Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

Gen

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Etsy Witches, Witch Curses, Age Regression/De-Aging, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Speaks Russian, Good Significant Other Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Series:

Part 14 of Retro Writing - May 2026 Challenge

Collections:

Retro Writing Month (2026), RainyBugs_Hollanov_Yay!

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-14 Words: 1,796 Chapters: 1/1

Cliff Marleau does not babysit!

Summary

"Come in.” the boy says impatiently, his Russian enviably flawless.

“Sorry.” Shane mutters back. He’s still working on his vocabulary, but years of listening to Ilya muttering in Russian whenever they were together has given him a pretty good ear for the accent.

“You speak Russian?” the boy demands in rapid Russian. “Do you know what’s going on? Where am I? Where’s my Mama? Who is this fucker?”

“Slowly, please. I am learning. Say it again, please.” Shane replies with deliberate care, stepping into the hotel room and closing the door. “And don’t say fucker.”

Notes

Prompt fill for day fourteen of the Retro Writing May 2026 Challenge: De-Aging!

A blessing on the head of whomever came up with Etsy Witches being a thing we could use to manufacture the same effects we'd normally get from a Star Trek transporter malfunction and beyond!

 

Sadly, I do not speak Russian (tho I recognize more words than ever before thanks to this fandom!)

PLEASE NOTE: The italics for speaking lines are said in Russian.

You do not need a second tab open with Google Translate just to read this fic, I promise. 😉

This is not o-fucking-kay.

Cliff stares at the mutinous little curly haired asshole that was his Captain… right up until this morning. Fucking Etsy witches. Fucking Montreal.

It was bad enough that Roz never wanted to hang out when they played Montreal, but now he’d gone and gotten himself cursed. On the hotel bed opposite him, since they were sharing a room, there’s a sulking kid where Rozanov should be. 

“You uh. Need food, or anything?” he tries, but the kid just gives him this ugly look.

He says something fast in Russian, and Cliff’s pretty sure one of the words means ‘stupid head’ or something like that, because he’s heard Roz yell it at other players before. But Cliff doesn’t speak a lick of fucking Russian.

“What?” he asks, and the kid glares back at him.

“No. English.” he grits out, like it pains him, and Cliff flops back onto his bed.

What a fucking nightmare.

There’s no fucking way he can take care of this kid until the curse passes. De-aging is usually, what, two days? Tops?

They’ll kill each other by then.

Rozanov is the one that’s good with kids, not Cliff.

“Oh shit.” Cliff hauls himself upright and grabs at Rozanov’s phone. The kid doesn’t try to stop him, only flinches back from Cliff’s sudden movement. 

Cliff punches in Roz’s code, because he’s seen it a hundred times and it’s stupid easy to remember, and pulls up the contact for Jane.

Thick thumbs clumsily working over the cracked screen of Roz’s phone, he sends a quick message. Short and sweet.

Emergency. Room 616. Hurry.

There.

Silencing the phone and dropping it back on the nightstand to avoid having to give any more details than that and potentially scaring the chick off, Cliff pats himself on the back for a job well done.

It’s probably a dick move to drop Roz in his regular booty-calls lap, but he’d mentioned that Jane was learning Russian for him. 

Baby Roz could be her problem.

⏳

Shane does breathing exercises as he takes the elevator up to the sixth floor.

He needs to be calm. Cool. Wear his Captain face, for Ilya’s sake, because if he was having an emergency, Shane could do this. He could be there for him. 

And if it wasn’t an emergency, he was going to murder Ilya, and then he really would have an emergency on his hands.

Knocking three times at the door, Shane steps back and waits for it to open. 

When it does, he’s forced to do a double take. 

He’d been looking level, waiting for Ilya to appear. But the shaggy head of blond curls is much, much shorter than he’s expecting.

“Uh. Hi.” Shane says awkwardly.

God, this kid looks just like Ilya.

Shane’s stomach suddenly sinks. What if Ilya’s promiscuous lifestyle had caught him up in some baby scandal, and this little guy was actually Ilya’s son? The resemblance is uncanny. He even has moles in all the same places as Ilya-

“Come in.” the boy says impatiently, his Russian enviably flawless.

“Sorry.” Shane mutters back. He’s still working on his vocabulary, but years of listening to Ilya muttering in Russian whenever they were together has given him a pretty good ear for the accent.

“You speak Russian?” the boy demands in rapid Russian. “Do you know what’s going on? Where am I? Where’s my Mama? Who is this fucker?”

“Slowly, please. I am learning. Say it again, please.” Shane replies with deliberate care, stepping into the hotel room and closing the door. “And don’t say fucker.”

The kid scoffs at him, rolling his eyes and launching himself onto the hotel bed.

“Hollander? What the fuck?” Cliff Marleau blurts, staring at Shane and looking like he’s just been struck with a puck.

Shane stares at Marleau, then at the child that’s on Ilya’s bed; he knew they were rooming together, but-

“You know what, I don’t fucking care. Jane, Shane, what the fuck ever.” Marleau throws his hands up in the air. “I’m gonna have a fuckin’ talk with Roz when he’s back, but for now, he’s all yours.”

“...What?”

“Fucking witches man, Roz is cursed! He doesn’t speak fuckin’ English, and I am not babysittin’ his bratty ass for the next two days.” Marleau bellows, too loud in such a small room. He’s jabbing a finger at the boy on Ilya’s bed, and understanding is beginning to dawn in Shane’s brain at a painfully fast rate.

“That’s Ilya?” he demands, right as the boy, Ilya, spits, “I don’t know who this fucker is, but my Papa is a cop and he will fucking beat his ass!”

“I know you’re cussing at me, you little shit.” Marleau huffs, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door. “Don’t gotta speak the language when Roz is just as big a potty mouth when he’s grown. Jesus fuck.”

“Stop cussing.” Shane scolds the boy, before turning to follow Marleau to the exit. 

“Look. I’m gonna go. Kid needs space, and you can handle him, right?”

Shane’s never stood next to the Boston player before, so it’s strange to find that Marleau kind of towers over him. Shane’s not short, but Marleau is huge.

“Why are you trusting me with your team mate?” Shane counters, “He’s your friend, too.”

“Friend.” Marleau scoffs. “Look, Roz is my buddy. He’s my best guy. But if he ever sent me a dick pic and fuckin’ giggled at my texts, I’d deck him. So, like, no homo or what the fuck ever, but he’s your boyfriend. You deal with him.”

While Shane tries to get his brain back online after this stunning revelation of just how un-subtle his and Ilya’s secret is, Marleau apparently finds more to say.

“Oh. And if you do anything to hurt him, now or when he’s grown again, just know I can do way fuckin’ worse than a concussion and a broken collar bone. I got people, and they’ll never find your fuckin’ body if you mess with my boy.” Marleau adds, and Shane’s been chirped and strongarmed his whole life by bigger, meaner players, but he nods solemnly at Marleau’s threat.

“I’ll take good care of him.” he swears.

Marleau nods sharply and ducks out of the hotel room.

He’s a good friend.

“Are you okay?” Shane asks, turning his attention back to the boy; to Ilya. Shit.

That’s his boyfriend.

“I’m fine.” Ilya… no. It’s too weird. And he refuses to call him Ilyusha; that’s special. Just for the two of them, during those rare moments where they can be alone together.

Ilyushenka, maybe. Just, not out loud; if this really is his Ilya, there’s no recognition in his eyes for who Shane is.

Shane suddenly recalls how Ilya had asked for his Mama, and his stomach lurches with nausea. 

This version of Ilya hasn’t lost his mother yet.

Fuck.

“That’s good.” Shane replies slowly. “Are you hungry? We can get some food?”

“I don’t know who you are.” Ilyushenka insists. “Why are we at this hotel? Can’t I just go home?”

Shane sits, taking the seat that Marleau had just vacated on the bed opposite of Ilyushenka’s and taking a deep breath before he tries to explain.

“You were… hurt? Made sick-” Shane frowns, because if Russian even has a word for being cursed, it’s certainly not in his vocabulary yet. “Your name is Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov. You’re a hockey player for the Boston Raiders. And someone used power to make you a child again.”

It’s a shitty explanation for a shitty situation, but Shane’s grasp of the Russian language is still in its rookie season, for all that he’s trying his best.

“And who are you, to me? Are we friends?” Ilyushenka demands. “Prove it.”

Shane panics for a moment, but he’s not the Captain of the Montreal Metros for nothing. This is just another tactical play he’s got to maneuver.

“Your best friend is Svetlana. She would never tell on you.”

Ilyushenka nods, but he’s still staring at Shane with mistrust.

“When you were children, Svetlana broke your Papa’s whiskey… cups.” Shane fumbles over the word for ‘set’, but muscles on. “It was a gift from the, er. Captain? Militsiya Papa.”

Shane’s cheeks feel like they’re on fire with embarrassment, because he was not planning on putting his Russian language knowledge to the test today and he fucking knows that Ilya would be giving him so much shit right now.

Ilyushenka is almost smiling though, obviously amused by Shane’s pathetic improvisation.

“I told you about that?” Ilyushenka asks, sounding almost shy. “What else?”

Shane wracks his brain for anything that might help him earn the boy's trust, and he latches onto a memory Ilya had shared with him at the cottage. He’s relieved that this one has words he’s more confident in.

“You never had pets growing up. But there was a cat that lived two houses down and you liked to visit him on your walks home from school.” Shane says slowly, carefully picking his way around the words and hoping he’s gotten them all in the right order.

Judging by the almost predatory look in Ilyushenka’s eyes, he’s at least made himself understood.

“What was his name?” 

Shane is prepared for this test.

“Vasya. But you called him Prince Hissy.”

Ilyushenka grins and Shane is so relieved he could cry.

“You are my friend then.” he says decisively. “Good. Where will we go now? I’m hungry.”

Shane’s brain comes to a screeching halt. He can’t just walk around Montreal with a kid that looks like Ilya’s lovechild without being spotted by some desperate journalist looking for a news piece.

Where could he take a kid? His parent’s house is his first thought, but then he’d still have to explain-

Shane slaps his knees and stands up, waving the kid towards the door. Thankfully, whatever Ilya’d been cursed with had left him in clothes that fit his much smaller body, including his shoes.

“We’re going to my friend Hayden’s house. He’s got lots of kids, so they’ll have some good snacks. His wife Jackie is really nice.”

“Hayden. Jackie. Okie.” Ilyushenka repeats dutifully. 

Shane pulls the door open and steps out into the hall, checking for any stray Raiders before he waves Ilyushenka out before him. “Let’s go.”

His breath catches a moment later, as the door swings shut. Ilyushenka has slipped his little hand into Shane’s own, and when Shane looks down at him, he sees a hint of the softness that comes into Ilya’s eyes sometimes, when his guard is down.

“Ready?” Ilyushenka asks, squeezing Shane’s hand.

“I think so? Probably. Yes.” Shane stammers out, stealing words from his Ilya’s mouth as his heart does a weird flip.

“Okie. Let’s go.”