Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

Gen

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Connors (Heated Rivalry), Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Victor St. Simon, Ryan Carmichael, Sebbin (Heated Rivalry), Brad Hammersmith

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, what if ghosts were real, the Boston Bears love Ilya Rozanov, accidental outing via ghost communication, Crack Treated Seriously, Ilya Rozanov loves the Boston Bears, Light Magical Realism, shane isn't really an active character in this one but he sure haunts (get it!?) the narrative, Supportive Boston Bears | Boston Raiders (Game Changers)

Language:

English

Series:

Part 20 of heated rivalry masterlist, Part 1 of ghostly ghouls get game

Collections:

heated rivalry for the soul

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-13 Words: 8,147 Chapters: 1/1

time is moving, with situations i'm not choosing

Summary

“Please, Roz,” Ovlichein, their youngest rookie, begs. Ilya doesn't doubt how earnestly he means his words as he arches a brow at him, watching panic spread across Ovlichein's face. “Everyone else said that they couldn't host, and I offered but they said that none of the rooks could, which meant that Breezy and 'Los couldn't either, and then Marley said that we wouldn't gel as a team, and then everyone else agreed, and then Carmie and Sebbin said that we were going to be cursed if we didn't—”

Ilya holds up a hand, gratified when Ovlichein immediately falls silent.

The locker room is empty of everyone else, a trap neatly laid by the team. Ilya would be impressed by their conniving if it weren't so fucking irritating.

“This is a setup,” Ilya says slowly, watching as Ovlichein pales. “You know this, yes? You have been sent as a sacrifice for the whole team.”

OR: Ilya is a sensible captain. He takes care of his rookies, he hosts the team when needed, and he doesn't fuck around with ouija boards. Too bad Boston only cares about the first two things

Notes

this is a ridiculous premise spurred on by this incredible tweet - all the credit for putting this idea in my head. 1000/10 idea.

Ilya discovers he loves almost everything about Boston in his first year on the team. He loves the smell of the city, the guttertrash and ash of alleyways, the crisp fall wind that sometimes spills in from the White Mountains, the smoky sweet scent of snow as it falls from thick gray clouds. He admires the tidy brickwork of the buildings, the bizarre road turns that fade into neat lines, and the way New Englanders approach every part of traffic as if it's their own personal war to win on Boston's streets. He especially enjoys the way everyone acts as if it's his fault for existing, but there’s no actual blame in the glares. He can't count the number of times he's been told to move the fuck outta the way, asshole, by people whose eyes light up in recognition moments later, but don't care enough to bother him.

He likes the way he can smell the Atlantic and the various bridges that span the Charles River, and how, over the years, he has come to know what it means when people refer to the Dig. Suddenly, he wakes up one day, and he can find his favorites on a map of the city: the best Thai spot, his various coffee shops that he always tips outrageously at, the hidden cannoli spots that people wage war over in the North End.

Even deeper than that, as the years continue, he likes the way the team pulls together, the stern kindness beneath the prickly exteriors, the sharp joy that burns hard and warm in his chest. It's evident in the way Hammersmith thumps him hard on the arm after practice and smirks, as if they're both in on the joke, how Marleau can say things like you're such a fucking jackass with fondness clearly evident, how Connors always has some nasty piece of gossip ready to go. He can find it in the way the rookies clamor for St. Simon's baking, the casual offer of the door's always open from Sebbin, the sharp grin of Carmichael as he hustles them all at pool, at poker, at darts. 

He likes how the team makes space for newcomers, how the edges shift and open, waves of welcome that crash against the newbies like an unforgiving riptide, the merciless snap of friendship sharp against their throats. 

It feels like home, in a distant nebulous sort of way that he doesn't want to look at too deeply, for fear of it being taken from him. 

However.

However. 

The thing Ilya dislikes the most about Boston? 

Their goddamn obsession with history. Oh, he gets it; he's been made to walk the Freedom Trail before, has paced down worn paths with the team, listening to their shitty takes on the founding of America. He has no problem with that, even though he doesn't quite get what their obsession with it is, and if he has to hear the eagle screeches of the team again, he might just lose it. It's not enough that he has to listen to their rambling stories about battles fought long ago, but he's also subjected to animal noises? The passion of Americans will never cease to amaze him. 

No, it's the other parts of their history, the ones that seep in from the bedrock. Specifically, their stupid fucking obsession with witches and ghosts, with things that should be better left in the damp, dark earth. 

More than that, he hates what it has done to their goddamn hazing ritual.

He's a good captain, a kind one. He's not going to make the rookies do six shots and spin around until they vomit. He's not going to let the vets bully them too badly, at least not enough that they're scared to come to practice. He's trying, in some ways, to build a team that's genuine, that's honest with their acceptance, cohesive, and brilliant in the rink. He doesn't mind letting them get a little dirty with it, encourages it more than he should probably, but what's more fun than a little blood on the ice? 

And their open season hazing is a ritual that does that, in some ways; it opens the door and lets everyone be a little humiliated, watching the vets gang up on each other, watching the other newbies band together or splinter. It informs Ilya more than he expects, year after year, and at this point, it's standard practice. 

He just hates this one in particular. 

He doesn't want to be the one who has to explain why they need a priest on speed dial when one of their rookies inevitably gets possessed. 

But everyone else seems to enjoy it, and he knows it's good for morale, so he lets it happen, with one rule. There's no fucking way he's letting them break out a ouija board in his house, despite what the team wants.

*** 

“Please, Roz,” Ovlichein, their youngest rookie, begs. He clearly knows he's been sent like a lamb to the slaughter, given the way he's sweating a little bit, his face pink and flustered. His hands are literally clasped together, his body tense as if he's going to drop to his knees at any moment to illustrate his sincerity. Ilya doesn't doubt how earnestly he means his words as he arches a brow at him, watching panic spread across Ovlichein's face. “Everyone else said that they couldn't host, and I offered but they said that none of the rooks could, which meant that Breezy and ‘Los couldn't either, and then Marley said that we wouldn't gel as a team, and then everyone else agreed, and then Carmie and Sebbin said that we were going to be cursed if we didn't—” 

Ilya holds up a hand, gratified when Ovlichein immediately falls silent. 

The locker room is empty of everyone else, a trap neatly laid by the team. Ilya would be impressed by their conniving if it weren't so fucking irritating. 

“This is a setup,” Ilya says slowly, watching as Ovlichein pales. “You know this, yes? You have been sent as a sacrifice for the whole team.” 

Ovlichein shudders, swaying forward before he stops, looking sick to his stomach. “Please don't kill me,” he rasps. “Marley said I had to be the one to ask.” Ilya raises both brows, and Ovlichein caves instantly, all fight going out of him. “They said that you never host the ghost party and that they were all sick of running the risk of being haunted and that it's your responsibility to keep the team on track so you have to be the ghost one this year and that you can't overrule them because they have blackmail material on you,” he spits out, panting by the end of it. “I don't know what the blackmail is, but Marley said something about Montreal?” 

Ilya rolls his eyes. The blackmail Marley has is the same one he always pulls out when he's feeling especially bitchy: there's a Jane in Montreal that Ilya is obsessed with, blah, blah, blah. Ilya sometimes wonders how long it will take him to realize that he caves because he wants to, not because the blackmail is anything worth worrying about. He's not really sure how he's supposed to be blackmailed by something that the whole team knows about, but that's Marley's problem.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, avoiding the pleading look on Ovlichein’s face. Fuck, but he hates how well the team knows him sometimes; he fucking sucks at saying no to any of the rooks, but Ovlichein especially—mainly because he reminds him of Shane; awkward but earnest, excellent on the ice, and an eye for tactics that even Coach LeClaire agrees is handy. 

It doesn’t help that he knows the team well enough to understand that missing even one ritual will give the lot of them the fucking yips.

So either he deals with the fact that they wish to open a goddamn circle in his living room and let the bone-white fingers of a revenant crawl out, or he lets them suffer and fall, all because he does not want to be haunted. 

In truth, they have been doing this for years, and only once has a priest needed to be called. 

He hates his team. He loves his team. His team is going to put him in the fucking grave and then he will be haunting them, and who will win the Cup? Probably the fucking Metros’. He will haunt Shane next once the team is done feeling his wrath, he decides, and nods once. 

“Fine,” he says gruffly and doesn't mention the way Ovlichein goes almost teary-eyed with relief. “You have three hours to use it. My house. Friday. Everyone is invited, but they must bring expensive booze. I will not touch the board.”

“Yes, Cap, of course, Cap,” Ovlichein says, not even blinking as he stares up at him. “Thank you, Roz.” 

Ilya bobs his head, reaching out to grab his Gatorade, and pretends he doesn’t see the way Ovlichein slides his phone out of his pocket to very clearly text he said yes, pls never make me do this again i almost cried into their group chat. His mouth doesn't twist into a smile at the way Sebbin immediately sends I KNEW YOU COULD DO IT YOU FUCKING LEGEND, ROOK with the fucking confetti text that he's been abusing for the past month.

Ilya is not charmed by these idiots. He isn't.

“See you Friday, Cap,” Ovlichein says, exhaling shakily. “Thanks for not, uh, killing me.” 

Ilya rolls his eyes and turns back to his stall, if only to hide his amusement at the tiny, shaky fist pump Ovlichein gives the moment he looks away. “Go on,” he says, unfortunately adopting the too-fond tone he uses with erstwhile dogs that careen into his knees and with starstruck teens that are too excited to do anything but vibrate around him with an alarming frequency. “Get out before I change my mind.” 

“You’re the best, Roz,” Ovlichein calls over his shoulder as he bolts. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” 

Ilya waits until he can hear the door clang shut and reaches for his phone, sliding it open to find the Jane conversation already pulled up on screen. 

is montreal haunted? He types out, staring at the words. He deletes it, and writes; do your rooks also come up with increasingly bad ways to kill their captain? He stares at that for even longer, and then deletes it, before settling on nothing and sliding his phone away. 

Who knows if pretty, too-polite Canadians even believe in ghosts? It’s, unsurprisingly, never come up. It hardly comes up in Boston, and the city’s chock full of them, Ilya’s fairly certain. 

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, already dreading Friday. The things he fucking does for his team. 

***

By the time Friday rolls around, he’s worked himself out of a salt ring around his house, despite his clear longing for some sort of protection. Sveta had vetoed any salt inside—she claimed it was bad for the wood and argued that the team would absolutely kick it out of place, and then he’d be haunted with salt crushed into his magnificent hickory floorboards and beautiful tasseled carpets. She was right, he knew, but she didn’t have to be so loud about it, especially not after laughing at him for five whole minutes when the sorry story finally spilled out of him. 

You will be fine, Ilyushka, she had said, wiping tears from her eyes. Your cross from your mama will protect you, and even if there is something that does appear, you and I both know that it will go for the younger ones first—they put up less of a fight. 

But I don’t want to deal with that, Ilya had whined, ignoring her point, and her earlier point about how he had attended the ouija board sessions other years with little to no issues. Not at my beautiful house, Sveta.

Cope, she had said, grinning wide and big, the kind that he only ever got to see in private. He had tugged at her curls in answer and dodged her swatting hand. And suffer. 

If I get possessed, avenge me, he had pleaded, and groaned at her headshake. You are the cruelest woman I know. 

Good, she had said, and tucked herself under his arm, pressing a kiss to the back of his knuckles, a little bit of protection in the tiny, gentle touch. 

The other thing Sveta had brought to the table, though, which he is unbelievably grateful for now, is a whole case of Hammer + Sickle vodka; he has two bottles set out on his counter, the rest stashed away, safe for later, when he needs to empty his mind of tonight's horrors.

He's already taken a shot for luck, when the doorbell rings, immediately followed by what sounds like a thousand hands knocking at his door. 

I love this team, he reminds himself as he strides to the front. He can hear the muffled complaining from someone about how scared they already are, and isn't surprised when he yanks his door open to find that it's Connors, since he's always somehow in the thick of this thing despite his staunch fear of ghosts. 

“Cap!” St. Simon says from the back of the group. “Let us in, man, I brought some funky pastries and kitchen sinkers.” 

Ilya tries his best to smile, but judging by the wild-eyed expression Carmichael shoots at him, he probably looks like a serial killer. 

“I always forget how nice your place outside the city is, asshole,” Marley greets as he stomps in. He kicks his shoes off without Ilya saying anything, so he'll refrain from murdering him for now, as the line of rookies hastily follow his example and yank their shoes off, shoving them into a pile at the edge of the foyer. Ilya's mouth twitches at the way they all linger on the edge of the room, their intimidation and hesitance completely obvious; even in his own pre-NHL years, he doesn't think he had ever been so soft. “You should host more often, Roz.” 

“I host for people I like,” Ilya shoots back, his tension softening at the bark of laughter Marley lets loose. It’s hard to be so on edge when Marley is clearly deeply pleased, though Ilya could do without the thread of smugness in his voice. “You are not one of them, Marleau.” 

“I'd be more wounded if I believed you, Cap, “ Marley says, before he sets his hand on Breezy's shoulder and reels him in. “You ever been here before, rooks?” 

Ilya rolls his eyes at the thought of Marley giving the duckling rookies a fucked up tour—here’s the bathroom, here are the drinks, you good with that as the tour?, he can hear him saying—but does the damn thing and greets the rest of the team as they drift by. He’s unable to stop his lip from curling at the ouija board Connors has stuffed in his personalized LL Bean tote bag—branded proudly with his name, number, and a family of bears embroidered at the base—that the whole team had pitched in for last year for his birthday. 

“I brought a peace offering,” Connors says, and tugs out a bag full of Mamadou's pastries, Ilya's favorite olive loaf in another bag next to them. “Please don't kill me or let me get got,” he says with a grin that wavers too much for Ilya even to understand why he keeps doing this. Connors’ mind is truly unfathomable, but Ilya would want him no other way. “You don't even have to touch the board, Cap, just promise you've got Father Mark on speed dial.”

Ilya accepts the bag of pastries with the languid elegance of a King accepting his proclaimed due, and clasps the back of his neck, knocking his head against Connors as if they're out on the ice. “This, I swear, I will do, my friend,” he says, before he pulls back and narrows his eyes. “If you throw up on my rug because you are a demon-boy, all bets are off.” 

“You might want to let the boys know that it's open season on possession if they get too fucked up,” Sebbin says, patting Ilya on the shoulder as he heads for the living room, well aware of where everything is. “Someone said they wanted to do sixteen shots in my car.” 

“Someone is going to die,” Ilya says, as pleasantly as he can, turning to menace the rookies as best he can from across the room. 

“Of fun,” Hammersmith calls, to a loud wave of laughter, and for a moment, Ilya breathes easier, buoyed by the fact that he loves these idiots and all of their fumbling attempts to include him, even when he truly could go without. 

Everyone else trickles by, bottles and food in their hands, grinning and pleased, patting Ilya on the back or fist bumping him as they wander in, until nearly all twenty-three of them have settled into his home, crunching on his measly food preparations—a giant bucket of pretzels, three bags of off brand chips, and five veggie trays he'd snagged from Market Basket yesterday. Already, the rookies have commandeered a whole tray and are fighting over which vegetables are the best to be haunted by. 

For a moment, Ilya stares at the room, full and loud, their voices bouncing off the ceiling and down the hall. They've taken over his living room, filled up the couch, and settled onto the set of dark green chairs he dragged in from his never-used office; the babies and Connors are on the floor, already getting comfortable quicker than Ilya has ever settled anywhere. 

It's strange to see the space so filled. He rarely hosts at his actual house, preferring to have the team over at his Boston apartment. This is another kind of haunting, he knows, one that will do irreparable damage when he's alone and wanting, when he can so vividly remember how it feels to have everyone here. 

“Cap,” St. Simon calls from the other room, his platter of cookies already half gone from the coffee table—crumbs everywhere because apparently the team takes their Bear name too seriously—and Ilya can see that Carmie is carefully plating his pastries at his side as he turns towards the kitchen. “Come get your shit.” 

“Oh?” Ilya says, intrigued and eager. St. Simon always gives him the best of the best, or so he claims. Ilya's never had a bad baked good by him, so he's believing him for now, and truly, he knows that if there were any time to butter him up, it would be now. “What is my most special food today, chef?” 

“In your honor, because we voted on what was seasonally appropriate and Smithy won with his underworld reference—” 

“I have to put the shit Shannon tells me to use, dude,” Smithy calls from his spot in the living room, grinning when Ilya glances back. 

St. Simon rolls his eyes even as his mouth curls into a satisfied grin as Ilya sets down his goodies from Connors and steps over to the island in his kitchen. “I made pomegranate hand pies today,” he says, proud and pleased as Ilya blinks at the beautiful array of them. He holds out the prettiest one, golden and flaky, a smattering of crystallized sugar and arils sprinkled on the top, a tiny smear of red on the corner. “C'mon Roz, Carmie picked this one just for you.” 

Carmie shrugs when Ilya glances at him as he accepts the hand pie. “Sous chef privileges,” he mutters, nudging his stack back into place as he settles the last of them into a neat pyramid. “Jenine said I was pacing a hole in the floor, so Saint lived up to his name.” He shakes his head, lifting the tray—which Ilya had no idea he even had a platter like this—and heads for the living room, leaving Ilya alone with St. Simon. 

“You know,” he says, even quieter than Carmie. “We didn't mean to actually corner you. If it's really going to be a problem, you know, we can call it off.” 

Ilya shakes his head before he can even finish speaking. “I’ve agreed,” he says. “I know you do not care for spirits, but to promise and take back—it would make the summonings worse.” 

“Well,” St. Simon says, smiling fondly at him. “You're a good captain, Roz. Sorry that we're going to summon a ghost in your living room.” 

Ilya laughs, bright and loud. “No, you are not,” he says, and takes a bite out of his treat as St. Simon shrugs and grins at him, clearly unapologetic and unrepentant. Tart sweetness spills across his tongue, as if an echo of hardworking joy was baked in. “Oh fuck, this is good.” 

St. Simon beams at him even brighter. “Fuck yes,” he says, and strides out into the living room, dragging Ilya along as he takes another bite. “Cap has spoken,” he says, and lifts his hand up into the air as if they've won something together. “They've passed inspection!” 

The room erupts into loud cheers, and Ilya snorts, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at St. Simon. “Have they ever not?” 

“Pumpkin cinnamon rolls,” Marley calls out, smirking when Ilya glances at him. “That shit sucked.” 

The rest of the room chimes in with vague agreement as Ilya picks his way through their sprawled out bodies, snagging his drink as he walks by his incredibly full bar cart. 

“I'm gonna ask it how many girls you've actually slept with,” ‘Los crows to Breezy, as Ilya settles in on the couch, a whiskey glass full of vodka clenched tight in his hand. He's going to pace himself, despite the arched brows of the vets and the way he wants to down the whole glass. 

He has to, really; someone needs to be sober in case they get fucking possessed, and god knows that the rooks are going to smell alcohol and be three sheets to the wind.

Tiny, idiot babies, he’s despaired over, listening to Shane laugh in bed next to him. They think they know so much, and yet all they do is be stinky and whine for attention. 

I’m not even going to pretend to listen to this, Shane had said, his mouth curling into a soft smile that Ilya hoped was just for him. You’re a big fucking softie, Rozanov. 

The conversation had devolved as it often did when Hollander was naked and flushed, his brown eyes sparkling, but the sentiment remained; Ilya could no more help his dreaded care for his rookies than Shane could for his. 

“Ground rules,” Sebbin says, before Ilya can, he leans in, his mouth flat and unimpressed as ‘Los groans. “No being dicks on purpose. Like hurtful ones, okay? We don’t need a repeat of the fucking ugly sister question.” 

“Okay, Seb,” Breezy says, rolling his eyes. “We get it. Only a little bit of dickery.” 

Ilya bites his tongue against his automatic joke and meets Breezy's eyes, making sure he understands that they're serious, and relaxes when Breezy nods, his face still full of excitement. 

It makes Ilya feel a little crazy to see them so open, to watch them genuinely have a good time. When he was a rookie, he spent most of his year pissing off the vets by being too good at hockey, and pissing off the rookies for the same fucking reason. He never believed any of the older sect that they had his back, and for good fucking reason. He's honored to not have the same thing happen with his rooks. 

“We've got three hours to do this,” Ovlichein says, as Connors unfolds the board. “I wanna see if I can talk to Mr. Peanut.” 

“Who the fuck is Mr. Peanut?” Smithy asks and groans as the rooks turn to him, utterly aghast. “Never mind, you dicks.” 

Ilya tunes out the incomprehensible explanation and lets himself listen and drift through the conversations. It's nice, these little gatherings, when he doesn’t have to be the focal point, when the lot of them have simmered into something easy and relaxed. 

Even with the threat of ghosts imminent, it's simple to slip into the familiar beat of the team. The system of their ghostly ritual is simple: the babies, and Connors, because he’s incapable of not involving himself, sit around the board with their fingers crowding the planchette, and the rest of them lounge about, tossing stupid questions at the board that only get stupider as the night goes on. 

Often, the board is silent, still. Those nights are the best, the ones where Ilya can content himself with chirping at the board, with smirking and stupidity. It's far worse when it's active, and Ilya's half-caught in fear, half-caught with annoyance at the jokes. He never asks anything on those nights, letting the fervor of the group grow without his input. 

Over the course of the far too many times that they've done this, he still doesn't really know what the lot of them believe; Connors is a true believer, but he's interested enough to get into the thick of things. He's pretty sure most of the other vets teeter on the edge of not believing, even though they all saw what happened with the possession case three years ago, when one of the rooks asked for the ghost to inhabit his body. 

It had been a messy twelve hours. 

He never wants to deal with it again. 

“Ghost and ghouls, goblins and spirits,” Breezy starts, drawing Ilya's attention back to the group of them. 

St. Simon's dimmed the lights, and Marley's lit candles, though Ilya has to assume that someone brought them; god knows he's never bought a candle. Everyone has a drink in hand, their face loose and open, broad grins on their faces; Carmie winks at him as he tosses back a shot, and Ilya rolls his eyes even as a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“We have come to you with open hearts,” Connors says, and glares around the room when people start to snicker. “Shut up, assholes—not you, ghosts,” he hastily adds. “You should—uh, please talk to us.” 

“I have a question,” Ovlichein says, earnest and solemn, and Ilya bites back a smile at the thought of rookie Hollander attempting the same. He would hate this mess, Ilya's certain, even if he doesn't believe in ghosts. Boston does nothing structured, not even revenant summoning; it's a mess of muttering, absolutely nothing solemn. “Would you like to communicate with us?” 

The room holds its breath, everyone leaning in. Habits have formed; ghosts don't tend to appear halfway through the ritual—the first opening question is always the same and always the most important. It sets the tone for the rest of their session. 

Miraculously, nothing so much as twitches, and Ilya melts back into the cushions, his grip relaxing around his glass.

“Ghosts,” Connors intones, looking as serious as he can. “What is the secret to winning every game of hockey? We need a 2007 Pats run—”

“Minus the ending,” Vostel adds, to loud jeers. “And you know, like maybe more than just their small amount of games—” 

“Could you even imagine?” ‘Los says dreamily, his fingers twitching on the planchette. “A perfect 98?” 

“If you all would listen,” Ilya starts, smirking when they boo him. “What? Am I wrong? Who is the captain, hm?” 

“Sometimes your idea of a perfect pass is shouting be there,” Sebbin says, finishing off his beer and rising to grab another, collecting St. Simon’s empty bottle as he passes by. “Do you know how difficult it is to know where the fuck there even is?” 

Ilya snorts, his eyes glinting. “If you are incapable—” 

“Oh, fuck off, Rozy,” someone says, laughter in their tone as Ilya shrugs and takes another sip of his drink, tension unwinding from his shoulders. 

“Okay, but what about traveling?” Breezy says, just as he always does. “Any ghosts got advice for a trip I should take?” 

“So fucking lame,” Smithy says, grinning. “I think we should ask for, like, launch codes.” 

“The fate of the world shouldn't be in our fuckin’ hands,” Carmie says, rapping his knuckles against the wooden side table. “Maybe lottery numbers? Powerball is looking pretty good.” 

“Okay, Daddy Warbucks,” Breezy mutters, rolling his eyes. “What the fuck do you need more money for?” 

“I could be charitable,” Carmie says loftily, and doesn't even try to dodge the pillow Ilya tosses at him, letting it thump into his head. He presses his hands together as if some angel, praying for the fate of the world. “I'm a philanthropist.”

“You're such a fucking asshole,” St. Simon says, over the loud rush of chattering disagreement from everyone. “You owe me three hundred dollars.” 

“Sorry?” Carmie says, raising an eyebrow. “This is coming from the man who owes me—” 

The edges of the session fray, the group getting wrapped up and entangled in every shitty question asked, every unanswered question posed. 

How can we destroy the Metros? gets thunderous applause, and terrible ideas that all circle the fact that everyone knows it's only Hollander who keeps them afloat. 

What team vacation should we take?, stirs up the most heated debate of the night, as Ovlichein insists on Greenland as the best place to go, the other two rookies backing him up, despite neither of them wanting to go, their longing clear when Sebbin suggests the Florida Keys. 

Ilya follows the other trails less easily, the warm burn of alcohol filling his stomach as he chirps, but mostly listens, a sweet contentment filling his veins. It's nice to be home, nice to have the team, and easy enough to ignore the prickles of warning that arise whenever anyone talks to the boards, the rookies and Connors fingers still dutifully touching the completely still planchette. 

“I have a question,” Marley says after two hours of nonsense have passed, a glint in his eyes that Ilya absolutely does not trust. He licks his lips, meeting Ilya’s steely-eyed gaze without flinching. Ilya abruptly curses every single moment that has led him here, watching as his team of idiots gets more and more wasted on drinks and fear. It’s easily the time when their worst and stupidest impulses come out. “Oh, most holy ghosts—” 

“Dude, you’re gonna summon god,” Connors mutters, panic in his voice. Ilya has no idea why he’s still in the huddle over the board with the rookies, his face full of fear. “Isn’t he part of that? Like, the holy ghost?” 

“If god comes through this fucking ouija board, I’m out,” Carmichael says from across the room, a fistful of pretzels in one hand, his fourth beer in the other. God, Ilya should have known better than to open his home to these assholes; they're all going to want to stay. He’s pretty sure Vostel is somehow snoring in the corner already, Duzek next to him, and blinking sleepily under the fuzzy blanket the two of them pilfered from his blanket chest that he always claims he doesn't have. “I signed up for the ghosts, not god.” 

Marley’s mouth quirks, and Ilya glares harder. “Marleau,” he says slowly, from his spot on the couch. “What the fuck are you—” 

“What’s the name of Roz’s Montreal Jane?” Marley blurts out, grinning as Ilya blanches. There’s no way that this—he inhales, blinking. He’s winding himself up over nothing. The board’s been utterly useless all night. It hasn’t so much as moved, and Marley is just making a stupid, senseless joke as he continues, “That’s right, brother, I’m gonna blackmail you so hard—” 

“It’s moving,” Breezy yelps, his voice full of sharp fear, and Ilya finds his gaze dragged down to watch as the planchette scrapes across the board, the whole team leaning in as his world collapses, watching it slowly and obviously spell out S H A N E. 

“Oh my god,” ‘Los says into the sudden and heavy silence, tipping his head back to meet Ilya’s gaze. He looks earnest even as he glances around anxiously. Ilya watches blankly as all of them yank their hands off the tiny pointer. 

“Cap, I think your Montreal girl is possessed by a ghost named Shane,” Breezy says slowly, glancing between the board and Ilya as if an answer will appear. 

“Or maybe she's, uh, a he? Like trying out something that feels, uh, better?” Ovlichein says nervously, wringing his hands. “Or maybe—actually, never mind. I'm shutting up now.” 

Ilya swings his gaze up to stare at him. He thinks he’s going to throw up. He hardly registers St. Simon sliding closer to him, his thigh pressing in next to his. 

“I can’t believe it,” Connors says, too loudly as low chatter springs up around his living room. The expression on his face is hard to see through the panic blurring his vision. He thinks his ears are ringing. Does he even know how to breathe anymore? He thinks should be way more collected than this, should maybe be able to play this off, but this is his worst nightmare unfolding. “It’s so crazy that the board doesn’t know how to spell Jane.” 

The planchette rattles across the board on its own, sending everyone back into quiet. Ilya can hardly understand anything as it lands on NO.

“What the actual fuck,” Carmie says. His voice sounds as if it’s coming from down a long, echoing tunnel. “Did a ghost just out our fucking captain? Did fucking god?” 

“I told you ghosts were real,” Ilya says blankly, staring at the NO. It’s the only thing he can think of to say. The planchette wriggles in place before skittering across the board to land on YES as a flurry of people swear. He can’t—he can’t address the other part. “I told you. You said no, cap, it’s stories, it’s bullshit, the possession was just a fluke, America is not haunted, that is only for old stone, old earth bones. And I said all of earth is old, you idiots. And now—” He gestures at it helplessly and shakes his head, pushing himself up. “I have to, I have to go—” 

“Cap—” 

“Roz—”

“—don’t leave—” 

“—won’t tell anyone, promise.” 

Despite his best efforts, Ilya finds himself still seated on the couch, bent in half, his face between his knees. His whole body hurts. He, distantly, can't believe this is happening. Who the fuck gets outed by a goddamn ghost?

“What the fuck do we do?” someone hisses, their voice floating in one ear and out the other as Ilya gasps for air quietly. 

“Coach is gonna kill us, we broke Cap,” a different voice moans. 

“I think Marley broke Cap,” Carmichael says, and Ilya can feel him rubbing slow circles on his back. “Everyone boo him.” 

The room fills with boo's loud enough that it crashes through some of Ilya's panic just by sheer stupidity. He sucks in a deep breath and realizes that half of the pain in his chest is because he really wasn't breathing. 

His heartbeat thunders in his ears, blotting out the conversations happening over his head. Carmie’s hand keeps circling the center of his back, a warm, soothing press as he breathes raggedly. He's squeezing someone's hand so tightly it has to hurt, but whoever it is makes no mention of pain. 

He blinks, staring at the floor. He can see the edge of his carpet at this vantage point, the tassels a filmy gray with dust. He thinks Hollander would hate it, would make him get up and shift his couch just to get those gray dustings out. 

He would do it, he knows. He'd move every stupid bit of furniture in this room just to make him happy. 

What the fuck does he even do now? 

“Roz,” Marley says, underneath everyone else's voices. “Brother, I'm so fucking sorry.” 

It's his hand Ilya’s clinging to, he realizes. It makes him cling tighter when Marley squeezes even harder. 

“I didn't know that—” he stops, and Ilya can feel him shrug. “I mean, how the fuck was I supposed to know that a ghost was here?” 

Ilya laughs, sharp and hysterical. “You should listen to your captain more, Marley,” he says, still staring at the carpet. He squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing down the bile that's rising in his throat. “I have heard he is the smartest on the team. Best hockey player in the world, too.”

“Oh, what, and the most handsome dude in the NHL too?” Marley says, something like relief in his tone. “Because that is simply not true, Roz. Have you seen the way Kent looks?” 

Ilya snaps his head up so fast he feels dizzy. “You are saying Dallas Kent is more handsome than me?” he snaps, unbelievably offended. “More handsome than me? I should throw you off the team for saying such things, Marley. Too many pucks to the face, no? They have rattled your brain loose. Made you unwell.” 

Marley meets his angry gaze with a slow, smug smile. “No way, cap,” he says easily. “You're the hottest guy in the league, no question.” 

“No question,” St. Simon echoes, and Ilya blinks, glancing around the room. Ovlichein is nodding, his face earnest, Breezy and ‘Los clustered beside him, their hands on his shoulders as if they had to keep him in place. 

The planchette rattles over the YES, as if in agreement.

“You do not get a vote,” Ilya snaps at it, glaring. “Not when this is all your fault.” He could swear it shrinks in on itself, before he lifts his head up and actually glances back around the room, taking in the slowly easing tension. 

All of the team is crowded in his living room, Carmie and St. Simon beside him, Marley in front, his hand still warm and dry, fingers tight around Ilya’s. The three babies are still next to the board, arms tangled around each other, as if to anchor themselves as Connors scooches closer to his legs. Everyone else is sprawled in a loose circle, faces all fixed on his. For a second, Ilya wants to snap, wants to get cruel; he could pick a fraying end and have everyone angry in fifteen seconds or less. 

Divert it, his brain croons. Make everything worse. Do not let them ask, do not let them see. They will never love you as they did before this; ruin it before it ruins you.

But those are childish instincts, born from someone who looked too much like their dead mother for comfort, and that particular ghost has no place here. 

“I am bisexual,” Ilya says into the quiet room. His voice is far more hesitant than he likes, but he can’t infuse confidence in it when he’s throwing himself off a cliff. “Yes, I have a partner. Yes, it is a man. No, I am not confirming anything more than that.” He knows it’s useless really; everyone in this fucking room is intimately familiar with a Shane Ilya is strange with. 

It’s not like the rivalry is subtle. 

“Right,” Connors says. He looks like he's about to cry, and Ilya has no idea if it's fear, or happiness, or anger. “Good for you, Roz.”

“Hell yeah,” Breezy says, too loud, and goes bright red when everyone looks at him. “What? I can't be enthusiastic about this?” He gestures at Ilya. “Like, of course this guy can, like, get it.” 

Ilya blinks at him.

“Thank you?” he says, baffled as the rest of the team echoes the support. For a moment, everyone is quiet, as if mulling over the revelation before Sebbin clears his throat. 

“I mean… if you're going to fuck another player, it might as well be Hollander,” Sebbin says, only to groan at the glares the team throws at him as Ilya fights the urge to shudder at the bluntness of his statement. “What, I'm not supposed to mention the fuckin’ elephant in the room? The ghost said Shane, so I'm callin’ ‘em like I see ‘em. Cap doesn’t have to confirm.” 

“What if Jane,” St. Simon says pointedly, “isn't ready for other people to know?” 

Ilya cracks a smile, tossing an arm over his eyes so he doesn't have to look at them as he leans back against his couch. “So quickly, you have forgotten your captain,” he says, ignoring how insane it feels to voice any of this out loud. He hasn't even been so blunt as to talk like this with Hollander. “Jane is not the only one who needs silence. Russia is—not quite good for me.” 

“Oh, shit,” someone mutters, their voice too quiet for Ilya to track. “Right, right.” 

“Dude,” Connors says, knocking his arm into Ilya's shin. “But seriously, you bagged one of the two, like, hottest people in the NHL. He's got an ass you can bounce a quarter off of.” 

“I don't think his ass is as nice as Roz's,” St. Simon says loyally as Ilya scrubs a hand over his face. He can't tell if he's grinning or frowning, his mouth twitching. He has no idea if he wants to preen at the idea of people knowing he landed Shane, or scowl at the idea of people looking at Shane. “But he is pretty.” 

“And is the only one who can keep up with Cap, for real,” Ovlichein points out, because just like Shane, all roads lead back to hockey with him. “So is that like, double points or something? I don't really know how this whole thing works.” 

“Like, gay points?” someone asks into the uncertain silence. “Because isn't Roz bi? He just said that. Does he get extra points for being hot enough to score with, like, anyone?” 

The room erupts into chatter, a familiar, loud crush of sound crashing down over the room. Ilya lets himself sink into it, tiny bits of tension unlocking down his spine the longer his team bickers and laughs, their voices getting louder and louder.

“Hang on, wait,” ‘Los says, cutting through the noise. “If you're like our team dad, or whatever—” 

Ilya's mouth drops open as the rest of the team starts to shout, voices sliding all over each other.

“What the fuck?” 

“He ain't my dad, rook—” 

“—sure you wanted to say it like that—” 

“Shut up,” ‘Los snaps, his cheeks bright red as he pointedly avoids Ilya's gaze. “You know what I mean, but that's not—is fucking, is Jane like our estranged stepmom?” 

Ilya forces down a hysterical laugh as his eyes widen, instinctively shaking his head as the rest of them exchange looks. ‘Los looks like he's about to burn up, with how red his cheeks are, his head dipping down the longer no one agrees.

“Dude,” Marley says, snapping his fingers after another beat of silence, and Ilya can read the crooked twist of agreement in the curve of his mouth before he even says anything, the fucking bastard. “You're so fucking right.” 

“I am?” ‘Los says, before straightening up. “I mean, yeah! Of course I am.” 

“No,” Ilya says blankly. This cannot be happening. The Boston Bears cannot be succumbing to this insanity so easily.

“Shut up, Cap,” Sebbin says, grinning toothily at him. “Or, actually, when are you gonna introduce us? Can we add Jane to the group chat?” 

“Yeah!” Carmie says, patting him roughly on the back. “C’mon, Roz, it’s not like we’re spilling team secrets in the chat.” 

Ilya snorts. “That is what you think,” he says ominously. “But you mention liking oatmeal one time, and suddenly Hollander has deconstructed your entire life and knows all of your tells on the ice.” 

The room pauses. 

“Is—is that what happened to you?” Ovlichein asks, his eyes wide. “Did he—did he deconstruct you?” 

Ilya opens his mouth to deny it, and then shuts it. 

Did he deconstruct you?

Can he claim that they've done anything other than tear down the walls between them and rebuilt them even more shoddily before? Have they ever been able to have a real conversation without it splintering into shards that they would then use to try to patch their own emptiness? 

But, also, who would Ilya even be, without the imprint of seventeen-year-old Shane Hollander on his soul?

“No,” he says, too fondly, too softly, too honestly. He's given himself away the most with this word, he knows, but he can’t be bothered to care as everyone leans in, spellbound. “No, it is more—I have known him the longest out of everyone here, yes? Seventeen, both of us, when we met for the first time. Rivals already. You are all very good at hockey, yes, we know this; otherwise, you would not be here. But there is a difference between very good and Hollander. There is even, one might say, a difference between very good and Rozanov.” 

“You're the best, cap,” Breezy says, and Ilya glances around to find the team nodding in agreement. “It's like, not a secret that you're one of the best, if not the best, hockey players in the world.”

“No one's gonna be offended if you say it and mean it,” Connors says, grinning up at him. “But keep talking about Hollander.” He pats Ilya's knee. “It's something else, to know you like actually know him.” 

“You know him, too?” Ilya says, vaguely confused, even as he waves off the echoes of agreement from the others. “You've played on the ice against him many times, Connors.”

“Yeah, but that's like—that's like the Shane Hollander,” Ovlichein says, quietly before Connors can respond. “This is—this is your Montreal Jane.” 

“They're totally different,” St. Simons murmurs in agreement. “Even though they're the same.” 

Ilya has never thought of it like that, or, more accurately, he has never let himself think of it like that. It's too dangerous, blurs too many lines. He would slip, he knows, even with all the fear; far easier to draw arbitrary lines, because really, honestly— 

“They’re one and the same,” he says, and lets the truth of the matter swallow him up. “Hollander is as Hollander is. He has never wavered, even if he were, maybe, to be Jane. He lives and breathes hockey; he knows the beat of his own skates against the ice even more than he knows his own heart. Of course, he has deconstructed me; he has unraveled all of us.” 

“Dude,” Smithy breathes into the soft quiet, the gentle susurrus of his whole team breathing around him. “Are you—are you in love with him?” 

Ilya's mouth curls into a smile, even as he doesn't say anything. 

It doesn't matter, though. On the board, the planchette rattles, loud and pleased and smug—still smack dab over YES. 

***

a ghost told my team that we are together
sorry. i am not sure how best to say it.
but it is the truth. boston knows because a ghost cannot keep their mouth shut.
they were good about it. have promised to not be too much, but expect an invitation to go out with them. they are impossibly bad at not being too much.
they say they want to meet, but there is no pressure to do so. they want to add you to the group chat.
i have said no, do not worry
do not play with ouija boards, hollander. they are cursed. 

What the fuck do you mean a ghost told your team?
Of fucking course we don't play with ouija boards, the last time the team tried at the Bell Centre, a decades-old grudge-ghost tried to kill Hayden.
Boston just plays around with ghosts like that? What the fuck is wrong with you guys?
Jesus Christ, at least tell me you did a salt circle or something, Rozanov.
Hang on, did you get fucking outted by a ghost?
Did I? What the fuck do you mean they want to meet me? They know me? I've shaken their hands before?
Did the ghost also steal their fucking brains, too?

i feel sorry for ghost who tried to eat pike. he is clearly not enough to sustain a grudge. would have made a poor meal AND bad haunting.
is good to know that you are so worried about boston's safety. you will be a good stepmother for the rookies. they will be most pleased. 

What the fuck does that mean?
Rozanov.
I can't be a stepmother. I need you to know that.
Rozanov, please tell me you know that.
Rozanov, please.  

Ilya, I swear to god.