Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Men's Hockey RPF

Relationship:

Shane Hollander & Sidney Crosby

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Sidney Crosby

Additional Tags:

Minor Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin, Winner's Room (Sports RPF), No Smut, Coming Out, Minor Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-12 Words: 2,333 Chapters: 1/1

friend of a friend of a friend

Summary

“Geno says that you’re hanging out with Ilya Rozanov.” Crosby says, and Shane’s heart drops down to the pit of his stomach. Oh fuck. What does Geno know. What does the team know. What does Sidney Crosby know.

Or, Sidney Crosby calls Shane Hollander to the Winner's Room.

Notes

Shane’s no stranger to the Winner’s Room.

You don’t get to being the best in the league without having spent time on your knees. Captains have always wanted to take out their frustrations on the warm mouth of the losing team since the dawn of time, and Shane’s no exception. He’s done his penance, and he’s called on his own rivals in his time (not Ilya, never Ilya), and he’s accepted it as a fact of life. Hockey boys play dirty. It’s part of the rules.

It’s still a shock when Sidney Crosby calls his name after they lose to the Penguins in overtime.

Well, Crosby doesn’t call him as such. Shane’s unlacing his skates in the locker room when Coach raps his knuckles on the door and sticks his head round. There’s a sense of foreboding in the room, and Shane glumly looks up, swallowing down pride and the taste of a loss in the last few minutes of a game.

“Hollander,” Coach says, and jams his thumb behind him. “You’re up.”

Shane blinks. “What?”

“Crosby wants you.” Coach says, and some of the guys on the team wolf-whistle, but Coach cuts them down with a look. “You better get going.”

It’s been over a year since Shane last went down to the Winner’s Room, both as winner or loser. He lets his A take the spot now, or the star of the game, pretends not to flinch when Hunter calls out Rozanov after a brutal Boston loss. Ilya has never once called him. Shane doesn’t think about that too much.

But Crosby calling him? Sidney Crosby is a god amongst hockey players, and he hasn’t called for the Winner’s Room in years. Shane wets his bottom lip and tries not to think about the poster of Crosby he kept on the walls of his teenage bedroom, and spent long nights thinking about Crosby’s fat mouth, and curls, and lopsided grin.

“Hollander,” Coach barks. “Don’t make him wait.”

Shane was about to take off his jersey, but figures he might as well keep it on. Men have a thing for jerseys. He slopes down the hall in his socks, leaving sweat prints of his own feet on the linoleum. He tries to remember the last guy on the Metros who was called to Crosby, but his mind is a blur. Fuck, has it really been that long?

He knocks politely on the door and waits to be called. Anxiety prickles the back of his neck.

“Enter.” Crosby sounds like he’s got a mouthful of marbles at the best of times, the perk of having your jaw entirely rebuilt from scratch. Shane takes one final deep breath and pushes the door open, and finds his idol sitting on the edge of the bed, still in his gear.

“Hey bud,” Crosby says, and Shane forgets how to speak.

“Hi.” He says. “Hello. Uh, good game.”

“Good game,” Crosby echoes, but he doesn’t sound like his heart is in it. The Penguins are not the best in the league at the moment – some of their losses have been embarrassing this season, and Shane has cringed just to watch.

But maybe Crosby is less talk, more mouth? The door closes firmly behind Shane, and then locks for good measure. Crosby relaxes, leaning back against the wall, his big thighs spread open. He’s not wearing the ancient jock of legend, which Shane is so very thankful for.

“I, uh,” Shane says. “The hit you gave Carter was messy. Surprised refs didn’t call it.”

The faint glimmer of a smile crosses Crosby’s lips before its wiped away. “Me too.” He says. “Guess ref was looking the other way.”

“Guess so.” Shane says. He hasn’t given a blowjob in months, not since the last game against Boston, and he wonders if his mouth still knows how to suck cock that isn’t Rozanov. He drops down to his knees, because it seems the politest thing to do, and then shuffles forward, shorts rustling.

Sidney Crosby jerks backwards like he’s just been shot. Fuck.

“Ah,” Shane panics, “Um, did you want me lying down? Or on my back? I can not kneel, I can stand up-“

“I don’t want to have sex with you,” Crosby blurts out. “I needed to talk to you. G said that-“

“G?” Shane repeats, and then realises Crosby is talking about Evgeni Malkin. “Geno spoke about me?”

“He says that you’re hanging out with Ilya Rozanov.” Crosby says, and Shane’s heart drops down to the pit of his stomach. Oh fuck. What does Geno know. What does the team know. What does Sidney Crosby know.

It’s one thing to fuck your rival as a sign of power, it’s another thing to let your rival fuck you in motel rooms, and secret apartment complexes, and public sports gyms. All the blood drains from Shane’s face, and he thinks he might be having a panic attack. Fuck, he’s having a panic attack in front of Sidney Crosby.

“Whoa buddy,” Crosby says, “You look-“

He leans forward, grabbing hold of Shane by the shoulders, and hauls him up onto the bed. Sidney is as wide as he is tall, and it’s like being maneuvered by a kindly water buffalo. Shane tries to breathe, but he’s too busy freaking out that everyone knows that he’s getting fucked by Ilya. Oh god, he’s going to lose his spot on the team. Oh god, they’re going to kick him out.

“Okay,” Crosby says, voice faint. “Head between your legs. Breathe.”

Shane complies, because he’s good at following orders. He takes in deep exhales of the stuffy air, aware that he’s in a room where so many people have fucked before, forced to submit, forced to have a good time. He’s shaking, and Crosby places his hand on the back of Shane’s neck.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you bud,” Crosby says. “I didn’t want to text you because I thought it would be blunt, and Winner’s Room sounded like the best option…” He trails off. “Kris said I should have invited you out to the cabin.”

“Kris Letang knows?” Shane manages to squeak out. Does the entire Penguins roster know? Does Kyle Dubas know?

“Only Geno and Kris!” Crosby says quickly, “And they’re discrete. I promise.”

“How do you know?” Shane moans, because Tanger is the biggest gossip in the Metropolitan division. And the prettiest, but Shane doesn’t want to think about that right now.

“Because,” Crosby says. “Uh. There’s a reason why G told me.”

Shane manages to look up. Crosby looks back at him. Fuck, his mouth really is that plump up close.

“Geno told you.” Shane repeats dully. “That I’m hanging out with Rozanov.”

“Because G and I are also hanging out.” Crosby says. Shane blinks, and then sits bolt upright.

“You’re sleeping with Geno?”

Crosby’s eyes dart to the door, and Shane realises he’s the one now panicking. Shane doesn’t know what to do  - Sidney Crosby! Sleeping with Evgeni Malkin! – and balls up his fists to try and control himself, following the old tactic of clenching really hard to escape fast tigers. Crosby is staring him down with those triangle eyes of his, and Shane swallows. If he's got the wrong end of the stick then Shane is even more fucked.

“The Russians are all…. Close.” Crosby says, voice slightly hoarse. “Ovechkin, Malkin – they hate each other, but they love each other. Ilya’s part of that group, and Geno kind of… stole his phone when they were hanging out in summer.”

“He stole Rozanov’s phone?”

“He’s like that.” Crosby says quickly. “He can be – stubborn. As a mule. Anyway, he saw the texts. And he figured it out. And he told me.”

“And Kris.”

“Kris found out later,” Crosby admits. “Because again, Geno. But yeah. I know. What’s going on.”

Shane’s heart is still pounding in his chest a mile a minute. Sidney Crosby knows. Sidney Crosby is sleeping with a team mate. Shane Hollander is not the only squeaky clean Canadian boy sleeping with the world’s most annoying Russian.

“I just wanted to see what it was,” Crosby says quietly. “I know what it’s like in the league. To be young, and stupid, and…”

“Gay.” Shane says. Crosby flinches minutely.

“Yeah,” He says carefully. “That too.”

“How long have you and Malkin… been involved?” Shane asks, and the tips of Crosby’s ears go pink.

“Since, uh, rookie year.”

Shane can’t school his face in time, and Crosby laughs a little shamefully.

“Yeah.” He says. “Only for Pittsburgh, always with Geno.”

When Sidney says it, it sounds like marriage vows. Shane no longer feels bad about hooking up with Ilya in 2010, but still. At least Geno’s a teammate. Ilya’s Shane’s rival, and none of them are out of the closet. Shane doesn’t even know what Ilya is thinking half the time.

“So,” Crosby says. “I just want to look out for you. Is it just sex or…?”

“It’s more.” Shane says, the words heavy on his tongue. It feels so shameful to admit it, but it feels good to get it out, to explain his relationship to someone who understands. Shane’s grown up in Crosby’s shadow. He didn’t realise how true that was until now.

“Okay,” Crosby says. “That’s good you know that.”

He gives Shane a closed mouth smile, a little dorky, but that’s how Crosby is. Shane smiles back, and exhales. It feels like he’s been holding his breath since his name was called in the locker room, his body tense at the fear of being used. Shane likes being used. He just likes if Ilya is the User.

“You and Geno,” Shane says. “He has a kid.”

“Yeah.” Crosby says.

“Do you not – Are you not jealous?” The words come out in a rush. “Do you not want him all to yourself?”

Crosby looks surprised. “I’ve never wanted that,” He says. “I don’t think Geno wants that either.” His voice softens. “I like his son. I like his wife.”

Shane figures he doesn’t know the entire story, but he’s not about to interrogate Sidney Crosby on his relationships in a Winner’s Room. He chews the inside of his cheek, thinks about Sidney and Geno, all the Penguins events they do together, the video of them pouring champagne from the cup into each other’s mouths. Maybe it can only work out if you’re on the same team. Maybe it will only work if you still fit the hockey mold, wife, kids, house.

“If you ever want to talk to anyone,” Crosby says. “You can talk to me. I’ll give you my personal number.”

“Do you have snapchat?” Shane asks.

Crosby tilts his head to one side like a dog. “Do I have what?”

“Never mind,” Shane says quickly. “Yeah. That would be cool.”

Crosby’s number, a little voice in his head says. Sidney Crosby’s personal number, your mom is going to freak when you tell her. She'll never believe it.

“Good.” Sidney says, and pats Shane on the thigh. “Good talk.”

“Thanks.” Shane says. “Sorry if I haven’t said that yet, but thanks. I, uh, needed to tell someone.”

“No worries.” Sidney says, eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiles. “And you’re welcome to the cabin anytime. MacKinnon lives next door, maybe we can have a summer training session together.”

“Nathan MacKinnon?” Shane says, because MacKinnon is built like a fridge and cross-checks Shane like he wants to personally scramble his brains. “He lives next door?”

“Yeah,” Sidney says. “As you can imagine, Geno doesn’t like the cabin.” He gives a little laugh, and now it’s Shane’s turn to be confused.

“Because…” He says slowly and then stares. “Does Nathan MacKinnon like men?”

Sidney gives him a look. “Did you think you were the only one in the league?”

“Uh,” Shane says, because yes, and Nathan MacKinnon likes men, and oh fuck, Nathan MacKinnon likes Sidney Crosby and even more fuck, Evgeni Malkin knows about it. No wonder they fight on the ice like they want to actually kill each other. “Perhaps?”

Sidney gives a genuine laugh, a honk of a sound that echoes around the room. Shane finds himself smiling because he made that happen, and lets himself relax against the cold brick wall. He’s not the only one. He’s not – some weird freak.

“You’d be surprised,” Sidney says, in the voice of a man who knows too much, and pushes himself to his feet. “Anyway, I better get going. Need to celebrate with the team.”

“Who are you going to give the helmet?” Shane asks, and Sidney considers for a moment.

“Maybe one of the rookies,” He says. “They need the encouragement.”

He runs a hand through his gray curls, and Shane looks up at him, very aware that Sidney has the upper hand, and also that Sidney is still one of the most handsome men in the league. The salt and pepper thing is really going for him. He wonders what Geno thinks about it.

“I’ll see you around bud,” Sidney says, then adds. “Tell your team that I made you blow me.”

“Cool,” Shane blinks, because that’s a thought that will bounce around in his head for a while, not including the whole Sidney-and-Geno thing. “I’ll uh, let them know.”

“Good,” Sidney says, and pats Shane on the shoulder. “Be safe.”

“I will do.” Shane says, and watches Sidney walk out of the room, definitely not staring at his ass the entire time. The door shuts behind him and Shane flops onto the creaky bed, covering his face with his hands in sheer shock.

Sidney Crosby likes men. Sidney Crosby knows that Shane likes men.

Sidney knows that Shane likes Ilya, and he didn’t even tell him what a stupid decision Shane had made. That of all in hockey men in the world, Shane had fallen for the worst possible one.

“Fuck,” Shane says out loud, and pulls his phone out of his shorts to text Ilya the news.