Chapter Text
Another year, another All-Star Weekend.
Scott Hunter was warming up on the ice, mind elsewhere as he skated. By this point in his career, the All-Star Weekend didn't mean much: another opportunity to service the fans, and a distraction from the things he should be focused on, such as winning the cup. It may serve as a much-needed break for some, but for Scott, it felt detrimental. The sooner he could get this over with the better.
"Hunter."
Scott whipped around to find himself face to face with Ilya Rozanov.
"Rozanov," Scott said, returning a nod to the younger player. He liked Rozanov well enough. The kid's a strong center and a ballsy player - he'd make a solid captain one day. But Jesus, was he a pain to deal with on the ice. Most players would put a pause on the shit talk for the All-Star weekend, at least for their temporary teammates, and especially for their temporary captain. Rozanov was not most players.
"It is big surprise they let you play," Rozanov said dryly, giving Scott a once-over. "Given your old age."
Scott fought the urge to roll his eyes. Whatever inferiority complex Rozanov was attempting to take out on him through his tired chirps was far beneath him, and frankly, he couldn't give less of a shit.
"Fix your form before you try to insult me," Scott replied, narrowing his eyes slightly in the practiced way he reserved for jabs of this kind. Something along the lines of condescending, but unaffected. Rozanov continued undeterred.
"Trust me, Hunter, my form is excellent," said Rozanov with a wink.
This time Scott really did roll his eyes. He didn't care to stand around and hear about Ilya Rozanov's conquests. He moved to skate away, but Rozanov was faster, cutting him off.
"I bet yours isn't bad either," he continued, with a mock shrug. "Even if your old-man dick does not work anymore, your mouth looks like it would be decent at taking mine." He accented his last sentence with a quick raise of his eyebrows.
Before Scott had time to process, let alone respond, the buzzer sounded to signify the end of warm ups. Rozanov gave him one last look, face serious and unreadable, before he skated away.
---
What. The. Fuck.
Several hours later, Scott stood naked in his hotel shower, letting the warm water rinse off the sweat that had built over the course of All-Star night one. He hadn't stopped thinking about what Rozanov said during warm-ups for the rest of the evening. It was weird. Obviously, it was really fucking weird. But weird how?
He ran over the options again in his mind. This could just be the way that Rozanov trash talks. Strange, and kind of gross, but ultimately harmless. A fine option - No further action needed on Scott's part. Then, there was the second, worse option: Rozanov had somehow figured out Scott's sexuality, and this was a deeper, much more personal jab. This would be bad, disastrous even, but Scott comforted himself with the reality that this seemed extremely unlikely. Rozanov would have no way of knowing, much less anything in the way of proof. Option one seemed by far the most likely. Scott could chalk it up to a strange chirp and move on with his weekend.
Unless...
Option three: Ilya Rozanov had been genuinely coming on to him.
It's not like Scott hadn't wondered about Rozanov's sexuality before. There was something strange between him and Hollander. Once, at the end of their rookie season, Scott had casually referred to Rozanov as Hollander's "boy," which caused the latter to tense up and practically choke on his drink. After that, Scott tended to keep an eye on them, catching the frequent stares they threw each other's way. Rozanov at least had the sensibility to be subtle about it. Hollander, on the other hand, looked at "his boy" with visible longing.
So, naturally, Scott had figured for several seasons now that Hollander was gay for Rozanov. Though, he was never quite sure if Hollander himself knew. That was the thing with hockey players: so caught up in the game that they were oblivious to their own feelings. He had always imagined that Hollander would figure it out eventually, probably after retirement, and end up settling down with a man in late adulthood, when he was no longer hockey's golden boy and the world had long moved on from caring about his romantic life. Other players had done it before, and Scott envisioned a similar plan for his own future. He didn't have too much longer to go.
If he was entirely honest with himself, Scott had to admit that he found himself thinking of that yearning look of Hollander's once or twice. He was cute, in a sort of "lost puppy" kind of way. Tough on the ice, but bordering on shy and awkward off of it. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't considered the idea of Shane on his knees.
But Rozanov? He was a player. A womanizer. It certainly wasn't a secret. Between tabloids and locker-room gossip, word got around. Evidently, so did Ilya.
Although... it would explain the way he looked at Hollander, as well as what he said to Scott on the ice today. Though, if that's the case...
Scott's mind began to fill with even more questions. If something was happening between the two younger players, what exactly was the state of that relationship? Dating? Fucking?
Shit. The idea of Hollander and Rozanov having sex hit Scott hard like the glass of the rink. He ran a hand through his hair as images raced through his mind: Shane on his knees, sucking Ilya's cock as he cursed in Russian. Ilya fucking Shane from behind, rough hands pressing him into the mattress. The two of them together with Scott there, letting him watch, letting him join, letting him-
Scott turned the shower nob as cold as it would go, freezing out his thoughts.
Whatever weird, fucked up thing Rozanov and Hollander had going on, if they even had something going on, was frankly none of his business, and already far too much of a mess without his involvement.
Jesus. He needed a drink.
---
After drying off and making himself presentable, Scott made his way downstairs to the hotel bar. He'd nurse a drink, make small talk with the bartender, and then head to bed early to prepare for All-Stars day two. A perfect plan.
Until, as he approached the bar, he sees a familiar pair of broad shoulders and dirty-blonde hair hunched over the bar.
Shit.
He should turn around. He could leave now, go back to his room, and watch shitty late night TV until he falls asleep. No one would ever know he was here.
Or.
Scott walked up to the bar, giving Rozanov a gentle slap on the back as he slid into the barstool next to him.
"Rozanov."
He looked up, face as cool and composed as ever. He gave a slight eyebrow raise, and Scott found himself reminded of the way he looked when he chirped him on the ice earlier. Not the time.
"Hunter."
"I'm surprised to see you here. I figured you'd be out at the clubs."
Rozanov drained the rest of his vodka slowly before turning his upper body to face Scott. He offered him a small shrug and a serious expression. "Need to get my sleep to show you up on the ice tomorrow."
Scott gave an amused huff. He gestured to the bartender, ordered himself a whisky on the rocks, and another vodka for Rozanov, who nodded his appreciation.
"So," continued the younger man. "What is Scott Hunter doing in on a Friday night. Too old to party?"
"Something like that," Scott responded with a slight smile. He didn't care to deny it. "I'm too tired to go like I used to."
"Mmm." Rozanov swirled his glass, his next words almost too low to be heard.
"Just like your dick."
Scott's eyebrows shot up. Were they really doing this again?
Rozanov didn't say anything else. He simply sipped his drink and met Scott's eyes like a challenge.
Scott returned his gaze, trying to read whatever was behind his eyes. He found nothing discernible.
After a long moment, Scott decided to pull the one card he had stashed away.
"So. How's Hollander doing?"
It was a dick move, Scott knew, but it was worth it to see Rozanov blink once in surprise. It was the only crack in his face before he regained composure, but Scott mentally counted it as a win.
Rozanov gestured with his hands, palms up, before dropping them back down on the bar with a huff.
"He is fine. I am not his mother."
"No, you're not," Scott agreed. He flashed a quick smile to the bartender as he refilled his empty glass, then took a sip.
"But you are friends." Scott continued. It wasn't a question.
Ilya chewed on his cheek before nodding slowly. He stared down at his hands.
"You could say that. On ice we are rivals, but off ice... he is okay. Boring. Very boring. But nice guy. We talk."
Scott was caught off guard by this show of candidacy. His mouth formed the question before his brain could catch up.
"What about?"
Ilya looked up, brown eyes meeting Scott's. Maybe it was the alcohol in his glass, or in Scott's, but they looked bigger than before. For a moment, his face had lost all trace of mockery, replaced instead by something honest, even vulnerable.
"Everything."
The two men held each other's gaze for a moment. Finally, Rozanov nodded as if he had come to a decision about something. He drained the rest of his drink, then scribbled a number on a cocktail napkin before sliding it to Scott.
Scott took the napkin and studied it.
"What's this?"
"My room number," said Rozanov matter-a-factly, as he stood up. "Stop by tonight."
Now it was Scott's turn to blink. What the actual fuck.
"Hollander will be there too," continued Rozanov before Scott could turn the stammering in his brain into a coherent response. He stared at Rozanov, eyebrows furrowed.
"I can't..."
Rozanov shrugged.
"Come, don't come, is up to you. But Hollander would like for you to be there."
With that, he walked away, leaving Scott with a drink, a room number, and a decision to make.
---
There was a clear, correct choice to be made here. It was not the one Scott chose.
Was he really doing this?
Hollander would like for you to be there.
Those were the words that ultimately led to him standing in front of Ilya Rozanov's hotel room, adjusting his shirt, too nervous to knock.
The short phrase, simple enough in its delivery, carried with it a multitude of implications. Hollander wants him there. The idea of Hollander and Rozanov talking about Scott (maybe even in bed?!) made his mind race.
Images of Shane flooded his mind. It was at that moment that Scott realized exactly how bad he wanted to fuck Hollander's adorable little face. Jesus Christ.
He was getting ahead of himself. Way ahead of himself. There was always the chance that he had completely misread the situation, or that Rozanov was just being weird and whatever he was being called here for had nothing to do with any of that.
He took a deep breath, ran a hand through his hair, and knocked.
After a few minutes of shuffling and muffled words, the door flung open. There stood Shane Hollander, face slightly flushed, eyes looking anywhere but Scott's own. Over his shoulder, Scott could see Rozanov lounging comfortably in a small armchair. He wore a pair of dark jeans, an entirely unbuttoned shirt and a huge fucking smirk on his face.
"Hunter!" he exclaimed. "I'm impressed. You did not chicken out."
Hollander still stood in the doorway. Scott cleared his throat.
"Uh. Rozanov invited me here to his hotel room."
Hollander turned to shoot a glare at Rozanov, whose smirk broke into a grin, before turning back to Scott.
"It's my hotel room." Hollander mumbled. "But come in."
He moved to let Scott pass. At Rozanov's beckoning, Scott took a seat at the foot of the bed, perpendicular to his chair. Hollander locked the door with a click before sitting down next to Scott.
For a moment there was silence. Then:
"So, uh. You can't tell anyone. Obviously." Shane was looking at his hands, fidgeting with his watch.
"Tell anyone... what, exactly?" Scott looked to Rozanov for help. Bad idea. He simply cocked an eyebrow, still grinning like a motherfucker, lips sealed shut.
"About uh. Rozanov and I." Shane continued, clearing his throat. "You can't tell anyone about uh, us, about this, that you know about us. It's not," he let out a sigh. "It wouldn't be good. Obviously. And-"
"Oh my god Hollander, shut up," Rozanov interjected. "He will not tell. He is stupid on ice, but he is not idiot."
"Thanks." Scott responded sarcastically.
"Besides," continued Rozanov matter-a-factly. "He is gay."
Scott and Hollander's faces shot up to look at Rozanov at the exact same time, letting out a shared immediate response:
"What?"
Rozanov frowned at Hollander.
"I thought you knew."
Shane threw his hands.
"Clearly not."
Scott looked back and forth between the two men, discussing his own sexuality as if he wasn't even there.
"What the fuck is going on?"
Rozanov spared a brief glance at Scott.
"You are gay. Obviously." He turned his head back to Hollander. "How did you not know?"
The two men continued to discuss. Scott's head hurt. What the hell.
"Okay guys. Guys." He interrupted. Finally, the other two turned to give him their attention. On the bright side, Hollander appeared to now be capable of looking him in the eyes. "What the actual fuck is happening?"
Ilya cleared his throat.
"Okay, here is deal. He is gay. You are gay. I am..." He paused, smirking. "...Hot."
"Fuck off," grumbled Hollander.
Rozanov continued undeterred.
"And you think he is hot," he said simply, with a gesture towards Scott. "You told me yourself."
Hollander's face flushed, and Scott could feel his cheeks heat in kind.
"And so, the three of us fuck."
Scott's heart dropped into his stomach.
"If either of you are not wanting this then Hunter will leave," he turned to flash a smile at Hollander, "And our night will continue as planned." He directed his gaze back to Scott. "But I find it hard to believe that either one of you would want to pass up this chance."
There's a moment of silence. Scott ran a hand through his hair. Jesus, was this actually happening? He made up his mind to speak first.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that." He looked at Hollander, studying his expression. "I want that," he affirmed, making sure Hollander heard the weight of his words.
"Fuck. Okay. Yeah." Hollander gave Scott a nervous smile, then glanced at Rozanov, who gave him a nod. He nodded back. "I want that too."
Somewhere in the walls, the AC clicked off. The room was silent. Scott could hear his own heart pounding.
Slowly, without breaking eye contact, Rozanov drained his glass. He set it on the floor with a clink before walking to stand above where Scott and Hollander were sitting, shrugging off his already open shirt as he went. He took Scott's chin in his hand and glanced over to give Hollander a questioning look. Is this okay? He nodded his approval. Go on.
Scott swore his heart was going to beat out of his chest. He tilted his head upward to meet Rozanov's eyes, feeling his thumb slowly brush against his lips, his jaw, the pocket under his ear, and finally still to rest on the nape of his neck. Scott shuddered, and Rozanov smirked.
"You are old," began Rozanov, fingers spreading to grip Scott's hair. "And you are bad hockey player. But I do agree with Hollander. You are hot."
With that, Rozanov gave Scott's hair a gentle tug. Scott bit his lip, and Rozanov laughed.
"Fuck off," muttered Scott bitterly.
Rozanov did fuck off, right over to Hollander, who had already removed his shirt and scrambled to a low kneel on the bed to reach Ilya's standing height. He took his face in his hands and kissed him.
Scott couldn't have looked away if he wanted to. Which, for the record, he did not. The kiss itself was hot and passionate - Shane's hands tangled in Rozanov's hair, Rozanov's on Shane's sides, holding him steady. But it was more than that. Buried underneath the intensity was something gentle. Loving, even. Scott would have smiled at this, if he wasn't so caught up in how turned on he was by the sight.
Hollander was gripping the waist of Rozanov’s jeans like a lifeline, eventually moving to paw at the buckle of his belt. Rozanov helped him, unbuckling and unzipping. Shane eagerly pushed down the fabric and Rozanov stepped out of it, leaving him naked except for already tented boxers.
Suddenly, Rozanov pulled Hollander's head back by his hair, smiling down at his glassy, blue eyes. He turned Shane's head to the side to look at Scott.
"You want to show Hunter how well you suck my dick?"
In response, Shane dropped to his hands and knees, face at Rozanov's crotch.
Scott let out a small breath that was almost a whistle. Jesus Christ, the kid was eager.
As if he could read his thoughts, Rozanov turned to smirk at Scott.
"Hollander likes to be told what to do."
Shane had pushed down Rozanov's boxers and was licking slowly up and down the length of his admittedly (and unfortunately for Scott's ego) large cock. Rozanov ran a hand through Shane's hair as he took the head into his mouth.
"And he's good at it," he added gently. Shane let out a small moan. Scott had to fight not to do the same.
"You call him Hollander even while he's blowing you?"
Rozanov ignored the question.
"You are going to keep your clothes on, Hunter?" He asked dryly.
Right. Clothes. Scott quickly undid the buttons on his shirt and stripped down to his boxers. After a moment's hesitation, he removed those too. Rozanov raised an eyebrow at Scott's already hard dick.
"Ah, so it does work!"
"Fuck off."
Rozanov smiled.
"Fine. You want a turn?"
Scott swallowed the saliva that had built in his throat.
"Yes."
Rozanov stepped out of the way faux graciously with a dramatic sweep, and lounged on the bed. Scott took his place in front of Shane, who looked up at him with blown out eyes, his lips puffy. Somehow, he looked even better than he did in his fantasies from earlier that day.
Scott put a hand on the side of Shane's face, caressing his cheek gently.
"You want that, baby?" he whispered. He saw Rozanov roll his eyes at the pet-name, but Shane let out a whimper. The younger players' whole "rough sex, last name" stuff wasn't really his style, and he had already decided that he was gonna give Shane a different kind of treatment than he's used to.
"Yes, please," came Shane's response, almost a whine. Scott smiled and guided his head to his cock.
Eager didn't even begin to describe it. Montreal Metros' captain Shane Hollander sucked dick like he was desperate for it. He took Scott's length entirely and immediately before pulling back to circle the tip. Scott groaned and closed his eyes, putting his hands in Shane's hair and fighting the urge to push. He heard a hum of approval from Rozanov somewhere in front of him.
"You feel so good," Scott muttered. Shane moaned around his cock, and Scott sucked in air through his teeth at the sensation.
Scott heard the bed squeak and opened his eyes. Rozanov had removed Shane's jeans, which he folded before placing on top of Shane's shirt to form a neat stack. His own clothes remained crumpled on the wood floor.
As Shane continued to suck Scott, Rozanov moved to straddle Shane, planting sloppy kisses down his back.
Then, with a smack, he slapped his ass, hard. Shane moaned in response, and Scott gripped his head tighter.
"Fuuuuck."
Rozanov huffed with amusement.
"He is good, yes?"
"Yeah," came Scott's response, quick and breathy. "Yeah, fuck. Really good."
Through his half-lidded eyes, Scott noticed the way Rozanov buried his smile into Shane's shoulder blade and bit down, eliciting a whimper from Shane.
Shane pulled back from Scott's dick, hands still on his thighs.
"Fuck," he turned his head as best he could to look at Rozanov. "I need you in me."
Scott inhaled sharply, and Rozanov smiled again, moving to grab a small bottle of lube from the bedside table. Meanwhile, Scott caressed Shane's face, who was looking up at him with a longing expression.
"This still good for you?" Scott asked gently. Shane nodded.
"Yes. God yes."
"Good." Scott brushed a strand of hair out of Shane's eyes and put his cock to his lips, which Shane took eagerly. Jesus.
"You're doing so good for me, baby."
Shane moaned lightly in response. Scott wished he could bottle the sound.
Rozanov had settled in between Shane's legs, gripping his ass with one hand while he slipped in a finger from his other. He let out breathy moans around Scott's dick as Rozanov began to move.
"Yeah there you go, Hollander," Rozanov grumbled. Scott bit back the urge to make a snarky comment about using last names. Hopefully one day these kids would learn to talk to each other like normal human beings, but that wasn't Scott's problem.
He tried, and partially succeeded, at holding back a moan. Somehow, even after everything that led him to this point, the idea of Rozanov seeing him lose control was too embarrassing give in to.
He watched as Rozanov added a second finger, causing Shane to let out a whimper. This time, Scott couldn't stop himself from doing the same.
In an instant, Rozanov's eyes flicked up to meet his.
"You like that Hunter?"
"Fuck off, Rozanov," Scott replied, barely managing to concentrate his breathing long enough to get the sentence out. He looked down to focus on the top of Shane's head instead.
"No, no, Hunter." Ilya's voice was commanding. "At me. You look at me."
Without a second thought or a moment's hesitation, Scott obeyed. Ilya's mouth broke into a smirk.
"You will remember this next time I kick your ass on the ice, yes?"
Ilya pushed in another finger, and Shane's breathy noises turned into whines. Scott felt himself growing closer.
"Jesus. Fuck." He let his head fall back to look upwards. Rozanov laughed.
"Go on, Hunter, show us that pretty neck," he chirped. Scott wanted to tell him to fuck off, but he didn't think he could manage without making a noise that would haunt him for the rest of his career.
"You want to see how I fuck him?" Rozanov asked. Shane moaned again, and Scott shuddered at the resulting vibrations. Rozanov removed his fingers and placed a kiss on Shane's lower back as he applied more lube to his hole.
Scott watched as Rozanov lined himself up and slowly sank into Shane, noting the way his dick was consumed in one, long motion. Rozanov noticed his look of awe.
"He is good at this, yes?" He gave Shane's thigh an approving squeeze. Shane hummed back.
"God, yeah he is," Scott sighed.
Rozanov ran his hands down Shane's back, caressing his muscles, before planting them firmly on his hips.
"He takes me so well." He spoke as if he was directing his words to Scott, but the comment was clearly meant for Shane's benefit. Then, he began to move.
Ilya Rozanov fucks like he plays: rough, hard, and reckless. He thrust into Shane at a brutal pace. Shane, to his credit, somehow managed to keep sucking Scott, whose mouth had fallen open from both the sensation and the scene in front of him.
Scott couldn't help himself anymore: he moaned loudly and freely, unable to stop even when he received a mocking eyebrow raise from Rozanov. Especially when he received a mocking eyebrow raise from Rozanov? Fuck, what did it matter anymore. He was going to come.
Rozanov realized as much.
"Pull off," he instructed. "You can finish yourself."
Scott listened, pulling away from Shane's face to jerk himself frantically. He came into his hand with a strangled moan.
"Fuck," gasped Shane between breaths. He was watching Scott attentively. "Jesus- fuck."
Rozanov nodded towards the bedside table where a tissue box was conveniently located. Scott cleaned himself as the two younger men continued to fuck. He watched with interest, noting the practiced, comfortable way that Rozanov knew exactly what Shane wanted without even having to ask. The two of them probably booked off every night this weekend for this. And- Jesus Christ. All-Star Weekend. He'd have to see both of them again on the ice tomorrow. What the fuck had he been thinking?
Still though... it was probably worth it.
Suddenly, Rozanov pulled out and flipped Shane over onto his back before pushing in again.
"Hunter. Get over here."
Scott climbed onto the bed, his face near Shane's, lounging on his side and propping himself up with an arm. He ran his hand over Shane's body, massaging and squeezing, before lowering himself to take a nipple in his mouth. Shane whined.
"Touch me, please."
Scott and Rozanov both let out a groan.
"You heard him, Hunter," rasped Rozanov in between breaths. His thrusts were growing wilder, more sporadic. His brow was furrowed in pleasure.
Scott moved his hand to stroke Shane's cock, who, in response, closed the distance between them to kiss him desperately.
Mere seconds later, Shane erupted into what Scott could only describe as a yelp, finishing on his stomach and into Scott's fist. They continued to kiss as Rozanov chased his own orgasm, finally finishing with a long groan.
The three men collapsed onto the bed. For a moment they stayed there, until Rozanov motioned for Shane to lay on his chest. The brunet cuddled into him, nuzzling his face into the crook of Rozanov's neck as he kissed his head and mumbled low and gentle words in Russian.
Suddenly, Scott felt very embarrassed to be there. Even after all the events of this evening, this seemed too intimate a sight for him to witness. He took it as his cue to leave.
Rozanov watched as Scott dressed, tracing Shane's shoulder's and back with a softness that Scott didn't know the Russian was capable of. Scott headed towards the door, throwing a nod in his direction.
"Hunter," Rozanov nodded back. "Was fun. Maybe next time you can see how it feels for me to fuck you."
Scott chuckled. "In your dreams, Rozanov."
"Maybe you are better at taking cock than you are at your toe-drags."
"Alright, alright. Fuck off," he replied with a smile. Rozanov smiled back with a surprising amount of what appeared to be genuine kindness.
"Bye Scott," came Shane's sleepy voice, eyes still closed against Rozanov's chest.
"Goodbye Shane." He really is a cute kid. Rozanov better not break his heart.
"See you on the ice, Hunter."
Fuck. Right.
"See you on the ice."