Archive of Our Own

Luca is standing in the Centaur’s locker room, dressed in a fresh black-and-red jersey and feeling like he swallowed lit firecrackers, when he realizes the life-sized Ilya Rozanov poster on his wall definitely photoshopped his teeth.

“Ilya,” Rozanov says as he reaches out to shake Luca’s hand, smiling broad and wonky. Luca’s chest is tight and hot. “Good to meet you, Luca. We will play great hockey together, okay?”

A few weeks earlier, that same voice had called him to congratulate him on being drafted to the Ottawa Centaurs. Nine in the morning for Luca, sometime around three for Rozanov—he had, embarrassingly enough, done the math the moment he heard the Hello, this is Luca Haas? as his dad rummaged around the kitchen, prepping toast and coffee.

The Ilya Rozanov in front of him is weathered. His nose healed crooked after the puck in the 2017 playoffs, and whenever Rozanov’s tending to a post game presser, he’s got a habit of rubbing a knuckle nose along the wedged bone, sniffling loudly. The skin there’s paler than the rest of his tanned face and the sun-burnt tips of his ears and cheekbones. Luca stands as straight as he can, clasps Ilya Rozanov’s hand, and says: “Yes! Yes, I am so—so excited to be playing hockey with you.”

And Rozanov laughs, squeezing Luca’s shoulder and then his back, reeling him in for a solid hug, and he is so sturdy and maybe slightly shorter than Luca imagined and his hair curls into Luca’s temples and he’s wearing a nice cologne and the shirt he has on draws tight over his chest and his pants are definitely tailored and well, he is saying that again, Congratulations, Haasy, welcome to MLH, welcome to Ottawa, I will see you soon, okay? Enjoy your tour, and next time you take my number, and we can plan something with the guys, all together, good barbeque, maybe. We’ll talk.

“Okay,” Luca says, because what else is he meant to say when Rozanov is congratulating him on the best day of his life?

Someone pulls him for a photo, and Luca thinks about Rozanov’s crowded bottom teeth when the guy, Harris, he thinks, asks him for a smile. He smiles so wide his cheeks hurt.

And a couple of months later, at the cusp of Luca’s first season, Rozanov puts his hand on his back and says, let’s have a chat, yes? Only to stuff Luca into the front seat of his car, some sleek, black model that’s more bulky than Rozanov’s usual sports cars. He takes them to the McDonalds drive through and slides a black coffee into Luca’s hands and one for himself loaded with sugar, and they sit in that dingy parking lot as the hour hits eleven p.m. Then he asks, How much do you know about the room? And Luca has to ask, What room? Then, Oh, that one.

Rozanov’s face is drawn taut. He’s got nice wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that barely show, now. “No Winner's Room for rookies, usually. Big change, after… A few years after my draft. Takes a long time to change rules, you know? I think—maybe it can be okay for you, if we arrange… Some guys are nicer, yes? It would not have to be so bad for you, if it was with a nice guy. If you want this, next season, I will fix it for you, okay? You just tell me.”

Luca asks, “Fix for me?”

“Yes, I have good friends in the league, one of them makes you their pick, and then your first time, it will be”—Rozanov pauses—“not bad. Better than getting stuck with asshole guy who is too happy about winning and decides to fuck you raw in the ass no question, yes? Because you are still a rookie, lots of annoying guys think they can prove a point by being dicks. Might hurt you on purpose. Hard to prove shit like that, because no one wants to talk. Can be—embarrassing. Maybe. No one wants to be next headline or make problems for the team.”

It’s not that he forgot. But that sort of stuff, the Winner's Room, that stays twelve layers deep on anonymous confession forums, scratching the surface only through vague, speculative articles and the occasional parried question from a sports reporter. And there’s porn, obviously. Like, maybe Luca’s looked up on some dingy website winners room, but never for—never hoping for the real thing, because that’d be such a fucking violation, right, but porn isn’t. It’s not real, and he was going to go to the MLH, someday, he might as well steel himself for it, and it’s just like any other roleplay thing: is probably nothing like in the MLH proper, and so what if he—what if he watched a few videos. A dozen, give or take. Has a few favorites, even. So does everyone; every hockey player knows about the Winner's Room (everyone has to have imagined it, gotten off on it, even) and Luca is just like all those other guys, he is, he’s like everyone else. But, well, hearing it from Rozanov, who Luca used to, who he, eyes closed, on his bed, legs spread, fingers tightening around, imagining—

“Real soft, like this.” Rozanov’s thick fingers wrapping around Luca’s cock, pale eyes on Luca’s mouth, which must be red and wet from swallowing Rozanov’s cock, which in his fantasies he’s pretty good at

—well, he can’t say much more than he did on his draft day, a stiff, “Okay. Thank you.”

Then, after they’ve sat quietly for a few minutes: “Who?”

Rozanov stares at the quiet road. He tells Luca without any flair, “Hollander is a nice guy,” stuffs his coffee into the cupholder, and then drives Luca home.

In 2010, an MLH group chat titled BETS FOR ROOKIE WR made its way around some teams. Unlike the draft, Hollander’s ranked first. It takes three weeks before he’s called into the room. Montreal loses a lot, that year. Luca finds scraps of information on a dead forum a few weeks after Rozanov drove him to McDonald’s. One of the forum threads is titled: INSIDER TIP, HOLLANDER FULLY TOOK IT UP THE ASS FIRST ROOM BTW. LOL. Someone claims there’s a pic leak. A thousand bucks for it.

“Okay,” Luca says, forty games into his rookie season. “If you trust Hollander.”

Ilya is standing next to him in the hallway. They’ve just left the team gym. They’re dripping sweat.

“I trust Hollander the most,” Rozanov tells him, and then he goes quiet. Luca thinks about that quiet for a long, long time. All the way home. Thinks about it when he remembers the forums, the group chat, the bets, the regulation changes, thinks about it even when he stuffs his hand into his underwear and he feels sick from it when he makes himself come.

So when Luca’s peeling his shoulder pads off as the Winner's Room rep—Chris—steps in, dark-grey polo on with a WR logo embroidered on the heart, Luca stops moving. Luca’s never spoken to him directly, but he’s seen him around. That’s the upside of this being a home game, at least. It starts up again, that sickening gut-deep feeling that has him jittery and exhausted all at once. He swallows hard. No one stops talking. Everyone else has routines for this. The rep flips a couple of papers over, eyes scanning, and Luca lowers his pads onto the bench of his stall. Keeps things neat and tidy for Dale and the rest of the equipment guys.

“Luca?” Chris says, eyes flicking from his board to where Luca is standing, boxed in by Bood and Rozy, so close he can smell the sweat on them.

Luca wipes his hands over his hipbones, swallowing again, says, “Yes,” a bit too loudly right as the rep waves him over. He really hopes he imagines his voice cracking. Rozy stalks behind him, shirtless and with one hand on Luca’s shoulder. He kneads his thumb into the stiff tissue right along Luca’s shoulder blade, easing a bit of that rigidness out of him. It slips into Luca’s stomach, instead: he might vomit it right back up.

“You’re Hollander’s pick. The shower’s not working in there, so you’ll want to wash up here if you’re going to do that. I can give you ten minutes before we gotta get a move on,” the rep tells him. He looks over Luca’s shoulder at Rozanov. “Yes, Rozy?”

Luca thinks of all the times Rozanov must’ve gotten called on in this building. Hollander is a nice guy. One of many things Rozanov’s told him since. Sparse little details, mostly. He is not soft just because he is polite. Rozanov’s knuckles brushing over Luca’s tented jeans. He’s a good captain, and he kisses you like he’s paying attention, which is nice, even though Luca felt weirdly conflicted about it afterward. When Luca came in a minute it was embarrassing, he only laughed for a little bit. Then cleaned him up and drove him all the way home. Luca wanted to ask if he jacked people off in his car very often or if there was some sort of criteria, like being a rookie. He also had sort of hoped he hadn’t made too ugly of an o-face when he came. His ex-girlfriend said that once. Like, while his dick was still wet.

Rozanov doesn’t say anything to the rep, though. He tells Luca, “I will wait for you. Take you home after, okay?” and then funnels Luca to the showers, where the water always runs white-cold for thirty seconds before the heat kicks in. No one gives him a second alone. Bodies trade spots, everyone’s voices blending into the rush of water on tiles, skin, and Holmberg still tries to jab him in the ribs when passing by, asking if he washed his ass for once while cackling loudly, and this is really just another part of the game.

Rozanov’s already dressed when Luca emerges, hair damp and sticking to his skin, digging around for sweats and a t-shirt. He takes the shirt Rozanov offers him before he finds his own. Don’t worry about the underwear, Slicky says in passing, it’s all coming off, Haasy baby! And everyone laughs, playing hockey, slipping out the door, Luca’s neck so hot and bright red and his face must be, too. He’s going to greet Hollander alone, for the first time, lobster-red. It’s fine; his hands are steady and his breathing’s nice and even. Rozanov’s t-shirt reeks of his soap. Something oaky.

“Tell my friend hello for me,” Rozanov says, and leans back in the stall. Eyes creasing.

Luca stares for a moment, then tugs at the bottom hem of the shirt. “Very funny.”

“Yeah,” Rozanov agrees, wrinkled corners gone. He washes out in the locker room light, tan faded this late in the year. “Funniest joke in MLH.”

The room’s all the way at the end of a hallway, the door framed by posters with bold, informational text, some so old they’re ripping at the corner, the ink faded, a few of them in brighter colors, looking fresher. Hollander’s talking to another rep in a polo shirt, the same logo on the chest.

“Hi Haas,” he says, turning over a thin stack of papers to the rep at his side, pen next. He sounds like he does in every interview bit: collected. “Good to meet you off the ice.”

When Hollander turns his chin up, he stares straight at Luca’s chest, and adds, “Nice shirt.”

Luca looks down at the cyrillic printed on the front of it. He can’t read a word, but maybe Hollander’s seen this shirt before. It’s a faded blue with a large, red star in the center, text curved to fit around it. There’s a hole in the armpit and the collar’s all loose. A weird shirt for a guy like Rozanov to hold onto, Luca thinks, remembering Rozanov’s spacious closet from his last visit and all the clothes still folded inside branded shopping bags.

“Alright, Hollander, you’re signed for. You know the drill. Haas—yep, initial right there, full name here and here…” Chris taps the form in three separate spots.

Luca’s already read this nondisclosure on draft day, or at least a version of it. He’s grateful for that, because right now all the words just look like little blocks crowded together. He signs.

“Perfect. Easy rules, but I’m required to cover them: be out by within two hours at latest, tap the buzzer inside the room when you leave so someone can make note, like I said, shower’s not working so keep your hands off it, both parties must be sober at all times, painkillers included, any injuries or issues have to be reported within forty-eight hours to your franchise rep…” He taps the wall.

Some weeks ago, Luca had walked over here alone and read every single poster five times over. Just to make sure the Winner's Room was real. He could’ve passed it by without a clue. A plain door with an equally plain label in black-and-white: Winner's Room. Under it, a tiny disclaimer about unauthorized use and any unaffiliated persons being barred from entering.

“All these posters are inside, too. Anything you could possibly want to know. But I’m sure Hollander’s got you covered if you have questions, Luca. We all clear?”

“Sure,” Luca says, because that’s what you say. He wipes his palms on his sweatpants once, twice. Reaches up to tug a bit at his t-shirt collar.

Chris shoots him a look, and Luca lowers his hands.

It’s not like he could go, I’m okay actually, thank you, and then turn around and march all the way back to the locker room. That’d be pussy behavior. That’d be making things a big deal. That’d be exactly what gets you an internal strike for reporting issues. He already signed the big papers, anyway, the moment he got drafted.

“All good,” Hollander says, holding the door open. He’s still got that neutral, schooled expression on. “You first, rook.”

When the door closes behind them, Hollander grabs Luca’s shirt. Luca’s breath lodges in his throat, ready to take a hit. It wouldn’t be the first time: he’s heard some guys like to let steam off in more ways than a bj or a quick fuck. But then Hollander tucks his hand underneath without any fanfare, and Luca wheezes pathetically. He expects Hollander to yank it off him immediately, so he raises his shoulders just as Hollander says, “He thinks he’s really funny.”

Luca stares down at where Hollander’s wrist is cut off by fabric. His palm is warm and—bigger than Luca expected. Fingers splayed out but not doing much more than just touching. Even so, Luca’s dick is already half chubbed up, and he keeps himself from looking down. Doesn’t want to draw Hollander’s attention to it. His thumb resting right along the bottom of Luca’s pec and Luca is so grateful he put on fresh deodorant because his pits feel as wet and his clothing is strangely cloying. Maybe he’s testing Luca’s pulse, letting it throb against his fingertips through Luca’s ribs. Luca can hear his own heartbeat.

Maybe he’s hurling straight into a nasty headache. If he starts throwing up, do they, like, cancel it? It can’t be very nice to have a guy—have a guy suck your dick and, well. Get sick all over it.

Hollander stares at him. Luca’s got a couple of inches on him, but not many. Right now, he feels pretty fucking small.

“How much did he tell you?” Hollander asks.

“About—the Winner's Room?” Luca’s breath hitches when Hollander’s hand moves, sliding up, up. Shirt bunching over his arm, fingers almost at Luca’s collarbones.

“No,” Hollander says, eyes big and dark. For the first time, Luca thinks he’s seeing the same Hollander he bent over to take the faceoff against. Singularly focused, less interested in following all the rules. Polite, still, but—Luca swallows hard.

Hollander takes his hand off Luca’s chest, puts it right over his cock through his sweats, and know Hollander is perfectly aware of how hard Luca is, already. “How much did he tell you about fucking men?”

Years ago, Luca watched Hollander take to the ice, helmet off, hair sweat-slick and pushed back,face brimming with exhaustion, as he hoisted the Cup over his head. Now his fingers are skirting the elastic waistband of Luca’s pants, two hooking in so that his nails press against the sensitive skin of Luca’s groin, right by his pubes. The tiny space between his ribs and stomach twists sickly and needy at once. He wants Hollander to touch him so bad at that moment he can’t think of anything else. He wants Hollander’s fingers curling around his hips, his cock, his shoulders, so that the next time Luca sees that gif of Hollander’s victory lap in 2016, he can compare how he holds the Cup to how he maneuvers Luca’s body.

And that should be good, right? It should be good that he can enjoy this a little. That he can maybe get off if he’s gonna have to do this, anyway. He hopes Rozanov’s right about Hollander, and that if he somehow manages to jizz all over himself when this is supposed to be a—a punishment, of sorts, he won’t laugh. Luca’s not all that sure he can hold it in if Hollander gets a hand on him. He hadn’t lasted very long with Rozanov, and they’re a bit similar, Luca thinks. Something about the way Hollander is sizing him up. Where he chooses to look first: the right corner of Luca’s mouth, then his collarbones. Searching for something, or maybe Luca really did bust his lip during that scrimmage today, and hadn’t even noticed.

“I’m not a virgin, I, you know, I’ve… had sex. All the way.” Luca says. Adds, after a moment, “But with my ex-girlfriend. Uhm. Not that many times, but I watch... porn. And we would do, me and a friend, well, handjobs during camp, and uh, Rozy—Rozanov. He told me what to do.”

“How nice of him,” Hollander says, peering down at his own hand. He pushes the elastic of Luca’s sweats down far enough the jut of Luca’s hipbones is on full display, as well as his pale, untrimmed pubic hair. Hollander scratches his fingers through the blond curls, almost at Luca’s cock, as if he’s testing things out. Almost, almost, almost. “And I’m going to guess he demonstrated, too.”

Luca’s voice shallows as Hollander’s hand goes fully down Luca’s pants, to where Luca is so hard it hurts and Hollander will know he’s riled up even though they haven’t done anything and he shouldn’t be he’s there for Hollander’s enjoyment and he manages to choke out, “Yeah, he—he fingered me. I was not any good. Uhm, I hurt myself, when I tried alone, so I asked, and—”

“And?” Hollander leans forward, that wonderful, calloused hand finally gripping the base of Luca’s cock, his mouth skirting over Luca’s collarbone. “What else?”

“He sucked me off,” Luca sighs, fighting to keep his eyes open. Hollander hums. The noise sinks into Luca’s body, mixing with all the wants. “Tried to teach me how to, but uhm, I have—he said I could use some more practice.”

“Well,” Hollander says, voice a little unsteady, finally. “This will be practice, then.”

There’s a bed pushed up against a wall. Lockers, like they had told him. A tiny nightstand has been placed right next to the bed, a bowl full of condoms and little lube packets. The bare necessities. The whole room’s washed out like a public bathroom from how bright the lights are. Really clinical, Luca thinks. That’s exactly the word. Clinical.

“It’s nice that they give us a bedframe now,” Hollander tells him, picking out a handful of lube packets from the bowl by the bed. “Let’s hope they washed the bedsheets. I had to file a complaint about that once.”

Ilya tells Luca things are “sorted.” Truth is, there’s no guarantee they won’t lose to another team. Maybe they manage a nice win streak and somehow sail through the Montreal game that marks Luca’s 42nd MLH game. Weirder shit has happened. But Ilya says he got it all worked out, just in case. Hollander will claim the forfeit and he will pick Luca and it won’t be bad. When he tells Luca this, he has a clammy look on his face. His shoulders are drawn tight, tense. But his ears are red. Sometimes when he’s mad and he won’t say it, they do that. Luca’s heard Rozanov used to be a lot nastier in Boston’s room. Nowadays, he just seems sort of sad. Now down or weary, but absent. And when he gets mad, he’s red at the ears and throat and not anywhere else. Roz touches the birthmark by the corner of his mouth and then the bridge of his broken nose and he doesn’t look Luca in the eyes.

Ok. Thanks, Captain, Luca says. Luca expects Hollander to bend him over and fuck him. He thinks, best case scenario, because Roz said he’s nice, he’ll help him get lubed up and a bit loose and then maybe pump as quick as he can and call it done. In Luca’s most intimate fantasies, Hollander also lets him come, and even jerks him off to help him.

He pictures that once or twice after Rozanov puts his hands on him—that it’s Hollander, instead. Silky mitts is the consensus when it comes to Hollander’s stickhandling, and knowing that Hollander will pick him if the timing lines up, of course Luca’s going to imagine how that translates to hands on his ass, the rest of his body. It slips out, once, Hollander, more like a wet sigh than a name, but Rozanov leans down and puts his mouth to Luca’s ear and says, yeah, he’s so fucking good, isn’t he? And Luca blows all over the couch cushion and shoves his face into a pillow while Rozanov wipes the mess off.

Hollander undresses himself while Luca sits on the corner of the bed, hands gripping his knees. He peels his shirt off without any fanfare, and from the wet spot on the back, it’s clear he showered. Luca’s skin still feels rubbed raw from standing under the hot water, figuring he could at least get himself nice and tidy so that he’s at least a little… Not sexy, maybe. But good enough that if he hits Rozanov up about this later, Luca won’t have embarrassed him too much. He wonders if Hollander and Rozanov have a track record running: if, tucked between the scoring races and point comparisons, there’s a private line that says Winner's Room favors. Maybe Luca’s a nice tally next to Hollander’s name. Rozanov hadn’t really told him anything beyond that offhanded comment about their rookie year together.

But the way Hollander folds his clothes and stacks them neatly on the floor, right next to his shoes, isn’t very sexy, says Business, capital B. Luca wonders if he’s supposed to make it sexy for Hollander. If there’s a right amount of, like, slutty, to be, that would put him in Hollander’s favor and let this not be too boring for him. When Holmberg took his first forfeit of the season, he’d winked at Luca and said, I’m so fucking lucky it’s Boston, Sebby’s a bit of a slut for it. And that hadn’t seemed like an insult, at the time. As if Sebbin’s sluttiness is a nice treat. Luca read the groupchat that night though, the small one just for him and the sophomores, and Holmberg hadn’t said it as nicely over text: makes u wonder howd he get that good at sucking cock lol like outside practice maybe. A second chime: gross man.

Luca wants this favor not to burden Rozanov too much. But he also doesn’t want to hear in three weeks that Hollander called him a whore over text. That sort of stuff reaches everyone else before it gets back to you.

“Are you going to keep your clothes on?” Hollander asks.

Luca looks down at himself, shakes his head, and lets Rozanov’s t-shirt pool by his feet when it’s off.

He figures there’s no harm in looking though. Hollander’s naked, anyway.

All those half-naked ads and feature spreads don’t really do him justice. He’s filled out since his earlier years, with clear stubble and longer hair. Shane Hollander the Rookie always looked uncomfortable and stiff, but the man in front of Luca today seems perfectly calm. Luca hopes that in ten years, he’s half as confident. And maybe a quarter as good at hockey, and, in a really perfect world, possibly a tenth as good-looking.

Hollander’s legs are thick, and his dick—he’s soft. Luca thinks about that going inside of him, any part of him: mouth, ass. He hopes it’s his mouth. It’s when he realizes that Hollander’s waiting that he awkwardly lifts himself off the bed enough to yank his sweats over his ass to his ankles and kicks them off next to his shirt. Hollander shoves the pile of clothing to the side with his foot when he steps forward, closing the gap between them.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Hollander says, and so that’s all Luca can think about until Hollander pushes Luca onto his back and straddles his thighs. “And don’t worry about making it good. Just do whatever he showed you.”

Luca had sort of assumed that he’d be faced-down mouth-open panting looking somewhat—in the porn vids it was always you’re such a slut for it, dude—and then he wouldn’t have to do so much thinking about the sex, or making it good, he could just sorta lie there and take it and he was steeled for that. That’s why Rozanov shoved his fucking fingers up Luca’s ass in the back of a car and then blew him. Because Rozanov knew Hollander was going to fuck him. And Hollander is not going to fuck him. He’s got two lubed up fingers working inside his own ass and Luca can’t get a good view, with his back to the mattress, but he can hear it. The familiar but also brand-new squelch, Hollander’s cut-off gasps. Hollander has worried his bottom lip bright pink. His whole body is taut.

Then Hollander’s shuffling up his chest, one hand on his cock, stroking fast. He tells Luca to open his mouth and Luca does. Hollander’s cock is fat when it pries his lips apart, silky on Luca’s tongue in a way that’s sort of nice, that makes it easy for him to rub on it with his tongue and not hate it too much. And yeah, Hollander’s dick looked big enough from a distance, but now that it’s in his mouth he feels as though it’s going to permanent damage to his jaw, even with all the practice he got in. He strokes Hollander’s balls with one hand, urging him on, then moves his hand up to Hollander’s dick again to fist him once, twice, back down to his sac. His knuckles rub against the whorled hair along Hollander’s taint, and he thinks there’s probably a hair or two in his teeth and he’s going to pack a toothbrush from now on. He feels the full weight of Hollander’s cock, the girth of him, thinks it’s going to split him open. Hollander might pump a finger or two into him and then spread his cheeks and Luca is gonna have to take it.

The gasp that escapes Hollander is so loud and all other noise—the a/c, the bedsheets, the slick sound of Hollander’s hand still moving over his shaft—falls off and the silence just builds until Luca feels as if it's pressing in on him from all angles and that’s when he finally makes a noise like a car engine sputtering out. His entire chest punches with it. The most pathetic, tiny noise. Hollander’s hips stop as he pulls back and really looks at him. For the first time since they entered the room Luca feels as though there’s someone present in there with him.

“Jesus,” Hollander says. His voice is gravelly, and then he’s pushing Luca’s damp hair out of his face, saying, “Hey, Haas, we’re gonna—take a deep breath, okay? We’ll do it differently.”

Luca’s hands are on Hollander’s wrists. He doesn’t remember putting them there, but his grip’s so tight his knuckles have whitened. Hollander’s not too bothered about it, it seems, because he moves his own hands to Luca’s chest, and then he slides off him. Everything feels extra naked. Luca can’t stop thinking about how the smear of lube on his thigh is making his leg hair stick together.

“Sorry,” Hollander says, then, “Ilya told me you were ready, but I guess I assumed—and I shouldn’t assume, with this, but—he told me he touched you.”

Luca stares at the white, smooth ceiling, and then at Hollander, who is sitting up with his legs drawn close, one hand on the mattress. He’s got a straighter side profile than Rozanov does, but Luca has watched the clips of him getting his teeth whacked out on YouTube. He pictures digging past Hollander’s pretty, plump lips and testing the gum against his fingertips.

“I’m going to need you to say something, Luca, or I’ll have to call the rep. I mean it.”

Luca takes a deep breath and it fills his whole body. His ribs feel a bit slanted. Sharp bits pressing against his insides.

“I don’t know,” Luca says. “I don’t know why—I mean, I signed the contract. I knew. And it’s not—it’s just in here, for a little bit. And I get to play so much hockey.”

“Yeah,” Hollander says.

Then he touches Luca’s bangs, and Hollander’s hands are bigger than he expected and they’re nicely calloused. Hollander touches his temple, and then runs those same fingers down Luca’s face, rubbing the underside of his jaw, thumb working the tense muscle right next to his earlobe. Maybe he just lets Luca go, and Luca has to wait for the next time he’s called up. Maybe that guy does fuck him. Maybe raw. He moves his hand down so that his arm shields his dick a bit from Hollander’s view, but Hollander’s got his eyes on Luca’s face the whole time.

“Rozy says you’re a nice guy,” Luca tells him. Hollander’s hand on his face stills. “He said you're the guy in the MLH he trusts the most.”

“Well,” Hollander starts, and then he sort of falls off. Maybe Luca should call the rep on him.

Hollander’s fingers are wet with lube and his long hair is unruly and he has these—cocksucker lips, that’s what you’ve got, that video on his drive—but above all else he looks very regular. A little less like the demigod Luca saw on his computer screen. But still hot. Hotter than the photos, but without the polish. He looks as if he could be Shane Hollander, nice guy, who knows Ilya Rozanov, nice guy.

“Rozy told me it is different now. He said rookies could get picked from their first game when you started playing.”

“Rozy’s got a big mouth on him,” Hollander says. He goes quiet again, for a second. “Doesn’t really matter now, does it?”

Hollander’s thumb presses against Luca’s bottom lip, and it’s so easy to part his mouth a bit, let his tongue slide over the blunt edge of Hollander’s nail. And Hollander stares down at him like he’s the one with a nice mouth. The sort of mouth you like to see in the room. Luca’s chest draws tight again, and there’s a growing, anxious lump right in his guts and his thighs are shaking and he clenches his ass and he shouldn’t want this and he’s not sure that’s what this is, anyway, want, but Hollander is naked next to him and Luca is his forfeit and today they lost and he’s signed so many forms and Rozanov set this up for him because he’s always helping out.

“Are you feeling better?” Hollander asks. He keeps his thumb right where it is. The pulse in Luca’s head, that growing ache, is hot, and the heat seeps elsewhere, leaving him a nice, boneless warm instead of all his limbs prickling like he pinched a nerve. So Luca nods, and Hollander says, “You ready to do some real practice, then?” Because he’s not letting Luca out.

Hollander is a nice guy, probably. But Luca’s still his forfeit.

Luca moves his hand so that it rests on Hollander’s hip.

Hollander leans back against the pillows, but they’re sort of flimsy and don’t hold his weight well, so he ends up propped up on his elbows. “You can blow me for a bit. And then—we’ll see. Just take what you can. Like I said, don’t worry too much about making it good. It’s fine. I’m not really looking to get off here.”

But even if he says that, Luca doesn’t want Hollander to walk out of this room and tell everyone he’s the fucking worst at sucking cock. Even though he should probably want that. Make him less ripe for picking. He’s heard it himself: the least fun kind of forfeit is one that’s no good at sucking cock. So maybe if he’s really, really bad, the rest of the league will wave him off, and then Rozanov won’t need to pull any more obscure phone calls or fix things for him or look like he’s about to walk into traffic at the words you’re Hollander’s pick. Almost as bad as he seemed when they sat in the parking lot together.

“Okay,” Luca says, trying to stuff all of the thoughts into some corner of his mind so he can focus on the matter at hand, which is sucking Hollander’s dick. “Okay, I can do that.”

“I know you can,” Hollander says, which is supposed to be dirty talk, maybe, except he says, “Rozanov told me you’re very enthusiastic,” and there it is again, the sick-sweet churn in his core Luca has no proper words for. Hollander strokes his neck, and then he’s spreading his legs wide enough for Luca to crawl between. Enthusiastic about sucking cock? Or about hockey?

Luca’s mouth is very wet. Sort of like when he’s getting nauseous.

“Are you going to tell him about this?” Is the first thing Luca can think to say.

He’s on his knees between Hollander’s spread legs. Puts his palms on the inside of Hollander’s thighs, his bulky muscles and the dark hair glistening from sweat, hair that gets denser and coarser along the crease of Hollander’s ass and groin. Luca presses his lips together to stop his tongue from dipping out.

Hollander stares at him, then he reaches out and rubs Luca’s jaw again. His thumb isn’t very gentle when it drags over Luca’s cheekbone, his grip tightening the moment his fingers reach Luca’s hair. It’s so easy to bend down. One arm now propped under his chest for balance.

“Do you want me to?” Hollander asks. This time, Luca doesn’t try to keep his mouth closed, but before he can get anything out Hollander’s speaking again. “He’s a good captain, isn’t he? Looking out for you this much.”

“Yeah,” Luca says.

He turns his face and Hollander’s dick is right there by his face, and he’s going to—he just has to blow him until he comes, and then this’ll all be… Just a mark on the wall, in enough months. Only the first time is weird, he tells himself. And everyone else says that you get used to it. You will get used to it and it’s not even sex it’s just politics and Luca chubbing up against the mattress is an inevitability and Hollander won’t mock him for it. Rozanov nudged his hard dick through his jeans with his foot, one time.

“How many times did you blow him?” Hollander strokes Luca’s hair.

Luca swallows. His breath must be hot on Hollander’s cock, because it twitches. Luca pushes the tip of his tongue against his teeth.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “A couple of times.”

“And he fingered you.”

“Yes, in case—he said we wouldn’t know who… Like, no guarantee. I thought maybe you would—” His shoulders hunch and there’s definitely sweat beading at his neck and behind his ears, curling the hair there.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Hollander says. He takes a moment, and then his soft patting of Luca’s hair stops, and he grips it properly, again, wrapping his fingers around the base of his cock. “Did Rozanov fuck you?”

Luca doesn’t have the bandwidth to think about the weird emphasis, all he can say is, “He just jerked me off other than—fingers.” Would Rozanov fuck him if he asked? Would it be fucking weird and invasive if he did ask? Wouldn’t that be so much better than waiting around for a stranger, fresh off a victory high, to bend him over and stick it in?

“He’s good.” When Luca peers up at him Hollander’s mouth has the slightest quirk to it. Calling it a smile would be generous.

He is so handsome. A thousand bucks is too cheap, he thinks, and then tries to unthink it, but it’s too late, and Luca’s always going to wonder who fucked Hollander for his first Winner's Room, if he really did take it up the ass, if he cried or if it was a nice guy the way Hollander is being a nice guy, completely unlike Luca, who is imagining the most terrible scenario for him at that very moment. He’s the worst. He’s the absolute worst, but he wants to know. He wants to know so bad.

“Alright, Haasy,” Hollander says, and Luca’s head reels. “Open up.”

He lets Hollander prod his mouth open, fingers still in Luca’s hair, and then he puts the head of his cock to Luca’s lips, calls him sweet, and pushes deep enough to nudge the inside of Luca's cheek. Not as big as Rozanov, but thick and heady and even if he showered there’s a scent to him, fresh-off-the-ice sweat, and Luca’s mind supplies a very unhelpful image of what Hollander would’ve looked like if he’d taken Luca straight from the locker room here. Dragging Luca by the arm, no fanfare or papers to sign, no half-hour post-game for Luca to settle back into his body. Hollander would close the door behind them and strip him of his pads, still, his undershirt, down to their jockstraps. Luca’s foul-smelling body, hair glued to his forehead from the tight helmet fit, still fizzy with adrenaline, Hollander much the same.

“And breathe this time.”

Rozanov taps the bridge of Luca’s nose. “You are thinking too much.”

His dick is a lot bigger up close, even more so when it’s in Luca’s mouth. Luca’s knees ache from the wooden floor. He should’ve suggested the sofa with the nice, plush rug, but he didn’t want to make it seem like he was going to… loiter about. The kitchen’s fine.

He pulls off. “Trying to remember what you told me,” Luca says, a bit defensively. Rozanov’s cock smears pre across the corner of his mouth and he licks it on instinct. Ilya huffs, like he’s about to laugh. He pokes Luca’s cheek, urging him to turn his face to the side, and Luca follows, touching his lips to the side of Roz’s dick. It’s wet from his own spit. Last time, Rozanov pulled out and came into his fist, but right now he doesn’t seem as rushed, leaning back against the kitchen island, widening his stance more.

“You can do better.” When Rozanov speaks, he pinches Luca’s nape. It sparks down his spine, buzzing heady.

Luca swallows him down again. Sucking dick is just another skill to learn. He’s using his body for hockey the way it was intended to be used. And because Rozanov has sort of given him permission, he flicks his gaze up to Rozanov’s face, which is flushed red at the cheeks, a nice vein along his temple, and he’s so big from down here, even though Luca’s definitely taller.

Rozanov’s fingers prod at Luca’s cheek and then he hooks his thumb into the corner of Luca’s mouth and it fucking stings and it’s so much. His nail is testing the soft skin inside, knuckle crammed in alongside his fat cock, Luca’s lips stretching to fit it all.

Luca thinks of Hollander taking his place, and it’s enough for him to whine and shove a hand into the front of his pants, and then Rozanov is laughing, finally. He lets Luca blows him until his jaw hurts and he can’t keep going, and then Rozanov jacks off into a paper towel and says good job, pats Luca on the shoulder, and takes him home.

Hollander says it again—breathe—but keeps Luca’s mouth stuffed full of cock, nose to his dark pubes. Luca’s throat strains as he manages a choppy breath through his nose, remembering Ilya’s thumb rubbing its bridge. And while Hollander is hard, Luca doesn’t think he’s having much fun at all. Every time he sneaks a glance up, Hollander’s eyes are closed, brow furrowed. Every now and then he’ll hitch a gasp or let out a whimper and that sizzles from the very tip of Luca’s tongue all the way to his fingers, and he chases that, because that has to mean he’s doing good. Is passable, at least. But he wishes Hollander would look at him and so he fumbles around as best as he can without taking his mouth off Hollander and moves the hand not tucked against the mattress from Hollander’s thigh to the seam below his sac.

He pushes his thumb against it, follows the length of it down to Hollander’s hole, the sensitive, furled skin. It’s wet from Luca’s spit sliding down and the lube. The spit he can’t help, and Rozanov had called it cute. My little puppy, always slobbering. Hollander finally jerks at the touch, spreading his legs wider, pushing his hips up.

When Luca looks up this time, Hollander’s peering back at him. “You said Rozanov showed you how to do it?”

Hollander lets Luca off his dick and he coughs. Even his gums ache and his entire mouth tastes of Hollander’s junk.

“I’m probably not very good,” he mumbles.

“Alright, well.” Hollander pauses. Luca can see him better now, how his thighs are trembling, chest rising and dipping fast. “That’s what I want. Give it your best try.”

He hands Luca a lube packet. It takes Luca three tries to rip it open. The lube smears over his fingers and he wonders if he should’ve gotten a condom too, but then Hollander’s urging him back toward his cock and his nails are scratching Luca’s scalp and that’s nice, so he goes down easy again. Rubs his thumb around Hollander’s hole, dips only the tip of it inside, and he considers putting his tongue there, but Hollander didn’t ask for that and he’s never really done it and he doesn’t want—he shouldn’t do things that aren’t asked of him because that’s eager and being too eager is the kind of thing that makes players like Holmberg wonder what you’re up to outside.

“You can give me two.” Hollander reaches down to nudge Luca’s hand with his own. “Come on, you think I haven’t taken more than that?”

UP THE ASS FIRST ROOM BTW. One thousand bucks. Hollander likes a bit of pressure. No Winner's Room for rookies, usually. Big change a few years after my draft. And you know, Hollander’s a nice guy.

Two fingers no problem. Hollander clenches around them, starts rocking his hips down and Luca does his best to rub him right where he seems to like it, but they can’t seem to get in sync. Demands a third one and Luca gives it to him. Stretches him out, thumb on the outside teasing at his perineum, mouth dipping down to lick a fat stripe over his balls. His scent’s thicker there, shower-freshness wearing off as the A/C flickers unreliably. The room’s growing hot. Luca churns, too. He doesn’t think he was this into getting fingered when Rozanov had him splayed out on his hand, but he thought he could get used to it. He could ask Rozanov to try it again, to see if it’s possible for him to be this worked up by it. Hollander sighs, and it’s the happiest Luca’s seen him all night, he thinks. Sweat beading at his temples, deep flush of red peaking at his throat and cheekbones.

“You said you fucked your girlfriend, right?” Hollander asks, and Luca, knowing what he’s going to ask him next, says, “Yeah, we—I did.”

Hollander nods and Luca stops moving. He slips his fingers out of Hollander’s glistening, dark hole, but he can’t help but rub the tips of those fingers over it again, circling slowly. Luca’s open mouth pants wet breaths onto the crease where Hollander’s thigh and ass meet. In this bright light, the lube is glossy. Not too different from Luca’s ex-girlfriend’s pussy.

“Alright,” Hollander says, finally. “Better fuck me while you can. The league’s really got a thing for making pretty losers take it up the ass.”

Luca stiffens. Hollander stares back at him, and Luca takes him in, again. He’s older now, handsome but settled into his features, has lost the air of rookie delicacy that haunted him for his first few years. But Hollander’s not a rookie, anymore, and it’s his Winner's Room and he shouldn’t ask to be fucked, should be telling Luca to roll over and spread himself open and maybe give him a courteous pat on the ass or something. That’s the prize.

But Hollander doesn’t budge, and Luca is every bit the loser even with Hollander offering himself up.

Luca holds himself over Hollander, feels his arms shake from the effort because his body’s never relaxed since he set foot in here, every muscle so horribly tense, and he stares down at him. He likes it, Hollander. He really likes it, and he’s going to let Luca fuck him. Luca, who used to jack it to grainy videos of Hollander shirtless in a locker room giving tired interviews. Hollander barely knows who he is, but Luca used to carry his hockey card in his school binder next to Rozanov’s. His poster’s up on the wall. He’s spent hours watching clips of him, pausing when Hollander’s face comes into view. Screenshot. Hand down his pants, can’t help it when someone’s pretty the way Hollander is, bulky but delicate in the face, plump lips and coiled muscle. Any guy can look at Hollander and think he’s hot. Anyone would want to fuck him.

“Condom.” Hollander points at the bowl on the nightstand.

Luca fetches one, but Hollander has to open it for him because his fingers are too slick. Then it won’t go on right even after Luca wipes his hands on the bedsheets to dry them off, and so Hollander takes the condom from him before Luca can try again, rolls it down on his cock with a quick tug. He fits himself against Hollander’s body, head bowed, slides in slow until Hollander kicks his heel into his lower back and then it’s go, go go.

Luca thrusts in, tries to get a good rhythm going but the sensation of Hollander around him, tight and warm, has him a little delirious, remembers Hollander’s rookie year highlight reel, how flushed his face was, how it’s just as red now, with Luca’s cock inside of him. Rozanov must know just how to fuck him, with how many hours they’ve spent in here together. It might even be good. Luca likes it enough to suck Rozanov’s cock in his house for practice. Who’s to say Hollander hasn’t done the same? And he thinks, yeah, no wonder. Thinks, I would’ve picked him too. Thinks, I’m going to hell.

Hollander keeps one leg hitched over Luca’s thigh, his arm swung over his neck and Luca feels Hollander's fingers knead into the sore muscles of his shoulder. The pain sort of pops, releases throughout him until he can’t make sense of what’s hurting and what’s good. He manages to put his hand around Hollander’s cock right as his own hips stutter, draws a deep groan from Hollander and wishes he could eat that sound, and then he’s coming. He fucks Hollander through it, keeps fisting Hollander’s cock until that moment when Hollander arches his back and says something incoherent, spit on the corner of his mouth, eyes wide and clear. Luca licks it off and Hollander comes over Luca’s fist right as he turns his face to the side. Luca’s breath must stink. He doesn’t know the last time he flossed.

Luca stays spent inside of Hollander. Before he can pull out, Hollander pushes at his hips, urging him back.

The condom’s still on Luca’s dick by the time Hollander is pulling his shirt on. Except it’s not his shirt. Hollander’s bulkier than Luca is, so it doesn’t drape over his chest as loosely and it looks tight in the pits where it stretches over Hollander’s arm muscles. Luca still doesn’t know what the cyrillic says.

“That’s Rozanov’s,” Luca says, before he can help it, and Hollander laughs, tells him, “Yeah, it is,” and that’s that.

“Was I—”

“Don’t worry,” Hollander interrupts, picking his boxers up. “I’m not going to give Rozanov a play-by-play.” Luca decides to believe him.

Hollander slips his shoes on and tells him, as Luca remains on the bed, naked, “You’re gonna lose a lot,” and then he taps the room’s buzzer.

Hollander leaves him and Luca wanders back to his own locker room alone. Hollander probably knows this arena better than he does: a decade in the league. Ten full seasons of Winner's Rooms.

“Hi, Haasy,” Rozanov says, eyeing Luca’s new t-shirt without a word. “Let’s go to the car.”

Luca tries to take his bag from Rozanov, but it keeps slipping off his shoulder and eventually Rozanov pries it off him again and takes them both. His body is buckling inward and he must be much more sore from tonight’s game than he expected. He should probably get a good stretch in before going to bed. And drink some water. Eat a proper meal. Maybe he could convince Rozanov to take them to McDonald’s again.

It’s not until Rozanov says, “I would offer you a cigarette, but I think is probably not a very good idea,” that Luca realizes they’re standing in the parking garage. The air is cold on his face. Ash flicks off onto the pavement when Rozanov taps his cig. Coach is always on Rozanov about the smoking, these days, but Luca doesn’t comment on it because Rozanov’s still the best fucking player they have. So much better than everyone else that Luca can’t wrap his head around why he’s there at all. He could’ve probably won another cup or two with the Raiders. Who doesn’t want another cup? Luca’s not sure he’s even gonna get one. Draft day spelled his future out for him perfectly: you’ll get to play with your hero, and you’re both going to be stuck watching other teams do better than you. But you’ll get to play hockey. And you’re gonna lose a lot. Hollander’s voice right in his ear. How much more? That’s already all they’re doing. Luca swallows. Thinks of the fact that he might find himself back in the room before the week’s over.

Rozanov’s phone rings. When he picks up, it’s all Russian at first. He speaks slowly and Luca is getting a lungful of secondhand smoke.

“Not home yet,” Rozanov says, in English this time. “I will call later. Please wait up.” Someone on the other end. “Maybe. How early?”

His eyes shift to Luca, who decides to stare down at his feet. He realizes he didn’t tie his shoelaces.

“Luca, you will be okay if I go back inside for a second? I left something.”

Luca stares at him, then, and bends over to pick up his bag and hoist it into the backseat of Rozanov’s car.

“No problem,” he says, and Rozanov takes off while Luca rearranges both their bags over and over like a tetris puzzle, even though there is plenty of space for both of them. Some time later, Rozanov comes back, his hair messy and a cut on his bottom lip. Luca decides to ask about McDonald’s after all and Rozanov says, of course.

“Why did they change the Winner's Room rules? For rookies?” Luca asks.

Rozanov keeps his eyes on the road. “Was not well organized to begin with. Every time the league grows, it gets messier, so they fixed things a little. Is not perfect now either, but better.”

“Okay,” Luca says. Then, “I heard someone sold Hollander’s first Winner's Room tape for one thousand dollars, but I didn’t see any cameras.”

Rozanov falls silent for a long time. He does not let up on the gas pedal. Everything hurtles forward when he tells Luca, “Never mention that ever again.”

And, a little softer: “Don’t worry about cameras. Like I said, they fix things every year. It is better now.” And Luca thinks Rozanov really believes that, and so maybe Luca can believe that, too.

Luca has his coffee right at midnight, as Rozanov tells him, “Was not a thousand dollars,” and leaves it at that.