Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander

Additional Tags:

Blood and Injury, Comedy, Comedy of Errors, Anxious Shane Hollander, POV Shane Hollander, POV Third Person Limited, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Showering Together, Secret Relationship, Humor, Complete, One Shot, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-13 Words: 3,479 Chapters: 1/1

A Study in the Statistical Likelihood of Disaster

Summary

Shane Hollander has always known the risk wasn’t going to be zero.

Sneaking into a rival team’s hotel late at night to meet Ilya Rozanov comes with a margin of error.

Unfortunately, statistics say that if you do something long enough, eventually the math catches up with you.

He just didn’t see this one particular risk coming.

Notes

Shane Hollander has always known the risk wasn’t going to be zero.

Sneaking into a rival team’s hotel late at night to meet Ilya Rozanov comes with a margin of error. Doing it for years practically guarantees one will eventually happen. But it’s a calculated risk — same as playing his beloved sport. What, with the knives strapped to his feet and all. 

So he runs through the possibilities the way he runs through drills before a game: getting recognized in the lobby by a fan; turning a corner and running into a player; security asking why Montreal’s captain is on the opposing team’s floor in the middle of the night.

Each one has a prepared response, and all of them center around the same well-rehearsed lie about his parents.

“Oh, THE Boston Raiders are staying here, too? What are the odds, eh? Welp, my mom’s waiting for me,” he’d say, with a generous helping of Canadian golden-boy charm.

It’s not perfect, but it’s worked for years — the same way a slap shot to the top shelf works: a lot of skill and just enough sleight of hand to pull the goalie’s attention somewhere else.

The lobby is as quiet as he expects around 10:00 pm on a Tuesday, the late-night traffic of guests and staff thinning to just a handful. Shane keeps his head down anyway and walks the well-traveled path past the front desk and down the hall to the elevator bank as if he belongs.

He used to rush through the lobby, beeline for the stairs so he didn’t have to accidentally share an elevator with Marleau or Varkov or Kane and explain himself.

Now he knows the slower he walks, the less people pay attention. No one stops him, no one even looks twice. After that it’s just timing, corners, and sight lines.

The elevator ride up is uneventful, though he panics almost every time that this will be the one-in-one-hundred-thousand chance he gets stuck between floors and has to explain to God and the media why he’s in Boston’s hotel the night before their last matchup of the season with a handful of condoms in his pocket.

But the elevator dings gently and the doors slide open on the twelfth floor, and Shane lets out a quiet breath of relief. 

He will live to get fucked by Ilya Rozanov another day.

The hallway is silent when he steps out, the carpet muffling the sound of his footsteps as he walks down the corridor until he reaches the door at the far end. Room 1232.

The number glows faintly under the overhead light. Shane pauses for half a second, listening. No voices. No doors opening down the hall. No sign that anyone else is awake on the floor.

He knocks once.

The door opens almost immediately, and just like that the tension spills out of him. The hallway disappears in his wake as the door closes, sealing the what-ifs of the moment safely on the other side. Shane exhales, glad that the hard part is over.

Well.

One of them.

The other is currently pressed very firmly against his thigh as Ilya crowds him back against the door. 

Once upon a time Shane briefly considered the statistical probability that that very cock wouldn’t fit inside him.

But you miss every single shot you don’t take, and Shane Hollander has never been afraid to let the puck fly.

“Hollander,” Ilya says, his mouth already at Shane’s throat. “You are late.”

“By three minutes.”

“Five.”

Shane opens his mouth to argue and then doesn’t bother. The point is somewhat undermined by the fact that Ilya is visibly, unmistakably hard for him — and because Ilya swallows his mouth whole anyway. He groans against his top lip, his tongue, the scrape of his teeth. 

“Well,” Shane says thinly when Ilya shifts back down to his neck, “we’d better not waste any more time then.”

Shane’s head dips back against the door, giving Ilya more room, more access — permission. The moan he lets slip is partly reaction and partly reward for just how well Ilya’s mouth is working against the hollow of his throat.

Over the years he’s learned that the odds of Ilya giving him more of what he wants increase in direct proportion to how willing he is to ask for it.

“Fuck, Rozanov—”

High and breathy, just how Ilya likes it.

“Da, Hollander.” Ilya grinds almost imperceptibly against his thigh, his tongue trailing up from collarbone to earlobe and Shane shivers against it. “You like this?”

Shane doesn’t respond, at least not with words. He hooks his fingers into the belt loops of Ilya’s jeans and pulls him closer, answering the question in the only way that matters.

Yes, more, please, harder.

Ilya’s reply is immediate. He sucks at the soft spot below the hinge of Shane’s jaw, and the gravity of the sensation pulls Shane down to his knees, Ilya’s zipper falling with him.

“You want to suck my dick, hm?” Ilya’s hand makes a slow pass through his hair, half rifling, half gripping, tilting Shane’s face up so he has to look at him. “Tell me you want it and maybe I will let you.”

Shane knows this game. They’ve played it for years. Ilya still wants to know he’s a god, even though Shane is already bent before him, ready for worship — and oh, how Shane loves to pray.

“Please.”

Shane keeps his eyes on him, watching the corner of Ilya’s mouth lift. He holds that gaze even as Ilya frees himself from his pants, thick and needy despite the casual looseness of his body. Shane doesn’t break eye contact as he lets his tongue fall from his mouth, swiping it across his top lip — just close enough to taste him — before leaving it flat and wet and waiting.

It’s only when Ilya finally presses the tip against it that Shane closes his eyes and takes him in. Even after all these years, Shane still loves the taste of him, salty and warm, and he moans against it as his jaw settles into exactly the right shape, one hand wrapping around the base — all muscle memory now, instinct the same way stickhandling has always been.

He already knows how this will go. Ilya’s jaw will set, lips flattening as his brow pulls low. A few Russian words will fall from his mouth, sharp and breathless. Then he’ll pull Shane away — his mouth making a hollow pop as he does — and haul him back to his feet.

He’ll say, “Is too much,” when what he really means is, “I want to come down your throat, but I also want to fuck you.”

Instead, Ilya says, “Come with me,” and it takes Shane a second to register that it’s a different kind of come before Ilya turns and walks away.

Shane pushes himself to his feet and follows, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth as he trails him down the short hallway that opens into the rest of the room. The bed sits rumpled in the center, city light spilling through the curtains, but Ilya doesn’t slow. He cuts right toward the bathroom off to the side.

The door swings open to a wide walk-in shower tiled in pale stone, the showerheads set high in the ceiling so the water falls like warm rain. A long bench runs along one wall.

As Shane stands in the doorway running the numbers in the back of his mind — the positions and possibilities nearly endless — Ilya catches the hem of his shirt and drags it up and over his head as he crosses the tile, tossing it aside without looking where it lands.

“I want you here,” Ilya says, eyes on Shane in the mirror as he reaches in to turn one handle, then another.

Steam begins to gather almost immediately. Shane swallows down a hot breath before offering a weak, “Okay.”

Shane had spent years perfecting the playbook.

This wasn’t in it.

But as Ilya steps under the showerheads, he realizes this might be a good risk. The kind that comes with newness. Not that there was anything wrong with how they’d been doing things — there wasn’t — but sometimes the best plays aren’t the ones you plan.

He takes his time, letting Ilya watch him through the glass as he pulls off his button-down, one measured button at a time, folding it neatly on the counter in the corner. Then his shoes. Socks. Pants. Soon it’s just his briefs and his want, and he takes his time with that too, palming himself through the fabric, biting his lip shamelessly as the glass fogs between them.

Showers take him back. The first time he saw Ilya naked was before he’d fully calculated just how much he wanted him — when he risked looking over, then looking again, as Ilya stroked himself in Shane’s direction. They were only nineteen then, and something sparks in his chest now at the memory, the feeling of being that young again. 

Ilya touches himself like that now, his eyes flicking toward Shane as his hand moves in long, deliberate strokes from base to tip and back again through the open shower door.

This time, knowing he can, Shane lets himself watch.

“You think about it, too?” Ilya’s voice is low and it pitches even deeper against the wet stone walls. “What it would have been like to get on your knees for me then.”

Shane knows what he’s saying under the words, what Ilya wants. He wouldn’t have back then, but he does now. 

He crosses the distance, stepping out of the last bit of fabric as he goes, and makes a show of getting on his knees — one then the other knocking faintly against the tile. Close enough to taste him, restrained enough not to, while water, steam, and desire run between them.

“And what would you have done if it did?” Shane asks finally, looking past the way Ilya’s hand is still working just above his eyeline and right into Ilya’s stare.

Ilya braces one hand against the glass wall beside the shower door and the other moves from his cock to the top of Shane’s head, fingers anchoring at the back of his head. It’s not unkind, but it’s hungry — and the way his dick pushes past Shane’s lips is too. Shane almost laughs around it — all nine inches of haste and need — knowing he never could have taken it like this then. He would have tried and died right there on the shower floor, career ending before it began. But he would have tried.

Now, though, he just lets his face be used the way a younger Ilya would have wanted, thankful for the years of practice that make it easy, enjoyable.

Ilya makes a low sound above him, something rough and pleased, and the hand in Shane’s hair tightens to guide his head just so, tilting him upward as Ilya drives deeper, faster. Behind him, the glass panel fogs with steam as Ilya leans harder into it, chasing the rhythm the way he always does when he starts to lose himself.

Ilya leans harder, thrusting roughly into Shane’s mouth as a litany of groans falls from his own. 

Then something shatters. 

Not Ilya. 

Not in his mouth. 

For half a second Shane thinks the sound comes from somewhere else. But the support disappears and the two of them go with it, Ilya’s weight knocking them over in a spill of limbs and water as they tumble out of the shower and onto the tile in a crash of broken glass.

The impact knocks the air out of Shane’s lungs. When it comes back, everything hurts at once — the back of his head against the cold tile, the sting of scattered cuts, the unmistakable grit of shattered glass against wet skin.

Ilya has gone completely still above him. For a second Shane thinks he’s just stunned, until he notices the way his hand is planted on the floor beside Shane’s shoulder.

There’s a shard of glass driven straight into the center of his palm, blood already running out of his hand and across the tile, turning pink where the shower water spilled out with them.

Shane takes inventory next. Nothing catastrophic — just the scattered sting of smaller cuts and the deeply inconvenient awareness that there is, in fact, a piece of glass lodged in the curve of his ass. Of all the scenarios Shane had spent years accounting for, this had never made the list.

For a moment neither of them moves.

Then Ilya exhales slowly.

“I am just glad,” he says hoarsely, “you did not bite my dick off.”

Shane closes his eyes for a beat, trying to steady himself while the room tilts unpleasantly around him.

This was not a risk he ever calculated.

“Relax, is fine,” Ilya says, his uninjured hand coming up to cradle Shane’s face. His thumb brushes once across Shane’s cheek, grounding. “I have played through worse.”

Shane opens one eye at that, studying him for a second.

“There’s a giant piece of glass in your hand, Ilya. You can’t shoot a puck like that.” He shifts slightly before thinking better of it. “And I can’t skate with the piece in my ass.”

That stops him. 

The humor slips from Ilya’s face as he looks down at Shane properly, the way he does when something on the ice has suddenly become serious. His hand tightens slightly against Shane’s jaw, checking, assessing.

“Hollander, I am the only thing allowed in your ass,” he says after a moment.

Shane lets out a slow breath.

“Maybe not right now, yeah?”

Ilya huffs something that might almost be a laugh before his attention drops back to his hand. The shard in the center of his palm catches the light when he turns it, blood sliding slowly down his wrist and dripping to the tile between them.

“Is not ideal,” he says.

“No,” Shane agrees.

Getting up turns out to be less dramatic than expected and significantly more awkward. They take it slowly, shifting weight carefully until they can get themselves upright without driving glass any deeper into skin that already regrets several recent decisions.

Shane reaches past him first to shut off the shower. The sudden silence in the bathroom feels strange after the constant rush of water.

Once they’re standing the damage becomes easier to see.

Ilya’s hand is the obvious problem, the shard still lodged cleanly through the center of his palm. Shane’s situation is more inconvenient than dangerous, along with a scattering of shallow cuts that sting now that the water isn’t washing over them.

Shane reaches for his phone instead, unlocking it carefully while standing very still and trying not to think too much about the exact geometry of the problem behind him. He scrolls past three perfectly reasonable options before stopping where he probably should have started in the first place.

“Who are you calling?” Ilya asks.

“My mom.”

Ilya blinks at him.

“You are calling your mother.”

Shane lifts the phone to his ear as it starts to ring. “Yuna has seen worse.”

She answers on the second ring, voice thick with sleep.

“Shane?”

“Hi, Mom.”

There’s a pause.

“Are you okay?” she says slowly, the gears of her brain shifting into place while her worry is on autopilot. “What’s wrong? Is there a body?”

Shane exhales and glances at Ilya.

“Kind of.”

Another pause.

“Whose body, Shane?”

“Ilya Rozanov.”

“Oh God,” Yuna says immediately. “You killed Rozanov?”

“No, Mom.”

“You beat him up then?”

“Mom—”

“He beat you up? Let me at that little—”

“Mom.”

There’s a rustling on the other end of the line like she’s already getting out of bed.

“What happened?”

“There was an accident.”

“With Rozanov.”

“Yes.”

Another small pause.

“Do I need to meet you at a hospital?”

Shane considers Ilya’s hand, then the rest of their situation.

“Not yet.”

“Well where are you?”

“Twelfth floor.”

“You’re on the twelfth—” she stops. 

“Yes. Twelve-thirty-two.”

“Stay where you are,” she says. “I’m coming upstairs.”

Shane lowers the phone slowly and looks at Ilya.

“Well,” he says.

“Your mother is coming.”

“Yes.”

They stand there for a second.

Shane tries pacing. It lasts about one step before the situation makes itself very clear. He can’t walk, can’t sit. 

“Okay,” he mutters. 

Ilya watches him with open skepticism as Shane limps the short distance into the room and collapses face down across the bed, burying his face in a pillow.

It’s the least terrible option available.

Behind him he hears Ilya moving carefully around the room, the soft sounds of a towel being dragged free from a hook in the bathroom and wrapped awkwardly around his waist one-handed.

Shane considers doing the same. Then he considers the physics involved in getting up again, removing the towel later. He stays exactly where he is.

The realization arrives a second later, unwelcome and extremely obvious.

When Yuna walks through that door she is going to see her son’s naked ass sticking out of a hotel bed while Ilya Rozanov stands somewhere nearby dripping and bleeding on the carpet.

She will draw conclusions. Not unreasonable ones. Something like queer will probably tick through her mind. 

And Ilya — his rival, his whatever-this-is — will also be an approximation of something. Shane has not yet worked out what that something is. Yuna will likely be more certain. 

Behind him Ilya’s voice drifts across the room.

“We should put on pants, yes?”

Shane doesn’t move.

“That seems optimistic,” he says into the pillow. 

When Yuna knocks, it’s gentle and questioning, but she stands sharp as a knife in the peephole. Shane looks on as Ilya takes one steadying breath and pulls the door open. 

“Hello, Mrs. Hollan—“

“Absolutely not, Rozanov,” Yuna warns, pushing past him in the doorway. “Where is he?”

“Hi, Mom.” 

Yuna stops just inside the room and takes in the scene in one sweep: Shane in the distance, face down across the bed, bare ass in the air, and Ilya Rozanov standing nearby with a towel around his waist and a piece of glass sticking out of his hand.

Her eyes close briefly, her jaw tightens.

“Well,” she says after a moment, already walking toward the bed, “this is not how I expected my night to go.”

“I can explain,” Shane offers into the pillow.

“I am sure you can,” she says mildly. “And someday, when we are all much older and less traumatized by this, you will. Tonight we are going to handle the injuries, and then we are not going to speak of this for a long time.”

She disappears into the bathroom long enough to grab a couple of towels and the understanding of how this probably happened. When she returns, she presses one into Ilya’s good hand and guides it carefully beneath his injured one.

“Just hold it there,” she tells him. “Underneath, not on the glass. If you faint, try to do it away from furniture or walls.”

“I will not faint,” Ilya says.

“Good,” Yuna replies. “Because I need your other hand in a minute.”

Then she turns back to Shane.

“Alright,” she says, brisk now. “I’m going to remove that.”

“Mom—”

“You will survive,” she says, and reaches down.

The glass slides free faster than Shane expects. He makes a noise into the pillow that he will absolutely deny making later.

Behind him, Ilya inhales sharply but says nothing.

Yuna drops the shard into the wastebasket with a soft clink and presses a folded towel firmly into place.

“There,” she says, already moving on. “See? Not so bad.”

She straightens, looking between them.

“Rozanov, good hand, please.” She snaps once and points at Shane’s cheek. “Once the bleeding slows down, it’s pants for both of you. Then we’re going to two separate urgent cares because explaining this story once is already more than I want to do tonight.”

By the next afternoon, Shane is back in bed with a handful of stitches, a bottle of painkillers on the nightstand, and several new scenarios to plan around and panic over.

The game-day coverage is on in the background when the broadcaster says, “Both captains Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are out tonight with undisclosed injuries.”

Shane lets his head fall forward against the pillow.

That is, technically, one way of putting it.

The panel spends the next several minutes trying to guess what happened. Blocked shot. Morning skate collision. Something lingering from the previous game.

Not one of them suggests a shower.

Shane stares at the wall for a moment.

He had always known the risk wasn’t going to be zero.

“See you next season,” he texts Ilya.

The reply comes back almost immediately: Hope your ass is better by then.

He’ll take his chances.