Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers)

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-02 Words: 1,121 Chapters: 1/1

Mary Jane.

Summary

After a big loss against Chicago, Ilya smoked with his teammates to calm down.

Ilya lowered his head and inhaled deeply. The harsh smoke rolled down his throat. He exhaled slowly and watched the gray rings twist in Ottawa’s cold night air. They dispersed until nothing remained.

He should have hated Shane.

The logic was flawless. The causal line was clear. It had been Shane’s plan. Shane had exiled him to this unfamiliar and dull ache of a present.

And yet, no matter how deeply he searched his heart, Ilya found no hatred. He did not find even a trace of it.

Notes

kotik = kitten

I dedicate all my love to RAYE’s Mary Jane. The moment I saw that Shane’s alias was Jane, I knew I wanted to write a scene where Ilya is smoking and thinking about his own “Jane.”

I wrote this tonight in a rush of pure impulse. It’s short, but I hope it lets you feel just how deeply Ilya has fallen. Shane really has him completely wrapped around his finger.

🔗 中文翻译版本在这里

Half the lights in the practice rink had already been shut off. Only a single dim emergency lamp above the back door remained. It stretched everyone’s shadows long and thin across the floor. Ilya leaned against the cold brick wall, a cigarette pinched between his fingers. The ember flared and faded in the night.

His teammates were still talking beside him. Laughter tangled with sighs. When the conversation drifted to the result of the game against Chicago two days ago, the air noticeably sank.

Encouraging words rose to the tip of his tongue. He could almost taste them. They were bland, correct, and utterly weightless.

“It’s fine. We played well enough. We’ll watch the tape and shore up the weak spots. Next time.”

Next time.
The words never made it out. Instead, they crumbled between his teeth into powder.

It was always next time. It felt like an endless runway with no finish line. Tomorrow kept retreating, a mirage that could never be reached.

Next time.

He dragged hard on the cigarette and let the searing smoke flood his lungs. It felt as if it might burn through the blockage lodged there, the thing called helplessness. Anger surged up in its wake. It was sharp and unmistakable. It was aimed both at the glaring numbers on the standings and at the version of himself who could only keep repeating “next time.”

Next time?
That phrase had never existed in his dictionary before. His world had once contained only “now.” It had contained only “win.” It had contained only the act of crushing whatever stood in his way.

That was especially true when it came to the Montreal Metros.
It was especially true when he fought against Shane Hollander.

What if...What if he were still in Boston?

The thought surfaced without permission. It lodged itself in his mind like a barbed arrow and refused to be pulled free.

If the trajectory had not shifted, he would have ripped the Stanley Cup out of Montreal’s hands. Last year’s final would have belonged to the two of them. Shane’s brown eyes would have burned beneath the blinding lights and sweat. They would have been filled with defiance and refusal to yield. Ilya would have driven his shoulder and his entire body into Shane. He would have smashed him into the rink glass. The impact would have thundered through their pads and straight into their bones.

The collision would have been violent, almost indistinguishable from a fight. Yet it would have been a kind of foreplay that only they could understand. The night that followed would have given every frustration and desire a brutal outlet. Ilya would have forced Shane to his knees on the bed and drawn pleading words from his pretty mouth. He would have fucked those eyes, the ones so calm and analytical on the ice, until they rolled back white. Every suppressed gasp and hoarse cry would have been reduced to a single name: Ilya. Even the golden glory of the Cup would have faded, becoming nothing more than a distant, dim backdrop to that private, unhinged night.

That was where he belonged.
He belonged at the top.
He belonged locked in combat with the very best.
He belonged on the rink, dancing with his rival

But instead, he was here. He was in Ottawa. He was on a team that could not even sniff the playoffs. He was sharing a numbing cigarette with teammates who were beginning to grow accustomed to losing.

He should have hated Shane.

It was Shane who had proposed that so-called “long game.” It was Shane who had suggested he give up Boston. Shane had pushed him away from the brutal splendor of top-tier competition and into this mediocrity. Shane had pushed him down into this mud pit.

Ilya lowered his head and inhaled deeply. The harsh smoke rolled down his throat. He exhaled slowly and watched the gray rings twist in Ottawa’s cold night air. They dispersed until nothing remained.

He should have hated Shane.

The logic was flawless. The causal line was clear. It had been Shane’s plan. Shane had exiled him to this unfamiliar and dull ache of a present.

And yet, no matter how deeply he searched his heart, Ilya found no hatred. He did not find even a trace of it.

Instead, an uncontrollable hint of a laugh threatened to pry apart his tightly pressed lips. He imagined getting home later. He imagined Shane catching the lingering scent of smoke on him. Shane’s brows would knit together as he launched into that overly serious and annoyingly detailed lecture about health.

“Ilya! You’re a player! You’re killing your career, and smoking is extremely unhealthy! Don’t touch cigarettes!”

The intensity of it would make the freckles scattered across his cheeks dance with every word. He would look like a little kotik puffing up when teased.

To outsiders, Shane Hollander was flawless to the point of boredom.
But to Ilya, Shane was someone who frowned. He was someone who rolled his eyes. He was someone who played dirty when he lost an argument.

Every one of those imperfections was a version of Shane granted to him alone. They were irreproducible. They were undeniably real.

Ilya was obsessed with the way Shane got angry. It was never real anger, just a brief, private pout. Those small flashes of irritation existed because of him and for him alone. They were so unbearably cute they made his chest ache. He loved that version of Shane to death. He loved the man who was “the golden boy" in front of cameras and alive in his arms. Shane was temperamental. He was vivid. He was prone to those petty fits of annoyance meant only for him.

Just imagining that look, the one where restraint tangled with vivid emotion, sent a familiar and almost painful shiver racing up Ilya’s spine. His knees were weak. He surrendered completely, and he did so gladly. Against Shane Hollander, he had never stood a chance. He never would.

He crushed the cigarette butt into the ground with his shoe and ground it down until the final ember died. He turned and pushed open the heavy back door. Then he abruptly pivoted and walked back into the rink.

“I’m doing two more laps,” he called to his teammates as he moved toward the empty arena.

The ice lay vast and silent beneath the lights. His first push echoed faintly. It sounded like a heartbeat. As the wind rushed past his ears, he imagined a familiar figure waiting at the finish line.

No matter how winding the path was.
No matter how distant “next time” might be.

There was always someone who would be there.