Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Dallas Kent, Original Characters

Additional Tags:

Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Hockey Fights, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of the new me fights 'verse

Stats:

Published: 2026-09-04 Words: 1,717 Chapters: 1/1

they both reached for the gun

Summary

Three St. Louis Mudpuppies players accidentally stumble upon something that they were never supposed to learn. They know what their teammate is accusing Shane Hollander of, and that means they also know that this won't end well, so what else are they supposed to do except contact Ilya Rozanov, of course?

Notes

hey y'all, this is the baby companion piece i was talking about :) not a lot, but fun anyways

for reference:
Blake Nilsen (older player) & Tomas Novak (younger player), both play for STL, have some low-level romantic tendencies neither are paying attention to too close 😂
Joseph Anderson (team USA player), close trustworthy friend of Nilsen, also plays for STL

June 2022

St. Louis, Missouri, USA

Enterprise Center Arena

 

“Nils, Moro just said something…really bad,” Tomas says, eyes widened slightly and looking genuinely disturbed as he switches into Norwegian.

Blake’s brow furrows, pushing Tomas aside and leading them both down the hall until they finally come across a small conference room. He closes the door behind him and rounds on Tomas expectantly. “Tell me.”

Tomas looks genuinely uncomfortable at the idea of repeating whatever the fuck it is their teammate said to Hollander, so that’s how Blake knows it must be bad. “He—he said, ‘What's wrong, Hollander? Figured I'd put you in your place, since Kent apparently didn't manage to do it.’”

Blake recoils like he’s been struck, mouth dropping open slightly. That definitely isn’t what he’d been expecting the younger player to say. Morozevich has absolutely been saying a lot of stuff that is completely over the line, that he obviously knew, but something like that?

It’s no secret that Hollander’s face had been bruised up during the Olympics back in 2014, but their back-up goalie Jean Côté had been way too excited to inform them like the gossip he is that Hollander had told their group chat that he and Rozanov had gotten into a fight. The gossip had turned in the direction of what a big scandal a physical fight between them is considering they’re romantically involved. Blake had always assumed that the explanation Hollander had given must be true. The likelihood of Kent attacking someone as well-loved as Shane Hollander is so low, he’d figured. Blake didn’t play in the Olympics back in 2014, though, so he has no idea whether any of team USA’s players had had the same injuries that John Doe #1 did.

But their teammate Joseph Anderson would know. He’d been an alternate captain for team USA in 2014.

“Do you think Kent—do you think Hollander is the one he attacked in Sochi?” Tomas whispers.

“I don’t know,” Blake says honestly, setting his jaw. “We could find out, though. Joey played for team USA in 2014.”

Something truly disturbed and resigned appears on Tomas’s face. “That’s not a no. Hollander was that fucked up back then? You think it’s possible enough that you’d rope Joey into this?”

“Côté said that Hollander told their group chat he and Rozanov had gotten into a fight and that’s how he got those bruises on his face. He also said that Hollander had bruises shaped like fingerprints on his waist and that he’d told the team he’d hooked up with a woman the night before,” Blake says quietly, his face turning increasingly grim as Tomas’s does the same. “Hollander is gay, and those two strike me as too disgustingly in love to get into a physical fight with each other, even back then. They never fought even on the ice, so those explanations both sound like lies to me.”

“So you want to bring somebody else into this and run the risk of everyone finding out? Clearly Hollander doesn’t want anyone to know, and why the hell would he?”

“No, I want to ask Anderson because if it’s true, we need to make sure he doesn’t bring it up to Moro, because I have a bad feeling about what would happen if Moro were to find out.”

Tomas still doesn’t seem to love the idea of this. “You trust Anderson with something like this?”

“I trust Anderson with my life, Novak,” Blake replies, and he means it.

It must sound like he means it, too, because Tomas looks convinced. He nods once. “Okay, fine. Ask Joey. If it’s…if it’s true, you’re right, we gotta make sure Moro doesn’t find out.” He looks frazzled and genuinely ill. Blake wants to pull him into his arms and hold him tight. He wants to smooth down the hair that’s sticking up endearingly from the top of Tommy’s head and…and kiss his forehead, probably.

Good lord, this is getting out of hand, Blake thinks to himself, genuinely holding himself back from doing any of that because of how incredibly not-buddies that would be of him.

Blake returns to the locker room and approaches Joey’s stall, trying very hard to school his face and hide the lowkey panic he’s feeling. He does a quick sweep of the room and notices Barkov and Morozevich are notably absent. He doesn’t spend any time wondering about where they’ve gone. This is a time-sensitive issue, after all.

“Joey, can I borrow you for a minute?” he says, trying his best to sound casual.

Anderson looks up, mildly surprised but definitely not hostile. “Sure, man,” he agrees, allowing Blake to lead the way back out of the room.

So here all three of them are, shut away in a conference room in the middle of a fucking playoff game with a timebomb in their laps.

“This looks serious,” Anderson remarks, raising his eyebrows at the grim expression on Tomas’s face.

“It is,” Blake says with a nod. There’s no use in wasting time dancing around the issue. “We—Tomas overheard something Moro said to Hollander. It was, uh, it was bad, Andy. And…uh, listen, I need to ask you something, and you’re gonna think we’re crazy.”

“Jesus fuck, what the hell is it?” Anderson curses, looking from Blake to Tomas in surprise.

“Was anybody on team USA in Sochi back in 2014 injured in some way? A broken nose, a black eye, something like that.”

Anderson stills, his face going impressively blank. “What.”

“I think you know why I’m asking, but I’m trying really hard not to invade someone’s fucking privacy right now, Andy, so tell me if I have a reason to or not,” Blake says.

“This is fucking insane—” Joey begins, shaking his head.

“Just answer the fucking question, Anderson,” Blake says, wincing at his tone. “Sorry, fuck, it’s just—this is a time sensitive issue, Joey.”

Anderson stares. Nilsen stares straight back, unwavering. “No,” Anderson says finally, shaking his head. “No, none of our guys were hurt like that.”

“Fuck,” Tomas says.

“Alright, we don’t have time to waste,” Blake says, ignoring the dread that comes with the realization that, as far as they know, the only person on team USA and team Canada who was hurt in the way John Doe #1 was in 2014, it seems, is Shane Hollander. “Who has Rozanov’s number?”

Anderson looks at him like he’s nuts.

“If Moro really is fishing to find out if what he thinks happened to Hollander is true, then we can’t let him find out,” Blake says, pulling out his phone. “I don’t think that’s information Moro should have about him, do you?”

Anderson’s jaw clicks closed. “No,” he says flatly.

“Exactly, so let’s hurry up and find Rozanov’s number before we run out of time and this blows up,” Blake says impatiently.

“Why Rozanov?” Anderson says, even as he obediently pulls his phone out.

“We need to ask permission to intervene, man. It’s—you know how Moro is, Andy,” Blake says, frustrated and trying not to get overwhelmed. “It’s—if it is Hollander, if it isn’t Hollander, either way if he thinks it’s true he’s gonna—this won’t end well, Anderson.”

“So you’re going to intervene?”

“No, you are,” Blake replies. “If he asks about team USA, you lie. You tell him someone was hurt or…I don’t know, we’ll figure it out.”

“Jesus fucking christ, Nils, this is nuts,” Anderson curses, shaking his head. “We can’t fucking do this.”

“Well then I hope you can sleep at night after Moro does something fucking horrific to Hollander, Joey, because that’s what we’re talking about here right now,” Blake says, laughing humorlessly.

They know their teammates. Barkov is homophobic, yes, but Morozevich is downright hateful, no matter what type of bigotry you’re talking about. It’s disgusting but there isn’t really a lot any of them can do about it, and anyways it’s rare that they’re so overt about it. In a Russian locker room, sure, but they’re self-aware enough to remember the fact that they play in North America most of the time.

“I can’t say anything about the team, he’ll get a different answer if he asks any of the other team USA guys,” Joey says flatly, staring Blake down. “Hollander told his team that he got into a fight with Ilya, I know that. So if I have to, I’ll say that I saw Shane punch Ilya in the village and that they got into a fight, and I’ll say it like it’s some big piece of gossip because they’re married after all, and I’ll feel disgusting the whole time about it, because our teammate is fucking disgusting.”

“If they say yes,” Blake says, nodding.

“If they say yes,” Anderson agrees.

***

Hollander says yes. Rozanov relays his consent. Anderson accepts this without protest, nodding his head and setting his jaw with a grim expression on his face.

Blake watches Moro approach Hollander and chirp the same kind of vile garbage that Tomas had reported. Hollander, someone Blake never pegged for a good actor, responds with a smirk that’s like Ilya Rozanov’s spirit shining through him, and barks back something to provoke Moro in response. It pisses Moro off, so Blake figures it must’ve been something of the gay variety.

And it works, Blake thinks. It’s convincing. Scarily convincing, to the point that dread further settles in Blake’s stomach at the idea, because of course it would be if this is something Hollander has been hiding for this long. Brand deal commercials? An awkward Sally à la Gus Sinclair. Staring a horrific accusation in the face in the form of a homophobic Russian man who thinks he knows something awful happened to him? Smirks, cocky, lazy smiles, chirping like he was born to do it.

Morozevich leaves Hollander alone for the rest of the game, and Blake, Tomas, and Joey relax enough that they could practically fall down with relief.

Joey brushes by Blake as they board the bus to their hotel after the game. “He’s a good liar,” he says, swinging into a seat across the aisle from Blake.

Blake starts in surprise, but he returns the resigned expression on Anderson’s face when he looks over. “Yeah, I think so, too.”