Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Yuna Hollander, Roger Crowell, Zane Boodram, Wyatt Hayes, Young (Game Changers), Luca Haas, Holmber (Game Changers), Evan Dykstra, Boyle (Game Changers), Nick Chouinard, Troy Barrett, Harris Drover

Additional Tags:

Autistic Shane Hollander, Established Relationship, Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Good Friend Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Social Media, Team Mom Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Speaks Russian, Non-Explicit Sex, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, BAMF Shane Hollander, Supportive Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), POV Multiple, Minor Troy Barrett/Harris Drover

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of Kiss with a fist

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-05 Updated: 2026-04-14 Words: 6,663 Chapters: 2/3

belly of the beast

Summary

"I'm sort of waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Ilya’s brow furrows and his eye squints the way it does when he's parsing his mental English phrasebook to determine what someone is saying.

“Waiting for… bad thing to happen, yes?”

Shane smiles sadly but nods, “Yeah, exactly.”

“Well, first shoe is pretty great. Wonderful shoe, even. I've never seen a more special or important shoe in my life,” Ilya gushes.

As the Centaurs go on their road trip without Shane, Shane has to face down Roger Crowell alone.

Notes

There is a recounting of the fight and what was said in Kiss with a fist in this, just as a slight heads up.

Chapter 1: save the speech

“What are you going to do while I am gone?”

The corner of Shane's lips twitches up at Ilya's question and he shoots him a sideways glance, not turning away from his phone. “I'm going to jerk off in every room in the house,” he answers dully, looking back at his phone. Ilya snorts back a laugh which just makes Shane smile more as he opens his email.

There are two new emails sitting at the top of his inbox.

Scott Hunter
Are you okay?

Roger Crowell
Scheduling a Meeting

Shane's stomach plummets like it did when he stepped out onto the glass floor of the CN tower for the first time as a kid – free falling and racing to the ground ready to splatter viscera and whatever he ate for breakfast on the sidewalk for all of Ontario to gather and gawk at. He swallows the rush of saliva, tinged with the sharp bite of bile, and simply turns off the phone screen. Now is not the time to worry about whatever the fuck that all meant. He is only drawn back to the present – the car he's sitting in with his husband before Ilya leaves for the four game road trip that Shane is not a part of thanks to Gilbert Comeau and his stupid mouth.

“—ing to have… Shanya? Are you listening to me?”

It is as if a metal rod wedged itself through the vertebrae of Shane's spine. He sits up straight in the driver's seat and his head snaps to the side to see the concern bleeding into Ilya's features.

“Sorry,” Shane murmurs, voice soft and rough like the crush of velvet. He forces a smile and clears his throat. “Sorry, I got distracted by an email and then lost in thought.”

Ilya reaches out across the center console and cups Shane's jaw in the warm cushion of his palm. His thumb brushes slowly over Shane's cheek and Shane is hopeful that Ilya will choose to believe him, dropping the subject altogether. Thankfully, from his peripherals Shane can spot other players heading across the tarmac toward the team plane.

“Looks like it's time to go,” Shane murmurs, a hint of sadness in his voice.

Shane easily pulls back from Ilya and blindly reaches back to open his door. He slips out of the car quickly while Ilya does the same before grabbing his bags from the back seat. Ilya rounds the car and wordlessly slips his hand into Shane's, wordlessly pulling him along toward the waiting plane. There is a twinge of sadness buried inside Shane's chest. He's never been suspended from playing before. Sure, he's missed a game here and there from injuries or sickness but those things couldn't be avoided.

If only Comeau had kept his trap shut, Shane would be boarding the plane with the rest of his team.

As Ilya’s bags are taken to stow onto the plane, he turns to look at Shane. There is a softness around Ilya’s eyes that makes Shane's heart ache just a little.

“I will miss you,” he mumbles.

Shane nods solemnly, “I'll miss you.”

In clear violation of Shane's no PDA at work rule, not that Shane would call it out in this instance, Ilya ducks his head just enough to brush their lips together. Shane can't help but sigh as his hands find the front of Ilya’s shirt and Ilya grabs hold of Shane's jaw in a gentle but firm hold. Shane could almost forget where they are, almost does, if it weren't for the abrupt wolf whistle from behind Ilya.

Begrudgingly they pull apart and Shane peers around his husband's arm to see Bood at the stairs to the plane.

“Let's go, lover boy, we have a game to get to,” he laughs good-naturedly before turning to head up into the plane.

Shane sighs and affectionately shakes his head, “Call me when you get to the hotel.”

Ilya nods and swoops in for one more kiss before murmuring against Shane's lips, “Я люблю тебя.”

“I love you too,” Shane replies, smirking at the faux annoyance at not returning the sentiment in Russian.

There is a bit of rushed whispering, laughing, and rustling from several members of the team. Wyatt is shaking his head as he walks away from where he had been standing with the youngest players. “They want a goodbye kiss from mom,” he teases, gesturing toward the pack of heathens, “They're gonna miss you, Hollzy.”

Ilya snorts back an amused laugh as Shane blinks wildly, trying to process what he was saying.

“Come here, Young,” Shane calls out, motioning for him to come closer.

When the younger man approaches, Shane takes his head in his hands and pulls his head down to lay a kiss on the top of his head. “Don't embarrass me out there,” he says with a grin, releasing the boy.

“Me next, me next!” Holmberg shouts, rushing over, checking Young out of the way.

“If you guys win this is going to become a weird superstition, I can feel it,” Shane grumbles.

He, however, presses quick and exaggerated kisses to Holmberg's toque and then LaPointe's hair. “There, now get on the damn plane,” he says with a point.

Young circles back and grabs ahold of Luca's arm, dragging him closer to Shane. As they approach, Shane can see the wild look in Luca's eyes behind his glasses like he is trying to rub away from Young and the situation as a whole. The kid was still so shy and star-struck whenever anything with Shane or Ilya was involved.

“You gotta get a kiss from Hollzy before we go,” Young demands, tugging hard on Luca's arm.

Shane smiles fondly but rolls his eyes, “Hey, there are no kisses without consent. Let Haas go.”

Reluctantly, Young lets go of Luca with a huff. Luca sighs but steps closer to Shane, ducking his head. Laughing, Shane presses a quick kiss against the top of Luca's head. “Make me proud, but don't like, come for my spot, alright?” he teases.

Luca stammers something in the affirmative and turns to look back at Young with wide eyes.

“Go,” Shane says, shooting them away.

As they depart to board the plane, Shane glances back to Ilya who is watching him with wide, warm eyes. “You too, Rozanov, it's bad enough I'm not going to New York but you can't miss the flight,” he says with a playful exasperation. Shane then takes a few steps back, knowing that if he were to let Ilya kiss him one more time then he wouldn't want to let him go.

He gestures toward the stairs with a forced smile, “Go. Я люблю тебя.”

Ilya smiles a bit sadly but turns to make his way up the stairs into the plane.

“Hey, Rozanov. If you lose to Scott Hunter, I'm changing the locks while you're gone!”

Laughter floods from out of the cabin and Ilya looks over his shoulder to wink at Shane before ducking inside. With one last heavy sigh, Shane turns on his heel to make the trek back to the car. Once there and tucked safely in the driver's seat, Shane fishes out his phone once again to open his emails.

With a trembling finger, he opens the message from Crowell and it is as if all the air has been sucked from his lungs. His eyes skitter around the screen while his brain only manages to cherry pick certain words.

Meeting. Montreal offices. Tomorrow.

Shane feels sick. But he forwards the email directly to his mom and Farah. They would be in the proper headspace to tell him what to do and what to expect. He swallows harshly, dropping his phone into a cup holder, and turns the car on to head back to his husbandless house.

At least Anya will be there.

“Do you have any idea what he wants to meet about?”

Shane sighs softly as he sits down on the sofa. His lap is almost immediately filled by Anya, happy to curl up while Shane absently strokes her head. “I don't know, Mom. Probably some attempt to make me issue an apology for that fight in Montreal. He's probably pissed I took the four games and people online are apparently raising hell about the whole thing,” he says with a heavy sigh.

“As they should! I can't believe the league is fine with letting such an ass get by with just a suspension and fine but expect you to grovel for forgiveness!” Yuna complains loudly into his ear.

“I just don't want to deal with him. After our last meeting, I kind of hoped we could essentially avoid each other until I eventually retire.”

Yuna hums softly, a low and comforting sound that Shane used to hear right against his ear as a small child while sitting close with his mother after a particularly long and loud day. She exhales slowly and says, “I understand that, Shane, I do. And I know that you love and respect the team culture that comes with hockey– you always have. But I think you need to go into that meeting knowing who you are and knowing your worth. Don't let some spineless, hate-fueled little pissant try to scare you.”

Shane can't help but snort back a laugh at his mother's passionate vulgarity.

“Thanks, Mom,” he says, voice suddenly a little waterlogged.

“Whatever happens you know that your dad and I are always behind you. So is Ilya, and your team, and all of Ottawa if we're being honest.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And make sure that you document everything. Just in case.”

Shane is just coming back into the house with Anya after her evening walk when his phone begins to ring. He fishes the phone from his pocket as he unclips the leash from Anya's collar so that she can run off to the kitchen for some water. The screen of Shane's phone is filled with a ridiculously close picture of Ilya’s face, one his husband had taken late one night while Shane was showering.

“Hi, Ilyusha,” Shane greets easily as he takes off his shoes and jacket.

On the other end of the line there's muffled voices and then nothing. Ilya sighs, “Hello, my Shane.”

“How was the flight?”

“Boring. I had to cuddle with Bood because you weren't there.”

Shane can hear the teasing grin in his lips. He clears his throat once and makes his way to the living room. “So… I got an email from Crowell today,” he broaches the topic carefully as he sits on the couch.

Ilya sucks at his teeth, “What does he want now?”

“He wants to have a meeting with me tomorrow in the Montreal office.”

The silence between them is heavy and stretches on just long enough for Shane to feel a bit uneasy. Finally, Ilya sighs as there is a bit of rustling from his side of the call. Shane can picture him sitting on his hotel bed, shuffling backwards to lean against the headboard. It is an image that he is intimately familiar with.

“He's going to try some bullshit,” Ilya mumbles.

Shane hums softly, “More than likely.”

Suddenly, Shane sits up straight. “Oh, shit,” he mumbles. He pulls the phone from his ear, puts the call on speaker and opens his email app.

“Shanya? What's wrong?”

“I got so distracted by Crowell that I forgot that Scott emailed me this morning and I haven't read it.”

Ilya grunts, “Scott? Scott Hunter? What does he want?”

“I will tell you when I read his email,” Shane laughs softly.

He finds the message under an email chain with Farah about his meeting tomorrow with contingency plans, an email from Rolex with proofs from the last campaign he shot with them, and a new email from his mom that looks like it was forwarded to him, but addressed to her about Ilya.

He opens the message quickly.

Hey Rook,

It's been a few days since your game against Montreal (congrats on the win, by the way) and I wanted to reach out to you. I heard about your fine and suspension. I got to say it's pretty surprising since your last fight was when you tried to scrap with me years ago. I thought there was no way to get you to actually fight like that, and then I saw what people were saying online.

I am so sorry that you had to hear that awful shit. I really hope your team is behind you.

I'm here if you want to talk. I know your team is coming to New York, I don't know if you're traveling with them but feel free to stop by the Kingfisher (and bring your husband too, I guess) whenever you have time for a free drink.

Scott

Shane hums softly as he finishes reading, “He wants me to break up with you and be in a throuple with him and Kip.”

“Fuck you, Hollander,” Ilya laughs loudly.

“He's just checking in after what happened– said that next time I'm in New York I can have a free drink at the Kingfisher.”

Ilya snorts back a laugh, “I'm pretty sure they overcharge me when I go.”

A small beat of silence fills the air. Shane glances down at his watch.

“I should go. I've got to get ready for bed since I have to drive to Montreal in the morning,” Shane says with a reluctant sigh.

“I am not home for one night and you are suddenly old and boring?” Ilya teases softly.

Shane hums to himself as he scratches at Anya's ear. “You say that like I've not always been boring,” he breathes with a smile.

God, he already misses Ilya so much, which was so weird considering how long they used to go without seeing one another. Yet, here he is just a few short hours without his husband and he is ready to crawl into bed and pout until he eventually falls asleep. He looks down at Anya in his lap and considers bending his own rule of not allowing her in the bed just so he could have someone to cuddle with.

In his ear, Ilya sighs almost dreamily, “Я люблю тебя. Спокойной ночи, Шаня.”

“Я тебя тоже люблю. Спокойной ночи, Илюша.”

Ilya lets out a soft little chuckle, “Your Russian is getting very good.”

“Don't patronize me, Rozanov.”

“You even emphasize the right part of my name now! So smart, my husband!”

Shane rolls his eyes, “Goodnight, Ilya.”

After arriving in the NHL offices in Montreal, Shane takes a moment to take a picture of his nice dress shoes standing on the huge logo on the floor. He takes a quiet moment to post the picture to his seldom used Instagram with the simple caption Déjà vu before pocketing the device in his coat and making his way toward the elevator.

The split in his lip and fading bruise on his cheek are visible in his reflection in the mirrored walls.

It doesn't take long to arrive in the, unfortunately, familiar office and to be seated once again across from Roger Crowell. Shane's heart is jackhammering against his sternum like it is trying to escape. He crosses his legs and drapes his coat over his lap, folding his slightly jittery hands in his lap.

“I'm sure you can guess why I asked you to meet with me today.”

Shane has to resist the urge to snort and roll his eyes. “I can't really think of a reason,” he responds cooly, eyes drifting from Crowell's face to the framed pictures on the wall, to the desk, and back again.

“Your recent game and subsequent suspension is causing quite a stir,” Crowell says stiffly.

“Do you make it a point to meet with every player you suspend? It's been over a decade and I've never been suspended, so I don't really know the protocol here.”

A small part of Shane knows that Ilya would be losing it if he heard Shane speak that way to the commissioner. The vein along Crowell's temple makes itself known and throbs slightly below the skin.

“You were given the option of having a shorter suspension and you denied it. Why?”

Shane shrugs a single shoulder, “Was Comeau given the same deal? Would he have had a lessened suspension if he apologized for his unsportsmanlike conduct?”

Crowell's shoulders tense, “I'm not here to discuss Mr. Comeau's suspension.”

“Mm, okay. Would you like to know why I'm choosing to sit out for four games instead of just one?”

Nodding his head, Crowell gestures toward Shane with both of his hands as if to encourage him to continue speaking. Shane shifts in his seat and rolls his shoulders back in an attempt to rid his body of the building tension. He's already told Crowell off once before, he could absolutely do it again.

“In our game against Montreal, I was repeatedly and purposefully targeted by multiple members of their team. Which I expected, we didn't exactly part on great terms– as I'm sure you can recall. Gilbert Comeau cross checked me into the boards and called me a bastard and a cocksucker, which is a term that the league itself has begun to flag players for as homophobic leading to penalties and fines. He then proceeded to say that I sold out the Montreal organization to, and I quote, ‘get fucked in the ass by that Russian monster’ before highsticking me and bursting open my lips. So, I hit him.”

The more that Shane speaks, the redder Crowell's face becomes.

Good.

“You called my coach and said I could face the maximum fine and a four game suspension, or a one game suspension if I issued a ‘public and personal apology for my egregious and violent response’. I refuse to apologize to a bigot for having a rational and appropriate response to being sexually harassed and hate-crimed in my place of work. I also find it absolutely insane that you would think that that would be an acceptable offer.”

Crowell's jaw clenches so tightly that for just a moment Shane wonders if he is going to end up cracking any of his teeth.

“That is a hefty claim to just toss around. If I were you, I'd th–”

“Save the speech for the next group of women who you try to intimidate when they come forward about Dallas Kent,” Shane scoffs loudly. His hands grip the arms of the chair he is sitting in and he leans forward slightly, not backing down. “You want me to roll over and apologize so the people who are rightfully calling the league out for this kind of bullshit stop. They're calling for your head online and you think I'm going to help you?”

The loud and sudden slap of Crowell's hand against the solid wood of his desk startles Shane a bit. He steels himself and narrows his eyes back at the commissioner, who looks so mad that steam could start pouring from his ears at any given second.

“I'll add another game to your suspension,” he says through gritted teeth.

Shane shrugs and stands, “Do what you've got to do and I will do what I've got to do.”

As he turns for the door, Crowell practically growls from behind him. “I'll add a game for every day you don't cooperate!”

Years ago, that threat would have really scared Shane into submission.

Now, it simply lights a fire in Shane's belly. He shrugs again and walks out of the office without another word.

In the elevator, Shane stops the audio recording on his phone. He emails it, along with the one from his and Ilya’s last spring, to his personal email. He has work to do when he gets home.

Almost four hours later, Shane is curled up on the couch with Anya as he stares down at the phone in his hands. He takes a slow, steadying breath as he tries to calm the thrashing of his heart.

Then he posts.

Twice.

He shares two reels. Each with the audio from his meetings with Roger Crowell, one with a simple background photo of Shane and Ilya and the other a picture of Shane's busted face after the game in Montreal. He swallows harshly against the rising anxiety in his throat and lays the phone face down on the sofa beside him.

It doesn't take long for his phone to begin to buzz with notifications. He holds off for as long as he can before he picks the phone up again.

Replies, shares, texts, emails, phone calls all come flooding in.

puckaround.findout
WHAT THE FUCK?! no actually what the FUCK is going on

hollanderfan105
this is so disgusting 🤢 i feel so bad for Shane and Ilya

Yuna_Hollander
I'm so proud of you ❤️

msvoyager.ifyanasty
Holy shit.

centaurs4life
Ohhhh Roger Crowell is evil-evil

lisa.hayes
I am so sorry you have had to deal with this. You and Roz are both so strong 🖤

paydenhike
I'm physically ill hearing this omg

chuckismybff
I'm already planning my “Crowell Got Fired” party 🥳

As Shane is scrolling his screen is filled with a FaceTime request from Ilya. He accepts it immediately. Ilya's face fills his screen. He is in his uniform and very obviously in the dressing room in New York.

“Shanya! Holy shit,” he breathes out, a disbelieving smile pulling across his lips.

Shane nods slowly, “Yeah, holy shit.”

There are shouts from the room around Ilya from their teammates.

“Holy shit, Hollzy!” Bood.

“Good for you, man!” Troy.

“Haymaker Hollander strikes again!” Wyatt.

Ilya grin is delighted, but there is something in his eyes that gives Shane pause. Quickly, Ilya steps away somewhere a little quieter and Shane can see his posture relax just a smidgen as he leans against a wall.

“How are you feeling?” Ilya asks softly.

Shane stays quiet for a moment as he considers the question. He's not entirely sure yet how he feels. Part of him is relieved that everything is out in the open. Another part is definitely fearful of retaliation. He blinks a bit harshly and watches Ilya on his screen.

“Okay, I guess. I haven't really processed yet, I don't think. I'm sort of waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Ilya’s brow furrows and his eye squints the way it does when he's parsing his mental English phrasebook to determine what someone is saying.

“Waiting for… bad thing to happen, yes?”

Shane smiles sadly but nods, “Yeah, exactly.”

“Well, first shoe is pretty great. Wonderful shoe, even. I've never seen a more special or important shoe in my life,” Ilya gushes.

Shane laughs, really laughs.

“You're such a weirdo.”

Ilya nods, “Mm, yes. But, I am your weirdo who will be burying Scott Hunter soon for trying to steal you away from me.”

“You can't say that out loud! Someone will hear you and think you're serious. It'll be all over,” Shane chastises.

“I can't hear you over the gay on gay violence about to happen.”

Shane rolls his eyes, “You're bi.”

“Queer on queer. Same, same.”

“Same, same,” Shane quietly agrees. He sighs and lays back on the couch, holding the phone up over his head. “Win for me so I know this wasn't for nothing.”

Ilya smirks and winks, “Hat trick coming up.”

Centaurs Hockey | @OttawaCentaurs
The Ottawa Centaurs stand with and behind their team in fighting against hate. Hockey is for everyone and no one should be afraid to be who they are or stand up for themselves and others when the time arises. We are proud of our team, those who are currently playing in New York and those who are not. We will continue to support everyone in our organization, and sport as a whole, to spread the message of inclusivity and compassion.

@BoodsBBQ✔️
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I stand with @Hollander24

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I stand with @Hollander24 🩵

Rocking on the balls of his feet, Shane takes a few steadying breaths before raising his hand to knock on the door in front of him. He can hear some shuffling and muttered words from the hotel room before the door is thrown open to reveal his very confused looking husband.

“Shane?”

“In the flesh,” Shane replies with a laugh.

He has less than a second to brace himself before a hand is gripped into the front of his shirt and he is being yanked into the room. As soon as the door is closed, Shane's back is pressed against it and Ilya has a hand around his chin, holding him still, before crushing their lips together.

“You're here. Why are you here?” Ilya gasps between kisses.

Shane whines softly, thrusting his hands into Ilya's hair, “My suspension was lifted. I'm playing tonight against the Islanders.”

Ilya pulls away from their kiss completely. His pupils are blown and his chest is heaving. He looks wrecked after just a few seconds of kissing. “What do you mean?” he asks, clearly confused.

“Crowell was put on administrative leave while the league investigates and they called to lift my suspension based on extenuating circumstances, which just means they don't want the internet to keep calling out their bullshit.”

Ilya laughs that soft, giddy surprised laugh that Shane absolutely loves. He moves in close again until their lips are once again moving together effortlessly.

It's bliss.

It's perfect.

It's intoxicating.

Shane hardly notices the way Ilya pulls him further into the room, or how their clothes seemingly melt from their bodies. He can only focus on the warm glide of Ilya’s hands against his skin and the subtle vibrations of pleasure that rock through his body as they move together and lie down.

Ilya slips between Russian and English as he presses kisses to Shane’s body. Some words Shane knows, others he has no idea what they mean, but it fizzles wonderfully beneath his skin all the same. His own chest rises and falls with each gasp of breath as Ilya plays his body like an instrument he's studied for a lifetime.

A virtuoso of Shane Hollander.

“Мне так хорошо с тобой,” Shane whimpers. His hands grip into expanses of Ilya's back, holding him close and chasing the feeling inside of him. “Я люблю тебя,” he pants against Ilya’s neck. He repeats it over and over and over again like a skipping record, stuck on loop and doomed to repeat the profession of his love until the end of time.

Ilya presses their lips together in a move that is less of a kiss and more two people desperately sharing air between their gasping lungs.

“Я люблю тебя,” Ilya replies, teeth nipping at Shane's lower lip. “Brave. Perfect. красивый. Shane.

As their hearts eventually slow down and the ringing in Shane's ears subsides, he drapes himself easily across Ilya’s strong chest. He lays gentle kisses along the column of his neck, across his collar bone, and around the curve of his pecs. He isn't sure that he has words, or even the ability to use them if he did. But this is enough. It's enough.

It's perfect.

“You know… Monster energy reached out to me with a very interesting offer.”

Shane will simply choose to ignore that for now.

Chapter 2: for hollander

Chapter Summary

“What do you think Hollzy cut out?” LaPointe asks, leaning slightly forward to talk over Troy to Holmberg.

Holmberg lets out a low whistle, “I don't know but based in what he kept in, it had to be fucking brutal.”

The team learn the truth about the meetings with Crowell.

Chapter Notes

Welcome to a Troy Barrett Interlude.

HARRIS: Holy shit

TROY: What's wrong?

HARRIS: Where is Ilya right now? He hasn't replied to my text

TROY: Roz and Wiebe are doing pre-game press

TROY: What is going on? You're freaking me out babe

HARRIS: You haven't seen Shane's instagram posts???

Troy closes out of his messages and quickly opens his instagram app. He's not sure what to expect, especially since the last time Harris sent a message like this Ilya and Shane had been outed in front of the whole world. This couldn't possibly be that bad or life altering.

Right?

He finds Shane's posts quickly. Two reels – one with a picture of him and Ilya and another with Shane's bruised up face from the game against Montreal. Troy grabs his airpod case and pulls one free to slip into his ear as he sits down at his stall. He's not yet fully dressed for warm-ups but Harris had made this sound urgent.

Clicking on the first reel, Troy freezes upon hearing Roger Crowell's slightly muffled voice.

CROWELL:Hollander. Rozanov. Take a seat.

Chairs scratching softly against the floor is the only sound followed by several seconds of silence.

CROWELL: There are a few things in life that I absolutely can’t stand. One thing I hate is surprises. Another is disloyalty. And another is liars. But the thing I hate the most is being embarrassed. And I especially hate it when the league is embarrassed.

ROZANOV: That does sound bad.

CROWELL: You can imagine how I feel about you two right now. Your actions have put me in a very difficult situation. On the one hand, your behavior is completely unacceptable and absolutely cannot be allowed. On the other, you’re two of the biggest stars in the league and the playoffs are about to start.

HOLLANDER: Can’t be allowed?

CROWELL: I would think that part would be obvious. But I guess it wasn't because there's a video flying around the internet of you two making out.

HOLLANDER: It was a mistake.

CROWELL: You’re fucking right it was a mistake!

HOLLANDER: I meant the video wasn’t supposed to show that. We didn’t know.

CROWELL: Well, it did! And I had to fly to Montreal to deal with it. You think I have time for this? We need to get things back to normal as soon as possible. I don’t want a media circus around this thing.

HOLLANDER: We don’t either.

CROWELL: The league has prepared a statement.

Nearly a full minute of silence passes with only the sound of rustling paper in the air. Finally, there is a soft grunt.

HOLLANDER: But this isn’t true.

CROWELL: It doesn’t matter.

HOLLANDER: It fucking does matter! It wasn’t a prank! We’re together. We’re - we’re getting married this summer.

CROWELL: That is not happening. Not if you want to remain in this league.

ROZANOV: Really? You are going to kick us out?

HOLLANDER: We’ll sue the shit out of the league.

A heavy silence stretches for several seconds.

CROWELL: You’re right. You could sue. But do you think any team would sign you after that? Either way you’d be done. We release the statement, most hockey fans will believe it because they’ll want to believe it. There’s no scandal, you boys get to keep playing for as long as you want, and we all move on. And obviously, you don’t get fucking married this summer.

HOLLANDER: Fuck this! Here’s a plan: we do whatever we want this summer and then we come back and have all-star seasons again next year. We’re not a couple of naïve rookies you can intimidate. You think we don’t know what we’re worth to this league?

CROWELL: What you were worth. You’re destroying your own brands with this shit.

ROZANOV: No, we are making them stronger.

CROWELL: I am offering the only option that will save both of your careers and the reputation of this league. If you post your own statement and start flaunting your relationship then you will obliterate your legacies. You’ll be jokes. Choose carefully.

More silence, quickly interrupted by the abrupt sound of a chair scraping against the floor.

HOLLANDER: I choose him. Come on Ilya.

Troy's head shoots up from where he's been bent over his phone. He looks around the dressing room with wild eyes to see several other guys in the same position as him. Wyatt and Bood both look up at the same time with shell-shocked expressions on their faces. Troy holds up his phone, showing them the video he had just been listening to.

“Have you heard this shit?”

Wyatt laughs almost nervously, “Man, listen to the next one.”

He turns his own phone around and Troy can see the second video is up on his screen. Troy feels a little sick just imagining what fresh hell that one holds.

“Has Roz seen any of this?” Troy asks, already going back to Shane's profile.

“His phone is on top of his bag,” Bood says, nodding in the direction of Ilya’s chosen stall, “And the building is still standing so, probably not.”

Troy snorts back a soft laugh as he clicks the second reel that Hollander posted today.

CROWELL: I'm sure you can guess why I asked you to meet with me today.

HOLLANDER: I can't really think of a reason.

CROWELL: Your recent game and subsequent suspension is causing quite a stir.

HOLLANDER: Do you make it a point to meet with every player you suspend? It's been over a decade and I've never been suspended, so I don't really know the protocol here.

CROWELL: You were given the option of having a shorter suspension and you denied it. Why?

HOLLANDER: Was Comeau given the same deal? Would he have had a lessened suspension if he apologized for his unsportsmanlike conduct?

CROWELL: I'm not here to discuss Mr. Comeau's suspension.

HOLLANDER: Mm, okay. Would you like to know why I'm choosing to sit out for four games instead of just one?

A few seconds of brief silence broken up only by the soft creaking of a chair.

HOLLANDER: In our game against Montreal, I was repeatedly and purposefully targeted by multiple members of their team. Which I expected, we didn't exactly part on great terms– as I'm sure you can recall. Gilbert Comeau cross checked me into the boards and called me a bastard and a cocksucker, which is a term that the league itself has begun to flag players for as homophobic leading to penalties and fines. He then proceeded to say that I sold out the Montreal organization to, and I quote, ‘get fucked in the ass by that Russian monster’ before highsticking me and bursting open my lips. So, I hit him.

A short, weighted silence.

HOLLANDER: You called my coach and said I could face the maximum fine and a four game suspension, or a one game suspension if I issued a ‘public and personal apology for my egregious and violent response’. I refuse to apologize to a bigot for having a rational and appropriate response to being sexually harassed and hate-crimed in my place of work. I also find it absolutely insane that you would think that that would be an acceptable offer.

CROWELL: That is a hefty claim to just toss around. If I were you, I'd th–

HOLLANDER: Save the speech for the— [An obvious cut is made to the audio] You want me to roll over and apologize so the people who are rightfully calling the league out for this kind of bullshit stop. They're calling for your head online and you think I'm going to help you?

There is a hefty, sharp sound like someone hitting a desk.

CROWELL: I'll add another game to your suspension.

Rustling audio over what sounds like a chair scraping the floor.

HOLLANDER: Do what you've got to do and I will do what I've got to do.

Footsteps.

CROWELL: I'll add a game for every day you don't cooperate!

Troy's head snaps up once more. There are more guys glued to their phone and whispering to one another. Troy remembers his own brief phone call with the commissioner last season and how he'd felt like a child being scolded by their father. He couldn't imagine having these conversations face to face and still holding his ground.

Shane Hollander was a God among men.

“Where is Roz?” Troy asks, getting to his feet.

“I am right here, Barrett. Did you miss me that much?” Ilya asks with a laugh, all but swaggering into the dressing room.

He pauses, however, as everyone stops what they're doing to stare at him. He slowly looks around the room as his brows furrow deeply.

“What is this?” he asks, gesturing vaguely in the air.

Bood stands up and Troy is silently grateful that he doesn't have to be the one to tell Ilya that his husband just dropped a nuclear bomb on NHL headquarters.

“Shane posted recordings from his meetings with Crowell. The one you guys had last season and the one from today,” Bood explains carefully. He glances quickly around the room and then back to their captain. “He's pretty much gone full scorched earth but… considering what Crowell said he had it coming.”

That's an understatement.

Ilya doesn't respond. He rushes toward his bag and grabs his phone. Troy exhales and leans back against his stall.

“What do you think Hollzy cut out?” LaPointe asks, leaning slightly forward to talk over Troy to Holmberg.

Holmberg lets out a low whistle, “I don't know but based in what he kept in, it had to be fucking brutal.”

Troy ignores them and reopens his messages.

TROY: Hollander had balls of steel

TROY: Roz is watching now so I guess we'll see how he reacts. How are the higher ups dealing with it?

HARRIS: Equal parts impressed and horrified

TROY: Sounds about right

HARRIS: We are currently drafting an official response for the team socials

TROY: A good one I hope

Out of the corner of his eye, Troy spots Ilya getting to his feet. He's got his phone held out in front of him, obviously calling Shane. There are a few supportive and incredulous shouts from around the room, including a ’Good for you, man’ from Troy, before Ilya walks off somewhere to talk privately to his husband.

HARRIS: I've told you a thousand times, we've only got good people here

TROY: I know, I know

HARRIS: I have to get back to work. Good luck tonight 💗💗💗 I love you 😘

TROY: I love you too 😘 ❤️

“What an absolute scum bag,” Dykstra says loudly from his stall.

There are many murmurs of agreement from the room.

“He tried to shove them back in the closet?” Haas asks softly, looking over at Wyatt. The kid suddenly looks much younger than he actually is. Like he's just learned Santa isn't real or that the doctor is lying about just a little pinch. “Why would he do that?”

Troy scoffs, “Because Crowell is a bigot and a coward. He'd rather save his ass and the people who kiss it than try to be an actual human being for once.”

“Wow, Barrett, tell us how you really feel,” Ilya’s voice carries into the room. Everyone immediately shuts up and looks over to him.

Ilya returns to his stall and drops his phone onto his bag. He takes a deep breath before clapping his hands and turning around to face everyone.

“You've all seen and heard, yes? Shane is good, nervous and angry, but good. Our job right now is not to worry about Crowell and his fucking terrible comments on my and my husband's life. Our job is to go out there tonight and win! Because you all know that Shane will kill each and every one of us if we lose after he just put his whole neck on the line. New York scores nothing tonight.”

Wyatt nods enthusiastically, “I am a wall!”

“We move together, work together, we score together, we win together!” Ilya exclaims, slapping his right hand to his left with each declaration.

“We win for Hollzy,” Young shouts loudly.

Ilya looks momentarily taken aback but quickly schools his expression. He nods once, firmly and definitively.

“We win for Hollander.”

The room erupts into a unified cheer, “For Hollander!”

Chapter End Notes

I can't stay away~~