Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Original Male Character/Original Male Character, Original Male Character/Original Female Character

Characters:

Original Characters, Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

RPF, In-Universe RPF, I didn’t live through the 2014-18 Hockey RPF heyday to let this go, Empty Netters Inspired, POV Outsider

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-11 Updated: 2026-01-24 Words: 6,509 Chapters: 3/5

Cursed with Observer's Eyes.

Summary

“…Some guys dropping gloves and all the cameras just zoom up to Ilya...”

Inspired by Empty Netters - what if the cameraman was all up in Hollanov’s business? What if he’d seen something that nobody else had…

Notes

If y’all haven’t been watching Empty Netters and What Chaos review and go insane about Heated Rivalry you should. As soon as they started talking about a shipper cameraman my inner theatre tech started to go insane and so, this was born. I’ve learned so much about camera operation for hockey broadcast in the last week, six months working in tv drama did not prepare me.

While this is primarily based on the TV show, I'm using the book timeline rather than the TV timeline because I do what I want.

Chapter 1

October 2011

Noah Wright liked hockey. It was practically a requirement, living in Canada and all, and living in Montreal specifically. He could probably name a couple of the players on the Metros, and he’d felt all the Canadian pride in his heart when Canada won the hockey gold at home during his senior year, watching the gold medal game while hemmed in on every side by the entire theatre programme in Winters, but that was it.

His roommate, however, was very into hockey.

“Shit, man, is watching these two gonna feel like this the whole time?”

“What? Who?” Noah didn’t look up fro his laptop, but he could feel his roommates agitation as he moved around on the couch next to him in the single shared room of their box-like apartment.

“Rozanov and Hollander. Their rookie season was pretty explosive but this shit does not let up. Push it, PUSH IT!” Adam’s voice raised as he yelled at their TV. Noah wasn’t even sure which team Adam was actually supporting in this game. He could see the Metros were playing — go team — but he was pretty sure even if he was actually watching he’d not understand the plays well enough to understand who precisely Adam was yelling at.

“Wait, Hollander is a Metros guy, right?” Noah asked, closing his laptop and the many tabs of job applications in favour of actually talking to his roommate. Settling down in Toronto once he’d finished school seemed like a good idea at graduation, but it was a town with a lot of talent floating around, and getting work in an actual theatre seemed increasingly unlikely.

“Yeah. That’s your hometown, right? Hey, you think you know anyone that could get tickets to a Boston game next season? I’d fucking kill to see these two go at it live.”

“Which two?” Noah leaned in, determined to actually pay attention this time.

“Hollander and Rozanov!” The ‘you idiot’ floated in the air between them, but Adam has known about his hockey apathy when they moved in together. “Look!” Adam gestured to the screen, where a player in white and another in blue lined up in the centre of the rink, their faces close enough that from the camera angle they almost seemed to be touching foreheads, and then the puck dropped and they both exploded with movement.

Noah didn’t know a lot about hockey. He didn’t really want to know a lot about hockey. But he could skate, and he’d watched a couple of his brother’s games when he’d played as a baby (okay, the under 13s league) so he had some appreciation of the skill involved in the sport and…

Holy shit these guys were fast. And insane. All the players bounced off each other and the edge of the rink like they were human bumper cars, but every eye was focused on the puck.

The whistle blew for an incomprehensible reason, and the camera focused in on Hollander - the familiar Metros Blue kit across his shoulders, as he exchanged rapid-fire words with the Boston guy he was stood across from.

“I’d fucking kill to hear what these two chirp about on the ice. Rozy seems to work his ass off trying to get a rise out of Hollander.” Adam gestured on the screen as the two players skated off the ice the camera following

“Chirp?” Noah asked.

“Yeah, you know. Trash Talk.”

“Oh, right. Not like… making bird noises.”

“You’re so weird Noah.” Adam said, and settled back to watch the game.

Noah thought he was pretty normal about hockey, actually.

December 2013

“Adam, please, move your shit!” Noah shouted up the stairs once he was done cursing. He stared accusingly at the box that he’d just kicked, and listened to the thumping sounds of his roommate and presumably his boyfriend crash down the stairs together. Noah looked up and saw them hastily putting on shirts, and he grimaced.

“Really? I left you here to unpack could you not keep your hands off each other for like two hours to actually get shit done?”

“Hey! We moved like five hundred miles to hang out in your hometown, you can be nice to us.” Adam said, clattering to the bottom of the stairs and picking up the offending box. Noah pushed his own bag behind him so that he could pick up another alongside Daniel — Adam’s shiny new boyfriend — and they all three carried them through to the kitchen.

“Yeah yeah, like you didn’t bend my ear about this being some kind of Canadian Gay Mecca where you’d find your soulmate, only for me to discover you’re bringing your preexisting boyfriend with you.”

“He can’t help it, I’m delightful,” said Daniel, and the three started the work of unpacking the boxes into the various cupboards. “Anyway, how did the interview go?”

“Good, I think. There’s not a lot of permanent jobs at the moment — arts funding always the first to go and all. But someone said they’re looking for camera operators at Centre Bell so I might go for that if this doesn’t pan out.”

“Dude! Yes! You gotta get a job there and then sneak us into the Montreal games. Please please please pleeeeeease.” Adam made show of getting down on his knees and clasping his hands together in supplication.

“Oh shove off. I thought you supported the Raiders anyway. Traitor.”

“Dude, the Bell is legendary. Every game sells out in like twenty minutes, and there’s rumours they’re gunning to host the All-Star game again in 2020.”

“Oh. Neat.” Noah had no clue what that meant. “Well, given that at the moment it’s that or my meteoric progression from Assistant Manager to Manager at Tim Hortons, I’ll definitely look into it. Would be nice to actually work in the industry of my qualification. Wild, I know.”

“Hey, you’re doing great,” Adam patted his knee consolingly from where he was on the floor. “But also if you were in position to get me hockey tickets I would actually marry you. Daniel would understand.”

“Does it count as a hockey widow if we’re not married and you’re not even a player?” Daniel asked, shoving Adam’s head sideways playfully before helping him up off the floor.

“If it does, I’ve been hockey widow our entire friendship. He made me watch the whole of some press conference of these two guys—”

“—Hollander and Rozanov, Noah, come on you actually know these ones you’re just being a dick—” Adam interjected.

“—and he spent the whole time they were up there telling me how much he wanted to suck the Russian guy’s dick.”

“Rozanov is, unfortunately, our agreed upon hall pass. Have you seen his ass?” Daniel said, and he and Adam shared a leering look. Noah just sighed.

“Whatever, they’re super weird about each other and I think you’re too busy thinking with your dick to see it.”

“Alright,” said Adam, “We’re watching tonight’s game together, and we’re gonna see what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“You’ll see. They’re weird, alright? Half the job of a stage manager is picking up vibes between performers to head off any issues in the dressing room and they had a vibe.” Noah fought off two pairs of grabby hands as Adam and Daniel both started saying ‘Viiiiibes’ like they were zombies coming for his brains, and they laughed the whole way to the front room, where they picked up more boxes and continued unpacking.

 Watching the game that night was electric. At least for Adam, who was over the moon at the victory for his own team. He was wearing his Raiders shirt, number 18 displayed proudly. He’d laughed that he clearly had a type, that his favourite player growing up had been Feller, and now Rozanov wore number 81. It was fate, he decided. Noah wondered how much it would cost to get Adam a Rozanov shirt for Christmas. He still had a week before shipping would be impossible, probably.

Noah made a note in his phone to get a Rozanov shirt for Adam, and then settled in on the couch to watch the game. He was between Adam and Daniel — apparently Daniel had feared for his life last time he’d watched a game with him, and now stayed well to of arm’s reach. Noah realised that he should have taken this as a warning before the game started, as both of Rozanov’s goals resulted in him leaping to his feet, going absolutely nuts while the players celebrated on the ice. Noah couldn’t help but watch the camera angles, the thought of being in the rink while the massive wall of victory shouts rattled the stands becoming more and more appealing, even if he was only vaguely following the actual hockey.

Adam was trying to point out what was going on — detailing the Metro’s power play formation when Price got sent off for being an ass, and then trying to explain what the fuck offside was when there was an offside whistle at the end of the third period — but it was all just so insanely fast that Noah had no idea how anyone was supposed to keep up. And the players kept swapping out as well, which just confused him further. The supposedly star duo of Hollander and Rozanov were on the ice together for barely half the game, meanwhile the commentary couldn’t shut up about Boston’s new trade Price, their chatter overlaying the bloodthirsty chanting of the Raiders’ fans.

The stars had a handful of face-offs — he already knew that particular one thank you, he wasn’t a completely lost-cause — and each time they quipped (sorry, chirped) to each other Noah strained to see what they were saying. It was hard to see exactly what was going on, and while he could vaguely see their mouths moving for the couple of face-offs at centre-ice, it was impossible to know exactly what they said. What Noah did see, however, was the smirk on Rozanov’s face when Hollander answered back after Rozanov’s second goal. A few minutes later, there was a penalty whistle thanks to that confrontation from Price, and Noah pointed at them nodding to each other just before the camera cut away.

Adam shushed him down, and they watched the final period of the game together, the Metros not quite making an equaliser despite their numbers advantage, and the away fans absolutely exploding into celebrations. A close-up on Hollander’s face and the stormy expression he had at the loss cut to Rozanov leaping over the boards to join the whole team in their excitement. One of the players caught the camera trained on them and blew a kiss into it, while the commentary started to replay Rozanov’s goals, going over the stats for each player — goals, assists, points, power play percentages and takeaways — all of it rolling over his head, but Noah was still watching the footage carefully, staring at Hollander and Rozanov. The cameras loved to watch them, and the pair seemed to keep catching each others’ eyes. It wasn’t long before the two teams left the arena and the coverage returned to the pundits discussing the play-by-play, and Noah’s interest waned.

“I dunno man, I think your vibes are just them being really competitive.” It was about a half hour later that Adam revived the topic that had convinced Noah to watch the game in the first place while the three of them sat around the greasiest pizza that Noah had ever seen.

“Look, the vibes are always right,” Noah said around his slice of pizza.

“Hey, I’m not saying your vibes aren’t there. Just that I think they have a simple explanation.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Noah focused on chewing. Maybe it was all in his head.

June 2014

“I thought the season was over?” Noah said, tying his new shoes tight in preparation to head out.

“It’s the MLH Awards. Took ages to find a stream of it — fuck paying for cable.” Adam said with feeling.

“Oh. Right. Fuck, am I gonna have to actually start paying attention to these events now that I work for Big Hockey?” Noah was delighted to have a position as a tech at the Bell Centre, and while there were a lot of events that weren’t hockey that he was working on, he couldn’t deny that there was a big emphasis on hockey.

“Maybe. What time does your thing tonight finish?"

“I’m in for the get-out as well, so like… five?”

“In the morning? Shit, better you than me.”

“Yeah. You’re gonna be in tomorrow? My parents want to drop by with some of my stuff because they’re clearing out my room, but I’m probably gonna be asleep.”

“It’s a Sunday, I have absolutely no plans.”

“Sweet.” Noah finished tying his second shoe, and looked up just in time to watch Rozanov and Hollander walk onto the stage over Adam’s shoulder. He couldn’t help but snort at how stilted and wooden they sounded, and how totally fake both of their smiles seemed when they took the selfie. ‘Don’t give up the hockey, guys,’ he thought to himself, but his gaze was caught by the movement of Rozanov’s shoulder. He recognised that move. Hell, he’d used that move before. It looked like he’d grabbed Hollander’s ass right there on stage, after taking a stupid selfie.

Nope, he was gonna be late for work. If he started obsessing over this right now it was gonna affect his work and he needed to make sure he stayed on the ball and got asked back. Fuck these casual crew jobs and their uncertainty.

But the vibes.

“Alright, catch ya later. Tell me if they do something weird.”

“Sure, see ya.” Adam was glued to the screen as the winner of whatever award it was got announced, and Noah lingered just long enough to see Hollander and Rozanov walk off the stage together, Hollander walking several steps ahead of Rozanov and stiff.

Fuck. No. Work.

Noah grabbed his keys and shouted another farewell, heading out the door.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Given that the book is very vague and the schedules shown in the show actually make no sense, I have used the IRL 2014-15 game schedule for this chapter. Except I replaced Ottowa with Boston in the Playoffs. Sorry Ottowa, it's for the drama.

October 2014

“Camera 5, push on Metros 71, we want the face.” The words over the cans guided Noah’s framing, and he zoomed in on the Montreal forward as he celebrated his goal. The first home game of the season with Montreal playing Boston, and it had been a hell of a night. End of the second period, and both Rozanov and Hollander were on the cusp of a hat-trick, with number 71 — Koch — equalising the two teams for three points apiece. Noah watched the forward through his camera, the green light in the top corner reminding him that his view was the live feed going out on national television, and he could feel Camera 1 next to him returning to centre ice ready for the face-off.

The light went back to red, and Noah followed suit, pushing in on Hollander and Rozanov staring at each other across the centre line, preparing for the next face-off. He could see them chirp — Hollander’s mouth clearly making the shape of ‘go fuck yourself’ to Rozanov — and Noah was zoomed close enough in to see Rozanov’s answering grin. The Boston player muttered something in return, but Noah had no clue what it was, but it made Hollander frown, and then Rozanov’s own expression fell.

The fuck were they talking about?

Both players bent down ready for the face-off, and Noah was sure he could feel the tension between them from here. His camera went live and he heard the request to push in on their faces again — the producers were obsessed with the close in shots of these two every time they faced each other — and then the puck was dropped and they were off again.

Noah had been swotting up on the hockey. It seemed relevant — it would make it easier for him to follow the action and line up his shots if he knew vaguely what was going to happen in a game, and as part of his ongoing education he was being taken out to sports bars to watch the hockey.

It was just him and Adam — Daniel had moved out over the summer when they’d had an impressive falling out — and what felt like approximately three thousand people crammed in to watch the metros play Edmonton. The beer was flowing, and Adam was shouting along with everyone else about how the latest penalty against their defenceman — Andrew Gagnon — was completely unfair. Andrew leaned over and started explaining what had happened, but Noah wasn’t wholly paying attention. He’d managed to operate for three home games now, and he’d absorbed more hockey than he expected.

The final period was nearly over- tensions were high as Montreal hadn’t scored a single time, while the Oilers were sitting on two beautifully executed goals. The energy in the bar was starting to turn a little, as frustration peaked and everyone got deeper in their drinks. Noah stopped Adam’s description with a hand.

“Cool, want another beer?”

“Sure. Same again.” Noah nodded his head and squeezed through the crowd to get to the bar, where he waved down the woman who’d served them when they first arrived nearly thee hours earlier (Apparently pre-gaming was important for away games).

“Hey, what can I get you?” The woman seemed distracted, peering at the screen as the pundits played over some replays.

“Uh, two more of the IPA.” Noah pointed to the tap.

“Pints?” She held up a pint glass.

“Please,” Noah nodded.

“Sure thing!”

Noah was vaguely aware of her pulling the tap, but he turned back to the screen to see if he could figure out what the pundits were saying over the noise. It helped that there were captions showing up, but they were a full ten seconds behind what was happening on the screen and the delay was more distracting than anything. The broadcast cut to the setup for the next face-off when he heard a crash and a loud curse, immediately followed by the deeply uncomfortable sensation of a soaked shirt.

“Holy shit, I’m so sorry,” The bartender said, and she rushed around the bar brandishing blue-roll and continuing to apologise profusely.

“Fuck!” eventually Noah’s mouth caught up to his brain and he leapt — very much belatedly — away from the bar to prevent any more of the beer spilling down his legs off the bar top where it was pooling. It looked like the base of one of the glasses had sheered clean off somehow, and so the full pint was now spreading onto the floor.

“I’m sorry, are you alright? Here — take this.” She shoved the blue roll into his hands, and the room around them erupted in a roar as Montreal, presumably, did something impressive on the screen.

“I’m fine, don’t worry.” Noah tried to take the blue roll so that he could sort himself out, but she wasn’t listening to him and continued to pat him down with the roll, and Noah had to grab her wrists to make her stop.

“I’m Fine. Thank you. Sort out the bar. I’m good.”

“I’m so sorry!” she said again, and Noah just laughed.

“Get me another beer and we’re good.”

Sadie, it turned out her name was, also really liked hockey. That had hadn’t apparently been a prerequisite for working in a sports bar, but it sure helped.

It also turned out that the reason she didn’t leave him alone to clean himself up was that during game nights, she didn’t bother with her hearing aids.

“Drunk hockey guys want one of like four things, I ignore the WAGS that might want something fancier, and serve guys who point to taps. They just give me a headache if I try to actually hear what people are saying.

She was also a great kisser. Maybe the best kiss that Noah had ever had, though it took him three weeks and several apology drinks to find that part out. He was pretty sure the smell of beer was never coming out of that particular shirt, but it seemed like a decent enough trade.

Eventually, he found himself explaining the Vibe.

“Look, I try not to be weird about it. But they’re both weird. Like, super weird. But only around each other. I’ve watched enough games of them playing separately — Hollander especially for work — and they are crazy dedicated when they get on the ice, and then as soon as they’re facing each other it’s like a whole other game. Holls never chirps except at Rozy, and they’re having whole-ass conversations on the ice. They don’t hate each other, I’m sure. Rozy looks so fucking smug half the time…”

“I mean, can you actually see what they’re saying?”

“I can’t figure it out. Rozy probably chirps in Russian or something.”

“Want me to check?”

Noah looked at Sadie, gaping.

“What?” Sadie asked with a shrug. “I spend most of every shift watching hockey guys chirp at each other in the bar. It’s probably basically the same stuff, right?”

“You’re amazing. You know I’d never ask you, right? But you’re offering. You’re totally offering.”

“God you’re so fucking weird. But yes. I will watch your weirdo fan-compilations of Hollander and Rozanov chirping and tell you what they’re saying.”

“I seriously love you.”

“Show down there buddy, let’s see if they say anything interesting first.”

December 2014

“‘You think you can do more than two times?’ I think that’s what Rozanov says. Then Hollander’s reply is just go fuck yourself.”

“I’ve got the hang of that one, he says it a lot.” Noah says, and wonders if he should be writing this down.

“Hah! Okay, I think Rozanov is saying ‘you ask very nicely’ or something like that. I bet he’s a mumbler. I fucking hate mumblers.”

“Wait, he said what?”

“‘You ask very nicely.’ I mean, he’s either a homophobic dickhead or flirting with him.”

“I mean, he is Russian.”

“Pretty sure Russia still has gay people.”

“I guess. but probably not gay hockey players.”

“I’m telling Adam on you.”

“Noooooo.” Noah grabbed Sadie around the waist and the two of them toppled backward onto the bed, laughing.

“Okay but actually? I’ve seen flirting. Those two? definitely flirting.”

“You don’t have to humour me, I know my vibes thing is weird. You’re already the best girlfriend on the planet for humouring this much.”

“Noah, really. And like, you’re probably not even the first to say so.” She pulled out her phone and did some speedy typing with one thumb, before shoving it in his face with a triumphant “aha!”

Noah pulled back so that the screen was no longer millimetres from his nose, then took it to start reading.

@gayhockeymen

Chemistry on the ice, chemistry in the bedroom? Why Hollanov is the top Hockey RPF ship on AO3.

#hollanov #Hockey RPF #Stats #AO3 Stats

--

@motherrussiailya

Streaming links for international viewers who want to see the next game in Boston. The programming usually starts about 30mins before the scheduled game time so you can check it's working.

Link 1
Link 2
Link 3

#hollanov #yeah I know its you hollanov sickos that want this most #speaking as a hollanov sicko #boston raiders #montreal metros

--

@puckingontheice

[gif of Rozanov winking at Hollander before the face-off]

[gif of Hollander slightly recoloured to highlight his blush]

There's leaving it out on the ice, then there's whatever the fuck this is

#hollanov #there are no gays in hockey #this is somehow gayer than if they just had sex on the ice #please

--

@frozenshipsandsticks

[series of 6 gifs of Rozanov and Hollander taking their selfie at the MLH Awards in Vegas.]

Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander presenting the Sportsmanship Award at MHL Awards 2014

Bonus:

[gif zoomed in just of Rozanov’s shoulder movement where it’s next to Hollander]

#Ilya Rozanov #Shane Hollander #MHL Awards #MLH Awards 2014 #hollanov #I am not immune to enemies to lovers

Noah found himself scrolling the posts entranced — every image of the two of them from every press conference, every face-off. Every ad campaign they’d done was here too — mostly just more and more gratuitous pictures of them being wet and wearing very little clothing which, honestly, good for them. If it got more people to buy Orange Creme or whatever then all power. And then the art, holy shit, Noah was pretty sure he did not want to be looking at this while his fucking girlfriend was in the room, but it seemed to barely skim the explicit line. Then he found an incredibly photorealistic image of the two of them very intimately intertwined and slammed the phone down on the bed, his face flushed.

“Holy shit, man, your face is hilarious What the hell did you — give it here!” Sadie wrestled him for the phone, and when she eventually got it from him, she unlocked it and tarted guffaw-laughing. “Oh my sweet summer child, do you want to go down this road about your vibe? because if you do this is gonna happen to you a lot.”

“I hate you and you suck.”

“I know baby. Here — let’s make you a tumblr.”

April 2015

There was a strange energy in the stadium this evening. Maybe it was that this was the playoffs, maybe it was that this was against Boston, but the crowd felt electric. Noah had been asked to operate the slash tonight — and yes, since his six month crash-course in hockey tumblr he found that extremely entertaining — and so he generally had a little more breathing room between plays. The home team were on fire today — just hitting the end of the second period and the Metros were already three points up and they were clearing the ice now of the hats thrown in Hollander’s honour.

Rozanov was skating toward Hollander as he started to disengage from the celebrations with his team, and Noah scrambled forward to his camera. If they were going to give him a high-definition camera to look at the game through, he was absolutely going to use it to his advantage. His lip-reading was never going to be as good as Sadie’s, but he had been staring at these two so much over the last six months he was starting to feel a little bit insane.

“You have good stick Hollander.” Wait, no. He must mean shot.

“Fuck off Rozanov.” Hollander’s lack of accent and stock phrases meant that reading his lips was not at all challenging.

“No, I mean it. Must be stick, because your hand is not so good still.”

“You have …” Okay, Hollander was going off-piste a bit here and he had absolutely no clue what that word was.

“Camera 6, Stay on Hollander, we’re switching to you for some commentary.” The sound of his cans almost made him jump, but he returned and acknowledgement and tried to tune back in to what the two players were saying. He’d missed the start of whatever Rozanov had replied.

“…another three times.” Rozanov finished. Okay fine, they were talking about the hat-trick. But Hollander was blushing now, and then glaring at Rozanov as the Russian skated away. If he said anything else Noah didn’t see it, as he was still following Hollander, his camera now live where Hollander was skating up to his coach and they began a rapid and earnest conversation, his cheeks still pink.

Noah didn’t see when exactly his camera went live. Perhaps some of it would be on the broadcast and he could ask Sadie for help later. For now, he tried to return his attention to the game and his actual job.

Hollander and Rozanov, staring at each other across the centre of the ice, and both their gazes hardened as they, too, got back to their job.

Chapter End Notes

wow uh *sweats* that's a lot of kudos in a very short time - hi guys. Glad we're enjoying ourselves. (I love everyone in this bar)
Shoutout to my actual Canadian Friend Sadie - we never talked about Hockey, but we did talk about our Stage Management Degrees a lot, and you also introduced me to tumblr.
The AO3 curse got me guys I have the most insane fever and I can't tell if I'm flushed from thinking about Ilya or the Flu at this point but either way I'm Down With The Sickness.

Bonus: The full text of their last conversation.
“You have good stick Hollander.”
“Fuck off Rozanov.”
“No, I mean it. Must be stick, because your hand is not so good still.”
“You have complaints?”
“Not if you do later another three times.”

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Yeh OK I have discovered the reason this was hard work was because I was trying to cram too much into a single chapter so SIKE - not quite finished yet.

October 2015

It was a new season, and Montreal were playing and Noah wasn’t watching. They were building the stage for a fucking Ricky Martin concert, meanwhile over in Boston the Montreal team were on the ice. Since the Metros won the Stanley cup, though, this was the hottest ticket in town if you knew anything about hockey and tech, so Noah was in no position to turn down any gigs he was offered.

To add insult to injury, the head tech didn’t like commentary radio on during get-in. He was playing his usual classic rock mix over the built-in sound system, the tinny quality of the PA echoing Blue Oyster Cult through the centre while he and the rest of the guys plugged up the amps for the concert.

The end of the day rolled in and Noah grabbed his phone out of his locker. He’d had to leave it there to avoid checking it every thirty seconds (shh, he was no more weird than any hockey fan about this, shut up) and he was delighted to see another Montreal win. He loaded up the MLH official highlights video as he ran down the stairs to get onto the metro, and watched each goal and celebration over and over to see if the footage had caught any Hollanov content.

As soon as he was home, he threw his clothes into the laundry and launched himself into bed. Tomorrow was Sunday, so he didn’t have to be up early for his next call and so he could watch the match. His eyes tried to pull shut and he was fighting the exhaustion from his 14hours of work when he caught something very unusual on the footage.

The game was nearly over and it was clear that Boston weren’t going to make the win, when Rozanov slammed into Hollander against the boards. Either they didn’t realise it was right next to a camera position or they’d both managed to rattle their brains, because as soon as Hollander’s fellow forward picked up the puck ready for the final goal of the game, the famous rivals looked at each other and shared a massive grin, both of them flushed from the exertion and their eyes bright.

That wasn’t a look you shared with a guy who you hated. That wasn’t a rivalry kind of look.

If Noah was being realistic, he would probably say that it was a look shared between two players who simply loved the game. They had been aggressively shoved at each other for years, maybe they played up the rivalry for the PR while sharing a personal truce of some kind.

Maybe Tumblr was right.

January 2016

Every game between the Montreal Metros and the Boston Raiders was a sellout show, but there was something more electric in the air this evening. Boston had been clear cup contenders in the summer, and they seemed to take it personally that they were playing under the fresh new championship banner won by their opposing team. Every check was brutal, every pass contended, and both Hollander and Rozanov were on fire.

Noah had never worked so hard on the number two before. As soon as he was focused in on the puck there was another interception and it disappeared up the other end of the ice and he’d lost it again. When the first point was actually won — Marlow assisting Rozanov to score — he almost didn’t believe it was happening, and it was only a sharp “Camera two, keep it on Rozanov, Five you’re on Drapeau.” in his ear that meant he was sure the shot had gone in. Even the crowd seemed unsure, though the relatively small collection of Raiders fans were making more than their fair share of the noise in the arena, and he followed Rozanov on a victory lap. He skated to a stop in front of the Metro’s bench, and leaned over the boards to chirp at Hollander, who had apparently been swapped out for the last few minutes of the period. Noah couldn’t see what Rozanov was saying — his back to Noah’s camera position — but Hollander was glaring daggers in return, and Noah let himself zoom in on Hollander’s face for a moment.

Rozanov must have said something, because Hollander opened his mouth to return fire, then he seemingly caught the camera over Rozy’s shoulder — for a moment it felt like he was staring Noah dead in the eye — and then he pulled his glove off with his teeth, his lips clearly moving around the fabric, but his lips impossible to read. Noah pulled back out slightly and kept following Rozanov for a while as he laughed kept skating, holding his hands out for a high-five from his team before hopping the boards to sit on his own bench.

The rest of the game was just as intense, though the speed noticeably ratcheted up every time the rivals were on the ice together, and Montreal scraped a 2-1 lead in the last ten minutes of the third period to bring home another win.

Noah was quick to pack up his stuff and he found himself walking down a back stair to head out the crew entrance unusually early when he paused in the stairwell, hearing a familiar voice that he’d never really expected to hear outside of a press conference.

“Smug is not a good look on you.” Ilya Rozanov’s voice crept through the propped-open fire exit he’d been about to sneak through. Noah knew, vaguely, that this shortcut was through the end of the home-team locker areas, but it took him a moment to remember that it was, in fact, the home team area, and as such Rozanov should absolutely not be here.

“Yeah well, that’s what you get for only scoring once.” Hollander? His voice was less distinctive, but Noah peered through the gap in the door to see, and sure enough there was Hollander and Rozanov, close enough together that if it was just their faces in the frame he’d think they were about to face-off again. But their whole bodies were barely inches apart, both of them still slightly damp from their post-game showers, and wearing thin underarmour shirts and pants that were, presumably, about to be covered by their post-game suits.

“Team celebration tonight, Captain?” Rozanov asked, his tone practically a leer.

“Short gathering at Hayden’s house. His kids have gone to—”

“I do not care about Pike and his children.”

“They’re having—”

“If I wanted to talk about Pike I would have asked to meet him in the back. Is what you want? Perhaps I should fuck Hayden instead.”

“Fuck you Rozanov,”

“Yes, is what I’m trying to get to.”

“I’ll text when I’m heading to the apartment. Don’t beat me there, I don’t want you waiting outside where people will see you.”

“Yes, yes. I will be in the dark wearing my hat and big coat and scarf and everyone will still know who I am because I am big famous hockey player.” Rozanov crowded in closer and spoke quietly, but it still echoed in the stark corridor. “And they will definitely suspect I am there to fuck big deal hockey player Shane Hollander.”

“Rozanov! Fuck’s sake!” Hollander whisper-shouted, and pressed his hands against Rozanov’s chest to separate them. Noah couldn’t help but notice that Hollander’s hands lingered on Rozanov’s chest for a moment before they dropped again. “Go back and console your team.”

“Yes, they are all too slow to keep up with me. Is only reason we lose. When I make them all as good as me you will never win because Montreal are also very slow.”

“Yeah yeah, dream on Rozanov.”

“When I am holding Stanley Cup you will say different story.”

“Fuck off.” Hollander said, but he was grinning and watching Rozanov walk away. Noah held his breath when he thought, for a moment, that Rozanov was going to walk right into his little hideaway, but he swerved at the last moment down another little-used corridor. Hollander watched him until he was out of sight, then sighed and started jogging back to his own locker room to, presumably, finish up his post-game rituals.

It was only when he could no longer hear either of their footsteps and just the distant jovial celebrations coming from the locker room that Noah felt like he could fully breathe again.

Holy shit.

Hoooooooooly shit.

They were…Rozanov and Hollander… and they were… fuck!

He couldn’t say anything. He’d had it beaten into him at college multiple times — he’d be in a privileged position in his career and might end up in a position to know secrets about famous people and it was his professional responsibility to shut the fuck up about it. If he was known to tattle he’d never work again.

He’d also had it beaten into him by Adam as well as several others — you do not out people without their permission.

Tumblr would explode. If he told them. Which he couldn’t. But he wanted to.

Could he even tell Sadie?

Noah scurried out of the Centre as fast as he could and dove into the metro, using the sporadic moments of connection at each station to load up commentary on the game. Everything was exactly as normal, nothing had changed for everyone else.

Everything had changed. Except… they didn’t talk like people who were doing something new. They chirped exactly like him and Sadie — teasing affection and comfortable ribbing that betrayed knowledge of each other. And not just professional knowledge either.

Fuck, he needed to calm down before he got home or Sadie would know something was up. He flipped his phone to his ASL learning app to try and totally stop thinking about hockey, but of course it was a special flirting lesson. ‘Well, I guess I can tell Sadie in sign exactly what Rozanov and Hollander are doing with their evening.’ Noah thought, and caught himself actually laughing out loud on the metro. The passenger next to him shuffled sideways as though trying to put distance between them, and Noah did his best to stifle the laugh.

He fought to sit still on the journey home, and when he finally arrived back at the house he burst in through the door to find Sadie and Adam sitting on the sofa, watching the start of the coverage of the Anaheim game.

“Hey, how was the game?” Adam asked. Sadie stood and kissed him on the cheek, keeping an eye on the TV as she did.

“Oh, you know. Always a good night when the Metros win.” Noah really hoped that his weird mood didn’t came out in his voice, but Adam’s head snapped around to look at him. At the motion, Sadie turned to focus on him as well, and she frowned. Fuck, he needed to control his face.

“What? Was there a problem? Did you get fired or something?” Sadie asked.

“No, no. Just, uh… nearly got caught coming out the shortcut by one of the players. Kinda rattled me.”

Sadie just frowned at him again, and he rapidly signed ‘later’. Sadie nodded and looked back at the TV, then he eyes widened and she looked back at him.

“Wait, when the fuck did you learn sign?”

Chapter End Notes

I have worked in TV, I have also had it beaten into me that I might discover secrets during my career. I will take them to my grave but holy shit is it hard work sometimes.

Kudos and Comments fill my cold, lonely heart <3