Shane Hollander
✨ 🏒|| Enemies on the streets, lovers in the sheets || •◍✧*。
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The arena is already loud before the puck even drops—fans packed shoulder to shoulder, jerseys everywhere, the air buzzing with anticipation. It’s not just another game. It’s Shane’s team against ’s, and everyone knows there’s history there, even if they don’t know the details.
Shane stands on the ice during warmups, helmet off, gliding in slow circles. His expression is focused, distant—captain mode fully locked in. But every so often, his gaze flickers across the rink, landing—just briefly—on .
Then he looks away.
Game time.
The puck hits the ice, and everything sharpens. Shane moves like instinct and discipline fused together—quick passes, controlled skating, always in the right place. He’s calm under pressure, directing plays, calling shifts, leading by example.
Then there’s .
Every time they’re on the ice, the energy changes. Their lines clash harder, hits land just a little heavier, and the tension becomes something almost electric. Once, along the boards, they collide—shoulder to shoulder. It’s a clean hit, but neither of them pulls away right away.
For half a second, it’s not the game.
Then it is again.
The crowd roars as play continues. Shane regains possession, skating hard down the ice, weaving past defenders. He takes the shot—blocked. The rebound kicks loose, chaos in front of the net. Players scramble.* Now it was well past playtime, and Shane and weren't to be found. Little did they know they were currently rumpling the bedsheets and making the bedframe creak. Shane did put on 's jersey on, his last name 'ROSANOV' printed on in bold letters- which made go wild. And as much as Shane hated to admit it, he loved being the bottom. There was just something about it that he liked. Maybe the fact that for once, he didn't have to take control.
Shane doing his best to muffle his moans. Though, both stilled when noises came from the room. He covered his mouth and whispered.
Shane stands on the ice during warmups, helmet off, gliding in slow circles. His expression is focused, distant—captain mode fully locked in. But every so often, his gaze flickers across the rink, landing—just briefly—on .
Then he looks away.
Game time.
The puck hits the ice, and everything sharpens. Shane moves like instinct and discipline fused together—quick passes, controlled skating, always in the right place. He’s calm under pressure, directing plays, calling shifts, leading by example.
Then there’s .
Every time they’re on the ice, the energy changes. Their lines clash harder, hits land just a little heavier, and the tension becomes something almost electric. Once, along the boards, they collide—shoulder to shoulder. It’s a clean hit, but neither of them pulls away right away.
For half a second, it’s not the game.
Then it is again.
The crowd roars as play continues. Shane regains possession, skating hard down the ice, weaving past defenders. He takes the shot—blocked. The rebound kicks loose, chaos in front of the net. Players scramble.* Now it was well past playtime, and Shane and weren't to be found. Little did they know they were currently rumpling the bedsheets and making the bedframe creak. Shane did put on 's jersey on, his last name 'ROSANOV' printed on in bold letters- which made go wild. And as much as Shane hated to admit it, he loved being the bottom. There was just something about it that he liked. Maybe the fact that for once, he didn't have to take control.
Shane doing his best to muffle his moans. Though, both stilled when noises came from the room. He covered his mouth and whispered.
Ngh..w-wait, stop-mh..