Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Harris Drover, Zane Boodram, Evan Dykstra, Wyatt Hayes

Additional Tags:

not really TLG-compatible I guess but inspired by it, no beta - we die like men, POV Outsider, Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Heteronormativity, Ilya Rozanov gets to eat comfort food, Spoilers for The Long Game, mentions of Shane's eating habits

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-08 Updated: 2026-01-12 Words: 3,126 Chapters: 2/?

Ilya Rozanov in Shane Hollander’s Hometown

Summary

A collection of snippets about Ilya's life with the Ottawa Centaurs, who'd know he was happily domesticated by Shane Hollander if they didn't firmly believe Ilya was straight.

Notes

Timeline of some events and who transfers when and where might be wonky. Please suspend your disbelief.

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

“I wanted a change,” Ilya Rozanov tells his new teammates when they ask about his transfer. His tone is nonchalant, almost lazy, and he’s jogging on a running belt all through the short conversation. “Needed a challenge.”

Before Bood can form a retort, Ilya’s phone pings with a message.

He reaches for it immediatelly, putting the screen close to his nose as if he wanted to teleport through its surface. But Bood thinks he catches the sender’s name.

Jane.

***

Of course, the journalists want to hear his reasons, too. After his very first game in the Ottawa Centaurs’ jersey, they are quick to hound him for sound bites.

“Is nice city,” he replies with a small shrug. “Good people.”

“Did you know Ottawa is Shane Hollander’s hometown?” a reporter with a logo of a local television on his mike asks.

Rozanov tilts his head. “Some good people,” he amends with a small smirk.

***

They lose their next game.

“Is it difficult, to play for this team after a career of competing for the Cup?” a reporter questions Rozanov, whose jaw is tense.

“Ottawa Centaurs are competing for the Cup,” Rozanov snaps back. “Is a great team. Full of great players.”

“Do you truly believe you have a chance to reach the play-offs?”

“You don’t think that, you don’t put on skates.”

***

It’s Dallas Kent’s chirping that hits a nerve. “Hey, Rozanov, we’ve heard you moved for Shane Hollander’s mom!”

The gloves come off.

***

Ilya rarely comes out for drinks. Instead, the practices after a free day see him covered in hickeys he doesn’t bother to hide.

“Damn, must have been some night, Roz,” Dykstra comments one day before Ilya pulls a shirt over his impressive abs and the even more impressive marks on his skin.

“Was whole afternoon,” Ilya smirks, but there’s something dreamy in his eyes, and just then, his phone pings and he reaches of it and his entire face goes impossibly soft.

Dykstra shakes his head. “I think he really came here for a girl,” he mutters to Bood.

Must be some girl, he thinks.

***

Ilya Rozanov trains like he’s intending to bring home the Cup.

He makes them all train like they’re a prime contender for it.

For the first time in recent years, not getting into the play-offs truly leaves bitter taste in the Centaurs’ mouth.

***

“You should come over for dinner sometime,” Bood says. “God knows you need some homecooked meals in you.”

Ilya chuckles. “I get homecooked meals.”

“Yeah, your Jane cooks for you?”

Bood expects him to deny, but Ilya chuckles. “Sometimes. Follows recipes every step. No improvisation. You’d think—“

He trails off and shakes his head before reaching for his phone.

***

It’s a few days later that, as if to prove he’s being fed, Ilya sits at the plastic table in the small breakroom and shovels into his mouth what looks like leftover casserole, straight from a glass container.

“Your girl cooked?” Dykstra asks. At this point, he’s curious. There’s no denying that Ilya Rozanov has someone, but he never shows her off and rarely talks about her.

“Was me,” Ilya replies, not looking up from the meal. “Mostly.”

“You can cook?”

“I know enough to help in the kitchen.”

Dykstra chuckles. “Oh, so your girl cooks and you take the credit when all you do is cut the onions?”

Ilya shrugs, unapologetic, and tries to lick the bottom of the glass container.

***

“Do you think she’s married?” Dykstra asks Bood one day in the locker room. “Roz’s girlfriend?”

“Why would you think that?” Bood asks with a small frown. He’s proposed to his girlfriend, Cassie, recently, and so the thought doesn’t sit well with him.

“He keeps her a secret. You can tell it’s serious between them, but he never shows us a picture or brings her around.”

“Maybe she’s… older?” Bood guesses.

Ilya walks out of the showers then, with just a towel around his waist. There’s a fresh hickey just under his right nipple. “Maybe she’s so hot you’d cry. Sex would never be good for you again. You would want to be me and that’d be so sad for you. Would be bad for morale. Can’t do that to the team,” he finishes before wiping off an imaginary tear.

***

There’s an interview with Shane Hollander, one of those impossibly boring domestic ones.

One of the questions is: “What’s your comfort food of choice?”

“It depends on the circumstances, where I am, who is cooking… Nothing quite compares to a homecooked meal, though, does it? Both my parents cook, and they both have their go-to dishes that always take me all the way back to childhood. Recently I can’t get enough of Dad’s rice and mushroom casserole.”

***

Ilya rarely joins them on a night out, but he does invite the whole team to his place to watch the final match.

“Should be us competing,” he sighs dramatically, when the logos of the Montreal Metros and the New York Admirals appear on his huge tv screen. “What’s Scott Hunter there for? Had his moment, got a kiss. Let other men have a turn!” He waves his arms around.

“Were you going to bring your girlfriend to the ice and kiss her?” Dykstra teases.

Ilya shrugs. “Play well enough next season and you’ll see what happens when we beat those Montreal losers.”

Dykstra shakes his head. “Everything comes down to your rivalry with Hollander in the end, doesn’t it?”

“Roz,” Holmber looks out from the kitchen. “Is there anything to drink in this house that’s not ginger ale?”

***

Scott Hunter is still the only out and proud active player, at least publicly. But more rainbow tape is cropping up in show of support and allyship, especially when playing against New York. It’s voluntary, usually.

But this year, the Pride Game is between the New York Admirals and the Ottawa Centaurs. Harris has been posting pictures with #hockeyisforeveryone for a few days. He sees Ilya Rozanov liking them, but even so invites him into his office.

“The team intends to use rainbow tape for the game, as you might have heard,” he starts softly. He needs to know how to spin things publicly, if that is an issue for Rozanov. They are both a fairly new addition to the Ottawa Centaurs and the last thing Harris wants is to deal with some sort of a backlash. “I was wondering whether you’d be joining in on that?”

His tone must betray his wariness, because Ilya gives him a look his usually reserves for rookies’ silly questions about strategy. “You think I’m homophobe?”

Harris shakes his head. “No, no, of course not.” Ilya has always been nothing but polite and nice to him, in the way Ilya is capable of either of those things. He’s definitely never shown any animosity towards Harris, his visible queerness or the pride symbols he surrounds himself with. “I just know that in your country, it might be seen as an issue.”

“The whole team is doing, yes?” Ilya points out.

Harris nods.

“And I’m the captain, yes?”

Harris confirms this too, as if the C on Ilya Rozanov’s jersey didn’t speak for itself.

“And we’re in Canada,” Ilya finishes with a shrug. “I will use tape.”

***

“Is this a cause close to your heart, Mr. Rozanov?” someone from the press questions. “LGBT+ rights?”

“Is important to me that everyone who can play good hockey, plays hockey. Makes for fun competition,” Rozanov says, still breathing heavy after the game. Which Ottawa won, though just barely. “Even with old men like Scott Hunter.”

“Are there any members of the LGBT+ community in the Ottawa Centaurs’ locker room?”

“I do not ask my teammates who they’re dating or sleeping with.”

“So you’d rather not know?”

“If I don’t know, I can’t out them to nosy reporters.”

It’s not his most graceful interview, but he looks beautiful and Harris still gets a good sound bite out of it for the Centaurs’ Instagram page.

***

The press conference for the Irina Foundation takes the team by surprise. It’s an eerie thing, watching Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander stand in front of the cameras as a united front, showing respect and mutual understanding.

The next day, between expressing their well-wishes for Ilya’s new project and muttering words of sympathy regarding his mother, someone asks: “When did you even find time to befriend Shane Hollander?”

Ilya shrugs. “We know each other our whole careers. He’s boring, is nice after the stress you all put me through when you don’t score goals.”

Just then, his phone buzzes, not with a message but with a call, and he picks up, answering in a mixture of English and Russian.

“Yes, yes, everyone thinks is a brilliant idea,” they hear him say as he walks out of the locker room and into the corridor. “Conference was lovely. They wonder why I’m friends with Shane Hollander, I tell them is calming. Boring Hollander is very good for mental health.” A brief pause, then softly: “I ya lyublyu tebya. Ty moyo schast'ye.”

***

“So, how does your girl feel about you spending the little free time you have training kids with Hollander instead of vacationing with her?” Dykstra asks as the summer approaches.

Ilya chuckles. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Chapter End Notes

I ya lyublyu tebya. Ty moyo schast'ye. - And I love you. You're my happiness.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

This wasn't meant to be a chaptered fic, but you asked for a sequel and I kept getting ideas and it kept getting longer and now it's a chaptered fic.
We're following into the The Long Game now, more or less, but if the Centaurs (thought they) knew about Montreal Jane.

It doesn’t take Wyatt Hayes long after his transfer to realize that he’s no longer the most popular hockey player in a kids’ ward. Because Ilya Rozanov entertains the kids with effortless charm and what appears to be genuine care. He’s still a cocky asshole, only letting the children win three quarters of the time when he plays video games and board games and any sort of a game they drag him into.

“I hate to say it, but that guy is a prime dad material,” Wyatt hears himself mutter.

“Doesn’t your wife work at this hospital?” Dykstra asks. “Better stop her from coming in when Roz’s here. You might have a problem.”

Wyatt trusts his wife with his life and soul, but looking at Rozanov with kids, he knows what Dystra is talking about. Because Wyatt is a straight cis man and he still kinda feels himself ovulating at the sight.

“Bet you can’t wait to get your girl pregnant, eh, Roz?” one of the guys elbows Rozanov the next day, when they are looking at the pictures the social media manager, Harris, took of their visit to the hospital.

Rozanov shrugs his shoulders. “I’ll keep trying,” he says with a cocky smirk and the next moment, he’s heading towards the ice.

He passes Wyatt on the way, and maybe it’s a trick of the light, but when his smirk fades, his eyes look a little sad.

***

“Oh, that looks good,” Ilya’s voice startles Harris from his pastry. “Feed me.”

For some reason, Harris doesn’t even manage to think ‘this is weird’ before he’s stuffing one of his pastries into Ilya’s open mouth.

Ilya closes his eyes and makes a sound that would make a weaker man’s knees wobble, but Harris is used to being around hockey players. He can be professional.

“Fuck, that’s good,” Ilya says, mouth still half-full, and the sight of that helps Harris to maintain work-appropriate behavior.

“They’re from this local bakery, practically homemade,” Harris is always willing to pitch a local family business. “They use the apples from our orchard, but they have other flavors, too.”

“Give me the address.” Ilya rarely uses his magic words, but somehow it doesn’t make him sound rude. Or at least, not bad rude. He’s asshole-shaped yet not really an asshole. “I’m going to buy so many pies.”

“They’re a good breakfast food, too. Next time your girlfriend visits.”

Sometimes, it’s a good practice to remind himself that these attractive men are painfully straight.

Ilya just shakes his head. “No. No, just for me.”

***

Wyatt walks in on Rozanov in the middle of a phone call. Rozanov is leaning against the wall in the back of the little break room, holding the phone close to his ear, his free arm wrapped around his own torso.

Wyatt tries to be not distracting as he heads for the vending machine, but he feels Rozanov’s eyes on himself anyway.

“I really need to go now,” Rozanov says quietly into the phone. He pauses briefly, then says a few words in Russian before ending the call.

“Sorry,” Wyatt says as his soda thumbles from the vending machine. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re fine,” Rozanov waves his hand and unglues himself from the wall. “Just always takes forever to end the call, is all.”

Wyatt gives him a sympathetic look. “The guys said you’re long distance. With your girlfriend.”

Rozanov nods.

“Sucks. Is she in Russia?”

“No,” Rozanov shakes his head and then smiles a little. “Thank fuck. Just a different city.”

“Still sucks. The two weeks between my transfer and Lisa – that’s my wife – moving to Ottawa were like a dentist appointment.”

Ilya instinctively runs his tongue over his teeth implants. “Yeah. Yeah, a dentist. It feels like that sometimes.”

***

Ilya Rozanov brings cookies.

“You didn’t lose last game,” he tells them as he places the open container on the bench. “You earned cookies.”

“Are you trying to ruin my diet, Roz?” Boyle jokes, all of them knowing full well that Boyle refuses to diet.

“They’re heathy,” Ilya says, frowning. “Gross.”

“Did your girlfriend make them?” Wyatt reaches for one of the cookies. The texture is weird.

“I made. Too many, because I thought they’d be good to eat.”

“Don’t tell me you fell into the performance diet trap, Roz,” Boyle begs.

“Not me.”

“Oh, Jane did?” Dykstra shakes his head and grabs a cookie. “I swear my wife eats only salad leaves like every other month.”

Wyatt tries the cookie.

It’s, undeniably, gross.

They eat the full container anyway.

***

Men’s Health magazine publishes an article on Shane Hollander’s performance diet along with a couple of recipes. The snacks are all variations on fruit and nuts. “It’s better to accept that you won’t be eating cookies on this type of a meal plan,” Hollander says in the accompanying interview. “Fake cookies are only going to let you down, even if made with the best intentions.”

***

“Did you see?” Bood clasps Ilya’s arm. “Hollander did a Rozanov last night.”

Bood hasn’t watched the game; no matter how much he loves hockey, no one could possibly watch all the games live and still have a life, but he’s seen a highlights reel. And he has Internet connection and today, the hockey side of the Internet is talking about little else than Shane Hollander pulling off Ilya Rozanov’s legendary move.

Ilya throws his head back and groans. “I saaaaw. That little thief.”

“Is that the end of your friendship?”

“He almost made me spill my ice cream with that thieving move,” Ilya shakes his head. “It might be.”

But he’s smiling.

He looks almost in a good mood.

Bood supposes ice cream will do that to people.

***

“Oh, damn, Hollander!” Dykstra says out loud when the news pops up on his phone.

“Did something happen to him?” Wyatt asks from his stall in the locker room.
Dykstra cackles. “He got papped,” he turns the phone so the rest of the guys can see the screen. “Because he’s hanging out with Rose Landry again.”

“Didn’t he say somewhere that they’re friends?” Luca Haas asks, in the voice of a sweet summer child that he is.

Chouinard snorts. “No guy’s just friends with someone like Rose Landry.”

“Well, I’ve heard rumors Hollander’s gay,” Holmberg says.

Wyatt clicks his tongue. “We don’t speculate,” he says. He doesn’t take joy in being the guy to educate people on respect, but someone has to do it. In this locker room it’s easy at least. The guys are generally the good sort, just need a reminder here and there. Years of hockey culture are tough to shake off.

Just then, Ilya waltzes into the locker room. He’s fresh out of the shower, just a towel wrapped around his waist.

“Hey, Roz,” someone calls. “How is it with your good friend Hollander and Rose Landry?”

Ilya shrugs. “You can ask him for her phone number next time we play Montreal. He might give it, but you have to explain to your wife.”

***

“I heard you’re too good to fly back with us,” Bood drops into the airplane seat next to Ilya. They’re on their way to Montreal.

Ilya lifts his gaze from his phone. He’s had privacy glass installed on it recently, so all Bood sees is a black screen. Probably better than being subjected to Ilya Rozanov’s dick pics.

“Feel sorry for me,” Ilya grimaces, “I have to hang out with Hollander. Stupid boring meetings for the foundation.”

Bood nods. “Sure, sure. You’re staying in Montreal to hang out with your friend Shane Hollander. It has nothing at all to do with your girl being from Montrel.”

Ilya wiggles an eyebrow. “Maybe I can do both. Maybe I can multitask.”

“You know that implies you’ll meet the girl while you’re in a meeting with Hollander, right? I’d love to see his face.”

“Hollander doesn’t do threesomes. I’ve asked.”

Honestly, Bood wouldn’t put it past Ilya to have done so. Just to annoy his nemesis turned friend(ish).

***

Harris comes across Ilya sitting on a bench in the locker room, peeling what looks like light blue sparkly nailpolish off his right thumb nail.

“Someone on the staff might have nail polish remover on them!” Harris advices him cheerfully.

Ilya lifts his gaze up from his concentrated work. “Almost done. I thought I had it all last night, but I forgot about this one.” Tiny flakes of blue polish float in the air.

“Such a shame I didn’t catch you with your nails painted,” Harris says and doesn’t ask where Ilya came across nail polish during his stay in Montreal. It seems rude to ask. “It’d look good on Instagram.”

He can never find rhyme or reason in Ilya’s Instagram posts, but at least Ilya’s usually game for posing for the team’s official one.

“Ilya’s Beauty Tips,” Ilya snorts. By now, the nailpolish is gone.

“Great spirit! But we might want to workshop that title. It doesn’t have alliteration.”

“Al-what?”

“Alliteration. When the words start with the same letter. Like Hayes’ Heros. BBQ with Bood.”

“Rozanov’s Rainbow,” Ilya suggests.

Harris’ gaze drops to the assortment of rainbow pins on his own jacket. “That might imply a different message.” He's discovered Ilya's an open-minded guy, but there's a difference between being open-minded and implying things about himself.

Ilya shrugs and stands up. “It’s not like I know anything about nails or polish or colors anyway. Did it for a girl.”