Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Gordon Ramsay

Additional Tags:

Angst with a Happy Ending, Crack Treated Seriously, Forced Proximity, Inspired by Masterchef (TV), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Food, Food Issues, Rivals With Benefits, Rivals to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Post-Scene: Ilya Rozanov Makes Tuna Melts in Episode: s01e04 Rose, Friends With Benefits, Anxious Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov is Good at Cooking

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-08 Updated: 2026-04-10 Words: 12,346 Chapters: 3/12

Sweet and Bitter

Summary

Shane Hollander can’t keep sitting on his couch, nursing a broken leg and watching his team drown without him. He’ll do anything to fill the gap hockey left behind, even something as stupid as competing on Celebrity MasterChef.

Shane wants a distraction so big he’ll forget hockey, forget Rozanov, and especially forget that afternoon in Boston, and the outstretched hand he walked away from. Unfortunately for Shane, ignoring Rozanov won’t be so easy when he’s one table away, wearing a matching apron, and talking to the cameras about the recipes that shaped his childhood.

(Or: Right after the tuna-melt scene, both Shane and Ilya get injured, and to fill the time they both decide to go on Celebrity MasterChef.)

Notes

I am the first to admit this is a stupid concept, but it is taken very seriously. I think there are a lot of food-related themes in the original books and show, and I wanted to really explore that in a different way. Making them both cook right after the tuna melt scene just feels like the right level of angst. Also I think it's fun to make them do typical celebrity stuff like go on MasterChef.

Celebrity MasterChef seems to be a bit more of a thing in the UK than the USA (in the UK it's been running since 2006 and they're still making it, it's on season 20 now) so the MasterChef format in the fic is kind of a hybrid of both. Apologies to any MasterChef superfans for any mistakes made.

Chapter 1: Couscous

Shane was sitting on his sofa, trying to experience normal human emotions. He had been stuck in four YouTube rabbit holes today already, and now knew so much about the world of competitive hot dog eating that he’d googled plane tickets to the national finals. It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to be, now that his foot was injured.

It was November, the start of the season, and hockey phenom Shane Hollander was out on an injury already. It was embarrassing. The only thing that made it slightly less embarrassing was that in a run of unfortunate luck, Rozanov was out too. The commentators had made a lot of the two biggest rivals in the NHL getting injured only a few games apart, and how this would affect the standings. They kept asking him in interviews whether he thought it ‘meant something’, as if this was yet another way that the two of them were bonded together.

Shane hated having to say that he wished Rozanov the best, that he hoped he’d be back on the ice soon. He didn’t wish Rozanov the best. If Rozanov hadn’t been so confusing, hadn’t taken up so much of Shane’s mental space, then maybe he wouldn’t have been distracted in his game against the Guardians, and maybe he wouldn’t have gotten tripped by Yuri Novikov, and maybe he would be out there playing instead of sitting on his couch waiting for his broken leg to heal while the rest of the team wilted like flowers kept out of the sun for too long.

The fact that Rozanov had fractured an ankle while checking the New York Admirals’ rookie was divine justice. Anyway, it wasn’t like they were in the same situation at all, because Rozanov was probably being fawned over by some model, giving him massages and feeding him soup. One of those “reliable women” that he was too lazy to get rid of. Shane watched yet another video of Joey Chestnut dipping a hot dog bun in water and then stuffing it in his mouth. It did not make him feel better.

 

“I have some news.” His mother said, her voice carefully neutral. Shane looked up at her over his bowl of macronutrient dense cous cous, and saw that she had her manager face on, instead of her mom face. She had insisted on ‘popping in to see him’ three times this week, as if the two-hour drive was barely an inconvenience. Each time Shane had sighed and opened the door and felt slightly relieved that he wouldn’t be eating his pre-portioned dinner by himself. He’d wondered if the team would stop sending them now that he was no longer playing, but for now he was still dutifully eating whatever came to his door.

Today his dad was here too, which made her slightly less prone to worrying, but equally likely to try to organise his life for him.

“I booked something for you. It will be really good exposure, and filming might only end up being a few weeks, so it won’t interfere with things too much. They’ve said that you’ll be perfectly capable of doing it on one leg, and they’ll make sure that everything is properly adapted and it won’t be too tiring for you to do.” Shane noticed the careful lack of detail.

“Filming? What is it, some kind of ad campaign?” Shane asked, eyebrows drawing together. The ugly cast on his right leg had already meant that an underwear campaign had to be rescheduled, since he couldn’t manage to walk seductively around a desert on one leg.

“Not quite. It’s a bit more… intense than what you usually do. But that’s okay, because you have the time now for something a bit bigger. This is a really, really great opportunity.”

Shane didn’t particularly appreciate how she was framing this, as if him getting injured was a bonus for his side career in convincing people to buy things they didn’t need. Sponsorship deals were all that she’d talked about for the past three visits. Perhaps because that was all he was good for at the moment, but more likely because he couldn’t talk about hockey without his jaw tightening and his foot starting to tap against the floor.

“Mom, can you stop edging around it and just tell me what you’ve booked. Is it something stupid? Am I going to have to wear a leotard again?” Shane could vividly remember that shoot, even several years later. The warehouse they were filming in was barely insulated, and Shane had spent it crouched in a leotard, while they put makeup on him to hide the fact that his lips were turning blue. The director hadn’t even been sympathetic when Shane started shivering, instead made some comment about how as a hockey player he should be used to a bit of cold.

“No. It’s a… cooking competition. Celebrity MasterChef! Lots of big names have been on it, and you’ll get access to audiences that we’ve never been able to target before, and…”

“Mom.” Shane interrupted in horror. “Obviously I can’t go on MasterChef! I don’t know how to cook. You know that.” It was baffling to Shane that she would even suggest it, something that wouldn’t help his hockey at all, that would distract him. His mother was one of the few people who cared about hockey as much as he did, who understood the sick feeling he got in the back of his throat every time he watched his team play without him.

His mother tapped her fingers as she talked. “Well, it’s not the actual MasterChef competition. It’s just the celebrity version, they make it a lot easier. And, there’s two weeks before filming starts so we have a bit of time to practice here, learn a few simple recipes. It’s not like you’ve never cooked in your life. You can make burgers at the very least, I’ve watched you do it.”

She was refusing to make eye contact with him, which suggested that she knew exactly how competent in the kitchen Shane was. As a matter of fact, they were all sitting at the table two feet away from Shane’s kitchen, which had beautiful white and chrome appliances that were as shiny as the day Shane had moved in because he never used them. He wasn’t even sure that he knew how to turn on the oven.

“Mom, I’ve seen the show. They don’t grill a few burgers, they make full… restaurant… fancy food. With garnishes and French names, I’ll embarrass myself. I can’t do it. Dad, back me up here.” David Hollander looked up from his own cous cous for the first time since the argument started, and sighed.

“Shane, I know that it’s a bit outside your comfort zone, but it might be fun, to do something that isn’t hockey for a while.”

His mother rested one hand gently on his shoulder. The manager face was gone, and her mom face was back. Her eyebrows were knitted together, and her eyes were soft.

“Shane, I’m worried about you, we both are. Of course it’s awful to be injured, and I know that you want to get back on the ice as soon as possible, but you’re not yourself. You barely leave the couch, you didn’t want to watch the Admirals destroy the Guardians last night, and you haven’t changed that sweater in three days.” Shane looked down at his sweater self-consciously. It looked clean, there were no stains on it or anything. He would change soon, but none of them were quite as comfortable as this one, and so what if Shane wanted to be comfortable for a bit.

So what if he wanted to spend some time on his couch, that he had paid for with his own money, that he’d made doing the only thing he was good at.

It wouldn’t be fun, to do something that wasn’t hockey. Shane didn’t have anything fun that wasn’t hockey, not like his teammates. Hayden had his kids, JJ had partying, even fucking Rozanov had his stupid car collection. Shane had watched an interview where they’d played him different sports cars revving up, and Ilya had been able to tell the difference between a Ferrari and a Porsche in three seconds flat. Shane shook his head to try to get rid of the little jerk in his brain that happened every time he thought about Rozanov.

Even he could admit that he’d been more down than usual, but that was to be expected. It was the start of the season, his team needed him, and he wasn’t there. The first day that his doctors had cleared him to go to practices, he’d sat in the stands and watched the team train. He’d thought it would help, that they would feel supported by his presence. Instead, the team played some of the worst drills he’d seen since Juniors. Games were the same story, the Metros were able to limp on without him if he stayed away, but the minute he was there watching them, the defence crumbled and the line changes got so messy they were basically giving penalties away.

He'd talked to Hayden about it, how the team seemed to play better when he wasn’t there. Tried to make it seem casual, and not something that made him want to put on all of his pads and crawl into a ball. Hayden had been instantly awkward, which told Shane that his instincts were right. He could swallow being injured, it was partly his own fault for not having his head fully on the ice. The fact that his team appeared to be better off without him was a much more bitter pill. Hayden had tried to phrase it in the most positive way that he could. Shane was just ‘intense’. It put pressure on the team, to know that their captain was watching them fumble at plays Shane could do in his sleep. Much better for Shane to step back and watch as their league position slipped down without him.

Shane could feel himself spiralling again. At a farmers market once he’d watched a woman spinning wool into thread, and that was what it felt like sometimes inside his head. That he had all these tangled complicated thoughts which just needed to be shaped and pulled into one simple unbroken line. Usually hockey was the thread, and as soon as he was doing it Shane felt balanced out. Now someone had cut it off with blunt scissors, and he could feel the messy ends looking for something else to latch onto, getting more confused.

Perhaps everybody else was right, that he did need something other than hockey, some other thread. Even if this was a temporary one, a practice for when he found something else that he could pour his whole self into. Maybe the reason for the Ilya Rozanov thing (not that there was a Rozanov thing, not anymore) was because he was trying to fit every part of his life into that one line, and so he’d brought Rozanov into that too, by mistake. There was a chance that if Shane found another line he’d finally stop thinking about him.

Shane sighed, his forehead flopping down to meet the table. “Do you really honestly think I can do it without looking like a total idiot?” He asked, his voice slightly muffled.

“Shane, you’re smart, and you work hard. You can do anything you set your mind to.” His dad said with a level of confidence that Shane wished he felt himself. He could feel the weight of the hope in their voices. Perhaps his behaviour had been a bit more outwardly concerning than he realized. He’d have to watch that in the future, Shane thought.

“Alright then. Fine. I’ll go on the stupid show.”

If there was nothing on the ice that he could do to make himself useful, then he might as well do something off it. If he did well in the cooking show, then it might encourage more people to come to Metros games, which meant more money for the team, which meant they could get better equipment and coaches and training, and they could win more games. This way he could do something good for the whole team and be the captain they deserved even with a cast on his leg. It was absolutely not because he needed something to take his mind off Rozoanov’s apartment, and the smell of his hair, and the hurt in his eyes as Shane had walked away from him.

 

Ilya was flicking rubber bands at the cast on his foot when the phone rang. He’d managed to hit the big toe twice, which was worth four points in his imaginary game, and the edge of the foot at least eight times. The real money shot, hooking a rubber band over his toes, still eluded him. The phone rang three times, with the special ring tone that Ilya only used for his agent.

“Yes, what is? I am busy.” Ilya used his shoulder to trap the phone against his ear and fired off another rubber band, which went wide.

“Ilya! My favourite Russian, just who I wanted to talk to.” His agent gushed excitedly.

“Of course I am who you wanted to talk to. You called me.” Ilya pointed out.

His agent gave off an artificial laugh. “I have some really great news, you are going to be so pumped!” Ilya rolled his eyes, thinking about the last few things that his agent had expected him to be pumped about. Usually it involved him standing in front of important people and nodding, or standing in front of a camera and not moving at all.

“I got you the MasterChef gig! It’s short notice, filming starts in a couple of weeks because they had a couple of drop outs, some TV show had a sexual harassment scandal that I can’t really talk about, but they remembered that we’d been interested before and so they gave me a call!”

Ilya straightened up on the couch, and took hold of his phone with his hand again. “Really? I am going to cook on the show? I will cook for Gordon Ramsey?”

He could feel the satisfied smile on his agent’s face through the phone. “Yup. Filming is in LA, so you’ll be based there for a few weeks, but I’ve already checked with the team doctor and they’ve recommended a physio over there. They’ve booked out a hotel for all the contestants, so the accommodation is all taken care of, and it’s good money.” Images of the show were whirring through Ilya’s brain, of him standing at the long kitchen benches, or walking up to present his food to the judges.
“How much money? Is it possible to find out how much on the internet?” Ilya didn’t actually care, he would have done it for free, but his brother would definitely find out, and come knocking for handouts the second he saw Ilya’s face on TV.

“Well, it all depends how long you stay in the show. You get paid more if you make it longer. But it’s worth it anyway for the exposure, this could get you some really serious brand deals. So, are you in?”

“Freddie, you already know that I am in.”

The MasterChef thing had started as a joke. When Ilya first got an agent at eighteen years old, Freddie had asked him what kind of deals he would like to do, if there were any products that he would feel uncomfortable promoting. The first thing that teenage Ilya had said when they met was ‘Can you get me on MasterChef?’ After a bit of back and forth, Freddie had explained that no, it would not usually be possible for him to go on MasterChef, because they filmed the show in the winter, and anyway he wasn’t a big enough celebrity for them to want him. ‘But you will call them, yes? You will tell them that I am interested?’. In the time since, Ilya had mostly forgotten about this deal, but Freddie was an accomplished agent and Ilya Rozanov was his biggest client. So every year, Freddie called the people over at MasterChef to let them know that yes, Ilya Rozanov was still interested in going on their show.

“There is one other thing. It’s not totally confirmed yet, but I heard a lot of really strong rumours, and it completely makes sense from a branding perspective, I mean it’s what I’d do if I could…”

“Just tell me,” Ilya sighed.

“Shane Hollander is also going to be on the show.”

 

The air in LA was hot and alien to Shane, stepping off the plane and onto the tarmac below. No matter how many times he visited California, the fact that it was so warm at 11pm at night still unsettled him. His flight had been delayed by four hours, three people in business class had asked for photos with him, and the flight attendants had fussed incessantly over his broken leg, constantly checking in to make sure it hadn’t exploded or something in the low pressure. They’d insisted on bringing him some kind of trolley to put his luggage on, which a man in a ridiculous uniform was pushing ahead of him. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to be a hockey fan, and so Shane managed to get through security and to the arrival gates without any small talk.

A smiley woman wearing too much lipstick was waiting for Shane, holding a sign with his name in neat handwriting.

“Shane Hollander? My name is Ruth Jones, I will be your coordinator while you’re on the show. I hope that your flight was okay?” She was still smiling as she asked the question.

“It was great.” Shane replied.

“Perfect. Well, I apologise about the delay, but there’s another person I’ve got to wait for. We would have picked you up separately, but the delay threw things off a little. His flight landed about twenty minutes ago, but he had some problem with his luggage, so it might take a minute. You can wait in the car if you’d prefer. I really apologise that it’s so late.” She shuffled the cards in her hands, and Shane realized that there was another name underneath his. She pulled it to the front, and Shane felt all the blood leaving his face at once.

“Ilya Rozanov? The other person that you’re waiting for is… Ilya Rozanov?” She looked at his horrified expression slightly sheepishly.

“Yes, did they not tell you? He’s another contestant on the show.”

Shane stood there for ten minutes, trying to make his face look like the face of someone about to see their biggest rival, and not the face of a war casualty. Had his mother known? Even if she had, then she might not have thought it was important enough to tell Shane about. After all, it was a good marketing opportunity, to have two injured rivals competing on an even playing field. That was the kind of exposure that Yuna Hollander dreamed about.

Why was Rozanov even coming on the show? Not that it made sense for Shane, who barely bothered to make eggs for himself in the mornings, but at least he was used to being in front of a camera. Rozanov rarely did brand deals, and didn’t seem to take his public persona particularly seriously. Perhaps he was just bored. Maybe he knew that Shane was doing it, and had come specifically to torture him. Shane dismissed that thought immediately. After all, Shane had been the one who had left on the day of their last game together. Rozanov had gone out of his way to cook for the both of them, so maybe he did enjoy it. A blindingly clear image entered Shane’s mind, of Rozanov cooking a tuna melt for Gordon Ramsey, and Ramsey yelling “Is this the best you can do? It’s fucking shit!” at him.

Shane saw blonde curls first, before the person walking in front of Rozanov stepped out of the way and he got the full picture. Rozanov was wearing sunglasses, even though they were indoors and it was basically the middle of the night, and a tight long sleeved compression shirt. He was limping slightly, a cast on his right foot, a small messenger bag slung over his left shoulder but no suitcase. His sweatpants were black and slung low on his hips, with the logo of some European streetwear brand decorating his legs. Somehow he still looked like a fucking movie star.

Every time he interacted with Rozanov, Shane was optimistic that it would get easier. That this time he wouldn’t feel the lurch in his chest, the sensation of all the background noise melting away. Years of training had conditioned him to focus his attention on what was important, so that he could be faster, smoother, more powerful. When Rozanov was around, his brain used those well-worn pathways to cut out anything except him. Shane kept trying to rewrite the code, to convince his body to notice literally anything else, but so far it had proven impossible.

Rozanov rolled his shoulders, sore from the plane journey, and Shane felt his eyes follow the movement. He knew what it felt like to trace those muscles with his tongue, or to have them shove into him during a game. Shane inhaled deeply through his nose, and tried to ignore every signal his body was sending him.
Rozanov took off his sunglasses as he reached them, and shook hands with the woman next to Shane. Shane had already forgotten her name. “You must be Ruth, I am sorry for being late.” He turned to Shane, the smile staying exactly the same. “Hello, Shane Hollander. I see you have come to steal taxi ride with me.”
“Did you manage to sort out your luggage?” Ruth asked.

Rozanov gestured to the small bag on his shoulder. “Yes, of course! As you can see, I have travel hairbrush, and one packet of crackers that they give to me on the plane. What else would I need for a six week trip?” Ruth’s nose crinkled up as she tried not to laugh, and Shane hated her a bit for it. He hated himself more for also feeling charmed.

“I’m sorry, my team will be absolutely on that, I’m sure they’ll find your suitcase eventually. The show has a good wardrobe department, so you shouldn’t need any clothes for tomorrow.” She started walking, and Shane and Rozanov followed her. In a move designed purely to infuriate him, Rozanov started pushing Shane’s luggage for him.

Shane wrestled the handle back immediately. “I can push it myself!”

“Ah, no, but you are injured,” Rozanov teased.

“You are also injured!” Shane shouted, then went slightly red as people around them turned to look. A man in his mid-thirties pulled out his phone and started taking pictures. People in LA were used to celebrities, and hockey wasn’t as popular on the west coast, but an argument between two injured superstars who supposedly hated each other was sure to draw attention. Warning sirens flashed through Shane’s mind instinctively, at the idea that people might photograph him next to Rozanov. This was fine. They were spending time together because they had both signed contracts agreeing to take part in MasterChef for the next six weeks. Rationalising didn’t decrease the way his heart raced in his chest.

“Ah no, but I am only fractured foot. You are broken leg, which is much worse. In Paralympics, we would be separate categories.” Shane looked Rozanov in the face for the first time, because he needed to make eye contact to communicate the level of distain that he was feeling.
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. That’s not even right, Rozanov I seriously…”

 

The argument continued all the way into the car, and to the lobby of the hotel. An extremely fancy clock positioned over the front desk told Shane that it was now past one am. The call time in the morning was 8am, and Shane would need to call his parents, unpack, and shower before he could even consider going to bed. He tapped his fingers on the desk again, because the woman behind the counter seemed to being doing a lot of typing and not a lot of handing Shane his keys. It was only him and Rozanov now, since Ruth had wisely gone to bed.

“Bear with me for juuust a moment more please, Mr Hollander.” Rozanov was standing too close next to him. They weren’t actually touching, but Shane could feel the heavy weight of his presence. If Rozanov stood further away, then Shane would be able to think properly again, and maybe he’d stop wanting them to touch.
“Lady. What is problem?” Rozanov asked, the jetlag coming through in his voice.

“My sincerest apologies. But I can’t seem to find your reservation anywhere. I’ve looked and it’s just… It’s just not there.” Shane’s shoulders slumped further than he’d thought possible.

“Well… it wouldn’t be booked under my name. The production company booked everything for me, so it might be harder to find.” Shane implored.

“I’ve already looked. Three times. There’s nothing there.” She had the pleading eyes of a seal about to be clubbed.

“So I don’t have a room?” Shane’s voice was almost hysterical.

“Not that I can find. I’m extremely sorry. In the morning, the daytime manager might be able to sort it out, but I don’t have the authority…” her voice trailed off, getting very small at the end.

“Well, this does not have to be such a big problem, just give him a different room. He has money, he can pay for his own room!” Ilya interrupted. Shane almost felt a flash of hope, but the desk woman’s eyes suggested that it would not be a wise idea.

“I am sorry, but. We are fully booked, because there’s a comic book convention happening nearby. I can call another hotel, or one of our partners, but obviously I can’t guarantee… and it might take some time…” Shane’s dreams of a quiet elevator ride, and sinking into soft white sheets evaporated. The hotel they were staying at was near to the studio, which was away from the centre of LA. It would be at least a thirty minute taxi ride to another hotel, if they even had rooms available at this time of night.

“If that’s what you have to do, then fine. Call another hotel, I’ll go anywhere with a bed, I don’t care.” Rozanov cleared his throat behind him.

Shane willed him not to do it. There were a hundred other ways to sort this issue out, ones that actually made sense for two adult professionals to choose. Whatever Rozanov had been trying to offer him the last time that they had seen each other, Shane had rejected it, and so Rozanov had every right to push him away now. Hadn’t Rozanov talked before about how much he liked LA girls? One am probably wasn’t even particularly late by his standards, he should be getting ready to throw his one bag onto the bed and find a club. He shouldn’t be standing next to Shane, fixing his problems and making offers that he couldn’t take back. Not like this, when they both knew exactly how it was going to end.

“I have a room.” He spun the keys around on his fingers. “Is double room, yes?”

“Ah! It’s a room with a double bed, so there is only one bed.”

“But the bed is big. And is only one night. We are hockey players, we are used to sharing a room, it will not be so different. I take the right side, you take the left?” Rozanov’s tone was extremely gentle.

Shane almost laughed, because Rozanov had pressed him into dozens of hotel beds, and at the end of it all, when they lay panting and sweaty and Shane’s cum was painted over his stomach, Rozanov was always on the left side. But Shane understood his role in this two-man play that they were performing for the hotel concierge, and any cameras that might be pointed at them. He knew very well his role as hockey player unwilling to do anything that might read as intimate with another man. He slipped into it like a second skin.

“I don’t know. You don’t snore, right?” Shane said, jokingly. He wasn’t sure how he managed to make his voice sound so light, and not at all wanting. He’d never fallen asleep next to Rozanov, made sure of it after their last meeting. It was extremely fucking ironic that he might now be forced to.

“I can’t make any promises.” Rozanov was looking at Shane now, and either Shane was more perceptive than usual, or Rozanov wasn’t a particularly good actor.
They made it all the way up six floors in the elevator, across the plush carpet of the hallway, past eight vases of plastic flowers, and through the door to room 612. That’s all Shane could manage before he shoved Rozanov against the closed door, and smashed their mouths together. He could feel Rozanov smiling as he kissed him, slipping his tongue inside and letting one hand wander down and grab a handful of his ass. Then Shane pulled away and rested his head against the door.
“It isn’t our fault this time. This never would have happened if they hadn’t messed up the rooms, so this one doesn’t count,” Shane said with a conviction that he wished he felt. Rozanov ran one hand up his back soothingly.

“Of course not. We are not ourselves here, I think. We are chefs, not hockey players, and so everything is off. Different rules.” Shane nodded, and hated Rozanov a little bit for not having more self-control. For not being so angry that Shane had rejected him the last time, that he never let it happen again. For being so fucking understanding that Shane wasn’t cruel, he was just weak.

A part of Shane expected Rozanov to touch him differently. Shane had been the one to make it clear that they were not anything, that it was all just sex. So he thought that maybe Rozanov wouldn’t run his fingers through Shane’s hair, and gently lick the part of Shane’s neck that made him shiver. Rozanov stopped to pull off Shane’s T shirt, and began kissing his way downwards, pausing to take one nipple into his mouth, and roll it between his teeth. He stroked the bones on the sides of Shane’s hips, running his thumbs over every dip in the skin.

“You don’t… ah. Have to do that,” Shane said, as Rozanov reached the trail of hair that led downwards. Rozanov pulled away immediately.

“You don’t like it?” He asked.

“No! It’s not that I don’t like it, of course I like it. I’m just saying that you don’t need to do it.” Rozanov looked up at him, brows drawn together in confusion. Shane actually didn’t know what he was trying to say. Maybe that he thought he didn’t deserve it, after walking away the last time. He didn’t deserve to have the kind of mind-melting sex that Rozanov gave him, because it made him want to grab Rozanov with both hands, and instead he should be pushing him away.

Rozanov pressed a kiss to the inside of Shane’s thigh. “Hollander, I think you are forgetting something. I am a very selfish man. I would not be doing this if it was not exactly what I wanted. I want to see you pant, and turn red, and squirm. And right now, I want you to keep your mouth shut unless you’re begging me for more.” Shane felt his teeth click together as he closed his mouth immediately.

Rozanov allowed his breath to come out in a warm cloud and graze over Shane’s cock. He licked the head, then took it into his mouth, while Shane moaned. It was easier, once he wasn’t allowed to talk. He could relax and just let Rozanov reduce him to a shaky mess with his tongue. Rozanov sucked deeper, and Shane tightened his hand on his head, pulling on his blonde curls. He could see Rozanov’s bulge through his sweatpants already starting to chub up. Rozanov reached a hand up, and grabbed Shane’s pec muscle, stroking the nipple and then pinching hard.

Rozanov pulled off his cock for a second, and Shane whined. “Hollander, there is lube in my bag, on the side table. If you want me to fuck you, you need to give it to me now.”

Shane looked at Ilya Rozanov, his biggest rival, on his knees. If he let Rozanov fuck him, then he would feel it tomorrow. He’d be in front of the cameras, in front of the world. It was already late, and if he missed out on any more sleep they would have to cover his dark circles with makeup. Nobody would know why, but Shane would know that it was because he let Ilya Rozanov thrust his cock inside so hard that it made him cry.

Rozanov smirked as Shane handed the lube to him.

Chapter 2: Croissants

Chapter Notes

Loud beeping cut through Shane’s dream of skating on a rink made of jelly. In another person’s subconscious, that would be fun and whimsical, but Shane had woken up overstimulated from the smell and frustrated that his passes weren’t connecting. The beeps were familiar, but everything else was different. He was warm and comfortable, and the humming he usually felt in the back of his mind was quieter than usual. There were strong arms wrapped around him.

Last night, after Rozanov had finished, panting into Shane’s mouth as his hips rocked against him, they had shifted away from each other. There was a mutual understanding that once the heat had gone, they were separate people again, forced together by circumstances beyond their control. Shane had got up by himself to get tissues from the bathroom, to wipe himself clean. The way they went to sleep was identical to the picture they had painted to the concierge, on opposite sides of the bed, not touching at all.

Rozanov had obviously begun spooning him at some point during the night, because they were now fully entwined with each other like a yin yang symbol. Warmth radiated from the other man's body, and he could smell the tang of Rozanov's sweat, which should disgust him, and instead caused desire to spark in his belly. As his brain came back online, Shane went rigid. This was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid the last time, waking up next to Rozanov. He wanted to sneak out of the bed, to shower and brush his teeth in secret, and hide all the soft animal parts of himself because he couldn’t admit that he trusted Rozanov to see them.

For just a second the arms squeezed a bit tighter, and then Rozanov began quietly extracting himself from Shane. Looking at the glowing display of his expensive watch, he turned over so that his body was positioned away from Shane. The four inches of space between them felt like it should have barbed wire strung across it.

“You know that we have to go soon,” Shane murmured.

“Oh, Shane Hollander only has one alarm set?” Rozanov said sarcastically, his voice rough with sleep.

“Ten minutes. We have ten minutes before my next alarm.” Shane thought that Rozanov might take that as a challenge. That his fingers would sneak out to touch Shane, making some smirking comment about how ten minutes was enough. Instead he just grunted, breathing deeply through his nose.

Shane wasn’t the kind of person who could go back to sleep after his alarm went off, so he lay in bed and counted the dots in the wallpaper pattern. He should make a plan really, about how to handle Rozanov. They needed to figure out what the rules were, how to behave around each other in a setting other than a hockey rink or a hotel room. Would they have to pretend to be enemies? Shane looked at Rozanov, his chest moving gently up and down and his face softer than usual, the lines that sometimes formed between his mouth completely smooth. He went back to counting dots.

After the alarm went off for a second time, Rozanov groaned, stretched, and swung his legs out of the bed. His phone was in his hands, and he was texting someone. Shane tried to think of a question he could ask that would make Rozanov look at him, then immediately tried to kill that thought and walked to the shower instead.
He kept the water cold, and washed himself efficiently. It had taken him twenty full seconds to decide whether to lock the door or not, but when he walked out in his usual off-season clothes, Rozanov was still looking at his phone, walking into the bathroom after him without any acknowledgement.

Remembering that Rozanov still didn’t have any clothes, Shane spent a few minutes looking through his suitcase and trying to find something that worked. Logically anything would, since they were essentially the same shape and size, but he couldn’t help the urge to find something less boring for Rozanov.

Shane made a decision, since he didn’t want to give Rozanov an excuse to look in his suitcase, and folded the clothes neatly on the bed, hoping for approval.
Rozanov walked in wearing only a towel. Shane was trying very hard not to look at him, instead opting for fluffing his own hair in the mirror. He couldn’t help the way that his eyes were drawn to Rozanov’s reflection.

“I’ve put some clothes for you on the bed. It’s all brand new, Reebok sent it over to me because of the brand deal.” Shane counted to eight and then turned around, as if that was enough time to stop himself from getting distracted by Rozanov’s body.

Shane looked at his naked chest, the light hairs covering it and tried not to imagine running his hands over it. Unfairly, Ilya’s curls looked bouncy and perfect, the drops of water on his skin reflecting in the light of a lamp and making him glow.

Ilya looked at the neat pile on the bed, and crinkled his nose up at them.

“No, I cannot wear clothes which were a gift. And… I may be doing rival sponsorship, so I cannot be wearing Reebok. Would be bad business.” Ilya strode over to the bed, and flipped over Shane’s suitcase, digging through it until he could pull out a faded pair of blue Nike shorts and an old T-shirt.

“This. It’s only for the car ride, so something old is fine.” Rozanov kept rummaging through the suitcase, unzipping all of the pockets.

“Leave my stuff alone, haven’t you already got what you need? You’re like a fucking raccoon.” Shane huffed, heart rate increasing slightly. Rozanov smirked, then unzipped the section that contained all of the reading material that Shane had brought with him. He paused, taking his time to read the titles of the books in Shane’s suitcase. Shane could see ‘An Idiot’s Guide to Baking’ from where he was sitting. Rozanov’s plush lips moved as he sounded out the words.

“What are these? Did you bring whole library with you?” Rozanov asked teasingly.

“It’s just some cookbooks. Contestants do it all the time, I read it on a forum.” Spending hours going through reddit threads written by former MasterChef contestants probably wasn’t strictly necessary, but Shane had wanted to be prepared.

“Oh, you read it on a forum? You have been studying for this.”

Ilya looked at him, eyebrows raised. He flicked through the pages of the book, running his fingers over the post it notes that Shane had stuck to pages with particularly interesting recipes. Shane had even less of a clue now why Rozanov was taking part in the competition, if he wasn’t going to take any of it seriously. With any luck, he would mess about, burn something, get kicked off, and things could go back to normal for Shane. His pulse rate could return to what it was before they had shared a bed together, and Shane would be able to read his cookbooks in peace.

“But what will the people of Montreal do, now that you have stolen all the books in the city? All of Canada will be cooking bland, tasteless food. Oh wait, this already happen.” Rozanov had a glint in his eye that annoyed Shane.

“Canadian food is not bad. You’re from Russia, you should know what bad food is like.”

Rozanov turned around, his face twisted in mock hurt, took three steps over and pushed Shane flat onto the bed. “This is a very serious insult to my people. Someone tell the league, Shane Hollander is being a bigot. Two minutes, unsportsmanlike conduct!”

Shane rolled his eyes, as Rozanov took the opportunity to kiss him, first on the lips and then on the neck. Shane could feel himself sinking into pleasure, until he felt Rozanov suck a little deeper on his neck. Cold water went down his spine, and Shane pushed him away using all his strength.

“Rozanov, are you trying to give me a fucking hickey? We are about to be on TV! My parents will be watching this.” Shane jumped off the bed, and looked in the mirror. The side of his neck was wet, and slightly pinker than usual, but nothing more.

Rozanov stumbled backwards, the smile slipping slightly off his face, and sighed.

“I would not do this. But I should get ready, anyway. Thank you for the clothes.”

He went in to the bathroom to change, even though Shane knew what every part of his body tasted like.

 

The first time that Ilya got a look at the other contestants was in the hotel lobby. A small breakfast buffet was set up on the side of the room, with fresh fruit and pastries. Shane had asked to go before him, so that they wouldn’t arrive at the same time. Or maybe so that he could get away from Ilya quicker, he wasn’t sure. By the time he got down, he could see a stressed looking staff member apologizing to Shane about the room mix up while he nodded understandingly, as every other part of his body projected annoyance.

Ilya felt another stab of guilt for cancelling Shane’s hotel room.

It had seemed like a master stroke of self-preservation at the time. As soon as he’d found out that Shane would be staying in the same hotel as him, probably only a few doors down, he’d known that something needed to change. There was absolutely no way that he could stick to his Shane Plan when the most kissable man in North America was only a few meters away. The Plan involved several core tenants, which included staying entirely professional while they were at work filming, limiting interactions outside of the TV studio, and if Shane happened to initiate any kind of sexual contact, keeping things strictly casual like Shane wanted.

He could manage, he’d thought. Shane would have his media-mask on, would probably not even make eye contact with him for all six weeks of filming. They would put makeup on his freckles.

Ilya’s teammates had laughed when, during a night out in Montreal, he had thrown a beer bottle at a billboard of Shane. Rolex had blown up a huge picture of Shane’s face, so large that Ilya could see each one of his eyelashes, which was bad enough. But what had really tipped him over the edge was that his freckles, the beautiful constellation of them which Ilya had kissed and counted and tried to wipe from his memory, were… wrong. Someone had put makeup over Shane’s flawless skin, and then they had drawn the freckles back on incorrectly. Not only were some of them in the wrong place, but some were missing entirely! Ilya wanted to scream, to make it known that the people of Montreal were being cheated out of freckles.

Ilya was aware of the effect that freckles had on him, and so he’d tried to make sure that the polished, TV-ready Shane was the only one he’d get to see. He’d scheduled everything very carefully, getting his agent to cancel Shane’s booking, then making sure that he was on a later flight than Shane, so that it would all be sorted out by the time that they got there. There would be no bumping into Shane in the hotel bar, no squeezing next to him in the elevators, and absolutely no sharing of the hotel pool.

Instead, thanks to the incompetence of Air Canada, he’d had to see Shane tired from a flight delay, then watch his face fall as he realized that he was stuck in the middle of the night with nowhere to go. And obviously Ilya shouldn’t have offered up his own room, but he was stupid. Shane made him stupid, which was why he’d made the Shane Plan in the first place.

This whole morning had made the need for the Shane Plan even clearer, because here he was, living out one of his deepest fantasies, dressed up in Shane’s clothes after a night wrapped around his body. And he was miserable because the real fantasy was Shane wanting him close, and what Shane wanted was for him to go away.

Now his main priority was ensuring that Shane didn’t find out it was all his fault.

Ilya studied the faces of the other ‘famous’ people. There was a woman in her mid-40s that he recognized from a boring morning show, a man who he thought might be some kind of TV scientist, a person with dyed hair and lots of piercings, a guy in his 30s attempting to dress much younger than he really was, and – Jesus was that Captain America? Ilya was stunned for a second, before looking more closely and noticing the makeup job, and remembering the hotel concierge’s mention of a comic book convention nearby. The most famous of the group, and the only one that Ilya felt compelled to talk to, was Lola Risalti.

She had to be in her late seventies, but her face still showed the contours of the beauty she was once famous for. His mother had sometimes played her records, on the worn-out CD player that she kept hidden in a cupboard with most of the other things that brought her joy. He walked over to her as a staff member explained that cars would be taking them directly to the studios, and grabbed a pastry from the buffet on the way.

He stuck out the hand not holding a croissant, meeting her sharp green gaze. “Lola Risalti. You look even more beautiful than your pictures.”

She chuckled, taking his hand and watching with approval as he leaned down and kissed it. “I’m surprised someone your age even knows who I am.”

“Of course! Your songs, they are very famous. In the old Soviet days, my mother traded a week’s worth of bread for one of your singles.” Rozanov said, surprising himself slightly. One night with Shane and he was giving away all his secrets. Even so, it felt good to talk about his mother in a way that didn’t make him sad.

His father had banned all mention of Irina Rozanova. Not in so many words, but the way that his mouth had turned down at the edges any time she was brought up was clear to Ilya even at twelve years old. His brother had followed suit, as usual. As the eldest, it was his job to get rid of the evidence, to put the few pictures they had in cabinets. Ilya had cried when he saw him throwing away her clothes, had begged him not to do it. Alexei had just shaken his head in disgust, and hissed that he should not be so selfish.

A few weeks ago, Ilya had heard his father say her name again, for the first time in fourteen years. A confused old man, asking when she was coming home, furious that he couldn’t find her in the house. The disease had taken his mind, but it had not softened him. Bitterness and insults came as naturally to him as breathing, and so that was what he spewed now that everything else was gone.

Ilya blinked, and turned his attention back to the woman in front of him.

“I’m flattered. I presume that you are going to be one of my competitors?” Lola Risalti asked, looking him up and down, probably not impressed with Shane's old T-shirt. Ilya did not care, because he looked good in everything, and because this shirt smelled like Shane. It was clear that she had no idea who he was. Her unwillingness to pretend that she did made Ilya like her even more.

“Yes. Ilya Rozanov, I am a professional hockey player. The best one. Do not listen to what Hollander over there tells you,” Ilya said, gesturing to where Shane was standing silently and listening to the speaker explain the importance of seatbelts.

“So there are two hockey players against me. That seems a little unfair, you two can work together, gang up on everyone else.” She laughed.

Ilya looked over at Shane again. This time Shane turned his head, made eye contact for one and a half seconds, and then looked away again. It was so calculated that Ilya wondered whether he had been counting. “No, you do not need to worry. Shane Hollander is my great rival. We cannot work together.”

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for reading, there will be actual cooking in this cooking fic, in the next chapter I promise! It will be up very soon, probably in a few hours after I've finished editing. Let me know what you think so far!

Chapter 3: Steak

Chapter Notes

It was interesting, Shane thought, to find out how reality TV shows actually worked. All of the participants had been given a quick tour of the set and dressing rooms, which Rozanov seemed noticeably excited for. He bounced around the rooms, asking lots of questions to the staff members, and touching everything he could get his hands on. An unspoken distance had settled between them since leaving the hotel, which was obviously a good idea. Shane knew he shouldn’t be looking at him too much, which he’d mostly managed.

Shane had been sharing a car with Andy, who presented nature shows and had an extremely relaxing voice. He’d told Shane that his reason for going on the show was improving the cooking he did for his two young sons, which comforted Shane a bit. He didn’t seem to have much real kitchen experience, and so perhaps the competition wouldn’t be quite as tough as Shane had feared.

He’d introduced himself to all of the other competitors, whom he mostly recognized. Besides Andy, there was Sandra Sargasso, who presented one of LA’s most boring morning news broadcasts, Max Steel a YouTuber who kept getting in the press for increasingly dumb stunts, and Lola Risalti, the singer on some of the biggest hits of the 70s and 80s.

The only person Shane hadn’t recognized had introduced themselves as Syd, and was apparently the lead singer of a punk band. Rows of piercings glinted in their ears and eyebrows, and their hair was dyed bright purple. Shane couldn’t figure out whether they were a man or a woman, and had found it too awkward to ask. They were dressed in a ripped, baggy T-shirt and black jeans with chains attached, and Shane had found his gaze drawn to the tattoos which stretched up their arms. Shane had already overheard Rozanov saying that the tattoos were ‘awesome’, and that he would have more ink himself if the league were less boring.

Shane had thought back to all the paparazzi photographs he’d seen of Rozanov with girls. There had been a diverse range, short, tall, blondes, brunettes, but Shane didn’t think he’d ever been photographed with a goth girl. Then again, he’d never been photographed with a man either. Maybe Rozanov liked people like this, ones who were colourful and interesting.

The set looked almost identical to the way it did on TV, with the rows of long glowing prep tables, each one with enough space for two contestants to share. It was bigger than he’d expected, although they would only be using a fraction of the room, since the celebrity edition had a much smaller number of contestants. The whole thing was inside a warehouse, which had the main filming hall and then smaller rooms off to the sides. One of them contained sofas, and big shelves of cookbooks. Shane was still trying not to look at Rozanov, but he could feel his smirk through the back of his head.

The producers let them know the schedule, that they would start by filming longer interviews with each contestant, and then the first challenge would be filmed. Shane noticed that as soon as this was mentioned, all the contestants straightened up a little. Clearly he was not the only one who was nervous to cook on TV for the first time. After that challenge, there would be more interviews, and then the second challenge would be filmed. All of the show’s staff were buzzing around excitedly, fixing people’s clothes, and leading them into smaller rooms to film the first clips for the show.

 

Shane sat in an uncomfortable chair, in front of a green screen. He’d already described why he’d wanted to go on the show (he’d gone with the lie his mom had come up with, that he wanted a new challenge and he’d always admired the MasterChef cooks), who was cheering for him (his parents), what his teammates would think (supportive confusion), and how much he was looking forward to meeting Gordon Ramsey (a fair bit).

“So. Do you have what it takes, to take the apron and become the next champion of MasterChef?” The producer asked Shane excitedly. Shane thought about it for a minute.

“Hmmm. Well, I wouldn’t like to come last, but realistically, there’s probably better cooks than me here. I mean I haven’t seen anyone cook yet, but some of them seemed to have good ideas. I’d like to be top three maybe?”

What he really wanted was to not completely humiliate himself, on TV in front of millions, which is what he suspected was going to happen. Two weeks of intensive cooking practice with his mother, and eight cookbooks he’d tried to memorise probably wasn’t going to translate into him winning any competitions. Delicacy, imagination, innovation. That was what TV chefs were always talking about, and Shane didn’t think those were words anyone would use to describe him.
“Alright cut!” The producer gestured to the camera people, and sighed. Shane had the feeling that he’d made some kind of mistake.

“Shane, the people watching this show, they want competition! They want fire, they want you to tell them that you’re the best cook in the building, and that there’s no way you’ll go home without that trophy.”

“Right. But I’m not the best cook in this building. Gordon Ramsey is here, I just saw him.”

“Ok, fine, but the best out of your competitors. Forget cooking for the moment, imagine what you’d say if I was asking you about… winning the Stanley Cup.”

Shane frowned at her. “That’s completely different. I say that my team can go all the way because we’re the best team in the league, and we’ve proven that over and over again. When I say that I’m going to bring us a cup, it means something. And I’ll be honest, my cooking was pretty bad until about two weeks ago. I hadn’t actually ever used a whisk before, and when I walked in here someone showed me three different ones and asked me what kind of tension I wanted.”

The producer leaned back, rubbing the space in between her glasses with one finger. “Ok sure. You might not end up being the best cook in the room. What about beating Ilya Rozanov? Do you think you can manage that?”

Shane thought about Rozanov, the cocky smile he’d had as he flicked through Shane’s cookbooks. He’d actually had an answer for that stupid whisk question, pointing at one of the three identical tools and then explaining why while smirking at the cameras. Shane was pretty sure he was making it all up, and that this was another way for Rozanov to psych him out.

Shane thought about wiping the smug look off Rozanov’s face, and let the image guide his answer. “I will crush Ilya Rozanov. I might not be coming in with all the skills, but I’m persistent, I learn from my mistakes, and I always keep pushing. Rozanov? He doesn’t have what it takes. This TV show is too small for there to be two professional hockey players on it, and if one of us makes it, it’s going to be me.”

The producer was smiling now, which suggested that what he’d just said was a lot more likely to make the edit. Shane had watched several hours of MasterChef with his mom in preparation, but it was hard to click into that aggressive way of speaking when someone asked him a direct question. Thinking about Rozanov beating him at anything made it much easier to pull out his competitive side. There was an easy familiarity in trash-talking Rozanov.

With hockey he had years of practice at coming on strong, because it was necessary. From an early age, it had been clear that Shane had more potential than every other member of every team that he’d been on. Blushing and trying to stay humble when reporters talked about how talented he was, only pissed his teammates off. The more he tried to pretend it wasn’t true, the more humiliating it was when he skated rings around them. If he acted cocky, then at least they could say that they hated him because he was arrogant, not because he was better.

 

The smooth wooden box sat on the workspace in front of Shane, and he could feel the tension in the room building. Gordon Ramsey was at the front of the room, calm as ever. Shane felt confident that he’d practiced his signature dish enough for it to be at least edible, but the mystery box challenge was something else. Shane had run through this with his mother a few times too, letting her go out to the grocery store and find some random ingredients that he’d needed to then make a meal with. Mostly it had gone alright, except for the one time she’d brought back mussels, and Shane had nearly poisoned them both.

The judges did a countdown for them to open the mystery boxes, and then the producer called cut, and made them film it a few more times. Shane still hadn’t been able to look inside the box. Finally, Ramsey got to zero, and the producers gave a thumbs up. A big timer was across at the front of the room, showing exactly one hour. The producers had let them know that, although the countdowns were fake, the clock was very real. Shane would have one hour to create something good enough to beat Rozanov, using the ingredients in the box and anything useful he could find in the stockroom.

Slowly lifting the lid, Shane grabbed inside the box, hoping that there was something he could work with. Inside was a bunch of basil, some tiny red onions (or were they shallots?), potatoes, carrots, white wine vinegar, a large and extremely ugly fish, a stick of butter, and, thankfully, a steak.

Every cookbook Shane had told him not to cook things in a cold pan, so Shane started by putting a heavy silver one on the stove. It took three tries for him to get it working, partly because his hands were shaking slightly. He put it on the lowest setting that would still create heat, because he’d seen the faces the judges made when contestants burnt their food. Butter went into the pan, even though the idea of eating food that had been cooking in butter made Shane’s shoulders tense a little.

Shallots were basically just big garlic, right? He peeled one carefully, unsure when exactly to stop taking layers off. Inside it looked more like an onion, so it surely had to be the same rules, that he could stop when the skin was soft and smooth. Shane peeled off an extra layer just to be safe. He’d practiced enough that his knife skills were passable, and so he quickly diced the shallot into small pieces, then put it in the sizzling butter.

While the shallots began changing colour in the pan, Shane drizzled some oil over the remaining vegetables, and put them in the oven. He made sure to sprinkle some Cajun spice over the top of them first, because that was something that Jackie often did when Shane went over for dinner. Roasted vegetables alone would probably be too boring for most people, and if the judges asked him about it then at least he’d have something to say other than that he did it that way because a book told him too.

Shane glanced over at the other contestants. Max Steel and Andy were both doing something similar to him, Andy’s steak already seasoned on the table in front of him. Max looked slightly ridiculous in his white apron and bright orange baseball cap, but the cap had his YouTuber logo on it so he had refused to take it off. Syd was ignoring the animal protein entirely, and seemed to be going for some kind of vegetable stew, the clinking of the chains on their jeans providing a soundtrack to their cooking. Sandra had the steak chopped up, and was making what looked like pastry with the butter and the flour, and Lola Risalti was peeling a carrot while somehow managing to project total poise and elegance. Shane finally allowed his eyes to glide past Rozanov, who was filleting the fish, which made Shane stop in his tracks.

Rozanov was guiding the knife through the flesh of the fish with gentle movements, his expression the same as the one he had right before the puck dropped. Shane couldn’t help the jolt of pleasure he felt watching him do it. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, Shane could almost feel his mouth water watching Rozanov be focused and professional and good. Because despite his total lack of knowledge about how to cut a fish, he could tell that Rozanov was doing it with a skill and grace that stood out from the kind of cooking everyone else was doing. Would he still be able to do it if Shane was behind him, pressing their bodies together, kissing his neck...

Hot butter spat out of the pan and landed on Shane’s wrist, jolting him out of that particular fantasy. Luckily, he didn’t seem to be the only one who had stopped to watch Rozanov handle the fish like he’d grown up in a market. The judges quickly moved over to have a chat.

The female judge, who was named Dana Bianci, and was in charge of a group of very expensive Italian restaurants, spoke first. “Ilya, you’ve decided to go with the flounder! It’s a delicate fish, tell me your thought process.”

“Oh, it’s very simple. I look at what is inside the box, and I think that flounder with some lemon, basil and fried potatoes would be very delicious. I am cooking the potatoes, then cooking them again in the pan, just before the fish. It will all cook in butter with the shallots, and… ” Rozanov's fingers stroked the fish, making sure that his portions were all the same size. Images filled Shane’s brain, of Rozanov caressing the inside of his thighs with a similar gentleness. Shane dragged his eyes back to his own station, and began aggressively grating pepper over his steak, then massaging it in with the same movements that the woman on the ‘How to cook a steak’ video Shane watched last week had used.

This was completely unfair. All throughout their careers, for the last nine years, they had been equals. Rivals sure, but that was because Rozanov matched him goal for goal. Now Rozanov had what, just whipped this out of his back pocket? How had he even managed to learn to cook in between NHL games and sleeping with anything with two legs? Shane tried to calm down by reminding himself that he didn’t actually care about MasterChef, or cooking, or anything that was happening right now. It did not help.

“Well, it sounds like a great dish, if you can pull it off. I have to say, you’ve got some nicely sized fillets there, which is not always easy with this particular fish. Good luck!” Shane could tell that the judges were impressed already, and probably trying to hide it to increase the tension of the show.

Rozanov sounded relaxed, like this was easy for him, like he did this all the time. “I said in the beginning that I would cook something delicious. I am a man who keeps his promises.” Shane could hear the sizzle as Rozanov stirred something in his pan. Shane kept his eyes on his steak, and didn’t let himself look back over at what Rozanov was doing until the clock ran out.

Shane had always assumed that the mad dash at the end of cooking shows was scripted for TV, until the announcer gave them a five-minute warning and nothing felt ready. In a rush to open the oven and get out his roasted vegetables, Shane almost forgot oven gloves, and then had to decide whether some of the carrots were too brown at the edges to even put on the plate. The steak looked good, and as long as the meat thermometer hadn’t lied to him, it should be cooked to a perfect medium rare, but he had no idea how to place it in a way that looked good. For the first time, he wondered if he should have made some kind of sauce to go with the meal, but it was much too late now. Shuffling the vegetables around, Shane desperately tried to find some kind of pleasing arrangement, then decided to just put some more fresh herbs on instead and cover it up as much as possible.

“…3…2….1 And that’s time up, hands up!” the judges said. Shane was out of breath, and he could feel the familiar rush of adrenaline running through him. He hadn’t felt like this since the last time he’d been on ice.

He glanced over at Rozanov’s dish, and nearly threw his own off the table. Perhaps he could make it look like an accident? Maybe Shane Hollander, best stick handler in the league, was very clumsy around food. There was just no way that he could have his steak on top of a pile of bullshit judged next to what Rozanov had created. It looked like a work of art, with the fillet posed artfully around a bed of perfectly shaped curls of potato. Drops of green sauce provided contrast to the whiteness of the fish, and the perfect amount of seasoning was dusted on top.

Shane brought his dish up to the table, and was slightly relieved to see that all of the other contestants’ work looked more like his than Ilya’s. In fact, Max’s was significantly uglier, like he’d dropped the steak onto the plate from the window of a low flying plane. Sandra’s pastry tart looked shiny and flaky, but the edges of it were slightly burnt which Shane selfishly hoped would count against her. It was possible that Rozanov's avant garde masterpiece would turn out to be disgusting. Shane didn’t find it particularly likely, but he could hold out hope.

They tried Max Steel’s steak first, which was so overcooked that Gordon Ramsey struggled to cut through it. The smirk stayed on his face even as Ramsey insulted him, as if everything was a joke. Although Shane wasn’t particularly confident in his chances, he found it baffling that someone would put no effort into a competition watched by so many people.

Syd’s vegetable stew was next, which the judges said was well-seasoned, but a very safe choice for a dish. They complimented Sandra on trying something different with the tart, but it was burnt on the edges and undercooked on the inside.

Andy looked very nervous as he brought his food up to be judged. When he gave his description of the dish, Shane struggled not to laugh since he was so used to hearing his voice overlaid with images of lions tearing buffalos apart. His steak was described as tasty, but he had kept it in the pan for just a bit too long and lost some of the texture.

Lola Risalti had made some kind of steak and vegetable pasta, which the judges seemed to find enjoyable but confusing. She wasn’t particularly disappointed with their feedback, saying "It was never my cooking the men came back for,” and winking at the camera.

Then it was Ilya’s turn. Ramsey carefully arranged his fork, making sure that he could taste each element of the dish. He paused for a while after putting it in his mouth, taking the time to savour it.

“Ilya Rozanov. I love that fish, it is beautiful and light, and the sauce that goes with it is delicious. The only thing that doesn’t hit for me is the potatoes. You could have had the softness of the fish offset with some lovely crispy potatoes, but they just didn’t quite have that texture I wanted. Other than that, the dish is excellent. You could serve that in any restaurant around here, and I’m sure that someone would pay top dollar to eat it.” Rozanov nodded stoically as his dish was judged, but Shane noticed the tips of his ears turning red.

Rozanov’s back was to him, and Shane couldn’t help but wish he was facing the other way, that he could see what reaction Rozanov’s face had before all his walls came down.

Shane’s hands shook slightly as he brought his plate up for the chefs to try. He’d stuck to the recipe that he had memorized, and so the flavours should all theoretically work together, his cooking shouldn’t be disastrous. The shallots had thrown him off a bit, but he was pretty sure that everything else was cooked properly. The big problem was the steak, if he’d messed that up then he might as well go home now.

Ramsey frowned at Shane’s dish, poking at it with his fork. “What happened here? It looks like a pile of crap, with a steak plonked on top of it. There’s none of the care that I would expect to see in this competition.” Shane felt his heart sink. He definitely didn’t have the worst looking dish out of all of them, but even with his limited experience of fine dining, he’d already known he was falling short. When he’d been practicing for the competition he’d been more focused on making sure he had the skills to make things taste good, not that they looked pretty.

“So, Shane. Tell me how you think this steak is cooked.” Gordon Ramsey said it like he was chief prosecutor and Shane’s steak was on trial, the knife hovering ominously over his pate.

“Uh. I tried to cook it medium rare, chef.” Ramsey nodded, then cut into Shane’s steak smoothly, and the cameras zoomed in on the meat below, blocking Shane’s view for a second.

“Now, is that medium rare?” Gordon asked, his voice stern. Shane craned his neck. The steak was brown on the outside, but the inside showed a pink gradient, from lighter on the outside to deeply pink in the centre.

“Uh. I think so?” Shane said, phrasing it like a question.

“I think it is too. In fact, that looks like a perfect medium rare to me.” Gordon took his time tasting the steak and the carrots, while Shane felt a drop of sweat roll down his back. Then Gordon looked back up at him.

“Shane. You should have a bit more confidence in yourself. This dish wouldn’t win any beauty pageants, but your steak is well cooked, you’ve got the balance of the seasoning right on your vegetables, and it all works together nicely. It’s a simple dish, but it tastes bloody good.”

Shane felt himself blushing as Ramsey put down his fork to let the female judge try his dish. She had equally positive things to say, and he couldn’t help the sensation of pride swelling in his stomach. He’d seen enough YouTube compilations of Gordon Ramsey ripping into people for their poorly cooked food to know that his praise didn’t come easily. This wasn’t a person who was being nice to Shane because he was famous, Ramsey had genuinely liked something that Shane had created. Shane couldn’t remember the last time that somebody had complimented him about something other than hockey, which was his job, or his appearance, which he had no control over.

Shane glanced back at the rest of the contestants, and saw that they were smiling and clapping excitedly for him. The only exception was Rozanov, who was shaking his fist in mock anger.

“Nooo Hollander, you were supposed to burn it!” Rozanov called out.

His eyes were shining like he was happy for Shane, proud of them for standing out like they always did. Shane wanted to kiss him. Instead he looked away from Rozanov as quickly as possible, trying to get rid of that emotion, and replacing it with the need to bash his head against the wall.

Chapter End Notes

Finally some cooking! I was torn on whether or not to include real person Gordon Ramsey but I do think it's funnier for him to be there. Every other background character is made up, but I think MasterChef needs him. The fourth chapter is in progress, hopefully it will be out next week. Let me know what you think so far!