I don't have a lot of hopes for Unrivaled, but I do hope that Shane is so fucking angry...and not just at Montreal.
I hope he struggles to look Hayden in the eyes sometimes because he can't stop thinking about that fucking video. He doesn't want to, that's his best friend and it was an honest mistake, but God, would it have killed him to watch it back? He was so close to getting to come out on his own terms. So fucking close.
I hope he's bitter about how nice the Centaurs are because how is that fair? Why didn't he get to have that in Montreal? Why was it so impossible for them to give him this? Why do the guys in Ottawa make it seem so fucking easy? Even Troy Fucking Barrett's nice here?! What the hell's in the water?
I hope he looks up at the rafters when they play Montreal and all he sees is where his jersey should have been retired and he just wants to scream. I hope when fans burn their Hollander jerseys, he's not able to laugh it off as absurd extremist homophobia. He's fucking livid.
He looks at his body, at his legs that will be shot before 50 and every bone he's broken and every injury he's played through, all to be tossed aside because, what? Because he fell in love? Because he tripped, which players do all the fucking time?
I hope he's angry and then angry at himself because this is supposed to be his happily ever after. He's supposed to be happy. Why can't he just be fucking happy? Why can't he just hold Ilya's hand and kiss him in public? Why does that still feel like a death sentence? Why can't he get his brain to understand that he's free now?
And I hope we see Ilya loving him at his most bitter self, whispering reminders that he doesn't have to move on just yet. That he's spent a decade carefully controlling every single emotion and he's allowed to feel them now, even if they're not pretty.
Though of course, to Ilya, there's nothing more beautiful than a Shane Hollander who knows he's Shane Fucking Hollander and is livid at the world for forgetting that.
I want to see Shane fucking Hollander reminding everybody that just because he’s polite and media trained doesn’t mean he’s a pushover. He is arguably the best hockey player of his generation, and his team of eleven years and three cups turned on him in an instant. Fans who’d cheered him for a decade burned his jersey and sent death threats. His own best friend outed him out of pure carelessness. He became a scapegoat, and that trip will be the most important footnote in his entire career after he retires.
Shane always just wanted to play hockey. He didn’t want to talk about the racial barriers he was breaking, he didn’t want to talk about the homophobic barriers he was breaking. He just wanted to be known for his hockey. And now he’ll always be known as the gay Asian hockey player who married his rival and just possibly might have thrown a game for said rival. Mud sticks.
I want him to be angry. He has every right to be. And I desperately want Ilya to support him. Yeah, the Centaurs gave him a soft landing, but it still isn’t fair that he needed one. That his team, management, and fans of a decade turned on him the very first time he did something that didn’t fit the sexless hockey robot image they’d built in their heads.
That they got outed and couldn’t control the narrative because Hayden couldn’t take two minutes to play back that stupid birthday video before sending it to fucking Brad. Brad, who posted it to fucking Twitter like Shane kissing his fiancé was the next Watergate.
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As an older queer, allow me to say: the walls of the closet are load-bearing. It is our job as a community to stand in front of that door and tell everyone who wants to peek inside to fuck off.
There are so many reasons a person may choose not to come out and there is no reason a person would owe the public or a stranger that information. Certainly it's not owed simply because someone is famous.
We have fought for decades to make it safer for people to be open and authentic about themselves, but we are not yet there. And even if we were, the closet would still be something we need to maintain for those who are not ready to reveal that part of themselves.
i know we make fun of shane for being stuck in the saw trap of his mind but crucially the saw trap is also real. like it exists it's out there. he can see it and he tweaked it a little so it's Worse in his head. but he's Actually being hunted for sport it drives me insane
like most of his fears are not irrational nor were they created in a void. i know he has normal and chill parents or whatever but he's very much a product of hockey culture and at the very least, parents that were kind of passive about how that culture was shaping their son. i mean, they doubted he was gay and didn't bring it up once.
my point is shane spends the entirety of tlg going ohmygod they're gonna kill me because Gay. and then they try to kill him. because Gay
like i kind of have no particular opinion on shane’s desires to be captain i do think it would probably be healthy for him to not be cap for a moment but i also will maybe never get over the humiliation ritual that is him being ousted from the team he brought multiple cups and then being sheperded off to be the flotus of his gay lovers team who everyone already thinks he’s lowkey under the boot of
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first post for context / see the tag 'open relationship au' for more snippets. this is a continuation of the previous part so please read that first.
MHL Awards, 2014
Shane's mind goes fuzzy at the first touch of Rozanov's lips against his.
It's been racing all night, running through different potential scenarios in Rozanov's penthouse like plays on the ice. Drifting constantly back to Brian, to you should at least try. Reminding himself that he shouldn't feel guilty for wanting Rozanov or for planning to act on it, now that he's been given permission.
Then Rozanov kisses him and it all disappears. Shane doesn't know what he was worrying for, not with Rozanov's tongue licking at the seam of his mouth or his hand on the back of his head, heavy and warm.
Rozanov's other hand grabs his shirt, tugging. Shane goes and they stumble towards the bedroom, lips locked. They're still just kissing and Shane's dizzy with it anyway, already half-hard. Rozanov kisses like he's trying to devour him. Shane kind of wants to let him.
Has he ever been kissed like this? He can't remember.
They reach the bedroom and Shane feels Rozanov stumble for a moment before they both tumble onto the bed, Shane in Rozanov's lap.
His hands land on Shane's thighs, running over them and gently parting them further, shifting Shane in his lap so their hard-ons are pressed together. It's searing hot, even through four layers of fabric, and Shane can't help but grind down.
"Fuck," Rozanov mutters, breath hot on Shane's lips, fingers reaching up to hurriedly undo the buttons of Shane's shirt. "You want this?"
Shane nods, whining when Rozanov pulls his shirt off and buries his face in the crook of his neck, planting a series of wet kisses on overheated skin.
"How long?"
"Years," Shane gasps, hips still moving against Rozanov's. "I - fuck. Years."
He's never even admitted it to himself, how badly he's wanted Ilya Rozanov, in a way he didn't know he could want men who weren't his boyfriend. The words slip easily from his tongue now, the shame that's always accompanied that want a distant memory.
Rozanov groans and then his arm is around Shane, twisting them around and throwing Shane flat on the mattress. His body already blanketing Shane in the next moment, kissing every inch of skin within reach and hands groping roughly at his chest.
Shane's heart is pounding, blood rushing past his ears. He's never been thrown around like this before. Brian's in good shape but he's not strong like Rozanov, his body so big it feels like it dwarfs Shane's even though, logically, Shane knows they're about the same size.
"Can I fuck you?" Rozanov asks.
Shane's cock pulses, wetting his underwear with precum. "Yes. Please."
"So polite," Rozanov coos, giving Shane a quick peck on the lips.
Then he sits up, shrugging his shirt off and throwing it on the ground. He reaches for the zipper of Shane's pants and they finish undressing in a hurry, almost clumsy in their eagerness.
Shane expects Rozanov to start prepping him with the same hurried desperation but he takes his time, kissing a trail down the column of Shane's neck, down to his chest. His mouth closes around one nipple, teeth scraping it, and Shane can't hold back the animal whine that escapes his throat.
His head is spinning, world narrowed down to Rozanov's lips, his hands, his body on top of Shane's. Rozanov grabs his thighs, spreading them none too gently and Shane throws his head back, fingers twisting in the sheets.
He startles when Rozanov pushes his knees against his chest, tongue just barely grazing over Shane's hole before he startles away.
"Wh-what are you doing?" Shane chokes out.
He knows what Rozanov's doing, obviously. It's just - he's only seen it done in porn. He didn't realize it was something people did in real life. Brian's never done it, and Shane's never felt comfortable asking him to.
"Eating you out," Rozanov says, looking confused at Shane's confusion. "What do you mean, what am I doing?"
Shane swallows. "It's just - you don't think it's gross?"
"You're clean, yes?"
Blood rushes to Shane's cheeks. "Yeah, obviously."
"Okay, then what's the problem?" Something passes over Rozanov's face, impossible to read. "You haven't done this?"
Hot embarrassment spears through Shane.
"You will like it," Rozanov promises. "Pretty little hole like this, deserves nice treatment."
"Jesus, Rozanov," Shane laughs.
The laughter dissolves into a gasp as Rozanov dives back between his legs, pressing a wet, messy kiss right on Shane's hole. He licks it languidly, spearing his tongue and pushing inside.
Shane's skin prickles, limbs going fuzzy, cock hard and weeping against his stomach. Rozanov's tongue is so hot and wet, so wriggly, and it's unlike anything Shane's felt. He's enthusiastic, his drool coating Shane's inner thighs, the wet sounds of it echoing in the room much to Shane's embarrassment and arousal.
He doesn't even notice Rozanov has moved his hand until there's a finger pressing against his hole, wet with lube, sinking easily inside. It is quickly joined by a second, twisting, honing in on his prostate with unerring precision.
"So good for me sweetheart," Rozanov mutters, still pumping his fingers inside, fucking Shane with them. "You will take anything I give you, won't you?"
Shane nods mindlessly, moaning when he feels Rozanov's other hand grabbing his ass, spreading him wide open as he adds a third finger. He's watching, Shane realizes deliriously, watching his fingers disappear into Shane's hole over and over again, brushing his prostate on every pass.
He hears Rozanov say something in heated Russian and then he's pulling his fingers out so fast it almost hurts. Shane watches with lidded eyes as he leans over him, reaching for a condom in the bedside drawer. He's so hard it looks painful and so big it makes Shane's jaw ache to look at him. It's gonna be the biggest thing Shane's ever had inside him, the realization sending his head spinning.
Rozanov rolls on the condom. He grabs Shane's legs behind the knees, pushing them back and spreading them, the casual manhandling sending a bolt of heat through Shane's body.
"Okay?" Rozanov asks. His dick is brushing against Shane's inner thigh, the head catching on his rim and pushing just slightly, a merciless tease.
"Okay," Shane says, choking on his next breath when Rozanov starts pushing inside.
He's huge, splitting Shane apart relentlessly, working his way inside in tiny thrusts. It feels like half an eternity until he's all the way in, hips resting against Shane's.
Shane opens his eyes (when did he close them) and sees Rozanov staring down at him, lips slack, face red, looking wrecked already.
"God, Hollander," he pants. "So fucking tight, what are you, a virgin?"
For one delirious moment, Shane wishes he was. That Rozanov could have been the first man to have him like this. Shame rises in his chest in the next moment, threatening to choke him. What the fuck is he thinking?
Rozanov starts moving his hips and Shane's mind goes fuzzy again as his cock hits his prostate. He fucks into Shane in quick, shallow thrusts at first as he loosens up around his cock, going deeper and harder as Shane starts pushing into it, back arching.
He's fucking into Shane properly now, slamming his hips into Shane's so hard it almost hurts. Fucking the breaths out of Shane's chest, an embarrassing litany of soft 'ah ah ah's that Shane can't hold back. Rozanov leans in, nearly folding Shane in half as he kisses him messy and open-mouthed.
"That's it," Rozanov growls, "fucking take it."
And Shane does, and does, pleasure rolling over his body in waves, skin buzzing with it. Rozanov seems to be carving a new space for himself in Shane's body with each powerful thrust, laying claim to him. It's rough, animalistic in a way Shane didn't know sex could be for him.
The orgasm is building at the base of Shane's spine but it still catches him by surprise when it hits, crashing over him, cock spilling untouched between them.
"Are you - ?" Rozanov asks, slowing his thrusts.
Shane wraps his legs around his waist before he can pull out, still riding the aftershock. "Keep going."
Rozanov doesn't need to be told twice, pumping into Shane hard and uncontrolled, chasing his own pleasure now and making use of Shane's body to do it. It's too much, the sensation of his cock hammering Shane's prostate so intense it tips from pleasurable to painful.
Shane loves it.
A few more thrusts and then Rozanov's coming with a choked off groan, fingertips digging into Shane's skin so hard he knows it's gonna bruise.
Rozanov collapses next to him and Shane bites back a whine as his cock slips out, already missing the feeling of being full.
"Fuck," Rozanov sighs. "You have killed me, Hollander. I am dead."
Shane smiles helplessly, rolling over to tuck himself against Rozanov's side. Warmth blooms in his chest when Rozanov's arm settles around him, hand resting on his head and softly petting Shane's hair.
Rozanov hums. "Worth the wait?"
"Yeah," Shane says, and he's too fucked out but he thinks he should feel guilty about how much he means it.
Maybe opening up the relationship wasn't such a bad idea.
+
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In a world where Shane doesn't get hurt by Cliff Marleau and Ilya does manage to break it off with him, the Raiders defeat the Admirals in the Eastern Conference final. Ilya channels all of his anger and despair and this feeling of helplessness and loss of control when he looks at Shane into absolute control and dominance on the ice. He drags the Raiders to another Stanley Cup, Shane watches at home, once again torn between pride and jealousy. (Scott Hunter seriously contemplates retirement. He gave up Kip for hockey but hockey doesn't give back.)
The next season, the grief had time to settle and time hasn't healed anything. Shane and Ilya play the worst season of the their careers.
The first time they play each other is a repeat of the post Rose Landry game. The second time is a little better, they both get a goal each and it feels almost a little like it used to. So much so that Ilya texts Shane, just two simple words. Come over.
Shane can't believe the audacity. (or maybe he actually can)
We're not doing that anymore, he texts back.
I know, Ilya writes. Come over.
No. Shane gets a cab anyway.
When Ilya opens the door he's smirking. “You came.”
“Fuck off,” Shane says and then flings himself at Ilya, gets his hands into his curls.
Ilya reaches for Shane, there's a moment where they fight for control and then Shane gives and Ilya can fit his mouth against his neck, make him moan, and Shane drops to his knees right there, Ilya grappling for balance against the wall as Shane gives him the greediest, sloppiest, most perfect blowjob known to man. Ilya comes so hard he almost misses how Shane jerks himself off and comes as soon as Ilya's finished. They stand there, kneel there, panting for a moment, no thoughts just bliss, then Ilya pulls Shane up, goes to seek out his mouth, all plush and red and spitslick now but Shane stumbles back, doing up his pants and says “shit, what are we doing” and turns on his heels and flees out of Ilya's house and Ilya thinks fuck, of course again, and fuck, we didn't even kiss.
The Raiders’ dream of defending the cup goes up in smoke. The Metros don't do much better and in the end the Raiders don't even make the playoffs and the Metros barely manage the wild card spot and get swept in the first round by fucking Buffalo of all teams.
Shane and Ilya still meet at the MLH awards. Shane is nominated for the sportsmanship award, and despite the Raiders overall poor showing their rookie is nominated for the Calder and Ilya is being a good dutiful captain.
They both seek out the roof, Ilya for a cigarette and Shane for peace and quiet.
“This can't happen again,” Shane says.
“What, you nagging about my smoking?”
“No. That neither of us is nominated for any of the trophies.”
“You're nominated for nicest player.”
“You know that's not what I mean.”
And Shane looks at Ilya, really looks at him. “If we're giving this up, then it has to be worth it. What we had, it could be good. So good.”
“If we were not who we are.” Ilya says bitterly.
Shane nods. “So it's only worth it if we're the best of who we can be. Together at the top. Dominating the league. Building an unquestionably legacy. Future Hall of Famers.”
“And then?” Ilya asks.
“Then we are beyond reproach. The greatest who ever played the game.”
“And then?” Ilya asks again.
“Then we can do whatever the fuck we want,” Shane says, calmly, evenly.
He doesn't say what that is. He doesn't need to. All of these years, all of the risks, and they cannot stay away from each other.
Ilya nods. “Together at the top.”
Shane holds out a hand, just like he did all those years ago in Saskatchewan.
“May the better man win.”
Ilya grips his hand tight. “I will beat you.”
Shane grins. “That's not gonna happen.”
Letting go of Shane's hand is physically painful.
“1410,” Ilya says. “For old time’s sake.”
Shane looks at him very seriously. “For old time’s sake.”
They don't return to the party. It’s not even midnight.
They have ten hours and they don't sleep for a minute. They gorge themselves on each other's bodies, they kiss and fuck and kiss. They hold each other and touch each other. They talk and they're quiet, they laugh and at one point in the darkness they cry.
And in the morning they leave, flying back to their respective cities.
(During the summer, Scott Hunter announces his retirement. He is grateful for hockey and for the Admirals, but he needs to focus on his personal life.)
At the beginning of the next season, Hollander and Rozanov return to the ice with a vengeance. Record breaking seasons, top of the division, top of the conference. They meet in the conference finals and over seven hard fought games, the Metros take the victory. It's Shane who lifts the cup that year. Who gets playoff MVP.
At the MLH awards, Shane gets the Rocket and Ilya gets the Art Ross and Ilya is season MVP. Hollander and Rozanov are back, dominating the league like never before.
“1410,” Shane says to Ilya in passing.
Ilya was so annoyed when he tried to book that specific room and it was already gone, he should have known.
The next year, the Raiders take back the top spot.
And round and round it goes. There are years when neither the Metros nor the Raiders win the cup of course. Hockey is a team sport and not even someone like Shane Hollander or Ilya Rozanov can win a cup by themselves.
But they meet at the awards every year because they're nominated every year. Between them, there isn't a year where neither of them wins a trophy.
Hollander and Rozanov, together at the top.
The rivalry is as strong as ever. The tone of it changes though. They are less cutting, more complimentary in interviews. By unspoken agreement they start saying words like mutual respect, friends off the ice, challenging each other to be better. The media says they've matured. The league calls it sportsmanship.
Ilya and Shane don't call it anything. But once a year, in Las Vegas, in room 1410, they spend a night truly together at the top.
And once they retire, the same number of cups to their name, the faces of their franchises, their numbers hanging in the rafters in Montreal and Boston, Ilya leading Shane in career goals but Shane beating Ilya in overall points, unrivaled trophy rooms, the league defining players for two decades, once that is all over, they meet at the MLH awards for one last time.
“1410,” Ilya says who beat Shane to the reservation that year. One last victory.
In the morning, Shane hands him a piece of paper. An address.
“I have a cottage,” he says, “where I spend my summers.”
Ilya does not admit how often he's watched the documentary about it.
“Come whenever you want.”
Ilya takes the piece of paper and he knows that this is the true victory.
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