he was hard. Good. 

 

“So you’re a grower,” Shane mused. 

 

He let go of the dick and watched it bounce up to hit Sullivan’s stomach. Shane moved his fingers to feel Sullivan’s balls. 

 

What would they feel like in his mouth? Shane hadn’t considered balls in his mouth before, but now he was. 

 

“I suppose I can work with your cock.” 

 

Sullivan makes a wounded sound. 

 

“Why are you touching my cock,” his voice was shrill. 

 

Ignoring the question, Shane poured lube on the cock, grabbing it and making sure it was all covered. 

 

This was messy. Shane frowned down at it. He needed a towel. But he couldn’t stop what he was doing to go get a towel either. 

 

“You’re married, right, Sullivan?” 

 

He looked over at the blankets. Well, he didn’t want to make the bed dirty. Sullivan’s shirt was there. Which felt rude, but all of this was kind of rude. So he took it and used it to wipe his hands. Sullivan was watching him with big, wild eyes. 

 

He tossed the shirt onto Sullivan’s chest so he could use it again if he had to. And it was making Sullivan go even redder. That worked for him. The red flush had brightened when Shane brought up his wife. Rage and bafflement. 

 

“Don’t talk about my fucking wife,” Sullivan hissed, and Shane was grabbing his balls again, tapping them with his thumb in warning.

 

Shane moved back to his cock and immediately frowned at the lube. This lube was not going to work. 

 

“I have a point,” Shane said, watching Sullivan chase the feeling of his hand, his hips arching up while he panted. 

 

He catches Sullivan’s eyes. “I was just wondering if she gets satisfaction from this. Just with the way you were so desperate to present yourself, I thought maybe you wished she was on top.” 

 

There was steam coming from the man’s ears now. Sputtering in nonsensical words, but also panting little moans as Shane kept touching him. 

 

“Regardless. I’ll let you know if you’re actually any good or if she is just faking it for you,” he said it like he was offering Sullivan a favor. 

 

“What are you talking about, Hollander? What the fuck? What is wrong with you?” 

 

Shane shifted again, moving over Sullivan’s hips. He reached back for his cock, hoping he wasn’t going to fumble this. It would be embarrassing if he didn’t look like he knew what he was doing. 

 

He doesn’t bother to answer. When Sullivan starts to move again, like he’s going to put up a fight or move away, Shane slaps him across his face again. Adding to the redness. 

 

He enjoys teasing himself with the head of his cock. 

 

It feels nice. 

 

It feels right. 

 

Sullivan is dazed and pliant. 

 

That’s all it took to make him go limp? Shane wouldn’t go down so easily. “This isn’t-“ the man whines, and Shane lets the head of his cock notch along his hole.

 

“Are you actually a faggot?” 

 

He says the word faggot this time like it’s something a person could actually be and not an insult. Shane almost laughs, but he’s sinking down on Sullivan’s cock. Slowly working him in. It’s like a dildo. It’s not even sex. Not really. 

 

But it’s better. It’s warm and real. It’s so much better than a dildo. 

 

The stretch is nice too. It’s barely bigger than both his fingers, but he can make it work. He moans, letting the sound fall free from his lips. 

 

“I’ll let you in on the secret,” Shane answers, watching Sullivan’s face express every stage of grief Shane can think to name, “I am.” 

 

He sees when Sullivan decides to act and already has his hand on his balls. Shane pulls without mercy, and Sullivan howls and writhes. His hips jerk up while Shane is fully seated inside of him. 

 

The man forces himself back to settle down. He makes confused whimpers as Shane moves on his dick. 

 

“It’s cute how you came in so desperate for it,” Shane says as he tests how best to move a dick, “you offered your ass so quickly. I told you to get naked and on the bed, and you immediately offered your ass. Were you thinking about a hard cock sliding into you? Look at how easy you got hard for me.” 

 

Confusion and anger bloomed on Sullivan’s face. “That’s not how this works,” he seethed, eyes scrunching shut like that would save him from the logic Shane had presented, “I’m not gay,” but a moan slipped out of his lips, “you’re just a freak.” 

 

Wasn’t that interesting how the word Faggot changed to Gay.

 

He’s trying so hard not to moan around Shane’s ass. Shane doesn’t allow him the dignity of believing those words. 

 

“You know what’s also Gay?” 

 

Shane works up the nerve to lift himself fully up, almost letting the head come out before slamming himself back down. He nearly sees stars. Sullivan moans louder than he does, “being this hard while you are in my ass.” 

 

He quickly discovers that he doesn’t have the patience to go slow. He is greedy. Shane wants this dick and body to be pounding at him so hard he can stop thinking. He wishes desperately to stop thinking. 

 

“It’s not,” Sullivan sputters, “a hole is a hole. It’s not any different than fucking a pussy.” 

 

Even if he didn’t want to shove his cock in a man’s ass, the idea was far more appealing than a woman’s. Shane grabbed Sullivan’s face as the man tried to look away, forcing him to look back at his body. 

 

“Tell me what part of my body reminds you of your wife, Sullivan?” 

 

Shane reaches out to grab one of Sullivan’s hands, dragging it over his body as proof, “My voice? My muscles? The hair on my body? My cock? Does your wife have a cock, Sullivan?” 

 

 

Sullivan’s hand hesitates on Shane’s cock. Fingers wrap loosely around it when Shane lets go of his hand. He doesn’t give him any kind of direction. 

 

Sullivan is spluttering. “Of course she doesn’t!” 

 

“What’s the same?” Shane demands. 

 

The man doesn’t answer quickly, and Shane hits him again. Light across the face. The hit makes his hips jerk up. Fucking into Shane. It’s lovely. 

 

He can’t afford to let Sullivan think he has any kind of control. 

 

Shane uses a hand to push Sullivan’s hips down.

 

“Or are you hard and aching from fucking my ass? From a man touching you?”

 

“Fuck you,” Sullivan breathed out like he was holding back a moan while his hand was stroking Shane’s cock. 

 

Shane hadn’t told him to do that at all. He threw him a smirk. 

 

“You are,” Shane moaned, picking up the pace of his movements now that he was more used to it, “only technically. I should say I’m using you to fuck myself, but close enough.”

 

Sullivan shuddered under him. His eyes are on Shane’s cock now. He waited. Listening to the huffing breaths Sullivan let out. Then, when he started to move his own hips again, his movements became more confident on Shane’s cock, he laughed. 

 

“Careful, Sullivan. You know, wanting to fuck another man makes you a faggot.” 

 

The dam burst in Sullivan. Tears instantly fell down from his cheeks, and Shane almost slapped his hand away from his cock in revulsion. Weak. Something so simple breaking him down. The thing Shane had been living with, and this was what made him break. 

 

Oh well. 

 

That was the point of this. 

 

“I-“ Sullivan’s voice wobbled, and his hand didn’t stop, but he took in deep, sucking breaths. 

 

“You’re fucking a man,” Shane taunted, “you’re the bitch here. I’m in charge of this cock, and do you know what that means? You’re the faggot.” 

 

He had plans. He knew what way he was expecting this to go. 

 

What Shane hadn’t been expecting was for that to make Sullivan cum. Sullivan getting off hadn’t been part of his plan at all. The man let go of Shane’s dick, moving both hands to cover his mouth and eyes. 

 

The load was hot sputtering inside of him. Disgust hit Shane so hard that he got soft. That was not part of the plan at all. 

 

“Gross,” Shane heard his own voice pitch in alarm and pulled off the softening cock, reaching down for it and giving it a punishing squeeze. 

 

He could already feel the cum and lube working with gravity. Sullivan was wailing under him as Shane punished his cock. 

 

When he let go, Sullivan was sobbing and curled in on himself, drawing his legs up to his chest to protect his balls. 

 

Shane watches, and something that had been far more innocent before this room dies in his mind. A lot of things had died off for hockey. He wouldn’t miss it. 

 

He snatches up the shirt again, wiping off his hands. “Faggot,” he sneers, “you came in my ass. God. I hadn’t even gotten started. Do you really think you satisfy your wife like that?”

 

Sullivan looks broken as Shane gets off the bed and uses the shirt to wipe off the cum leaking down his thigh. Gross. Gross. He had not been prepared for that feeling. He needed to fix that. 

 

“Get yourself hard again,” Shane orders and throws the t-shirt back at him, “I need to go clean up your mess.” 

 

He can hear the bitchiness in his tone, but at the moment, he doesn’t care. 

 

Sullivan jumps to his knees. Moving closer to Shane on the edge of the bed. 

 

“No. Please. Just let me suck you off!”

 

It’s gasping, choking, a sincere begging for less when Shane knows he was the kind of man who would only ever want more. He can’t stand this weakness. 

 

“Oh. Now you’re asking for a dick down your throat.”

 

Something else started to drip. Shane was going to claw off his own skin. But he was going to make this man bury himself in his own grave. 

 

The tears only seemed to brighten Sullivan’s red face. “Yes,” Sullivan agreed, the word clearly cost him a lot. 

 

Apparently, he wasn't entirely stupid because he had caught onto the game, “Yes. Please let me suck your cock. I want it.” 

 

He was crawling to the edge of the bed, and Shane could only feel revulsion. There was satisfaction in making Sullivan beg for something that disgusted him. The fact that it disgusted Sullivan, and it was something that Shane desperately wanted killed, any mercy he might have had was gone. 

 

He didn’t pity the tears. 

 

“I thought wanting a dick inside you made you a faggot.”

 

It had dripped down his thigh again. It was like being waterboarded. 

 

Sullivan swallows his eyes, going down to where Shane’s cock had gone soft. “I’m a faggot,” he was breathing through his nose at the effort it took him to say, “please, let me.” 

 

Shane couldn’t think of anything less arousing. 

 

“No. I don’t want your sloppy, inexperienced mouth on my cock,” he turned around to the bathroom to clean himself up, “get hard again.” 

 

Behind him, Sullivan broke down into curses and begging sobs. It was very easy to tune him out. 

 

He takes his time in the bathroom. Sullivan will probably need it. He’s old. He probably doesn’t get it up twice in one night. But to be fair, he wasn’t supposed to get off at all. It wasn’t Shane’s fault. 

 

When he comes back, Sullivan is still on the bed, curled in on himself, but with his hand stroking his soft cock. Desperate. His eyes are glassy. Far away. His face was wet. 

 

Sullivan can’t be trusted. Shane knew a way to ensure this mistake wouldn’t happen again. He really should have thought about it before. 

Shane pulled the cock ring out of the cabinet and went back over to the bed. 

 

“Do you need help?” Shane mocked, climbing back on the bed to spread Sullivan’s legs to watch him stroke his cock, “can’t satisfy your wife. Can’t be a good faggot?” 

 

Sullivan makes a pained, miserable sound and keeps going. Shane waits. Watching. The dick looked very small in Sullivan’s hand. There was a defeated moan before he looked up into Shane’s eyes. 

 

“Yes,” he finally admits, so soft and sweet and submissive, letting his hand drop and body go pliant, “I need help. Please help me.” 

 

Shane thinks that if he were hard, he would have gone soft again. Except-

 

Shane had never been able to get his mouth on another guy's cock before. He ducks his head to keep how much he wants it before Sullivan can see. It’s probably safe now. But no one can know how much he’s been dreaming of it. 

 

He takes the cock in hand and lets his mouth explore. It’s not actually a blow job. It’s an exploration. Shane is touching and licking what he wants. Because he wants to. 

 

It instantly gets him hard again. And Sullivan is making soft, pleased whimpers. 

 

He’s fully hard before Shane had even gotten the chance to try and take him halfway down. It makes him want to throw the room apart like a spoiled child being denied his toy. He couldn’t choke on the cock the way he wanted to. That was definitely not allowed. It would not follow the rules. 

 

Shane pulls his mouth off and slips the cock ring on. Good. No more problems. 

 

Sullivan tensed where he had been languid a second ago. He gives Shane a hopelessly baffled look, and Shane has mercy on him. 

 

“It’s a cock ring,” he explained, and climbs back on top of him. 

 

Shane had reapplied lube in the shower. He was a little grossed out by it. “Apparently, you’re too much of a faggott to hold off from cumming, so I thought I should help. Aren’t I nice?”

 

“Yes,” Sullivan agrees and chokes as Shane slides back down into his cock, “thank you.”

 

Shane knew he wasn’t attracted to this. But it was good regardless. Not trying to deal with a sloppy blow job, pretending it was someone else. And having a cock in his ass was. It was so much better than a dildo. 

 

Now that the man was broken into submission, Shane let himself go. Let himself ride the cock under his control and slowly build himself back up.  He was moaning and gasping, and so was Sullivan, but he was obediently still. Letting Shane use him. He didn’t need to keep taunting him. It was better than the didlo in his apartment. 

 

Maybe this was killing two birds with one stone. Shane didn’t really jerk off a lot, but this was a way to deal with that, too. 

 

His captain has been right. Humiliation was the way to get through the winners' room. He hadn’t been expecting Lavoie to be right. But odder things have surely happened. 

 

He came harder than he ever had before. Making sure to paint Sullivan’s chest and face as much as he could. Sinking completely down on his dick as he came. Sullivan squirmed as Shane’s ass worked his cock. 

 

The horror and pleasure on Sullivan’s face was actually kind of pretty, and Shane let himself enjoy the look as he felt the aftershocks of orgasm bleed through him.

 

This was much more successful. 

 

Smug Shane got off Sullivan’s cock and headed back to the bathroom. He gave himself a cursory cleaning and grabbed a wet washcloth, going back to the main room and tossing it down on the bed next to Sullivan. 

 

Sullivan’s eyes had tracked the washcloth, and the tears had stopped. It was honestly a bit more awareness than Shane wanted him to have. 

 

Retaliation for what happened in the Winner’s room was against the rules. But Shane didn’t think he should take his chances. 

 

Shane grabbed his sweatpants and started to pull them on. His ass had a delightful twinge in it that made him smile. “Fuck,” Sullivan hissed, hand reaching out for the cloth and started to wipe his face, “fuck. Are-“ 

 

His voice trailed off as he watched Shane. 

 

Are they done, he meant. But Shane wasn’t going to draw that line. Done meant free. Meant Sullivan was no longer required to be obedient and take it. So no, he wasn’t going to tell him they were done. 

 

He grabbed his shirt. “Next time I want your balls and cock shaved,” Shane hums.

 

Sullivan’s face had started to lose the redness, but he froze as his face flushed back to a tomato.

 

He watched the man mouth ‘next time’ without actually vocalizing it. “You can shave before or once you get in the room,” Shane added generously, “I don’t care, but you’ll leave hairless.”

 

He couldn’t just make a Forfeit, shave their head, or get a tattoo or anything. He didn’t own that body outside of this room. Shaving body hair wasn’t against the rules. Just like leaving welts from a whip wasn’t… to a degree. 

 

Sullivan sparked rising to his knees, but winced at the feelings in his body. 

 

Shane was busy getting his shoes on. 

 

“How the fuck am I supposed to explain that to my team? My wife?” 

 

The people who would see him naked after. Who would definitely notice if he shaved his balls and cock whenever he faced Montreal. 

 

New Jersey faced off against Montreal three times a year during the regular season. 

 

It wasn’t normal for someone to score in every game they played in. But Shane wasn’t normal. He was a fucking freak when someone wasn’t being kind about it, and when they were praising him, a generational talent. He got drafted to Montreal, which had mostly fixed its roster issues. So they were winning and not destined to lose like Buffalo. 

 

A normal star forward might be in the Winner’s room ten times in a season, maybe more. Shane expected that out of all the games he played this season, he would be in here for at least half of them. Which was cocky. He knew that was cocky. But he also knew he was going to score at least 50 goals this season. He wasn’t going to claim that out loud, but he had a personal goal. 60 goals. And now that he was clicking with the team. Already. God. It was all too soon. And too easy. 

 

And he needed- 

 

“Not my problem,” Shane tapped the heel against the wall, settling the first shoe in place, “I suppose you could tell the truth. Tell them you’re a faggot who got off on a man riding his cock.”

 

Horror spread across Sullivan’s face. Shane figured he was realizing what Shane was setting up. How often Shane could have him in this room.

 

“That you were looking at my cock when you came embarrassingly fast inside of me. That a man was the one arousing you. And you want to be pretty and neat the next time he uses you. Because let’s face it, your cock needs all the help it can get,” he continued. 

 

Sullivan couldn’t tell anyone that Shane was gay, not really. If he dared to talk about it openly, which would certainly have a negative reaction, everyone would assume he was lying. No one would believe that the Winner chose to use the Forfeit as a dildo. As Lavoie had said, the Winner’s room was Roman. Only Sullivan would know how being used made him as much of a passive loser as someone forced to take it up the ass. 

 

The man made a sound that was halfway between a growl and a moan. Shane paused to watch as he yanked the cock ring off and started to strip his cock. Fucking into his hand. That was very interesting. 

 

Shane opened the door lightly enough to make the sound click. Sullivan flinched, flushing, but he didn’t stop. 

 

When he came, he whimpered and collapsed back into bed like all his strength had been taken. 

 

Maybe Sullivan really hard secretly liked men. 

 

“I’ll see you in two months,” Shane promised with a smirk, “and when I see you next, why don’t you tell me if fucking a man is the same as fucking your wife.”

He let the door thud shut behind him. 

 

Sure, Shane was a freak on the ice, yes. But also, if there was a member of every team who was also freaked out by him in the winner’s room. Well. Did they want to risk that, when Shane was likely to win later? 

 

The slight twinge in his ass made him feel lighter. Going back to the locker room was easy this time. The frustration from his two previous experiences was gone. And he had won. 

 

Shane loved winning. The victories finally felt complete. He had figured out the rules and succeeded in hockey. It was all he wanted. 

 

“Holzy! Look at you, man! You’re glowing.”

 

Lavoie was coming out to their stalls through the training room. Really, he shouldn’t still be here. Shane knew he had taken plenty of time in the winner’s room. But he was starting to believe Lavoie was just a pervert.

 

“So I give pretty good advice, right?” Lavoie asked with a wink as Shane grabbed his wallet and keys from his stall. 

 

He glanced over at his captain and gave a small nod.

 

“Yeah. Pretty good advice,” he agreed because he was Shane Hollander, perfect hockey, less perfect at socializing. 

 

That was the kind of problem he couldn’t solve. 

 

His Captain threw an arm over his shoulder, and Shane winced mentally.

 

No, Lavoie also had terrible cologne. How had he been able to ignore that before? 

 

“Come on. The guys are waiting at Petit Bite to celebrate the win.” 

 

Shane did not succeed in shaking off his Captain. “Aaah,” he tried, “I have my cool down routine-“

 

“You can come out with us to celebrate your victory, Hollander.” 

 

He was being dragged out of the locker room. 

 

Well, Shane supposed, he couldn’t win everything.