Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Wyatt Hayes, Zane Boodram, Evan Dykstra, Luca Haas, Troy Barrett

Additional Tags:

Texting, Texting Fic, Humor, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Slice of Life, Domestic Fluff, POV Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-07 Words: 5,012 Chapters: 1/1

kiss and (don't) make up

Summary

“We need you to argue again,” Dykstra says suddenly.

A few seconds of silence follow, three sets, four if you include Haasy looking up uncertainly every couple of seconds, of eyes trained on them expectantly.

“You want us to argue?” Shane repeats slowly, confusedly.

Bood nods solemnly. “We played the best game of the fucking season after your argument—”

“It wasn’t because of our argument,” Shane tries to counter, but Ilya’s pretty sure he even knows it’s pointless.

“It was because of your argument,” Wyatt says. “You need to argue on game days.”

Dykstra points between Shane and Ilya. “We need you to argue tomorrow. No questions asked. You are the Captain and the Captain’s first man.”

“Sorry?” Shane says at the same time Ilya says, “No.”

 
Or the Ottawa Centaurs win a game after Shane and Ilya have a petty argument and turn it into a superstition. Texting fic edition.

Notes

this is primarily a texting fic. hope you enjoy :)

Married life was blissful; everything Ilya had once craved in a way that made his stomach feel hollow and his heart feel shattered. He’d hung onto this thing between them until the tips of his fingers were white from the strain. And it had been worth every second of what it had taken them to get here. One of the happiest moments of his life was saying I do to Shane Hollander, surrounded by all their friends and family.

Gone were the days of stressing about the unbearable long fucking distance, hiding these huge parts of themselves, sneaking around in hotel rooms. They no longer fought about commitment, or coming out, or all the horrible, terrible things Ilya would be more than happy to never revisit for as long as they lived.

But in its place was—

Ilya flicks the bike’s resistance up a notch, letting his eyes flutter closed, irritation skirting over his skin as he runs a jerky hand through his hair. “It was an accident,” he says, not for the first time that morning.

“An expensive accident—” Shane immediately throws back, refusing to tear his scathing gaze away from where he’s very pointedly staring a hole into the gym wall, his breath coming out in huffs as he cycles harder.

Shane was clearly irritated. He was irritated in a way that maybe, in Ilya’s professional opinion, putting some space between them would solve or at least simmer the rising tension. Instead, he refused to move from Ilya’s side. So far, they’d argued while Ilya spotted Shane on the weight bench, Shane glaring up at him in a way that made Ilya sweat. Then after that, Ilya had dragged himself over to the stationary bikes, and Shane had followed, hopping onto the one next to him with another frustrated huff.

Ilya won’t admit it, but he fucking loves it. He doesn’t know what the signs of a good marriage are, but it might be this.

“We are fucking millionaires,” he tries, watching that notch deepen between Shane’s eyebrows with fascination. If they weren’t an hour into this argument, fucking thank you, blissful marriage, Ilya would reach forward and smooth it out.

Shane’s head whips back toward him, a bite in his tone now. “It doesn’t mean we should throw money away.”

Ilya throws his hands up. “We are not throwing money away. It was an accident.” Ilya puts stress on the word accident because he’s not a fucking monster who doesn’t know how to do laundry—

“All the shirts that weren’t technically mine yet are pink—”

“You look so pretty in pink,” Ilya purrs, entirely for the reaction. He tilts his head toward him, raising an eyebrow.

It works like a charm because Shane shoots him a scathing glare in return, shifting on the bike. The wall is spared for now. Ilya is nothing if not a good samaritan. He’s saved this entire gym from going down in a blaze of glory.

“They were for a brand deal,” Shane reiterates. Again. “I hadn’t even worn them yet. And now they’re all fucking pink, Ilya.”

“If you have not worn them yet, then why did you need to wash them?” Ilya asks. “All at one time.”

“Because we have the good fabric softener,” Shane explains, punctuated by another sigh, because apparently that should be obvious.

It was obvious. Ilya knew Shane back to front. Knew he liked to wash things he got in the mail to make them as soft as he could for comfort.

Much like Ilya knew how to do laundry, but this time, he’d been cursed by a rogue red Canada sock. So, really—

“It was mostly your fault,” Ilya says.

“You put your stupid gym shirt in—” Shane waves a hand between the bikes, almost brushing Ilya’s chest because they’re so close.

Ilya looks down at his gym shirt, another casualty of the great Canada sock saga. What was once a crisp white Nike undershirt is now a pastel pink. He’d had to commit to wearing it after Shane had raised the point that Ilya would never wear that shirt again now.

So, Ilya had worn the shirt, obviously.

Ilya flicks the bike up again, dropping his head to focus on pedalling harder. “It was Canada sock.”

Shane copies him absentmindedly, flicking his own bike up. “It was what?”

“Canada sock,” Ilya repeats, his words a little strained now. “Big maple leaf on the side.” His eyes flick down again. “Red. Angry. Similar to my husband right now.”

Shane scoffs, a full-blown scoff reverberating around the empty gym. “Why the fuck do we even have a singular Canada sock?” Shane asks the wall again, but from the corner of his eye, Ilya can see Shane push harder, matching Ilya’s pace.

Ilya wipes a quick hand across his forehead. “Probably because you are Canadian—”

And okay, Shane was right. Ilya could admit that it wasn’t an ideal situation. A red sock in the white load of laundry was a tale as old as time. But it had been an accident. Ilya had thrown the white gym shirt into the load on his way past, none the wiser that a chasm in his marriage had been tangled up in the arm.

It was a mistake anyone could make. But apparently today, to Shane Hollander, Ilya had committed a cardinal sin. He was beyond forgiveness; he had to accept that every day for as long as they lived, the red sock would be a point of contention.

Shane huffs again. But still pointedly doesn’t move. Even though there’s an identical line of stationary bikes on the other side of the gym.

“Did you get Farah to email the brand?” Ilya asks conversationally, flicking his bike up again as he tries to diffuse the situation.

He knew what they were doing; the air was crackling between them, that competitive edge they’d loved for years creeping back in. Now they played on the same team; they had to chase it when they could.

Shane’s gaze hovers on Ilya’s bike, and then flicks to his own, clicking the resistance up two.

“Really?” Ilya asks, sweat dripping down his forehead.

“Farah emailed them,” Shane finally answers, and his voice sounds a little strained now, too.

“Good,” Ilya says. He doesn’t bother asking if the brand will send out more shirts. He knows for a fact there will be a new parcel outside of their door on express delivery by tomorrow morning at the latest. A red sock isn’t going to stop this sports brand from getting their Shane Hollander Instagram pictures.

He doesn’t know why they couldn’t have settled for pink. Ilya was rocking it just fine.

Shane tips his chin in a stiff nod. “Okay.”

Ilya faces forward again, trying not to pant as his legs start to ache. He lasts all of a minute before he swings his head back, petty annoyance still prickling over his skin right there with his burning calves. “You did not refill the ice tray last night,” he throws out, and it lands like a bomb there in the gym.

Shane slowly turns to face him, more annoyance pinching his features than when he’d pulled the red sock out.

Ilya has to bite the inside of his cheek, hard.

But before Shane can say anything, the door slams open, hitting the hall as Troy and Wyatt pile in, their voices loud in the empty gym.

The only thing crowding this gym right now was Shane and Ilya’s argument, buzzing around the room like a swarm of angry bees.

“Hey Cap, hey Hollzy,” Wyatt calls, cutting through the equipment to hop on the bike next to Shane.

“Hey,” Shane manages to grit out, and to anyone else it would seem that he’s pushing himself on the bike, but to Ilya, he can see him stewing over ice and socks.

Ice and socks!

If they weren’t in the midst of maybe their pettiest argument yet, Ilya would’ve laughed. And then maybe offered to blow him about it later. But instead, he increases his resistance yet again. Just for good measure.

Shane’s eyes slam from Wyatt, landing on Ilya’s bike. He exhales another annoyed breath, flicking his bike up to match. They were on a tether, always striving to beat the other. Always had been, always would be.

“You two going hard today?” Troy asks uncertainly, glancing between the bikes and then them, probably sweating through their clothes. He looks a little confused as he hops onto the bike on the left of Ilya.

They were boxed in by perceptive Troy Barrett and Wyatt fucking Hayes. All while he had burning calves, a patchy pink and white gym shirt, and the taste of lukewarm water zero ice in his mouth. His day could not get fucking better, truly. Shane was probably about to hold a gym-wide survey on whether anyone had ever left a red sock in their white load of laundry.

“Big game,” Ilya grits out, lowering his head to let out a discreet pant.

Shane leans to the side, theatrically taking a peek at Ilya’s bike. “Pretty sure I’m one up from—”

Ilya doesn’t say a word, just twists the dial until it maxes out.

Shane copies him.

Wyatt blows out a breath, shooting a quick look to Troy over Shane and Ilya’s heads.

“All you have to do is say sorry,” Shane whisper-shouts two hours later.

Ilya shoves his jersey over his head, pushing his arms through as he continues. “If you say sorry about the ice.”

“We literally have those fancy boxed waters that no one should fucking have in the refrigerator. Cold.”

“Okay,” Ilya drawls, straightening back up. “So because we have them, I cannot want ice water. You have pink shirts, I have lukewarm water. It is truce, Shane.”

Shane shakes his head, dropping his laces to meet Ilya’s gaze. “It’s not a truce. I apologize for—”

“For what? Being an asshole?”

“You’re the asshole. You put a red sock—”

“Cap, Hollzy.” Dykstra’s head pops around the locker room door, his eyes squeezed shut. “Are we all decent?”

Ilya finally looks up from round seven of the great red sock debate, glancing around the empty room. Oh. He has no idea when everyone had cleared out.

Ilya looks back at Shane, and he has his back to him, rooting around his bag.

“We are decent,” Ilya confirms. They were decent in the clothes sense, but in the heading for divorce over a red sock sense, he wasn’t so sure.

Dykstra finally opens his eyes, his gaze flicking between them. “Dude. What the hell are you two doing? I thought if I came in here and you were making out—”

“Gross.” Shane scoffs into his bag.

“No making out,” Ilya says. “We were talking. Get on the ice. We are coming.”

“Got it, Cap.” Dykstra nods, loitering in the doorway for a second before he turns on his heel and gets the hell out of there.

“Good fucking game, boys,” Bood shouts into the locker room, whipping Wyatt with his jersey.

Wyatt shoves him out of the way, jumping onto one of the benches. He points across the room to Ilya. “You and Hollzy played like fucking beasts. What the fuck was that?”

“Are you saying we do not usually?” Ilya asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

Wyatt holds his hands up in surrender. “Not at all. Just thought I’d compliment the fucking beauty I saw on the ice tonight.”

Ilya shrugs, collapsing onto the bench. “Teamwork.”

Truthfully, they’d played a fucking great game. If he had to put it down to anything, he would say the argument had helped, that competitive streak working in their favor to destroy the other team.

“We need to bring that fucking energy for the rest of the season,” Bood says.

Ilya nods, biting back his shit-eating grin as he stands to go and meet Shane outside to get the hell out of here. They had a long night ahead of them, finding creative ways to apologize to each other, cursing the existence of red socks, maybe even drinking ice water to celebrate their makeup.

It had been the first thing they’d agreed on all day.

“We need to talk to you about something,” Dykstra says two days later, looming over them.

Ilya glances at Shane, but Shane just shrugs. They were sitting shoulder to shoulder on the locker room bench, Bood, Dykstra, and Wyatt standing in front of them. Luca was sitting on the bench across, quietly assessing the situation.

“Talk about what?” Shane asks first.

“You don’t need to lie to us,” Wyatt cuts in. He looks between them all. “We’re all adults here.” He steps back, looking between Shane and Ilya this time, pointedly waiting for something.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Ilya breaks into the silence.

Bood steps forward, his voice taking on a serious tone. “We heard you arguing last week.”

“How?” Ilya asks. He thinks they’d been pretty discreet.

Wyatt huffs a quick laugh, then schools his features. “That gym was fucking icy. Could cut the tension with a spoon.”

“That’s not the saying,” Shane says, his brow furrowing.

“Exactly,” Wyatt says, “That’s how fucking tense it was.”

Ilya feels Shane shift next to him, and he gets the distinct feeling that he’s trying not to laugh. Ilya looks back at his teammates seriously, raising an eyebrow. “Couples argue. It is okay, your parents are not getting divorced.”

“We’re not your parents,” Shane adds.

Bood quickly shakes his head. “No, we want you to—”

“Get divorced?” Shane asks, not laughing this time.

Wyatt slaps Bood’s chest. “Fucking ignore him.”

“Ow.”

“It’s fine, it was petty,” Shane insists.

They’d both agreed it had been petty in the end. And then they’d made up for it in ways so fucking mind-blowing, Ilya had considered flinging another sock in the load of laundry the next day.

“No,” Dykstra cuts in now, bringing them back to the conversation.

“Do you and your wives not argue?” Shane asks the three married men standing in a line in front of them. They weren’t exactly the three wise men.

“Cassie tells me what to do, and I do it,” Bood says proudly, and the other two murmur their quick agreements.

Ilya discreetly kicks his foot into Shane’s, and Shane clears his throat. “Glad we got that sorted then.”

“We need you to argue again,” Dykstra says suddenly.

A few seconds of silence follow, three sets, four if you include Haasy looking up uncertainly every couple of seconds, of eyes trained on them expectantly.

“You want us to argue?” Shane repeats slowly, confusedly.

Bood nods solemnly. “We played the best game of the fucking season after your argument—”

“It wasn’t because of our argument,” Shane tries to counter, but Ilya’s pretty sure he even knows it’s pointless.

Hockey players and their superstitions knew no bounds. Especially this team.

“It was because of your argument,” Wyatt says. “You need to argue on game days—”

“We don’t argue,” Ilya throws out.

Barrett walks in then, pausing in the doorway when he sees what’s unfolding in the middle of the locker room. “What the fuck is happening in here?”

Luca speaks first. “Hollander and Rozanov are arguing—”

“Oh,” Troy says, walking past them to sit next to Luca. “Still?”

“What do you mean still? It was like four hours,” Shane says.

More like fourteen, but Ilya wouldn’t be the one to correct him.

“We need them to argue before every game, and we’ll win the Cup fucking easy. We’ll win the Cup for the next decade,” Dykstra explains.

Troy nods. “Makes sense.”

Ilya pulls a face. “How does that make sense?”

“Barrett gets it. He’s a team player,” Bood says, holding his fist out toward Troy. Troy bumps it back.

“Is there a thing as being too supportive?” Shane asks, the back of his head hitting the wall with a dull thud.

Wyatt leans over to Bood, dropping his voice as his eyes bounce from Shane to Ilya to Troy with about as much subtlety as a brick. “Better cancel the pride balloons for Pride Month then.”

Dykstra points between Shane and Ilya. “We need you to argue tomorrow. No questions asked. You are the Captain and the Captain’s first man.”

“Sorry?” Shane says at the same time Ilya says, “No.”

“What? It’s no big deal,” Dykstra insists, half turning to gesture across the locker room to Troy again. “Troy and Harris’ thing is kissing before a big game. And it always works.”

“Hence the pride balloons,” Wyatt adds, suddenly scrolling on his phone.

“Asking Troy and Harris to make out—”

“No one is asking me and Harris to make out; I’d like to make that very clear,” Troy butts back in.

Dykstra turns to him, a blank expression on his face. “We don’t need to fucking ask.”

Troy turns a suspicious shade of red at that, scrambling to slide his phone out of his pocket.

“But they are asking me to argue with my husband who I love?” Ilya asks, offence dripping from his words. “I could just kiss him instead—”

“We have that covered already, sorry,” Wyatt says, and he sounds genuinely apologetic about it.

“Great,” Troy mutters from behind the line.

“We don’t even buy into those dumb superstitions,” Shane says.

Bood jerks back, a loud gasp leaving his mouth. “Do Chouinard’s lucky socks mean nothing to you, Hollzy?”

“The ones that should have been fucking burnt three years ago?”

Bood nods. “The one and only.”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Listen, for the sake of the team, can you not argue for, say, twenty minutes?” Wyatt asks. “Just a bicker. How do you feel about which way the toilet paper should face?”

Ilya and Shane say “facing out” at the same time, and Wyatt’s face drops.

“You’ve been together like your whole lives, surely you can think of something,” Dykstra says.

Bood nods. “Or if you can’t, we can.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Ilya asks.

“Where the fuck is everybody?” Ilya pauses in the doorway, looking around the half-empty locker room carefully.

It’s quiet, too quiet. He hadn’t heard a single yell from the hallway.

Wyatt, Dykstra, and Bood look up in unison, their hurried conversation tapering off as Ilya crosses the threshold, looking at them suspiciously.

Wyatt lifts a drinks holder full of to-go cups. “Cap—”

Ilya assesses each of their faces. “I do not like that look on your face.”

Troy’s head snaps up. “Who?”

“You are okay, mostly because you cannot keep secret to save your life, but—” Ilya points at Dykstra and Bood. “You two assholes.”

“Hazy’s the one holding the drinks,” Dykstra points out, pulling an affronted face.

“Roz,” Bood says, his voice taking on a placating tone. “Look—”

Wyatt shoves him out of the way, lifting the drinks holder out to Ilya again. “For you, our handsome captain.”

Ilya’s eyes drop to the three drinks. “Thank you. But why the fuck do I need three drinks?”

“It’s for—” Wyatt tries.

“Hey– what the fuck?” Shane interrupts, rounding the corner, a cup of something in his hand, too.

Wyatt’s mouth snaps shut, and then opens again, panic flickering over his features. “Um, hey Hollzy?”

Shane lifts the cup, eyeing it suspiciously now. His eyes flick between them all. “What?”

Luca jogs in the locker room suddenly, clutching onto the wall as he exhales heavily. “Hollander—”

Bood’s eyes widen. “Haasy. What the fuck?”

“He is fucking quick,” Luca defends, his words tight.

“What is going on?” Ilya cuts in, diverting his question to Haasy. Haasy couldn’t lie to save his life. It was the quickest way to the truth.

“Ow,” Dykstra groans, and Ilya turns back just in time to see Wyatt dropping his hand back to his side, the cups in the holder wobbling precariously.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Dykstra,” Wyatt announces. He takes one of the to-go cups out of the holder, taking a sip then exhaling like it’s a drag of a cigarette. Then he crosses the locker room, handing one of them to Haasy.

Troy lifts his head again, rejoining the conversation. “I told you it was a shitty plan.”

“What fucking plan?” Ilya asks.

Troy locks his phone, sliding it on the bench next to him. “They got Hollzy that drink from Starbucks and told him that you’d bought everyone coffee.”

Ilya pulls a face. “I would never do that—”

“You gave Luca your card yesterday for lunch,” Dykstra points out.

Ilya waves him off. “Not same thing. He was eating grass. Very sad. Like one of those puppy commercials.”

“It was not grass, it was salad, I just forgot the… rest of it,” Luca defends weakly, eyes still nervously flicking from Shane to everyone else.

Wyatt narrows his eyes. “So, you were eating fucking lettuce.”

Luca tips his chin, taking a perfectly timed sip from the coffee.

“He cannot play hockey on lettuce, and whatever the fuck that sad excuse for coffee is,” Ilya tells them firmly.

Shane takes a sip of his drink then, and Bood’s mouth drops open. “You like that?”

Shane holds the cup up again, swallowing his mouthful. “Yeah.”

“What the actual fuck?”

“Hazy texted Roz and asked what Hollzy’s favorite drink was,” Bood supplies. Ilya nods in agreement. “So then I took a shot in the dark, and went for something gross at Starbucks and told him you got it for him.”

It’s Shane’s turn to look offended then. “You’re trying to make us argue—”

“What did they get you?” Ilya asks.

“It’s fucking herbal tea,” Shane says, the corner of his mouth twitching as he takes another sip.

“Gross herbal tea. It’s got like leaves and shit in it,” Bood says, still horrified.

Ilya laughs, and everyone turns to look at him, varying levels of confusion over their faces. “You are all idiots. That is Shane’s regular order.”

“You’re gonna have to try harder than that,” Shane says a little smugly.

“You didn’t even bicker?” Dykstra asks, stopping lacing his skates to look between them, his eyebrows drawing together. His words are edged with disappointment, and it makes Ilya want to laugh.

“No,” Ilya confirms, smug. “Not once.”

“In our defence,” Shane says. “Your ideas were fucking terrible.”

Wyatt huffs, resuming on his laces. “I don’t know. Harris and Troy’s dog idea was pretty fucking genius until Dykstra ruined it.”

“That wasn’t my idea,” Troy points out. “Dykstra just stole what me and Harris argue about.”

“Hey. It was market fucking research. If I wanted to know what other hockey players think, I’d ask another hockey player. If I want to know what a gay couple argues about, I ask another gay couple. Besides, I didn’t ruin it,” Dykstra defends, standing up from the bench, spreading his arms wide.

Ilya doesn’t tell them that if there had been a real picture of a dog, he’d definitely have asked Shane if Anya needed a sibling. And Shane probably would have argued that they should wait a year or two.

“It is shame,” he says instead, eyes flicking from one stupid teammate to the next. As stupid as they are, he can’t help the smile that spreads over his face. “Your parents love each other too much to fight.”

Wyatt sighs heavily. “Fucking guess so. At least Chouinard has his lucky socks on.”

“Thank God for that,” Ilya mutters.