Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Scott Hunter

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Developing Friendships, Light Angst, Established Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, (established situationship still), Pining, I don't know what to tag this, Scott and Shane talk about him and Ilya, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Anxious Shane Hollander, Good Friend Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Scott Hunter Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Protective Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Kinda, Hopeful Ending

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-05 Words: 3,196 Chapters: 1/1

what a weird fucking day

Summary

Scott was speaking again before he could gather himself enough to back down. You fucking heard me, Hollander.
Next thing he knew, he was fighting Shane Hollander. Or, more accurately, being fought by Shane Hollander, because Scott was so stunned by the fact that Shane fucking Hollander was fighting him to even really do anything to defend himself.
And now, at whatever stupid time of the night, Shane Hollander is standing outside his hotel room door, having just knocked softly.
"Get in here, kid," Scott says. "Let's talk."

After his fight with Shane on the ice, Scott learns more about the soft spot he'd hit, and Shane realises he might have found a safe space to talk about what's going on with him and Rozanov.

Notes

hehe hi so I found a new fandom to immerse myself in!

fair warning, i have read the HR book but it was a little while ago and I haven't actually seen the show yet, so this is working off a mish-mash of what I remember of book canon, what i've picked up from edits and clips on social media, and a healthy amount of fandom headcanons i've picked up from other fanfics. so it might be a bit ooc and i think i messed up the timeline, but i tried! (other than the fact that Shane accepts he's gay a lot sooner). anyway, just suspend your disbelief and enjoy gay confidant uncle Scott Hunter I love him so much especially in the show he knew what was going on lol :)

anyway, this show - and these actors - have taken over my feed and my thoughts AND my wips, i have so many fics started for them so keep an eye out!

thanks for your interest, hope you enjoy! <3

Scott opens his door and freezes, staring. He vaguely considers pinching himself, just to make sure he's not dreaming or hallucinating or something.

This whole day has been so fucking weird.

First, his Admirals lose miserably to Montreal. Okay, in and of itself, frustratingly not all that weird.

Then, near the end of the game, he gets chirped by Shane Hollander, of all people, who Scott has never heard chirp anyone. Not only that, but the chirp itself had been echoingly, suspiciously familiar, the words, the very cadence of it, sounding like it might as well have come out of the mouth of a blonde, smirking Russian. All Shane was missing was the accent.

So Scott, frustrated and tired, had replied. Automatically, stupidly, dangerously. You're starting to sound like him. He'd watched Shane's face change as the implication settled between them, mild panic spreading across his features, and Scott knows it was mean, especially if what he's suspecting is at all true, but he was speaking again before he could gather himself enough to back down. You fucking heard me, Hollander.

And next thing he knew, he was fighting Shane Hollander. Or, more accurately, being fought by Shane Hollander, because Scott was too stunned by the fact that Shane fucking Hollander was fighting him to even really do anything to defend himself. It took two linesmen and the referee to pull Shane off him, and Scott had been sent off the ice to get checked out in case Shane actually did any damage. He'd caught a glimpse of Shane in the Montreal box being talked at by his coach - which in itself was a wild sight - as he went; he hadn't looked angry anymore, just upset, remorseful, and still a little scared. He hadn't looked up as Scott skated past him, just stared at his own skates.

And now, at - Scott glances at his wrist before remembering he's not wearing his watch, because that's how late it is - whatever stupid time of the night, Shane Hollander is standing outside his hotel room door, having just knocked softly.

He looks stressed almost out of his mind, his eyes fixed somewhere near his shoes and his hands shoved defensively, protectively, in his front hoodie pocket.

“Hollander?”

Shane's eyes dart upwards once before returning to the ground. “Scot- Hunter, I just - I wanted to say I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to- I don't know why- I'm sorry I punched you.”

Despite the lingering annoyance from earlier, not to mention his sheer bewilderment at the whole situation, Scott can't help but feel slightly endeared by the man in front of him. Only Shane Hollander would come, this stressed, in the middle of the night to apologise for a few punches on the ice that hadn't done any lasting damage and that, honestly, Scott had probably sort of deserved.

Scott shrugs. “It’s fine, Hollander. It happens - part of the game right? It’s all good. We’ve both taken worse.” Shane nods, but he doesn’t look very convinced. “Seriously,” Scott repeats, trying to catch his eye. “It’s okay, Hollander. I appreciate this…” What is this? Concern? Guilt? Professional respect? Damage control? “Concern,” he settles on. “But I'm fine. It's not the first time I've been hit on the ice, and it won't be the last. It's okay.”

Shane nods again and shifts his weight like he's going to leave, but doesn't actually move. For a long moment neither of them say anything. Scott stares at Shane; Shane's eyes flicker from the floor to the doorframe to somewhere on Scott's chest and back again. His mouth opens before quickly closing again - twice.

Scott sighs. “Get in here, kid,” he says, stepping back to make room for Shane to come inside. “Let's talk.”

Shane hesitates. Scott wonders if he's pushing too hard, reading this wrong. Then, slowly, Shane shuffles inside.

Scott sits him down on the couch, then goes and brings them both a cold glass of water; for himself because he's hoping it'll shock him into the little bit more awareness he thinks he's going to need for this conversation, and for Shane because he thinks he might need something to hold onto.

Then he sits on the opposite end of the couch and studies Shane for a long moment. Shane doesn't look at him, just stares at the blank TV and turns the glass around in his hands, but he doesn't get up and leave either.

“So,” Scott starts finally. He has no idea why he's doing this. This kid isn't even on his team, for gods sake. And he isn't exactly a kid anymore, either. But he knows he'd fucked up earlier in a way he never should have, pressed too close to a truth he should never have uncovered, especially not publicly on the ice, and he needs to fix it. Besides, if Shane is actually like him in the way Scott's suspecting, he might like someone to talk to - hell, Scott knows he'd wanted someone to talk to, when he was younger - and he doubts anyone else is about to volunteer for the job.

He starts tame, not actually wanting to scare Shane off. “So,” he repeats. “Want to tell me what it was that got the nicest guy in the league throwing punches at me?”

Shane worries the inside of his cheek. “You know what it was,” he mumbles.

“I suspect what it was,” Scott corrects gently.

Shane's hand tightens around the glass, his shoulders tensing, and Scott realises belatedly that there’s something they need to establish here before he can reasonably expect any more out of Hollander. “Look, Shane,” he says. “You don't have to tell me anything. I know we're not exactly close. But, if you did have anything you wanted to talk about, I won’t tell anyone. I know I want to come out in my own time, on my own terms, and that's what I believe everyone deserves. I'm not about to say anything.”

That makes Shane look at him for the first time, still wary but a little hopeful, picking up the pieces Scott's putting out but hesitant to put them together in case he places them wrong. Scott decides he might have to spell it out, just in case. To make sure they're on the same page.

“I'm gay,” he states flatly. “And I have a boyfriend whom I love very much that some day I hope to share with the world.”

And that makes Shane smile. Just a little, but the first one Scott's seen from him since that quickly-gone smirk he'd worn as he skated up to chirp him earlier. “Me too,” he admits, very quietly, after another moment. “The- the- not the boyfriend bit. But.”

In the spirit of not forcing anything, Scott lets him get away with his hedging. They both know what he's saying anyway. “Well, thank you for telling me,” he says genuinely. He remembers how scary it was to come out the first few times, even to his friends, and he’s not exactly Shane’s friend. Actually, he wonders… “Have you ever told anyone that before?”

Shane shakes his head and takes a sip of the water he still hadn’t touched before carefully setting the glass down.

“Okay, so, you and Rozanov,” Scott presses more directly. He knows he might be pushing the limits of Shane's trust, and that there's a high possibility he's about to get up and run. But he wants to test it, wants to see what he can get away with, because he has a feeling this is something Shane wants, maybe needs, to talk through with someone. And, maybe, there's a small, tiny part of him that is just a bit curious, just a little. “Anything happening there?”

Shane shakes his head, then nods, then shrugs.

“Well, there's three answers to choose from,” Scott says with a lightly teasing grin.

Abruptly Shane sighs heavily and buries his face in his hands. “I don't know,” he groans. “It's- I don't fucking know.”

It almost catches Scott off-guard, the amount of emotion in those few words. The sheer confusion and frustration, and no small amount of despair. “Alright, kid,” he mutters. He shifts so he’s facing Shane more properly, resisting the urge to pat him on the shoulder but knowing enough to know that won’t help the situation. “Tell me about it,” he encourages.

Shane hesitates. Shifts his weight. Takes a breath. Scott doesn’t push.

“Well, to start at the beginning I guess, we’ve been- um-” Shane flushes.

“Hooking up,” Scott provides helpfully, and Shane nods.

“Yeah. For a few years now. Well, uh, more than a few. Five?”

Scott blinks. That was a lot longer than he’d expected. He quickly does the mental calculations - five years - 2010 - the year before Shane and Rozanov had officially started playing in the NHL. “Five years?” he repeats, dumbfounded. “The whole time?” The two of them had been postured as rivals from the beginning, and they’d certainly played into it well enough - but they’d been fucking that whole time? Several things slot into place, things Scott had noticed at the time and then thought he’d forgotten about, but had apparently catalogued somewhere in the back of his mind.

The then-rookies’ conversation right next to him at that first All Stars game together. He’d been too focused on the skills competition to hear exactly what they’d said, had been trying not to listen (and had firmly told himself he had not heard Rozanov give Shane what sounded like a room number as he skated away), but he remembered the weird expression on Shane’s face when he’d slowly agreed with Scott’s comment that Rozanov was an asshole. The - oh, god, the voices he’d heard from Rozanov’s room next to his that night; nothing incriminating or inappropriate, thank fuck, just two unmistakably male voices talking in low tones, one clearly Rozanov’s, the other - at the time - indistinguishable. The shock and what he’s now realising was mild terror on Shane’s face when Scott had thrown out the term “your boy Rozanov” at the 2011 NHL awards.

And that was all just in the first year. There are so many more from the following intervening years: shared smiles during handshake lines, circling around each other at awards shows, chirps thrown at each other on the ice that were nothing more than thinly veiled innuendos, the excitement rather than aggression on their faces when they joined up for face-offs. The way they moved around each other on the ice with an ease that translated to a deep understanding of each other, perfectly aware of where the other was at all times, reading each other's plays and anticipating exactly where they needed to be at any moment. The Sochi Olympics - Shane's expression when Scott and Vaughney had been talking to him on the beach, the way he'd always seemed to be looking for someone that whole week, the way he'd disappeared from Scott's side during the game they'd been watching only for Scott to notice him reappear briefly at Rozanov's side high up in the stands, before he'd returned looking shaken and upset. The tension between them at the 2014 NHL awards when they'd presented the sportsmanship award together that Scott, along with the rest of the room, had assumed was the effort of remaining civil.

Fuck. In hindsight, they’re incredibly, insanely, stupidly obvious, and Scott feels like shaking them both. They’re walking a fucking fine, dangerous line.

“Okay,” he says, shaking his head, refocusing back in. “Okay, so you’ve been fucking for years. And yet you don’t know if there’s something between you?”

Shane picks at the seam of his jeans. “That’s just it,” he mumbles. “It’s always been just sex. We’re rivals, we hate each other on the ice, and ignore each other off it unless we’re fucking. He…I haven’t even told him I’m gay.”

Scott stares at him. He knows Shane has probably the highest hockey IQ in the game, but apparently he can also be quite stupid. “I think he knows.”

Shane flushes and half-shrugs.

“Do you like him?” Scott asks softly.

Shane nods slowly.

“Do you think he likes you?”

Shane’s face twists. Scott bites his tongue, wondering if he’s pushing too hard again.

“I don’t know,” Shane admits quietly after a moment. “It’s never been…anything. Just sex. Neither of us have every asked for anything different. Or…like, made it seem like we want something different.” There’s a long pause, but Scott waits, sensing he’s not done. “Sometimes he looks at me, or says something, or does something, and I think maybe there’s something there. Maybe he wants more.” Another pause, then his next words are quiet and slow. “Sometimes it feels like we could be something. I know we can't. But sometimes…I think I want to be.” He sighs and drops his head into his hand.

Scott wishes he could say something comforting, like you don't know that or maybe you could be. But he's a gay man in the same sport Shane - and Rozanov - are, and he knows what the ice, locker rooms, and sport leadership are like. Something like Rozanov and Shane openly, or even privately but officially, being in a relationship would create a scandal of the century, potentially wrecking both their careers, not to mention the informal ramifications they would face from fellow players and fans.

“I’m sorry, Hollander,” he sighs.

Shane rubs his hands over his face and shrugs. “It’s the way it is,” he says. “It’s just hard, sometimes, you know.” Scott nods in agreement. “And it’s so - things like earlier, what you said - that scared the shit out of me. There’s so much we are keeping hidden - so much that I am keeping hidden. There’s things I’ve barely admitted to myself, let alone am about to tell him, so when you… I thought you knew everything, and were about to say it all in front of cameras and everybody.”

“Yeah…I am sorry about that,” Scott says, because he is. “I shouldn’t have said it like that, it was out of line.”

Shane shrugs again. “It's okay. I overreacted. Not like anyone else was going to figure out what you were talking about just from that exchange.”

"For what it's worth," Scott says after a moment's pause. "This guy - both of you - have been doing this complicated, dangerous arrangement for five years, I'm assuming sneaking around and stealing hours wherever you can." He doesn't wait for Shane to agree, but he sees the slight nod as he keeps talking. "Either the sex is fantastic to make that worth it, or there's something else there to keep him coming back." He spreads his hands. "I don't know the finer details, of course, but just something to think about."

Silence falls for a few minutes after that; Shane picks up his glass again and takes a long sip, eyes fixed on the coffee table, a deeply considering look on his face. Scott wants to ask more, find out how this started, what it looks like, how they make it work - but he has a feeling that might be asking a little much out of Shane, even if he’s already gotten more than he’d ever thought he would tonight. Either way, the decision is made for him by the fact that as he opens his mouth, to say what he’s still not quite sure, he gets cut off by a sudden yawn.

He feels horrible about it, essentially yawning straight in Shane's face, but it's well after midnight by now, and they did play an intense game of hockey not all that long ago. Shane quickly sets his glass down.

"Sorry-" Scott starts, but Shane cuts him off.

"No, I'm sorry, I should- I should go. It's late - we have an early flight tomorrow anyway, I'd better-" He gestures awkwardly towards the door.

“Yeah.” Scott claps his hands on his knees and stands. “I’ll come let you out.”

One last thought hits him as they walk back to the foyer. He knows Shane isn’t helpless by any means, but he knows he can struggle in social situations sometimes. And he also knows - far too well - what Rozanov is like.

So he needs to ask.

“Shane, before you go…Rozanov, is he…good to you?” he asks carefully.

And maybe Shane is actually more perceptive than Scott gave him credit for, because he can see by the widening of his eyes and the twist of his mouth that he knows exactly what Scott’s getting at. “Yeah,” Shane breathes, before repeating, more certain, “yes. He’s…he’s great to me.”

“Really?” Scott doesn't really mean it to come out quite so sceptical, he believes the way Shane is talking about him, but this is Ilya Rozanov they're talking about. Granted, Scott's never spent time with him outside of a game, but on the ice the man's a terror: he plays hard and aggressive, checks roughly and never pulls his punches, never hesitating to drop gloves; he runs his mouth, gets under other players’ skins just because he can, pushes like he's testing how far he can go, just itching to find a boundary so he can cross it. And it all seems to come so naturally to him, it's hard to imagine him being anything else, even off the ice.

“Yeah,” Shane repeats again, even more certain. He fiddles with his jacket zipper, not in the way that seems like he's avoiding the truth, but just as though he's trying to psych himself up to keep talking. “I mean, he can be a bit of an ass, but that's just him, right? But he's never mean, and he's certainly not cruel or- or violent, or anything. He…he’s really sweet, actually. He’s always checking in, making sure I’m okay. And he calls me pretty…” His voice trails off, and for a moment there’s a soft, fond look on his face before it closes over again. “And when-”

“Alright, kid, I don’t need the details,” Scott chuckles, and Shane cuts himself off, reddening slightly. “But that’s good. I’m glad. Maybe he’s not so much of a complete asshole as he comes across.”

“Oh he is,” Shane says with a half-smile. “But he has his moments.”

Scott smiles and claps him on the shoulder. Shane gives him a slightly awkward but genuine smile in return.

“Thanks, Scott,” he says seriously.

“Don't be a stranger, kid,” Scott says, then immediately regrets it, because he's never said that in his life. “I mean it,” he corrects. He reaches for the notebook on the small foyer table, and quickly scribbles out his number, holding it out to Shane. “Here’s my number. If you need someone to talk to, about- this, or just about anything. If you just want to talk to someone who knows, give me a call, okay?”

Shane nods and takes the paper. “Thank you, Hunter,” he repeats, and he slips out the door.

Scott sighs as the door shuts behind him, runs his hand over his face, and shakes his head. Fuck.

This whole day has been so fucking weird.