Louder, Rozanov!

The stadium roared. Not just buzzed—roared, like a beehive the size of a skyscraper ready to explode from the tension. Twenty thousand throats screaming simultaneously, and it didn't matter who they were screaming for—Montreal or Boston—everyone screamed loud. The floodlights hit the ice so bright that the equipment gleamed like it was glazed, and the visors flashed blinding white. Ilya Rozanov skated onto the ice last. On purpose. To make the crowd howl. It worked every time—he knew how to play to an audience, how to make the stands scream his name until they went hoarse. But tonight he didn't give a damn about the stands. He was looking at the opposite bench, where Shane Hollander was pulling on his gloves—slowly, methodically, with that same concentration that always bordered on obsession. As if he wasn't putting on equipment but armor before a decisive battle. Ilya liked that about him—that maniacal focus, the ability to shut out the entire world and concentrate on one thing. Liked it and was infuriated by it at the same time. Because on the ice, that damn concentration turned Hollander into a machine that couldn't be stopped. Their eyes met across the rink. One second. Two. Hollander looked away first—but Ilya knew it meant nothing. Shane always pretended he didn't care. And then he'd go out on the ice and grind you to dust without breaking a sweat. The referee raised his hand. Center ice faceoff. Rozanov skated to the dot, planted his stick in the ice, and exhaled through his mouthguard. The air inside the helmet was thick, stuffy—smelled of rubber, his own sweat, and something metallic that always appeared before an important game. Adrenaline. Anticipation. The hunt. Muscles under the padding tensed, pulse quickened, and Ilya felt his body preparing for battle—instinctively, reflexively. Hollander positioned himself opposite. Close. Too close—even for a faceoff. Rozanov felt the cold emanating from his equipment, heard the scrape of skates under the Canadian's weight. Shane always did this—pressed silently, with his whole body, his gaze, his very presence. No words needed to declare: I'm here, and I'm stronger than you. Ilya smirked under his helmet. "Your stick's shaking, Hollander," he threw out, leaning closer until his visor almost bumped his opponent's. "Or are you just happy to see me?" Shane didn't answer immediately. Just gripped his stick tighter and looked at him like Rozanov had said something incredibly boring. "You're imagining things." "Sure?" Ilya shook his head, the smirk widening. "Seems to me you've forgotten what real competition feels like." "From clowns of your caliber—it's been a while." Rozanov laughed—short, low, almost into his chest. Hollander always knew how to strike right on target. That's exactly why he was so damn interesting. "Listen," Ilya lowered his voice so the ref wouldn't hear and leaned even closer. A few centimeters remained between their helmets—enough to see Shane's eyes through the visor. "Let's make this more interesting. Let's play for stakes." Hollander froze. Barely noticeably, but Ilya caught it. "What stakes?" "Any stakes. Winner makes a wish—loser fulfills it. Anything." Rozanov paused, let the words hang in the air. "No questions, no excuses, no whining." "Anything?" "Are you really asking me to repeat myself, Hollander?" Ilya leaned even closer, their helmets almost touching. "Or are you afraid you can't handle it?" Shane stared unwaveringly, and Rozanov suddenly felt something change. Not in the air—in him. In the expression in Hollander's eyes, which became too calm, too cold, too confident. "And what will you wish for?" Shane asked quietly. Dangerously quietly. "You'll find out when you lose." "When I lose?" "Well, what?" Ilya grinned wide, showed teeth. "Keep in mind, Shaney, I'm not the type to ask for flowers and moonlit walks. I'll be original." Hollander was silent for another moment. Then his lips twitched in a short, hard smirk—predatory, promising trouble. "Fine," he said evenly, each word precise. "But when I win, you'll come on your own. Without persuasion." "Where? To your room with flowers?" "No." Shane leaned forward a millimeter, and Ilya felt his breath through the gap in the visor. "On your knees." Rozanov froze. The air between them compressed so tightly it became hard to breathe. The stadium noise disappeared somewhere far, far away—only the two of them remained, the ice under their skates, and that fucking Hollander stare that burned through the plastic visor like a laser. "Are you out of your mind?" Ilya forced out through clenched teeth. "I just know what you want," Shane leaned back a centimeter, but the smirk remained. Predatory. Confident. Absolute. "Admit it already. It'll be easier." Rozanov wanted to respond—something devastating, something cutting, something that would wipe that smug grin off Hollander's face—but the puck dropped onto the ice with a short, dull thud. Whistle. Sticks crossed. In Hollander's eyes there was no doubt, no joke. Just fact. Cold, hard, inevitable. And Rozanov understood: the bet was a mistake. Because somewhere deep down, in that place he didn't like to think about, he wanted to lose. He realized everything was going to hell in the second period. His legs weren't obeying—like someone had poured concrete into his muscles instead of blood. Passes flew wide, the puck bounced wrong, as if it had conspired with Hollander. And when Shane stole it right from under Ilya's stick—just intercepted it with one precise flick of the wrist, turned, and sent it top shelf without looking—Rozanov didn't even have time to react. The puck slammed into the net with a dull, final thud. 1–0. Ilya turned toward his own net, exhaled through his mouthguard—long, angrily—and skated for a change. Without looking at the bench. Without looking at the scoreboard. Without looking at Hollander, who stood by the boards methodically wiping his visor with the back of his glove. Slowly. Calmly. Like he had all the time in the world. Bastard. In the third period, Rozanov tried to fight back. Rushed into attack, got around a defenseman, made a pass to the wing—but the puck went too far forward. Montreal's defenseman intercepted, rolled out to center, and—of course, of fucking course—found Hollander in the slot. Shane didn't hesitate. Shot. Goal. 2–0. Four minutes left. Ilya stopped at the blue line, bent over, braced his hands on his knees, and tried to catch his breath. His lungs burned. In his mouth—the metallic taste of blood and disappointment. And somewhere behind him, Montreal roared like they'd just won the world championship. When the final whistle cut through the air, Rozanov was already looking at Hollander. He stood by the boards—calm as a statue. Removed his helmet slowly, almost deliberately. Hair stuck to his forehead, face gleaming with sweat, but his expression was absolutely even. No triumph, no gloating, not even satisfaction. Just victory. Pure, cold, inevitable. And then their eyes met across the ice. And Hollander smiled. Not widely. Just the corner of his mouth, a barely noticeable movement of lips. But it was enough. Ilya hurled his stick onto the ice—didn't toss it, hurled it, so that it bounced and slid toward the boards—and walked into the tunnel without waiting for the traditional handshakes. His step was heavy, angry, tension riding his shoulders. Someone from the team called out to him, but Rozanov didn't turn around. He didn't need words of support or comfort right now. He needed to process what had just happened. The locker room smelled of rubber, wet fabric, menthol spray, and bitter disappointment. Ilya tore off his uniform—roughly, almost furiously—elbow pads flew into the locker with a clang of metal, shin guards bounced off the wall, the helmet hit the floor. He exhaled so sharply his ears rang. He lost. Lost to Shane Hollander. By his own fucking initiative. Rozanov closed his eyes, pressed his forehead against the cold metal of the locker. Tried to catch his breath. His heart pounded somewhere in his throat, loud, insistent. His fingers trembled—from burned-out adrenaline, from anger, from the realization that he now owed. Owed to come. Owed to get on his knees. Owed to fulfill any wish of the winner. The phone vibrated in his gym bag pocket. Ilya froze. For several seconds he just stood there, staring into space. Then slowly pulled out the phone. The screen glowed in the locker room's dim light, the letters seeming too bright. Shane: Room 417. In two hours. A pause. Three dots. Hollander was typing something else. Shane: Come alone. Naked. Rozanov stared at the screen. The letters swam before his eyes, forming mockingly simple sentences. He tried to type a response—something biting, something like "what if I don't?" or "fuck you, Lily"—but his fingers hovered over the keyboard, unable to press a single button. The phone vibrated again. Shane: Or tomorrow everyone finds out you're all talk. Ilya threw the phone back in the bag. Closed his eyes. Exhaled—long, slowly, trying to calm his pulse. Two hours. Room 417. Naked. He looked at the shower room door, then at the clock on the wall. The big hand jerked—second by second, relentlessly, bringing him closer to the moment when he'd have to go. Fuck. He'd been standing outside room 417 for a minute already. Maybe two. Time flowed strangely—stretching out, then compressing into a ball. Rozanov was dressed in gray sweatpants and a faded Boston t-shirt—that one, with the logo that had almost worn off after a hundred washes. Like he was just dropping by a buddy's to chat. Like there was no bet. Like in a few minutes he wasn't about to give himself into Hollander's hands—whatever the fuck that meant. Ilya raised his hand. Knocked—two short, sharp raps. The sound came out louder than he'd calculated. The door opened almost instantly. As if Hollander had been standing on the other side, waiting. Shane was in a black t-shirt—fitted, hugging his torso. Hair still damp from the shower, a red mark on his neck from the helmet strap that hadn't faded yet. Face calm. Too calm. No smirk, no triumph, no gloating. Just a look—dark, heavy, the kind that made something clench in the solar plexus. "Come in," Hollander said evenly. Rozanov entered. The door closed behind him with a quiet, final click. The room was ordinary: a bed with a snow-white bedspread, a table, a TV, the even warm light of a lamp. But the atmosphere was different. Thick, tense, dense—like the air had compressed and was pressing on his chest, making it hard to breathe normally. Shane walked deeper into the room, stopped by the window, and turned. Light fell on him from the side, outlining the line of his shoulder, the curve of his collarbone under the fabric. "Strip." Ilya snorted. Loudly, deliberately. "We didn't bet my ass, Hollander." "You said yourself: 'any wish,'" Shane turned fully, crossed his arms over his chest. "Want me to quote you verbatim?" "I thought you'd ask me to wash your car," Rozanov took a step closer, tried to smirk, but it came out crooked. "Or dance naked in front of your team." "The team—later," Shane didn't move, didn't even blink. "Right now you're here. And you lost." Ilya shook his head. The smirk came out crooked, unconvincing. He knew this was a trap. Had known from the start. But he was already in it up to his ears, and there was no way out. Rozanov pulled his t-shirt over his head—slowly, deliberately. As if he wasn't obeying an order—just undressing. For himself. To prove he didn't give a damn. The fabric caught on his chin, and he yanked harder, threw it on the nearest chair. Hollander didn't move. Just watched—attentively, evaluatively, taking in every curve of muscle, every bruise from the game. "Everything below the belt counts too," Shane reminded him quietly. Ilya met his eyes. "Do you really want me to..." "I want you to fulfill the condition," Hollander took a step forward. One. Slow. "Or do you only play games you know you'll win?" That was dirty. Direct, pure, deliberate. And Rozanov couldn't ignore it. He pulled at the waistband of his sweatpants—deliberately, defiantly, challengingly. Pulled them down in one motion and stood in black boxers. The material hugged his thighs tightly, emphasizing every line. Ilya stopped, exhaled. "Good enough?" "No." "Shane..." "Take it off. Everything." The pause stretched like wire. They stood five feet apart. One—dressed, calm, with a cold, impenetrable gaze. The other—almost naked, breathing fast, with drops of sweat on his chest left over from the game. The tension between them wasn't just erotic. It was about power. Ilya ran his tongue over his lips. Swallowed. Exhaled. "You're a bastard." "You made the bet yourself, Rozanov," Hollander tilted his head, and the corner of his mouth twitched in a short smirk. "I'm just collecting my prize." Ilya clenched his jaw. Hooked his fingers on the waistband of his boxers, froze for a second—the last moment when he could still stop—and pulled them down. The fabric fell to the floor with a quiet rustle. Rozanov remained standing—naked, chin up, hands clenched into fists. Didn't cover himself. Didn't turn away. Didn't lower his gaze. Looked straight into Hollander's eyes and waited—well, what now? What now? Shane looked at him for a long time. Too long. Then slowly circled around him—not touching, just looking. As if evaluating a trophy. Studying prey. Memorizing every bruise from collisions on the ice, every curve of muscle under skin, every uneven breath. Stopped in front of him again. "On your knees," he said quietly. Almost gently. Rozanov froze. "What?" "You heard me." "No. No, Shane, this is..." "Any wish," Hollander stepped closer—so close that Ilya felt the warmth from his body, the smell of soap and something else, something masculine, thick, intoxicating. "Or are you already changing your mind?" Ilya swallowed. His heart pounded so loud it seemed like Hollander could hear it. Slowly, very slowly, he dropped to his knees. The floor was cold. Hard. Uncomfortable. His knees immediately ached. Shane stood before him—and Rozanov suddenly understood what this looked like from the outside. What he looked like. Naked, on his knees, before a fully dressed Hollander who was looking down at him with an expression of absolute, unshakeable control. He didn't look up. Not right away. Just placed his palms on Hollander's thighs—firmly, challengingly, fingers digging into the denim. As if that gave at least some illusion of control. As if he could stop this at any moment if he wanted. But they both knew it was a lie. Shane ran his fingers through Rozanov's hair—slowly, almost tenderly. Stroked the back of his head, caught a strand at the base of his skull and pulled back. Not sharply. But insistently. Dominantly. "Look at me." Ilya clenched his jaw. Slowly raised his gaze. Hollander's eyes were dark—almost black in the dim light of the room. Calm. Too calm for what was happening. And Rozanov's gaze gleamed—not from humiliation, not from shame. From anger and desire, fused together into one hot, pulsing knot somewhere low in his belly. "You're not getting this because I'm yours," Ilya forced out through clenched teeth, voice rough, breaking. "But because you won." Shane tilted his head. Smirked—briefly, without the slightest warmth. "Doesn't matter, Rozanov." He ran his thumb over Ilya's lower lip, pressed slightly, felt the softness, the warmth. "Right now you're on your knees. And in a minute I'll be in your mouth." Hollander didn't give him time to object. He unbuckled his belt—the sound of metal rang obscenely loud in the quiet of the room. Zipper. The denim slid down just enough to free what was needed. Shane didn't even fully undress. Just pushed his jeans to mid-thigh and remained standing—dressed, confident, absolutely, fucking calm. And Rozanov was still on his knees. Naked. Breathing fast. Pulse pounding in his temples. Hollander caught his hair at the nape again—not yanking, guiding. Drew him closer, until Ilya felt the warmth emanating from him, the smell—soap, sweat, something else, something too familiar that made something clench deep inside. "Open your mouth," Shane said quietly. An order, not a request. Rozanov swallowed. Parted his lips. Hollander entered slowly—inch by inch, letting him adjust, but not letting him pull back. The taste on his tongue was salty, sharp, hot. Ilya squeezed his eyes shut, tried to even his breathing through his nose, but Shane kept moving forward, filling his mouth, stretching his lips. "Deeper," Hollander whispered. "Come on. Show me." Rozanov drew air in through his nose, relaxed his throat, and took it deeper. Much deeper. For a second it became hard to breathe, his eyes stung with tears, but he didn't pull back. Didn't jerk away. Because otherwise—this wouldn't be a real loss. And Ilya Rozanov never did anything halfway. Never. Shane exhaled—low, almost soundless, but Ilya heard it. Felt the muscles tense under his palms. "That's it. Good boy." Rozanov growled—or tried to, but the sound came out muffled, distorted, swallowed. His hands on Hollander's thighs clenched harder, nails digging into the denim. He started moving himself—harder, angrier, deeper. As if proving something. To himself. To Shane. To the whole fucking world. Hollander pushed forward slightly with his hips, set the rhythm—even, confident, unhurried. The hand in his hair didn't let go but didn't pull too hard either. Just held. Controlled. Guided. "You wanted to be original, right?" Shane's voice sounded almost mocking, with a slight breathlessness. "And I'm just practical. Taking what's mine." Ilya wanted to answer—something biting, something about how he wasn't his, never was and never would be—but his mouth was occupied, his throat full, and the only thing that escaped was a muffled, wet moan. Hollander chuckled—quietly, contentedly. "Exactly." He started moving faster. The hand in his hair clenched tighter, to the point of pain. Hips pushed forward. Rozanov felt the muscles tense under his palms, Shane's breathing quicken—short, ragged, uneven. And then Hollander exhaled sharply, shuddered through his whole body, and went still. Ilya felt warmth, bitterness on his tongue, in his throat. Squeezed his eyes shut. Swallowed. Once. Twice. Trying not to cough, not to choke. Shane slowly pulled back, released his hair. Rozanov coughed—sharply, roughly—and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Looked up. Hollander stood over him—relaxed, eyes bright, with a barely noticeable, smug smirk on his lips. "Good work, Rozanov," he said evenly, zipping up his jeans unhurriedly, methodically. "You can get up." Ilya didn't get up. He remained on his knees, cheeks burning, breathing fast, achingly hard between his own legs. His cock pressed against his stomach, heavy, engorged, wet at the tip. "Is that it?" Rozanov forced out, voice rough. Hollander leaned down, took him by the chin—firmly, almost roughly, forced him to look up. "No," Shane whispered, and there was a promise in his voice. Dark, hot, merciless. "This is only the beginning." He released Rozanov's chin and walked to the bed. Sat on the edge, leaned back on his hands. Looked at Ilya from above—long, evaluatively, as if examining a painting in a gallery. "Get up." Rozanov rose—slowly, on unsteady legs. His knees ached. His lips were swollen, sensitive, tender. He ran his tongue over his lower lip, caught the salty aftertaste that made something clench in his groin. "Come here," Hollander nodded at the bed. Ilya approached. Stopped at the edge of the mattress, crossed his arms over his chest—a gesture of protection that fooled no one, least of all himself. "What's next, Hollander? Foot massage?" Shane smirked. Sharply pulled Rozanov by the wrist—he lost his balance, fell onto the bed beside him. The mattress gave under the weight, springs quietly creaking. "Lie on your back." "Shane..." "Now." Ilya lay down. Slowly settled back against the pillows, spread his legs slightly wider—not an invitation, more of a challenge. Looked up from below with that same cocky smirk, eyes gleaming with something he couldn't quite hide. "Thought you'd at least kiss me first." "Not today." Shane stood. Pulled his t-shirt over his head in one motion. His abs flexed under the skin—clean definition, traces of grueling workouts, an old scar under his ribs from an injury on the ice. He unbuttoned his jeans completely, shoved them off with his underwear, dropped them on the floor. Rozanov watched—and swallowed more often than he'd like to admit. Shane climbed onto the bed, knelt between Ilya's spread legs. Ran his palms up his thighs—unhurriedly, feeling every muscle, every curve, every tense nerve under the skin. Stopped on the inner side of his thigh, pressed with his thumbs—not painfully, but noticeably. "Wider." Ilya exhaled, obeyed. His knees parted a few more centimeters, opening him completely. "Like that," Hollander leaned lower, ran his hand along Rozanov's cock—once, slowly, from base to tip, squeezing just enough to drive him crazy. "Look how you react. And you still say you don't want this." "Shut up," Ilya breathed out, throwing his head back into the pillow. "Just... do it already. What are you waiting for?" Shane smirked. Grabbed him by the hips and flipped him onto his stomach in one sharp motion. Rozanov didn't have time to resist—found himself face-down in the pillow, ass raised, palms clutching the sheets. His heart dropped. "What..." he started, but Hollander pressed his palm flat against his back—between the shoulder blades, firm, not letting him rise. "Quiet. I'm not done yet." He reached for the nightstand, pulled out a condom and a tube of lube. The tube was warm—as if Shane had prepared it in advance, even before Ilya arrived. Rozanov heard the click of the cap, felt Hollander spread his cheeks wider, exposing him completely. "Relax," Shane said. "I'm not—" A finger entered sharply—without warning, without tenderness. Rozanov exhaled into the pillow, hissed through his teeth, fingers clenching in the sheets. "Fuck!" "You wanted to play for stakes," Hollander added a second finger, began moving—quickly, methodically, relentlessly stretching. "So deal with it." Ilya drove his fists into the fabric. His breathing broke, became ragged. Inside it burned, pulled, stretched, but gradually his body began adjusting—relaxing, accepting, opening. Shane knew what he was doing. Moved with precision, pressed exactly where needed, curved his fingers at the right angle, and Rozanov felt a wave run down his spine—sharp, electric, almost painful. "Fuck..." he breathed into the pillow. "Exactly." Third finger. Ilya moaned—louder than he wanted, louder than he'd planned. Shane sped up, stretched harder, deeper, rougher. No sentimentality. No "it's okay, baby, relax." Just preparation—quick, efficient, sufficient. Then the fingers disappeared, leaving emptiness and anticipation behind. Rozanov heard the rustle of foil, the sound of Shane rolling on the condom—unhurriedly, drawing out the moment. "Ready?" he asked, positioning himself. His hands settled on Ilya's hips, spreading them wider. His cock pressed against the entrance—hot, hard, insistent. "What if I say no?" "Then you'll get it rough." Pause. "And if yes?" "Even rougher." Rozanov laughed—hoarsely, shortly, with a catch. "Come on, Hollander. Surprise me." Shane entered with one thrust. All the way. Ilya arched, choked, clutched the pillow so hard the fabric cracked under his fingers. Inside everything clenched, filled, stretched to the limit and past it. Painful. Sharp. Too much and too fast. He wasn't ready. Despite the fingers, despite the lube—wasn't ready for this. "Fucking..." Rozanov moaned into the pillow, voice breaking. Hollander didn't move for several endless seconds. Just held him by the hips—firmly, bruise-deep—letting him adjust to the intrusion, the stretch, the fullness. Then slowly pulled out—almost completely, leaving only the head inside—and entered again. Deeper. Even deeper. "Like that," Shane whispered, voice low, thick, satisfied. "Look how you take it. Like you were made for this." Ilya wanted to answer—something biting, something about how Shane had completely lost his mind—but Hollander started moving. Evenly. Confidently. Methodically. Each thrust made Rozanov exhale sharper, moan louder, clutch the sheets more desperately. "Louder, Rozanov," Shane leaned down, pressed his chest to his back, whispered right in his ear, burning his skin with hot breath. "I want the whole hotel to hear who lost." Ilya growled, tried to push back, twist free, but Hollander pressed him harder, drove deeper, shifted the angle—and Rozanov broke. Moaned out loud, shamelessly, pushed back to meet each thrust. "That's it," Shane breathed out, speeding up. "Good boy. Take it." The rhythm became harder, faster, merciless. His hands on Ilya's hips dug in to the point of pain, leaving bruises that would last for days. The bed creaked steadily. Rozanov felt each thrust—deep, precise, ruthless. Shane didn't spare him, didn't slow down, didn't give him a break. He was taking what he'd won. Claiming his prize. And Ilya—was giving. Completely. "Hollander..." Rozanov moaned, voice trembling. "Fuck... I can't... I..." "You can," Hollander shifted the angle again, hit right on his prostate, and Ilya cried out. "You can do anything. Come on. Show me." Rozanov clenched inside, his whole body locked up, and he came—without a single touch to his cock, just from how Shane moved inside him, how he filled him, how he owned him. The wave hit sharply, blindingly, knocking the air from his lungs, and Ilya moaned until his voice cracked into a rasp. Hollander thrust several more times—sharp, hard, deep—and froze. His fingers dug into Rozanov's hips. He exhaled and slowly went heavy on top, pressing down with all his weight. Silence settled over the room, thick and close. Just their breathing, ragged and rapid, gradually evening out. Shane slowly pulled out, disposed of the condom, and rolled onto his back beside him. Rozanov lay face-down in the pillow, unable to move, to think, to breathe normally. "So," Hollander said after a minute, staring at the ceiling. "Did you lose with dignity?" Ilya forced himself to turn his head, looked at him with one eye. "Shut up, Hollander." Shane chuckled—quietly, contentedly. "Next time don't make bets you can't handle." Rozanov closed his eyes. Caught his breath. After a few seconds his lips twitched in a weak but unmistakably smug smirk. "Next time I'll win. And you'll regret it." "We'll see," Hollander said softly. And they both knew—there would be a next time. There definitely would be.