Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter

Characters:

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

Additional Tags:

mix of book and show canon, POV Outsider on Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Scott and Kip's missing years, 5 Times, Exhibitionist Shane Hollander, Exhibitionist Ilya Rozanov, but they don't know it, but they'd be into it if they did, Accidental Voyeurism, Voyeur Scott Hunter, POV Scott Hunter (Game Changers)

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-10-23 Words: 3,491 Chapters: 1/1

Thin Walls (Five All Stars where Scott had the room next to Ilya, and one where he didn't)

Summary

What if Scott ended up in the room next to Ilya every fucking time they were at All Stars together?

Maybe he should find a way to let Rozanov know what he overheard. Point out that he's fucking lucky it was Scott next door and not a different player or someone in management. Maybe he should slip the name of the resort he went to in Ibiza last summer under Rozanov's door to make up for the fact that he just got himself off picturing what it would be like to be fucked by him.

Maybe he should just do his very, very best to forget this ever happened.

Spoiler alert: he won't forget

Notes

The idea for this came up in a Discord chat and consumed me. I've combined book and show canon into a world where Shane and Ilya start fucking shortly after All Stars their rookie year and Scott and Kip meet in 2014 and stumble through their own situationship hell until 2017. Don't worry about it too much. We just need vibes.

I have used choose not to warn because Scott is listening to Shane and Ilya have sex and ahem enjoying himself about it without them knowing and therefore consenting. Everyone is exactly where they want to be and/or in their own personal torment nexus.

Thanks very much to serby_46 for the beta!

1. (2011)

Scott feels the thud at his back as the headboard in the mirror-image room next door bangs into the wall. He looks to the ceiling and covers his face with his book; he lets out a huff. Rozanov.

The murmur of voices is relatively quiet until a Russian-accented whine cuts through. "I want to fuck you."

Scott is comfy, tucked into bed in sweats and socks because the air conditioner in his room has two settings: warm swamp or arctic tundra. Still, he looks to his bag across the room where his headphones are wrapped around their holder and tucked into the small outside pocket and debates getting them. It's probably not worth un-cocooning himself. Nothing he would put on is going to drown out the bed crashing into the wall.

He tries to go back to his book, but everything goes black when a low moan — a decidedly male moan — comes through the wall.

He's suddenly freezing. Nauseous. Rozanov knows.

It's a decidedly stupid thought, but it's his first one nonetheless. He takes deep breaths, tries to follow that thought to it's logical conclusion and fails because there isn't one — Rozanov is not fucking a man in the room next door as a part of some elaborate scheme to tell the world Scott is gay.

What. a fucking. moron.

That thought tracks. Ilya Rozanov went to what? Nashville's one gay bar, picked up a man, and brought him to a hotel crawling with hockey players and other MLH personnel?

Scott should really get his headphones.

He doesn't.

He reads the same line in his book over and over listening to the occasional noise that makes it through. Whoever Rozanov picked up is much more discrete — Rozanov should take notes — because the only words Scott can pick out are in Rozanov's voice. Fuck. You want? Like that. Tight.

Scott closes his eyes and gives in to the urge to picture Rozanov fucking into this faceless man. He must be bent over the side of the bed, Rozanov pushing his face into the mattress to muffle his sounds while Rozanov snaps his hips forward, cock sliding in and out of this tight hole.

He puts the book aside, because apparently he's doing this. He shoves his pants down and takes his own cock in hand. Maybe the guy isn't face first into the mattress, maybe he's on his back and just good at being quiet so he can enjoy watching the way Rozanov's abs contract and relax as he thrusts. Maybe the guy wants to lie there and watch Rozanov's necklace bounce against his chest. Maybe he wants to pull Rozanov down and lick the sweat gathering on his collar bone.

He gathers saliva and spits in his hand, rubs around as much precum as he can gather to ease the slide of his hand across his cock. He tugs lightly on his balls with his other hand, massages them. Is Rozanov as much of an asshole in bed as he is everywhere else? Or did he suck on this guys balls and eat him out before he started fucking him?

The moans speed up, bitten off and breathy even as they're loud. One last loud, long moan followed by a Russian-accented "fuck. Fuck," and Scott comes shortly after the other two do, picturing the smirk that would be on Rozanov's face after Scott finished.

He's going to hell.

He stumbles into the bathroom to clean up in shame.

Maybe he should find a way to let Rozanov know what he overheard. Point out that he's fucking lucky it was Scott next door and not a different player or someone in management. Maybe he should slip the name of the resort he went to in Ibiza last summer under Rozanov's door to make up for the fact that he just got himself off picturing what it would be like to be fucked by him.

Maybe he should just do his very, very best to forget this ever happened.

—

2. (2012)

He's next to Rozanov again.

It's a male voice again.

Why. Why is this stupid kid picking up only men at All Stars, of all places. Is there even a gay scene in Ottawa? Is Ilya Rozanov using Grindr surrounded by the top tier of the MLH?

Scott should go for a walk. Scott should do anything that will prevent a repeat of last year. He should go for a walk and he's putting on his shoes when he hears, very distinctly, an annoyed "faster, Rozanov," in an eerily familiar voice.

He can't quite place the voice, but all signs point to that being another fucking player. Two idiots. He creeps closer to the wall, one shoe still on, untied laces slapping against the ground with each step. The two men argue back and forth, words inaudible but sniping tone coming through, until Rozanov's voice, cocky as ever, rises enough for Scott to hear, "don't worry, I will give you what you need, Hollander."

Scott drops his second shoe. He winces, but it hits the carpet mostly silently.

He sits down right where he is and leans the side of his head against the wall, morbid fascination winning out over self preservation.

"Hurry the fuck up," Hollander shoots back and then makes a gutteral noise that must be in response to Ilya Rozanov putting his cock into Shane Hollander. Jesus Christ, Scott can't. He just can't.

Hollander is fucking loud.

He must be the same guy as last year, right?

If so, he's either loosened up or Rozanov has gotten considerably better because it sounds like they're shooting porn in there. No one he's been with has made close to this much noise.

Is he bad at sex?

He doesn't get a lot of practice, but no one's ever complained.

Of course, he didn't complain to that guy in Greece who gave an incredibly subpar blow job, just moved on to the next person, so he wouldn't necessarily know.

His cock is definitely interested in the throaty noises Hollander is making that let him know exactly how fast Rozanov is thrusting into him but he WILL NOT repeat last year.

He pulls himself away from the wall and gets his computer out of his bag to look up flights to Spain for July. He needs more practice, clearly.

He books the tickets and takes a shower where he can jerk off to nothing but the sound of water hitting tile.

 —

3. (2016)

Scott resignedly accepts his face when Roz follows him off the elevator and unlocks the door next to him. He'd had a three-year reprieve where he and Roz and Hollander had never all been at All Stars at the same time, but nothing good lasts forever.

It's just- It's not one night this year, it's every night. He can set his watch by the start of the impatient knocking from the hallway, the heavy door pushed closed as fast as it can be, and the muffled voices. The cadence of their conversation is different than it was before, the tone is different. Their voices rise and fall with a familiarity and musicality they didn't have four years ago. There's fucking laughter.

He watches a movie on his phone the first night, noise-cancelling headphones on. He convinces Kip to sext with him the second night — Roz and Hollander providing the soundscape — even though he and Kip haven't seen each other in person for a couple of months.

The third night he gets another text from Kip.

Kip: It hurts too much to do that and then stop again.

Scott: I know.

Scott: I'm sorry.

There's no answer.

He caves when he hears Hollander show up. He tosses his phone on the bed, grabs the water glass from the top of the mini fridge, and presses it against the wall, his ear against the other side.

It actually works. Scott thought it was just one of those tropes from 90s sitcoms, but he can hear them pretty well, they just sound like they are underwater.

"Back so soon, Hollander?"

"You texted me, asshole," Shane says without any heat.

A thud, maybe someone's back hitting a wall, silence.

"Here's what you're going to do," Roz says, breathless. "You're going to get on your knees and suck my cock." Roz stops and laughs. "Listen to the whole thing first, so fucking eager, Hollander."

"Dick."

"You're going to get on your knees and suck my cock until I come all over those pretty freckles."

Shane makes the noise Scott feels.

"Then you're going to spread your legs and let me eat you out until you are desperate and crying and begging. And then I will fuck you so hard you feel it until you play in Boston next month."

Scott doesn't think he's ever been harder in his life.

"Please."

It turns out Hollander's moans are pretty even with a dick in his mouth.

"You're so good at this," Roz croons. Hollander whimpers and Scott swallows hard because Hollander's mouth sounds so full. He sounds like his jaw must be aching with drool running down his chin. Scott opens his mouth reflexively, chasing anything close to those sensations.

"Look up, look up," Rozanov says suddenly, "close your eyes." And then Scott switches places, imagining looking down at Hollander's come-streaked cheeks.

They move to the bed so Scott does too. He ditches the glass so his hand is free to wrap around his cock; the lube is exactly where he left it next to the bed after last night. He can't make out as many words now, but Hollander gets louder as he gets more desperate and Roz lives up to his promise. Hollander is fucking crying and Scott's cock is red and weeping and they haven't even gotten to the main event.

Scott lets go of his cock and gripes the bed sheets in his fist. His chest is heaving. He's desperate for it too, but he will not come before Hollander.

Scott brings himself to the edge three more times before Hollander asks if he can come and finally lets go in response to whatever it is Roz says. Scott bites his thumb as he comes over his fist, but the fucking next door doesn't stop. Hollander is practically crying again and it must feel fucking awful.

Scott puts the glass to the wall again, straining to hear from his knees on his bed, dick softening between his legs, come dripping off his hand.

"Just a little longer," Roz says. "You can do it."

"Rozanov," Hollander whines.

"I know. You're so good though. You like it? Being good for me?"

"Always wanna be good for you," Hollander slurs.

"Fuck, Hollander." Roz comes with a grunt.

There's a moment of silence and then they fucking giggle. Both of them.

"It was what you wanted?" Roz asks, softer, caring.

For once, Hollander is the one too quiet to hear.

"Good. I'm glad," Roz says.

Their voices fade into nothing but the occasional rumble as Scott walks across the room. He gets into the shower with an ache in his chest.

 —

4. (2017)

Hollander doesn't come the first night.

Hollander doesn't come the second night.

Scott can hear the TV and Rozanov shuffling around, so it's not that they've decided to use Hollander's room this time.

Scott is…sad?

He should feel relieved, not having to listen to this again.

He should feel relieved that he's not failing to demonstrate the bare minimum of willpower needed to not get off listening to your coworkers having sex.

Hollander and Rozanov were stupid and careless and hot as fuck and the one thing that gave Scott hope anything could be different before he retired.

He opens his texts and looks at his chain with Kip, the last messages they exchanged judging him silently.

Scott: Merry Christmas

Kip: You too

Scott: You in town for the holiday?

Kip: I don't think that's a good idea

The third night Scott hears the door open at Hollander's usual time.

Then nothing for a long time. He sits there, barely breathing lest he miss something over the sound of his own breath. He bites his lip when he hears crying.

He navigates through three layers of locked folders to find the picture he'd taken of Kip asleep on Scott's couch. He brushes his thumb across where Kip's glasses are askew on his face, as if Scott could right them through the phone and space and time.

Kip had ostensibly been crashing at Scott's the night before an early final so he was closer to school, except the guest room had gone unused again, a bleary Kip following Scott to his bedroom mumbling about how the two of them fucking brought nothing but good luck into the world which he needed before his exam. Which, wasn't that completely true and completely false at the same time?

Scott never told Kip he'd taken the picture.

Scott never let Kip have a picture of him.

Roz and Hollander have been doing this twice as long as Scott and Kip, at least. Last year it sounded like maybe they'd figured it out. Maybe they'd figured out a way to have hockey and. And sex, and fun, and men, whatever it was. And.

The crying gives way to more silence; Scott locks his phone and turns off the light.

He's almost asleep when the bed does start softy knocking against the wall. The thudding sets a slow tempo, not the frenzied pace Scott is used to hearing from them. Scott is no stranger to sad break up sex. He's done it with Kip too many times to count.

Hollander moans —always with the moaning — but then it changes from wordless desperation into "Ilya."

Scott's mouth drops open. He turns on the light like that will help him hear better.

Scott's prior appreciation for Roz's relative silence flies out the window. All he can hear is the bass rumble of his voice, sounding cut off and tone moving from reassuring to wanting.

"I-" Roz says, finally loud enough for Scott to hear something. "I want- Shane, I need."

It's Shane's turn to respond with low reassurance. Scott considers repeating the glass trick, but it feels intrusive in a way it didn't before. Scott turns off the light and lies back down.

It's a while before they stop. They're not particularly loud, but Scott's tossing and turning, chasing sleep that's not coming. It's after 3:00 in the morning before he hears the quiet snick of the door opening and closing. He grabs his phone and types before he can overthink it.

Scott: I'm flying home tomorrow. Can I come see you to talk? It's important.

He opens his camera and looks at himself on the screen. His hair is disheveled, bags under his eyes. He takes the picture anyway and sends it.

Scott: Please

 —

5. (2021)

At times, All Stars brought about a strange sense of déjà vu, sending Scott right back to his dorm during his short stint in college. Fifty-five guys in their 20s and 30s, but functionally no more mature than the average college student, if that, crammed onto a couple of floors of the same building.

He knows he really is one of the old guys now because he's standing outside his room in a group with Monty and Fritz trying to decide between the hotel bar and someone's room, while a different group of players roves the hall collecting guys to go to a club.

Cliff Marlow pounds on the door next to Scott's. "Rozanov! You in there?"

"Yes," Roz answers without opening the door, which — uh-oh.

"We're going out." Cliff seems to have one volume, which is booming. "I need my wingman. Let's go."

Scott presses his lips together to avoid snickering. He figures the chances of Roz leaving his room tonight are pretty much zero.

"Look," Monty says, "I'm tired, I'm jet lagged, I don't want to be hounded by the autograph people. Your room is right there, Hunter. Room service and a movie or I'm bailing compl-"

Monty is cut off by load moaning coming through Roz's door. The hallway is silent for a brief moment before every player in earshot starts laughing; Scott wonders what he has done in his life to be cursed with the requisite knowledge to confirm Shane Hollander is in Roz's room just by the sound of the moan.

"We go to Hunter's room, we don't even need a movie," Fritz says. We have an old fashioned radio play next door."

"Nope!" Scott starts herding the group toward the elevators. "Bar. We are going to the bar." He prods the club group along as well. "Everyone go drink enough to forget that ever happened."

—

+1 (2022)

Scott holds Kip's hand, pulling him along the hotel corridor. Even though it's been five years, they haven't actually done this — gone to an MLH event as a couple — before. Scott hadn't wanted to do that to Kip, put him on display like a carnival freak show.

It feels safer now, with three other queer players not only in the league, but at All Stars, all with their partners in attendance.

The four of them had had a spirited debate about whether it made sense to be aggressively visible or to simply take up the space afforded to any other couple in attendance. They'd landed more on the latter, but Scott still reveled in letting Kip push him against the door to their room before they opened it for a very short make out session.

He semi-reluctantly pushes Kip off of him when he hears the door to the neighboring room open. Roz and Hollander walk out; he's not even surprised.

"Absolutely not," Scott says as Kip starts to greet them. He picks up their bags and walks back down the hall toward the elevators. "Five times," he says, walking backwards so he can look at the three of them. "Five times I have been next door to them at All Stars. I know what Hollander sounds like when he comes. We're getting a new room."

Kip starts outright laughing. Hollander looks like he wants to melt into the floor. Roz looks like he's debating between gloating or joining Hollander in his puddle.

"You don't know what Roz sounds like when he comes?" Kip asks, unhelpfully.

"He's much quieter. Always has been. Except when he's begging."

"Begging?" Kip asks, looking at Roz who now definitely is choosing puddle. Or murder.

"Oh yeah, the first year, when they were rookies, especially." He puts on his best whiny Russian accent. "Please, Hollander, let me fuck you, please. He was quieter during the actual fucking though."

"I didn't fuck Shane at All Stars when we were rookies."

Hollander glares daggers at Roz. It's impressive, how much irritation can be baked into a single expression. Ilya continues anyway. "He knew you were next door. Didn't want you to hear the firs-"

"Ilya," Hollander says, cutting him off, "will you ever stop sacrificing discretion for accuracy?"

"Sorry," Roz says, appropriately chagrined. He squeezes Hollander's hand; Hollander squeezes back.

"Okay," Kip says, "here's what we're going to do. One of you," he points at Roz and Hollander, "is going to follow me to the front desk with a credit card. You are going to book us a new room. That will leave this one empty. You are conveniently at the end of the corridor so you will have no one next to you and can fuck as loudly as you want."

"I don't know," Roz says, "Shane, will you be disappointed if you know no one can hear us?"

Kip grins. Scott covers his face with his hands.

"Oh my God," Shane mutters. "Okay," he says, full voice, "let's go, Kip."

"So," Roz says, after the elevator doors have closed on Hollander and Kip, "five times and you never changed rooms before? Like what you heard?"

Scott feels the blush rise on his cheeks. He probably should have thought of that before he opened his mouth. He doesn't respond.

"Do the Admirals stay in this hotel when you play Buffalo?"

Scott nods.

"Yeah, Centaurs too. And the Raiders. I used to have a girl in Buffalo when I was on the Raiders, Annalise. I'd usually see her when I was here for two, three years, something like that. Whoever was next to me would always complain, more than in any other city, when she'd come back with me." He knocks twice on the wall. "Thin walls, you know?"

Scott just stares at him while Roz continues. "Anyway, wherever they put you, you still have the key to this room, right?"

"That's not-"

"Show starts at 10."

Roz saunters toward the elevators as Scott's phone buzzes with a new room number. Scott touches the key card in his pocket.

He is absolutely going to hell.