Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Wyatt Hayes, Luca Haas, Troy Barrett, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Gilbert Comeau

Additional Tags:

Shane Hollander Can Fight, Hockey Fights, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Shane Hollander Speaks French, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Fanwork Creator Knows Nothing About Hockey, Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Mild Blood, Non-Explicit Sex, Homophobic Language, Haymaker Hollander

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Kiss with a fist

Collections:

hollanov for the heart <3, HollaNov fanfics I Love

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-22 Words: 3,894 Chapters: 1/1

kiss with a fist

Summary

“You scared, Hollander?” Bryant asks, even though Shane can hear the tremor in his voice.

Shaking his head, Shane just grins, “Surprised they let you up from the kiddie table, Bryant. You've been sitting there for a while, think you're ready to play with the big boys now?”

Luca snorts back a laugh from Shane's right just as the ref approaches. Shane adjusts the grip on his stick and pulls his mouth guard between his teeth, gritting them against the silicone.

Shane wins the face off.

———

Or; Shane's first game against the Voyagers where they quickly learn that just because Shane doesn't fight, that doesn't mean that he can't fight.

Notes

There are descriptions of fights and minor blood (and possibly a lost tooth – shout out to my boy Eph!). There is also some unsavory chirps, no slurs but definitely not great.

Shane sees it coming. He's been preparing for it since he walked into the arena earlier in the day. He sees Comeau barreling toward him like a freight train and as fast as Shane is there's no escaping. He quickly bats the puck he's been running down the ice with behind him just as Haas is in sight and right as the kid has control, Shane is off of his skates. His left shoulder slams into the ice and he can barely hear the crowd over the loud crack of his helmet ricocheting off the ground.

He sits up quickly, eyes flitting from where Luca beautifully slips the puck past Drapeau to the sneer on Comeau's face as he turns away. He sees Comeau's lips pull back to mutter something but over the ringing in Shane's ears and the roar of the crowd, he has no idea what it is. There's shouting from the Centaur bench and Shane sees Holmberg gunning for Comeau as several other players pair off while the refs try to separate them.

“Hollzy, you alright, man?” Young asks, sliding to a stop beside him. “That locked gnarly as fuck.”

Shane nods, mumbling that he's fine, as he easily gets to his knees and then up to his feet. He looks over to the bench to see Ilya on his feet and leaning over the boards. It seems like Bood is the only reason that his husband hasn't fully jumped in to join fray. Coach Wiebe is waving him over and Shane spots the medics behind him.

“Are you alright, Shanya?” Ilya asks gruffly as Shane steps off the ice.

Nodding again, Shane lifts his hand to tap gently against the side of Ilya’s head, his heavy glove almost dwarfing his husband's beautiful worried face. “M'fine,” he murmurs, flashing a small smile. Before either of them can say anything else, Shane is being led off by the medic.

He takes a seat in the locker room and removes his helmet just as a small flashlight is being shined in his eyes.

“Can you tell me what day it is?”

“Tuesday.”

“Mhm, and where are we?”

Shane rolls his eyes, “Montreal. The Bell Centre.”

The medic touches his jaw, slowly turning his head from side to side. “What are we doing in Montreal?”

“Waiting for you to clear me of a concussion so I can get back on the ice?”

There is a prolonged moment of silence before the medic cracks a smile and shakes her head. “Are you dizzy? Nauseous?” she asks, scrutinizing his face.

“No, no, I'm good. Can I go back now?” Shane asks, clearly impatient.

“Yeah, you're good to go.”

Shane quickly mumbles a thank you as he snatches his helmet and hurries back out towards the rink. Before he can even reach the bench there is a loud wave of booing washing over the crowd at the sight of him which causes his shoulders to bristle. A year ago he had been a hero to this city and now… now they cheered as his former teammates tried to take him out of the game.

Luca turns his head at the sound to see Shane approaching and quickly gets to his feet. “Are you okay?” he asks a bit breathlessly, causing everyone on the bench to look over.

“No concussion. I'm cleared to go back,” he explains. He sets his gloves down in order to fix his helmet properly on his head. He glances to the ice just in time to see Hazy make a great save on a shot from Hayden. Shane looks back over to Coach Wiebe with a half smile. “I'm good to go whenever you need me.”

On the ice, Ilya is moving with the power and grace of a tiger stalking its prey. When Barrett loses the puck because of a less than clean maneuver by one of the Voyagers, that of course isn't called out much to the loud chagrin of the Ottawa bench, Ilya is across the ice in the blink of an eye and slamming the guy against the boards. From where he is sitting, Shane can see them saying something to each other. He knows by the curl of his husband's lip and the way his eyes narrow that it is not friendly game banter. Ilya struggles for half a second and manages to pull the puck free, sending it off toward Bood who is right where he needs to be.

Intermission begins before they're able to score again, and the Centaurs return to their dressing room holding tight to a 1 - 0 lead.

“How's your shoulder, Hollzy? You hit the ice pretty hard,” Wyatt asks as he removes his face mask and takes a seat by his chosen stall.

Shane takes a moment to silently catalog the feeling in his body. He had been too focused on getting cleared of a concussion, he hadn't even thought about his shoulder. He raises and rolls the joint slightly. There's a discomfort for sure, but it feels more tender like a bruise than anything that would require actual medical attention. “It's okay. I've been hit harder,” he replies with a blithe grin.

Ilya finally enters the room and Shane hardly has time to breathe before his face is being cradled by Ilya’s insistent hands.

“Do you think you can spot a secret hidden concussion that the medics missed?” Shane teases softly.

He sees the concern behind Ilya’s eyes even as he attempts to hide it with a petulant huff of air. His fingers tighten around Shane's jaw briefly before he lets go and moves to sit beside him. “What did Koch say to you?” Shane asks, shooting a sideways glance at his husband while he reaches for his water bottle.

Ilya rolls his eyes, wiping sweat from his face and neck with a towel. A slight tremor moves from between Ilya’s shoulders down the length of his back. His jaw flexes in a way that looks painful. Shane knows that he is trying to decide how much to say, and in doing so Shane also knows exactly what was said to piss Ilya off.

“He is a bad hockey player and tried to distract from that with worse chirp,” Ilya finally responds.

Shane knows that he is trying to protect him. Ilya has been almost as stressed for this game as Shane, if only because he was worried about what the Voyagers would have to say to Shane. He had even promised to pay for any fines that the league tried to sanction against their team for any response to whatever Montreal had planned for them.

Reaching out, Shane lays a gentle hand to the side of Ilya's neck, brushing his thumb just below his ear. Ilya's posture and muscles visibly relax at the touch.

As the minutes tick away and intermission is coming to a close, Ilya gets to his feet. Shane has come to enjoy this part of being on the same team– seeing Ilya be captain and motivating their team to play to their absolute best.

“Okay! Showing hands,” Ilya begins loudly. Shane bites back a grin as his brain quietly corrects ’show of hands’. Ilya moves to the center of the dressing room, spinning in a slow circle. “Who here got smacked around a bit by Voyagers?” Ilya is the first to raise his hand. Shane does as well, followed by Bood, Barrett, Haas, Holmberg, and Dykstra. “And who isn't going to let them get away with it?”

Their hands remain in the air, and everyone else raises theirs as well. Ilya's grin widens, lips pull back and jaw pushing forward. He looks like a wild animal waiting to be released. Shane files the feelings in his stomach away for later.

“We have been preparing for this since pre-season! These assholes are playing dirty because they know they cannot win otherwise. They are coming for one of us.” Ilya’s eyes dart to Shane, a fierce flame flickering behind the hazel flecks. “So, they will get all of us! Hazy has stopped three shots already! Haas, my boy! Scored a beautiful goal! Bood, Barrett, Chouinard, Dykstra all held their own and stopped Voyagers in their tracks. We can do this. We will do this! If Montreal wants to play rough, then we will show them what that means! Let them chirp, let crowd boo. Let it fuel you. Get your asses out there and win!”

There is a cacophony of cheers as everyone gathers their things and exits the dressing room, heading back out to the rink. Shane grabs his helmet and walks over to Ilya.

“I love you,” he whispers softly.

Ilya grins broadly, “I love you too.”

The Voyagers finally send out the center they acquired after Shane left. He's a young kid they got from Carolina, Bryant. Shane's seen some of his game play during the last year and, honestly, wasn't impressed. So, making his way to the line to face off with the kid wasn't all that worrisome.

“You scared, Hollander?” Bryant asks, even though Shane can hear the tremor in his voice.

Shaking his head, Shane just grins, “Surprised they let you up from the kiddie table, Bryant. You've been sitting there for a while, think you're ready to play with the big boys now?”

Luca snorts back a laugh from Shane's right just as the ref approaches. Shane adjusts the grip on his stick and pulls his mouth guard between his teeth, gritting them against the silicone.

Shane wins the face off.

Shane is skating past the Voyagers bench when he spots Bryant from the corner of his eye. The kid had been on him every time that they were on the ice at the same time like he's got something to prove. He obviously does. Montreal paid a lot of money for The Next Shane Hollander and it was beginning to look like they overpaid for an overhyped kid. As Bryant approaches, Shane lowers his shoulder just as he barrels into him. Shane shifts his weight and stands upright, sending the kid rolling across his shoulders and into the bench full of surprised looking Voyagers.

“Take a seat, kid,” Shane laughs, pushing further down the ice.

The crowd is split between booing and laughing. Shane feels exuberant. Dillon pushes Koch out of the way, clearing the path for Shane to take a shot on goal just as he crosses in front. He hears the puck ricochet off the side, but it is flung back towards him. Without much thought, Shane is able to catch it in mid-air with the blade of his stick and fling it back to soar under Drapeau's arm.

The buzzer is loud.

The crowd's anger is louder.

Shane laughs as Luca skates into him, knocking their helmets together. “Holy shit!” Luca laughs too, slapping a hand to Shane's shoulder.

Skating back, Shane is torn between rewatching the goal on the jumbotron and looking at a seething Bryant on the Voyagers bench. He exits to ice and is met with cheers, fist bumps, and an enthusiastic kiss against the side of his helmet.

The middle of the third period finds Ottawa up 4 to 1, and the crowd is foaming at the mouth while the Voyagers are truly out for blood. The plexiglass around the rink practically vibrates with the cheering and stomping of everyone in their seats. It is loud and aggressive and ruthless. Wilson from Montreal is serving a double-minor in the sin bin for roughing Barrett while Ilya sits in his own penalty box grinning like a lunatic after receiving a minor penalty for hooking.

Haas shoots a gorgeous pass right to Shane just as a defender from Montreal barrels into him, knocking the kid against the boards. Shane hardly has time to move before Comeau is once again bearing down on him. Shane's back slaps harshly against the glass as Comeau presses painfully into the shoulder that Shane previously smashed against the ice.

Shane tries to push him off, to keep control of the puck. He would love nothing more than to score again, just to rub in how badly they fucked up by doubting him.

Comeau lifts his stick from the ice and shoves it against Shane, pinning him in place against the glass. His eyes narrow and his lips curl into an ugly sneer. “Espèce de putain de bâtard, espèce de suceur de bite! Tu as vendu ton équipe pour te faire enculer par ce monstre russe!” he spits angrily, pushing harder against Shane's chest with the barrel of his stick.

Other players and refs are quickly making their way over to break them up, especially with the obvious cross-check happening. When Comeau pulls away, he raises his stick again and the blade slaps Shane in the mouth. He feels the warm gush of blood before the metallic tang hits his tongue.

He sees red.

He drops his gloves.

The crowd roars.

Shane surges forward, grabs Comeau by the collar and punches him three times in the face in quick succession until he feels a crack under his knuckles. There's shouting and hands and bodies everywhere. Shane feels a fist make a connection to his cheek but he doesn't feel it. All he feels is his heart hammering against his sternum and the warm blood on his face. He manages to shove Comeau to the ground and continues his flurry of fists against his face.

He is finally yanked off of Comeau so hard that his helmet goes clattering to the ground.

“Peut-être que si tu pensais à coucher avec ta femme autant que tu penses, de toute évidence, au fait que je couche avec mon mari, elle ne serait pas en train de te divorcer!” Shane shouts as both Bood and Barrett pull him back. He hears a cut off laugh and spots J.J. attempting to bite back a smile as he puts himself between Shane and Comeau before turning to direct his own team off the ice.

There is what looks to be a tooth skittering across the ice after someone's skate knocks into it as Comeau is dragged away.

Shane spits and there is a translucent glob of red on the ice by the toe of his skate. Suddenly he is dizzy and unsteady on his feet. In all of his years of professional hockey, he has never intentionally been involved in an actual fight. He's never had sore knuckles and blood in his mouth. He isn't moving his own feet. Bood is pushing him back towards their bench where, once again, a medic is waiting for him.

Ilya is in the open door of the penalty box as he passes by, shock and rage and something else bubbling underneath his expression. Shane forces a smile at him, a shock of pain lacing up his face at the motion, and continues toward the medics. He knows he is being removed from the remainder of the game so he doesn't bother paying much attention to the ref or Coach Wiebe as he steps off the ice.

He's brought to the small medical room, not just the dressing room this time.

The blood is cleared from his face and he's asked to gargle something to get the blood from his mouth as well before spitting it into a trashcan at his feet. The same medic from the first period takes her time inspecting the laceration on his face.

“He got you good,” she murmurs softly.

Shane winced, “Am I going to need stitches?”

“No, that won't be necessary. I'm going to get you some ice to keep the swelling down. Then, we'll apply some petroleum. It'll hurt for a few days and you'll have to avoid spicy or citrusy foods for a while and keep to softer foods until it's healed a bit more,” she explains, tossing her gloves into the trash.

Shane watches her step away before coming back with two cloth wrapped ice packs. “For your mouth,” she says, dropping one into Shane's left hand. She lays the other the back of Shane's right hand where it's been resting against the medical table he's sat on. “And one for your hand.”

He presses the ice against his mouth, shivering at the temperature. “Thank you,” he mumbles against the cloth.

Then, he is alone.

Distantly, he can hear the final buzzer followed by a mass disappointed exhale from the crowd. Shane smiles as best as he can with his busted lip. He sits alone with his two ice packs for quite a bit of time before the medic returns with a small pot of petroleum. Shane has no idea how long he's been sitting there. Five, ten, fifteen minutes? She moves the ice away from his face and gently dabs it along the cut on his lip.

“You'll wanna apply this every couple hours so it doesn't dry out and crack open again,” she explains, handing the pot to him.

Shane nods, slipping from the table. He holds the ice against his hand and holds the petroleum tightly. He murmurs a heartfelt thank you before turning to leave the room.

The dressing room is in absolute chaos when he returns.

There is music and shouting and laughter. Some of which grinds to a halt when he is spotted making his way around the edge of the room toward his stall.

“Look out– Here comes Haymaker Hollander!” Wyatt shouts, standing on the bench.

A raucous cheer goes up and hands pat him heavily on the back as he passes by. Shane's face is warm from the attention. At his stall, he struggles for a moment to get out of his jersey and gear. By the time that he is down to his underwear, a towel wrapped around his waist as he readies himself for a shower, he feels a hand brush against the back of his shoulder. He doesn't say anything, he just turns because he knows who it is.

Ilya is there with dripping wet hair and only a pair of black boxer briefs. He obviously showered quickly after the game. “Shanya,” he coos softly, taking Shane's face in his hands. Shane has a pretty firm no excessive PDA rules when it comes to work, but he is willing to let his slide a bit tonight. “Your beautiful face.” Ilya's thumb brushes gently from Shane's upper lip to the lower, tracing the split. He leans in to gingerly press their lips together but Shane can't help the hiss of pain that escapes him before pulling back.

“Sorry,” he mumbles a bit sadly.

Shaking his head, Ilya leans in to lay a soft kiss to the freckles dusting Shane's cheek, “No. Is okay. I am just glad you're okay.”

“More than okay!” LaPointe calls from his stall where he's struggling into his suit pants. “You knocked out Comeau's tooth, man!”

A few scattered calls of ‘Haymaker Hollander’ echo through the room.

Shane flushes and rolls his eyes.

“I have to do press. You shower and change, okay? I will be quick and then we can go to hotel,” Ilya explains softly, kissing Shane's cheek once more before turning to get dressed himself.

“What did he say to you?”

Shane's hands pause where they are working the buttons closed on his shirt, his right hand aches and it is very slow going. He glances to his right to see Troy watching him closely. Shane considers, for just a moment, lying to Troy. He is sure that Troy probably already knows, just as Shane knows what Koch probably said to Ilya earlier in the game.

He sighs, glancing down at his bruised hand.

“He called me a cocksucker and said I sold out my team to get fucked by a Russian monster,” he says through gritted teeth.

Troy sucks in a breath. It doesn't sound shocked, but almost painful like he had been the one slammed into the boards and high-sticked in the face.

“That is so fucked. I'm glad you knocked his lights out.”

Shane snorts back a laugh and finishes the buttons on his shirt as he shakes his head. He grabs his tie and focuses on the knot, avoiding looking back at Troy. There's an uncomfortable feeling percolating in Shane's gut. He isn't upset that he fought Comeau, not really. The asshole absolutely deserved it, and more. But there was a point in time where Shane had considered him, and almost everyone in the dressing room, a friend. A brother. And tonight they really tried to put the final nail in the Shane Hollander: Montreal Hero coffin.

He sniffles, his eyes suddenly wet and his face hot.

Troy pats him once on the arm and steps away to give him space which Shane is infinitely grateful for. He takes slow, even breaths, as he finishes getting changed. When he is done, he turns to see Ilya reentering the dressing room. He looks so good in his suit that if he weren't on the verge of crying, Shane would want to ravish him. Unfortunately, they aren't alone and Shane is in an unprecedentedly delicate situation.

Ilya holds out a hand in Shane's direction.

Shane smiles, with the left side of his mouth, and walks over. Their fingers lace together easily, and Ilya raises their clasped hands to his lips so that he can lay gentle kisses to each of Shane's bruised knuckles.

“Ready to go, moya boksorskaya perchatka?”

Shane squints at Ilya, his tired and overstimulated brain trying to translate whatever nonsense his husband has said. “Glove?” he murmurs softly. His eyebrows furrow in concentration. “Boks… oh, you asshole. Boxing glove, really?

Ilya cackles and lays a loud, smacking kiss to the back of Shane's hand.

“Da, my sweet little boxing glove!”

With his chest rising and falling heavily, Shane tosses his head back against the pillow beneath it. A high, breathy whine spills from his lips as his eyes squeeze shut. “Ilya,” he moans softly, fingers gripping into the sheets.

He is putty in Ilya’s hands.

He has long since lost track of time, only able to focus on the ebb and flow of pleasure through his veins with each touch that Ilya bestows upon his body. Shane's body is warm and flush with color, covered in a sheen of sweat. Ilya keeps kissing his skin, anyway he can reach, and mumbling soft words in English and Russian against him until they fill every pore and weave themselves into Shane's very being.

His hands reach for Ilya, searching for an anchor point against his dewy skin. They slide over planes of hard muscle until they grab hold of his shoulders, fingertips digging in as he gasps into the air.

Sometime in the near future, probably as the sun rises and they pile onto the bus to return to Ottawa, Shane will replay every minute of the game. He will see the looks, hear the words, and feel the hits all over again. But right now, in his hotel bed with his husband pressing worshiping kisses to his sweat damp skin and whispering words of adoration between deep, rumbling moans, none of that matters. The pain in his lips and knuckles are gone from his mind. There is only pleasure.

There is only Ilya.

There has only ever been Ilya.

Works inspired by this one

a kiss with a fist is better than none by theirish_0ne

Art inspired by "Kiss With A Fist" by Selective_Attention by skargasm