Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Hockey, Hockey Chirping as Flirting, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, POV Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-11 Updated: 2026-02-19 Words: 14,810 Chapters: 12/?

A Little Birdie

Summary

“Hey,” Shane offered as Rozanov matched his crouch.

“Mmm.”

Shane tried again: “Good luck today.”

Rozanov rolled his eyes. “Won’t need luck.”

Before Shane could inform him that what he’d said was just basic good manners, the puck dropped and Rozanov picked it up.

OR a lifetime's worth of Shane-Ilya chirps

Notes

This is intended to be a lighthearted romp through all the shit the guys have talked to each other on the ice over the years. Let's keep our fingers crossed that my inner angst demon doesn't intrude. Currently only spoilers for the show, but that may change to include the books as we go.

Chapter 1: International Prospect Cup 2008

Shane Hollander, 2008

He was at the fucking International Prospect Cup! Him, Shane Hollander, just a guy from Ottowa, was at the International Prospect Cup!

Jesus Christ, he needed to breathe. He couldn’t play hockey while hyperventilating in a fanboy daze. He sucked in a few deep breaths, forcing himself to hold each one for a count of four, and tightened his grip on his stick. Concentrate, Shane.

On the ice, Team Russia was warming up. They looked good. Powerful. In control. Team Canada had been a bit of a mess in their last practice, but Shane was determined that they would pull it together for this game. This was for the Cup, after all. This was what they’d come for.

When the whistle blew on Russia’s warm-up time, signaling the five-minute break before the puck dropped for the game, Shane watched the Russians skate back to their bench. They had a couple of fucking bruisers on defense, big even for hockey. They also had a lithe forward called Rozanov who moved like lightning with the puck.

Shane had actually tried to introduce himself to Rozanov between rounds. He’d found Rozanov lighting a cigarette, of all things – what kind of aspiring pro athlete smoked? – outside the rink and offered some polite, complimentary words.

The Russian had looked at him flatly and said, just as flatly, “Yes” and “ok.” That was it. “Yes, ok.” Shane hadn’t known how to respond to that; even his bitterest rivals had always accepted compliments with at least a show of false modesty. Rozanov had just…agreed that he was fantastic.

Shane wondered what it would be like to be that sure of himself. He wondered what it would be like to not feel the need to play nice with his opponents. He wondered what it would be like to, just once, be a dick.

Ok, Shane wasn’t going to be a dick. He didn’t think he had that in him. But still, he wondered.

And now he was about to face off with Rozanov in the Canada-Russia final game. He was playing first line – had earned his place on the first line – and the scuttlebutt around the rink was that Rozanov was as well, which meant they were about to go head-to-head.

Was Shane ready?

Well, he had to be. He took another deep breath as the whistle blew to signal the opening of the game, and climbed over the boards. He skated to center ice and assumed the face-off position, eyes on Rozanov, who looked supremely unconcerned about, well, anything. “Hey,” Shane offered as Rozanov matched his crouch.

“Mmm.”

Shane tried again: “Good luck today.”

Rozanov rolled his eyes. “Won’t need luck.”

Before Shane could inform him that what he’d said was just basic good manners, the puck dropped and Rozanov picked it up. Fuck! Shane skated after him at full speed, poking his stick in to try to snatch the puck, but Rozanov was good. Better, even, than Shane had already realized. He kept going straight to the crease and took a shot before Canada could react.

Boom, the lamp lit.

Fuck.

They played hard, both teams, and by the third period they were tied at 2-2. He and Rozanov were up again for the face-off, and this time Shane didn’t try to make nice. He just bared his teeth at the other man and tried to focus.

To his shock, Rozanov spoke. “You play well.”

Shane blinked. “Oh,” he said slowly, “uh, thank you -”

“…for Canadian,” Rozanov finished, and Shane should have seen that coming. “Too bad Russians better.”

“Fuck off, Rozanov.” He hoped the ref hadn’t heard him say that as he approached. Shane had a reputation as a nice guy, and he wanted to keep that reputation, if only because it made people underestimate him.

The big Russian just chuckled darkly and set his stance.

The puck dropped. Shane won the face-off and took off with it, but within seconds he found himself checked into the boards by a D-man. He shook off the crash, well used to taking hits, and tried to reclaim the puck, but it was gone. He caught sight of it at the end of Rozanov’s stick, halfway down the rink. How the fuck had the guy moved that fast?

He caught up with Rozanov, but before he could make a play for the puck, Rozanov had passed it to a teammate. Rozanov started skating backwards, eyes on the play, but the puck went soaring over the glass following a wild slapshot by another Russian, and he heaved a put-upon sigh that Shane could hear from six feet away. “Idiot.” It was said in what Shane supposed was Russian, but the pronunciation was close enough to both the English and the French words that Shane had no trouble understanding him.

“You said it, not me,” Shane snarked as he approached, waiting for a new puck to be procured.

Rozanov eyed him. “Is fine to say about own team.” He snorted. “And other team.”

“Yeah, well,” Shane shot back, “at least my idiots know how to keep the puck on the ice.”

“But not in the net,” Rozanov taunted, not even needing a second to prepare the comeback. How was this guy so on-the-ball with his insults? Did Russia make them practice chirping as much as skating? Hm, actually, that might not be a bad idea. Trading taunts was a big part of the game. Shane made a mental note to mention that to his next coach, wherever he ended up.

He didn’t realize he’d just been standing there vacantly until Rozanov snorted. “Distracted. Hah. You Canadians too polite to play with the big boys?” He paused, grinning, and added, “Eh?”, though with his accent the sound came out flattened.

“Oh, fuck off, Rozanov.” Shane turned to skate away toward the rest of his team.

Behind him, he heard Rozanov laugh. “Not creative insult!” the bigger man shouted. “Try harder next time!”

Shane gritted his teeth. He sure as fuck would try harder next time.

Chapter 2: The first game

Chapter Notes

Look, guys, I know fuck-all about hockey. My google search history while writing this chapter was comical ("what do you call the circle thing in the middle of the rink?" "Do centers ever fight?"). So I apologize in advance for any wrong use of terms or bad plays or whatever. Let's just pretend it's not a mess.

Also I'm pretty sure I actually borked the hookup timeline here, upon re-reading. But...sigh. I'm too lazy to fix.

Shane Hollander, late 2009

Ok, yeah, Shane was still salty about being picked second in the draft. Behind fucking Rozanov. So if he was a little worked up before the first Boston-Montreal game of his first season in the NHL, well…sue him.

He eyed the Boston bench, where Rozanov and his teammates were having what appeared to be a great time. Shane, on the other hand, still wasn’t entirely comfortable with his team. They were all nice enough, nobody was mean to him, but he supposed he was just a more reserved person. It took him a while to warm up to new people, and his teammates, so far, seemed uncertain what to make of Shane’s reticence.

It didn’t take you long to warm up to Rozanov the night of the draft, his asshole brain reminded him. Shane licked his lips before he could stop himself, remembering the bob of Rozanov’s adam’s apple, the soft bulge in his shorts. The way he had ordered Shane to drink “more” in that soft voice so unlike him.

Ugh, no, he wasn’t thinking about that. That hadn’t been him, it had been some sort of…sleep-deprived fugue state form of Shane Hollander. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to look away from Boston and Rozanov. 

Beside him, Hayden Pike caught his eye and grinned. “You ready for this, rookie?”

Shane nodded immediately. “Fuck yeah. We’re going to destroy them.”

“That’s the spirit!” Pike slapped Shane’s helmet. “You’re gonna go out there and win the face-off for us and we’re gonna kick some Boston ass.”

Yeah. Yeah, they were. 

Five minutes later, he skated to center ice for the start of the game, only to find Rozanov facing him across the circle. Shane wasn’t sure why he was surprised – everyone seemed to love pitting them against each other – but somehow he still hadn’t been expecting to find himself this close to the other man this soon.

“Hollander,” Rozanov acknowledged in his deep voice.

“Rozanov.” Shane bit out the word, trying not to think about coming in second in the draft or Rozanov’s sweaty post-workout face.

Rozanov grinned. “You ready to get ass kicked?”

Shane snorted at that. “Yeah, right. You’re going down.”

“I might,” Rozanov said, lifting a brow, and it took Shane a full ten seconds to pick up on the innuendo. 

He felt himself flushing. “That’s…that’s not what I…gross, man.” He glanced at the ref who hovered a few feet away. Had the man overheard? “Don’t talk like that.”

Rozanov’s smile widened as they crouched for the puck drop. “Didn’t say anything. You must have dirty mind.”

“Fuck you,” Shane growled, and snatched the puck when it hit the ice. He took off with Rozanov chasing him, and for a few seconds he thought he was good to go, but then Rozanov pulled up alongside him and tried to shoulder him out of the way.

“Maybe you wish, hm?” Rozanov panted as they shoved up against each other in the middle of the scrum.

“Maybe you’re just desperate,” Shane retorted. “Can’t play hockey, so you’ve gotta play mind games.”

“Hollander!” called one of his teammates, hovering just outside the pile-up with his stick at the ready. Without hesitation, Shane passed the puck, which he’d somehow managed to keep control of so far, and ducked a swinging arm to free himself to move again.

Rozanov barked out a rough laugh that Shane could hear even over the sounds of the game and the crowd. “Pretty boy can’t hold onto the puck,” he taunted loudly. “Can’t score your own goals?”

“Go fuck yourself, Rozanov!” cut in Pike before Shane could come up with his own reply. “Move it, Shane.” He gave Shane a shove and Shane shook off whatever force had been holding him there with Rozanov and darted back into the game.

Half an hour later, just as the first period was coming to a close with the score at 2-1 Montreal, Shane was on a breakaway toward Boston’s goal, intently focused on the openings in the defense in front of him. He was going to score. He knew it. He was already thinking about how to oh-so-casually celebrate his goal after he made it.

Bang. Before Shane knew what was happening, he was slammed against the boards, the breath knocked out of him.

“Miss me?” said an accented voice near his ear.

Rozanov. For some reason, instead of going directly for the puck, the other center had gone for checking him. Shane shoved at Rozanov’s shoulders, trying to get out from where he was still pinned. “Best half-hour I’ve ever spent, not thinking of you.”

Rozanov’s face split into a wide grin even as he forcefully held a struggling Shane in place. “You wound me.”

Shane resisted the urge to headbutt him. That would definitely get him ejected from the game, and dammit, Shane wanted his goal tonight! “Get off!” The game was continuing around them, someone else having picked up the puck while Shane and Rozanov wrestled, and Shane had no idea why the other man was still holding onto him. They could both be trying to score right now!

“Mmm, would love to.” Rozanov licked his lips lasciviously, gave Shane’s shoulder one last push, and skated back far enough to let Shane catch his breath. “Next time you make invitation,” he said, his face going unexpectedly serious, “be ready for me to accept.”

“Asshole,” Shane muttered, glancing around to see who else might have heard the come-on. Luckily, nobody was reacting, everyone occupied with the game. The actual game. That he was supposed to be playing. Instead of chirping at Rozanov.

Fuck.

“Hollander!” Coach Theriault shouted, his voice carrying across the ice, and Shane stiffened and looked around. The players were all on their way back to their respective benches for intermission; Shane hadn’t even heard the whistle. Why did he keep losing his mind around Rozanov?

Hanging his head, Shane skated back to his coach for the inevitable lecture.

Chapter 3: This fucking guy

Chapter Notes

I continue to have no idea why I, who knows nothing about hockey, have doomed myself to writing a fic where every scene is set mid-hockey-game. Why, self??
***
Content warning: casual hockey homophobia

Ilya Rozanov, fall 2010

“I’m just sayin’,” Dubois snarked as he shrugged into his shoulder pads, “that was quite possibly the gayest commerical I’ve ever seen. Like, they had you two inches from each other’s faces!”

Ilya scowled at him, adjusting his compression tights and shaking out his pants to prepare them to put on. “Was not gay,” he enunciated as clearly as he could. “Was playing on rivalry.” And yeah, what they’d done in the hotel afterward had definitely been pretty gay, but no one knew about that and no one was going to hear about it from him. “I’m not gay,” he added sullenly. It was true, as far as it went.

Dubois chortled merrily. “Gay.”

“Fuck off.” Damn it, now he had Hollander and being gay on the brain. This was already going to be a rough game against Montreal, and he didn’t need Dubois giving him flashbacks to the way Hollander’s face contorted when he came.

Ilya sighed and donned the rest of his gear, then popped his earbuds in and cranked up his music as he sat on the locker room bench. He needed to psych himself up, not get further into his head.

****

They played hard from the moment the game started, both teams desperate for the win. Ilya, at the center as always both literally and metaphorically, pushed himself to the limit, trying to focus on nothing but the game and the puck, but his eyes kept drifting back to Hollander.

Hollander was playing some of his best hockey ever tonight, and Ilya couldn’t decide whether to be proud or pissed. So he took his frustration out on, well, everyone on Montreal’s team, shoving his way past the defenders and snatching the puck away from the forwards every chance he got.

Mid-second-period, he found himself coming up alongside Hollander, who had the puck. Ilya took a moment to calculate the best way to get it away from him without running afoul of Hollander’s wingers, and decided that it was going to have to be a physical confrontation…but hey, a little psychological play wouldn’t hurt, either.

He pushed himself a little harder until he’d caught up with Hollander, and then he shoulder-checked him into the boards. Hollander made a high-pitched little oof noise, apparently caught completely by surprise. Ilya grinned. The opening was too tempting to pass up.

“You sound like that when you come,” he said in a low voice, getting as close to Hollander’s ear as he could while he passed.

Hollander froze for just long enough for Ilya to snatch the puck away in his moment of distraction. Not wanting to squander the opportunity, Ilya took off at top speed down the ice, not waiting to hear whatever comeback Hollander eventually came up with.

“C’mon, ref!” shouted someone off to his left. “That was clear roughing!”

A Montreal D-man came at him, and Ilya successfully dodged the larger man, grinning wildly. This adrenaline rush? This was why he loved this game so much.

Suddenly, a stick tangled with his and Ilya was forced to either stop or lose the stick. He dug in his skate blades, yanking back on his stick, and a body collided with his back. “Chirping me isn’t going to get you the win,” Hollander’s voice announced as they both skidded across the ice. “You’re shit at it, anyway.”

“Ooh, big words from little man.”

“What the…?” Hollander gasped, clearly affronted. “Oh, fuck you!” His elbow swung out, making contact with Ilya’s dominant arm, and for just a second, Ilya’s arm went numb. Hollander must have connected with a nerve just right. Hollander didn’t hesitate to take the opening, seizing control of the puck and darting off. 

Left behind, Ilya panted for a second, then charged back into the game. The hell if he was going to let this little punk keep his puck.

They clashed again during the third period, and this time Ilya knocked Hollander clean off his feet as they battled for the puck. Hollander went down with a shout, laying on the ice for a stunned second as play continued around them and then calling for the ref, who ignored him. Pike skated over to Hollander and helpfully boosted him back to his feet.

Ilya paused just long enough to snort derisively at the clearly overdramatic dive Hollander just took. “Football team practices in other arena,” he told the other man.

Hollander blinked, still leaning on Pike. “What?”

The ref’s whistle blew and before he could be admonished, Ilya took off again, wondering with amusement how long it would take Hollander to get his reference to the overdone falls futbol was so famous for.

A minute later, Ilya was slammed into the boards by a furious Hollander. “So, what’re you gonna tell your mom about why you haven’t scored tonight?” Hollander growled at him, and Ilya went still. Hollander knew nothing about his mother, had no idea it was a sensitive spot, Ilya knew that, but the barb had still found its mark. Before he could gather himself again, Hollander was skating away with the puck.

Oh, fuck this guy. Ilya growled quietly and glanced at his left winger, who nodded his understanding. They were going into hardcore mode and they were going to win this motherfucking game.

****

“That’s how you do it!” Dubois crowed as they piled into the locker room after their hard-fought win. He clapped Ilya on the top of the helmet. “Fucking Hollander had no idea what hit him in the third.”

Ilya grinned proudly. “He is not so hot shit,” he announced. “And Montreal is not match for Boston.”

Cornish, one of the enforcers, crowded in from the side and gave Ilya a back slap that rocked him forward. “I thought you were going to pussy out on playing hard after watching that damn commercial where you practically tongued each other. Good to know you faked it.”

Ilya bit his tongue to keep from shooting back something overly revealing like I like his tongue. Instead, he just smiled mockingly and declared, “I am good actor.”

He just wasn’t going to tell them that his locker room banter was the act, not his fixation on Hollander.

Chapter 4: All-Stars

Ilya Rozanov, winter 2011, All-Star game

Ilya faced off against Camden Williams, one of Team North America’s centers, as they prepared to kick off the final game of the event. He was mildly frustrated that North America’s coach had sent in Williams to face him instead of Hollander, but he tried to shrug that off and get his mind into the game and off Hollander.

“Hey cocksucker,” Williams spat, glaring at him over his stick, “hope you enjoy the view of my ass as I skate off with the puck.”

Ilya took a moment, just a moment, to consider his response to that before he grinned widely at Williams and blew him a kiss. “Is not great ass. I’ve seen better.” He was pretty sure Williams had just been chirping him, digging for a weak spot, and that no one actually suspected he enjoyed sucking cock or looking at hockey asses. If he’d been less sure about that, he might have been a bit less casual in his response.

Williams growled something else obscene, and then the puck dropped. Ilya grabbed it while Williams was still busy grumbling, and took off down the ice. Behind him, he heard the other man spluttering, and he grinned to himself.

A minute later, Ilya had put the biscuit in the net right over North America’s goalie’s shoulder. He smirked at the other man as he climbed back to his feet after his attempt to catch the puck. “Nice try.”

The goalie, an experienced player who’d faced Ilya before, just rolled his eyes. “Whatever, man.”

A shout and a clatter from the North America bench indicated a shift change, and Ilya was just getting excited that Hollander was coming onto the ice when his own coach called his line back. Well, shit. He hit the bench, trying not to sulk, and watched the play carry on, studying the weaknesses of the North American players.

At the beginning of the second period, he finally got his chance to face off with Hollander again. Knowing it would irritate the other man, Ilya just gave him a wide smile over their sticks as they waited, poised at center ice.

Hollander looked taken aback at his silence. “What?” he challenged.

Ilya allowed his grin to become slightly unhinged. “No goals for you yet, Hollander?”

Hollander sputtered, “What? I – they – oh, fuck you!”

Despite his discomposure, Hollander managed to win the face-off. He slapped the puck over to his left winger and Ilya rushed toward the man, snatching the puck off his stick seconds later to the sound of a surprised grunt and a curse.

Ilya took off down the ice, hitting North America’s defensive zone at full speed and trading the puck back and forth with his wingers in order to confuse the defense. Just as he was preparing to set up an assist for Novotny, the tip of his skate hit a divot in the ice and an unprepared Ilya went down like a sack of potatoes.

Humiliating. Fuck. He cursed to himself in Russian as he struggled back to his feet.

He heard skates cut to a stop in front of him, and he looked up to find Hollander grinning at him. “You’re supposed to deke, not duck, Rozanov.”

“Otyebis’,” Ilya spat. Fuck off. He was going to absolutely rail Hollander tonight to get him back for that crack. Which, he had to acknowledge, had actually been pretty clever, unlike Hollander’s usual weak chirps.

Cheers went up around them, and Ilya pulled his attention away from Hollander to find that somehow, Novotny had still picked up the puck Ilya had lost and had actually scored. “Fuck yeah!” he called to his teammate, who raised a victorious fist.

Hollander looked over his shoulder at the lit lamp and frowned. “Shit,” he muttered. Team Europe was now up by two, one of the goals Ilya’s, and Hollander still hadn’t scored a single point.

Ilya was pretty sure Hollander had nightmares about this scenario.

God, he loved that fact. Ilya gave himself a mental pat on the back as he returned to the bench for another shift change.

****

An hour later, Team Europe emerged victorious. Ilya, as team captain, headed the line of his players as they acted out “good sportsmanship” by fistbumping the other team’s members. “Good game. Good game. Not bad, Connors. Good game. I love you.” That one was to one of his Boston teammates, who grinned back at him. “Good game,” he told the next guy. “Good game.” Then he found himself facing Hollander, whose scowl at losing was deep. Ilya simply couldn’t resist. “You sucked.” And without pausing, he went on to the next guys: “Good game. Thanks, man. Good game.”

Behind him, he heard a scuffle, and he could only imagine Hollander’s reaction to his little dig. He pictured one of his teammates holding him back from a confrontation.

Ilya’s grin widened and he fought the urge to do a little dance right there on the ice. The hate-sex tonight was going to be amazing.

Chapter 5: Just another game

Chapter Notes

Again, everything I know about hockey has come either from reading MM romance or from furiously googling for this story. I *think* I got the penalty setup right, but if not, forgive please!

Shane Hollander, fall 2012

“Aw, come on!” snapped Rozanov to the ref who’d just called him on high-sticking. “Does your wife know you fuck me too?”

The ref stopped short on his skates and just stared Rozanov down for a long moment, then cut his hand sharply to the side. “And two for unsportsmanlike.”

Rozanov’s jaw dropped. His teammates called out angrily from the bench, knowing Rozanov had just screwed them into a 5-on-3 play favoring Montreal because he’d stacked two penalties.

“Go,” said the ref sharply, and a very grumpy-looking Rozanov skated off to the box for his two minutes. A few seconds behind him, Dubois was apparently the sacrificial lamb to pay up for Rozanov’s second two, because he headed for the box as well.

Shane couldn’t resist taking a pass in front of the box on his way to set up for the power play. He gave Rozanov a smirk and a salute that he knew would piss the other man off. Right on cue, Rozanov shouted something in Russian – probably something very rude – and shook his stick in Shane’s general direction.

It took Shane all of thirty seconds to score on Boston’s overworked goalie. He kept his cellie understated, knowing that this meant Dubois was coming back into the play and would reduce his advantage. Rozanov was still off the ice until either Montreal scored again or his penalty minutes were up, though, which meant it was pretty damn likely they’d get that second goal.

Just as the clock was ticking down the last seconds of Rozanov’s penalty, Hayden put one into the net and let out a victory scream. Shane threw himself at his friend for a hug. “Hell yeah, that’s what I’m talking about!”

“Fuck yeah!” Hayden agreed, hugging him back. “Now we’ve just gotta keep it up with Rozanov back on the ice.”

Indeed, Rozanov had already thrown open to gate to the box and charged out onto the ice. He caught half-friendly, half-resentful elbows and glares from a few of his teammates on the way to center ice, but he ignored them, his eyes fixed on Shane and Hayden where they still stood side-by-side.

“Second line!” called Coach Theriault. Obediently, Shane skated back to the bench and threw himself over the boards to sit. Theriault patted his helmet. “Good shooting, Hollander.” Hayden, a second behind him onto the bench, sat up straight, clearly expecting a compliment of his own for his goal, but Theriault apparently considered his work done and turned away to talk to other players.

Shane gave his best friend a sympathetic look and a pat on the back. “It really was a damn good goal,” he assured him. 

Hayden sighed and shrugged, picking up his water bottle and taking a big swig.

Shane copied him and settled back to watch the second line play its minute.

****

On his next shift, Shane missed two goals, knocking the puck off the posts on one and completely losing control of the other after a defenseman sideswiped him just as he connected with the puck. Even worse, Boston picked up the rebound on his second miss and brought it all the way home for a goal of their own.

Shane was so busy muttering curses at himself as he set up for the next face-off that he didn’t even pay attention to who he was facing off with until he happened to look up and catch Rozanov’s smug-ass expression.

“You know,” Rozanov said thoughtfully, “you keep playing this bad, they delete your Wikipedia page.”

Oh, that little bitch. Before Shane could control himself as he usually would have done in the face of such an obvious attempt to psych him out, he shot back, “Wikipedia is educational, so I wouldn’t have thought you’d heard of it.”

Rozanov and the ref holding the puck both burst out laughing. “Ouch, Hollander,” Rozanov said through his laughter. “Sharp-clawed kitty.”

Being laughed at wasn’t exactly what Shane had been going for, dammit. He gritted his teeth and assumed his face-off crouch. “You have no idea.”

“Okay, boys, that’s enough,” the ref told them, looking from him to Rozanov. “Let’s get serious.” Rozanov matched Shane’s crouch and they glared at each other for a long second before the puck hit the ice and they were off.

****

Shane scored again at the beginning of the third period, and he was starting to get hopeful it might be a hat trick sort of night if he could keep up the momentum. J.J. set him up for another shot five minutes in, and Shane went for it. This was going to be a delicate one, not something to play by force. Luckily, his wingers knew him and the game. He passed back to J.J., who held onto it for a split second before passing to Hayden, who drew back his stick as if he were going to go for it before instead slipping the puck over to Shane again.

Shane waited until the goalie was at the height of his abortive lunge toward where Hayden had been aiming before gently tapping the puck into the opposite corner of the net. It slid to a stop just past the goal line and the goalie groaned audibly. “Fuuuuuck.”

Shane’s teammates swarmed him, offering back slaps and helmet smacks. Just outside their happy knot of players, Gilbert Comeau and Rozanov pulled to a stop, both looking sour. “What the fuck was that little putt-putt shot?” Comeau spat. “You shoot like a fucking girl.”

Shane just raised his eyebrows. He knew girls who played hockey, and he’d be happy to be held up to them any day. “Hey, maybe if you practice enough, you can, too,” he assured Comeau in his most condescending voice.

His teammates let out a resounding, impressed, “Ooooooooh!” while Comeau actually stomped his skate like a three-year-old before whirling and skating off in a huff.

Rozanov lingered for just long enough to meet Shane’s eyes and wink. “Not bad, Hollander. But Boston still has ten minutes to catch up...and I’m on the ice.”

“Bring it!” Hayden shouted, and a cacophony of chirps and affirmations rose up around Shane.

Rozanov’s eyes flicked from Shane to Hayden and he smiled. “Do not worry. It is brought.”

Shane choked on a laugh at his tortured grammar and flicked a hand toward Montreal’s goalposts. “Net’s that way, any time you’re ready.”

The ref’s whistle blew for a re-set, Montreal switched lines, and Shane got to watch the last ten minutes of play from the bench. Rozanov did, indeed, do his best to get his team caught up, scoring two goals practically single-handedly. But when the final buzzer went off, Montreal was up 4-3 and the rafters practically blew off the arena as the hometown crowd celebrated.

A smile firmly fixed on his face, Shane first-bumped his way through Boston’s dejected players, assuring them they’d played a good game, good game, good game. When he got to Rozanov, hovering at the end of the line, he offered his fist, leaned in, and whispered, “See you in two hours.”

Rozanov’s tired eyes lit up and a slow smile spread across his face.

Chapter End Notes

Y’all I have literally spent hours over the past few days googling for good hockey chirps. So I can take credit for very few of the ones you’re seeing in this story, though I totally made up “deke, not duck” (which is probably why I'm not entirely sure it made sense) and most of the “Wikipedia” exchange.

Got a good chirp you think I should use? Put it in a comment! I'll shout you out in future chapters if I use it!

Chapter 6: Olympians

Chapter Notes

Content warning: homophobia, including the f-slur

This went a little off-theme, but I couldn't quite stand to make Ilya snark at Shane in the circumstances I was writing about.

Ilya Rozanov, winter 2014

Ilya fucking hated being back in Russia, even for the Olympics, and he hated the team he was being forced to play with because of his stupid citizenship. The Russian players were, on the main, coarse, rough, and generally just dickheads.

And yes, Ilya had been accused of being all of those things himself a time or two, but this was different. He did it in fun; these guys – many of whom he knew from the NHL and its very different circumstances – seemed to be doing it just because they were truly dicks, at least when you put them all together in one room.

The worst part was, he felt like their attitude was rubbing off on him. Ilya had taken more penalties during this tournament than he usually got in an entire season at home. He’d dropped his gloves twice already to fight men whose chirps he’d usually have laughed off.

Fucking Russia just…set his teeth on edge. It didn’t help that shiny, golden-boy Shane Hollander was always holding court with his millions of friends from around the world whenever he spotted him. Team Canada had been playing incredibly well so far, and Ilya didn’t hold out much hope that when Team Russia played them tonight, he’d be going back to his room in the athlete’s village feeling victorious.

He also wouldn’t be going to Hollander’s room, no matter who won, because again, fucking Russia. He didn’t dare take that chance, not even so much for himself as for Hollander. Hollander almost certainly had no idea what could happen to him if he were caught in so-called homosexual acts on Russian soil.

Growling quietly to himself, Ilya tried to focus on re-taping his stick for the game. Around him, his teammates were exchanging raucous chirps and dirty jokes. Someone was talking about “some schkura” he’d picked up the night before. It was a very rude word for a woman, but no one blinked at eye at it.

Suddenly unable to stand it anymore, Ilya jumped to his feet. He was captain of this team. It was within his power to put a stop to this. “Hey, fuckers!” he yelled in Russian. “Shut your fucking mouths and get your lazy asses ready for the game! If we don’t beat Canada tonight, we’re fucking out of the tournament, so maybe let’s focus on our game and not pieces of ass!”

“What the fuck, Rozanov?” Volkov snapped back. “We can prep and talk at the same time. Shut your mouth.”

Ilya stalked toward the other man, teeth bared. “Fuck around with me and find out at your own risk, Volkov.”

“Alright! Fine!” Volkov raised a placating hand and physically backed away. “Geez.” He started muttering something – probably something about Ilya – under his breath, but Ilya decided to consider him not shouting about it anymore a victory.

Ilya returned to his own preparations and tried to get into the right mindset. He’d play well tonight, Russia would win, and Canada would go home crying. Like they deserved.

****

“Aw, look at the little man!” Sidorov said loudly, elbowing his nearest teammate and pointing as Hollander skated toward the center of the rink. “Do you think we could put him on a keychain?”

Hollander barely spared the Russian a glance as he set up for his face-off against Vasilyev. And yes, possibly Ilya was cranky that his coach wasn’t putting him right up against Hollander. He was also cranky that he’d been relegated to right wing on this team, and that his shoulder was bruised from the previous game, and that he hadn’t gotten his stick tape exactly perfect before they took to the ice. Ilya was just cranky all around, quite frankly.

A wonderful way to go into a tournament-deciding game.

You will play well, he tried to remind himself. You will play well, you will beat Canada, and you will not talk to Hollander.

The puck dropped and, to no one’s surprise, Hollander seized it and blew down the rink, trailing Russian players like a tailwind. He and Pike, playing their usual positions of center and left wing, played keep-away with the puck until Russia was spinning in circles, and then Hollander made a textbook fake-out goal right past the Russian goalie’s glove.

Pike threw his arms around his teammate and Ilya could see Hollander’s grin from half a rink away. Disgusted at his team, he looked away from Hollander’s cellie and gave his own team a dirty look. If they didn’t get their heads in the game, this was going to be a bloodbath.

“Čičerâka,” muttered Popov, spitting toward Hollander, though he was too far away to hit him. Faggot.

Ilya straightened so fast he almost tipped over the ends of his skates, and whirled on the other man. “What the fuck?”

Popov blinked at him, looking utterly confused about why his captain would be confronting him. “What?”

“We don’t fucking talk like that at the goddamn fucking Olympics, you dumbass. The ref’s from fucking Denmark, you think he’s going to tolerate it?”

Popov shrugged. “Well, I’ve heard Hollander is,” he protested. “I don’t want him near me.”

Ilya snorted. “Probably because you know he’ll take the puck from you if he gets anywhere near you.”

Popov’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “Fuck off, Rozanov. You want me to kick your ass after the game?”

For just a moment, Ilya gave serious thought to telling him How about I kick YOUR ass, right here and now. But no. That would get them both ejected, and Russia was at enough of a disadvantage already. “Just fucking play,” he growled instead, and skated away to set up for the next face-off.

****

It was like Russia had it in for Hollander, specifically. Ilya certainly hadn’t instructed them to do that, and though it was actually not a bad strategy as far as increasing their chances to win the game, he did not in the slightest like the way the smaller man was getting bounced around the rink by the larger Russian players.

In the middle of the second period, he skated up to a scrum where Vasilyev had a struggling Hollander up against the boards with players from both teams surrounding them and a ref trying to fight his way through the crowd. Pushing his way through the mass of angry men, Ilya made his way to the fighters and grabbed Vasilyev by the shoulder, yanking him away.

“Fight me!” Vasilyev yelled in English even as he was towed backwards. “Or are you too pussy? Little gay boy too pussy to fight like a man?”

There were a number of gasps from the surrounding Canadian players, and the ref blew his whistle sharply. “Match penalty, Vasilyev. No fucking way.”

Jesus fucking Christ, Ilya had warned them. Well, he hadn’t been at all confident that the refs actually would call homophobia, but he was darkly pleased to find out they would. He watched as his teammates shouted their protests to Vasilyev being ejected, but the ref held firm and pointed him off the ice.

Vasilyev spat at the ref’s feet and skated off, muttering, to the bench.

The ref looked over at the rest of the Russian team. “Take that as the warning it is, boys. Play clean or you don’t play at all.”

Ilya watched Vasilyev until he had cleared the edge of the ice, and then turned back to the still-lingering knot of people with Hollander at its center. Pike had Hollander by the upper arm and was saying something Ilya couldn’t hear, probably reassuring the other man.

Ilya signaled to the ref for a time-out, got a nod, and bellowed, “Sbornaya Rossii! Here!” His team slowly skated in toward him, looking apprehensive, until he was surrounded. Ilya turned slowly in place so he could set eyes on each of his players. “Vasilyev made his mistake,” he enunciated clearly, not wanting anyone to miss a word. “None of you will make that mistake again. Correct?” Silence. “Correct?” he barked, louder.

Grumbling answered him, but slowly, everyone on the team nodded. “You want to chirp,” Ilya went on, “good, fine. Chirp your asses off. But there’s a fucking line and you. don’t. cross. it.”

More begrudging nods. “Good. Go.” Dismissing them, he skated over to Hollander and gave him an up-nod. “You good, malen’kiy boyets?” Should he be affectionately calling Hollander little fighter? Almost certainly not, but he couldn’t resist. And it wasn’t like Hollander knew what he’d said, anyway.

Hollander nodded and shook himself off. “Fine,” he said shortly. “Let’s just play.” He skated off without another word, leaving Ilya staring after him. Hollander was usually much more aggressive toward him on the ice; the slur must have shaken him.

Sighing, he signaled the ref that his time-out was finished, and they re-set to continue play.

****

By the time the end of the third period was nearing, Canada was up by four goals and Team Russia was hovering between “demoralized” and “enraged”. Ilya, himself, had already made peace with the fact that they were about to be knocked out of the tournament. He wasn’t truly surprised; the team had been incohesive and playing like shit for the last two rounds.

Normally, Ilya would be fired up and chirping wildly, especially when Hollander was his opponent, but Ilya couldn’t shake his regret over Vasilyev’s crack. Hollander, he knew, was terrified of anyone identifying his sexuality. Ever since that moment in the game, Hollander had been playing hockey that was precise and calculating, but lacked the usual fire he had in his soul.

It hurt Ilya to watch. And so when Hollander scored again with a stylish deke with thirty seconds left on the clock – yeah, this loss was going to be humiliating – Ilya couldn’t stop himself from skating to where Hollander stood, looking him over, and telling the other man, “Was good dangle. Nice goal.”

Jaws dropped all around him. Ilya Rozanov was not only complimenting the other team, but was complimenting his biggest rival in the world? What was even happening?

Hollander just stared blankly at him for a second, clearly shocked as much as everyone else, before he allowed himself a small, smug smile. “I know.”

Ilya’s shouted laugh echoed throughout the arena.

Chapter 7: Fucking Comeau

Chapter Notes

Content warning: homophobia/f-slur

Shane Hollander, October 2016

Shane’s breath escaped in a deep huff as he was slammed up against the boards. “Fuck,” he wheezed, trying to get his skates back under him and defend the puck at the same time.

Leaning in less than an inch from his face, body pressed full-length against him, Rozanov showed his teeth in what might have been a very predatory smile. “Give it over, Hollander.”

“No!” He hooked his stick around Rozanov’s flank and managed to flick the puck clear, passing to J.J. “There, it’s gone, now get off me!”

Rozanov spared a glance over at where what would have been his puck was escaping. “Motherfucker.”

Shane finally managed to get Rozanov’s weight off him. He threw a low elbow, just for good measure, and then left Rozanov behind, gasping for breath, as Shane skated after the play.

To his not-at-all surprise, Rozanov was dogging him again a few seconds later. No one could say the other man wasn’t fast on the ice. “Hey, Hollander,” he growled, and Shane favored him with a backwards glance. “Next time, buy flowers before you fuck me over.”

From behind him, Shane heard one of the defenders snort indelicately at the quip. “You wish, Rozanov,” he snapped. “I only buy flowers for people I actually like.”

“Buuuuurn,” called Hayden loudly from his left, and Rozanov flashed the other man a dark look. 

“Your puppy is off leash again, Hollander.”

Hayden snagged a pass from one of Montreal’s defensemen and barked playfully at Rozanov, who scowled even deeper. Shane choked on a laugh.

“Why are you smiling?” the Russian snarled at Shane. “You should look at scoreboard!”

Reflexively, Shane did, not that it told him anything he didn’t already know: Boston was up by 2, the rat bastards. In his split second of inattention, he missed Hayden swiping the puck in his direction, and before he could recover, Rozanov had taken possession and was hauling ass down the ice. “Fuck,” Shane cursed to himself, and hurried to catch up.

He arrived at the scrum just in time to see Rozanov miss a shot on Montreal’s goal. Shouting wordlessly, the Russian shook his stick at the goalie, who just smirked at him through his mask.

Comeau, on Montreal’s defense, cut to a stop just short of Rozanov, spraying him with snow. “You want me to draw you a map for next time, man?” he asked fake-solitiously.

“Idi na khuy,” Rozanov spat, and it clearly wasn’t a compliment.

Comeau, despite not being the sharpest crayon in the box and not speaking a word of Russian, clearly picked up on that too, because he lunged for Rozanov, whose mood turned on a dime. He laughed and one-armed Comeau in the chest, pushing the bigger man back. “Stop flirting with me, Comeau, I’m not that kind of girl.”

“As if I’d ever – that’s not -” Comeau spluttered, straining against Rozanov’s restraining hand, and Shane decided that was quite enough and, since he was the team’s captain, policing it fell to him.

He skated forward and grabbed Comeau’s shoulder. “Disengage, man. He’s trying to get under your skin.”

“He’s fucking succeeding,” Comeau spat, earning him a wide grin from Rozanov, who dropped his hand when he saw that Shane had a hold on him. The defender struggled against Shane’s grasp. “I’ll fucking kill you, fag!”

The gay panic was strong with this one, clearly. Speaking as the actual gay in the room, Shane wasn’t sure whether to laugh or back away. He hesitated in that decision a beat too long, and Comeau’s swinging elbow caught him in the solar plexus.

Shane slid back an inch and hunched over, trying to reclaim the breath that had been knocked out of him for the second time that game. “Jesus, Comeau,” he wheezed, but the man ignored him and stormed off, leaving Shane and Rozanov staring at each other.

“Well,” Rozanov said after a second, offering him a bright smile, “that was fun. We will do this again sometime.”

Shane just sighed. “Fuck off and play, Rozanov.”

“Gladly.”

Chapter 8: All-Stars, again

Ilya Rozanov, January 2017, All-Stars final

He was playing on the same team as Hollander. Had been for two All-Star semifinal games now, but it still felt new. And exciting. As Ilya stepped onto the ice for the game, he glanced toward the bench, where Shane was waiting for his line to be called up. He’d been half-hoping that they’d be put on a line together somehow, but the All-Stars coach had wanted them both to stick to their usual position of center. Ilya couldn’t blame the man, but he couldn’t say he wasn’t disappointed, either; he was intensely curious about what it would be like to cooperate with Shane for once, especially since the tension that had ridden both of them since their ill-fated tuna melt date and the advent of Rose Landry had dissipated as soon as Ilya knew Shane had broken up with her.

Ilya skated up to the centre line, coming face to face with, yet again, Camden Williams. The man had been full of crass, homophobic chirps for as long as he’d been in the league, and Ilya was catastrophically low on patience for that bullshit today.

Williams met his eyes and affected an astounded expression. “Rozanov? Does your coach know you came out here?”

Hah, hah. Very funny. As if he weren’t the best player on his team and occupying the premier position of the first line, and as if everyone and their brother hadn’t trotted that chirp out a million times before. “You are hilarious, Williams,” he said in his driest tone. “Please, keep using old chirps. Makes it easier to ignore you.” At least he hadn’t called Ilya fag or cocksucker again.

Williams spat on the ice between them, but didn’t otherwise reply as they both crouched and focused on the puck. It dropped, Ilya won the face-off, and he proceeded to score a rapid goal. “Do not worry, Williams,” he called as he skated for the bench for the next line change, “I know you are doing your best.”

A number of Williams’s teammates called out retorts to that, but Ilya ignored them as he watched Shane climb over the boards. “Go,” he muttered quietly to himself, clenching a fist.

“What was that, Rozanov?” asked Marlow, leaning over closer to him. The defenseman from Boston didn’t seem to expect to see much ice time this game, so he’d assigned himself the role of team morale officer. “You good?”

Ilya offered him a fistbump. “Fine, fine. Just find it weird to root for Hollander.”

Marlow snorted. “Yeah, bet you’re not used to that.”

“No,” Ilya agreed, and they both watched as the puck dropped and Shane snatched it away from the other center. Maguire had been one of the top fan vote picks for the opposing team, and Ilya frankly wasn’t sure why, with the way he played. Possibly because he had long, flowing blond hair under his helmet that people seemed to go wild for.

Ilya would rather be chosen for his play than his looks. Even if he was still better-looking than Maguire.

On the ice, Shane faked out two D-men and the goalie for an open shot on goal, which he of course sank into the net. Their bench rose, cheering in unison. The coach called for the third line, and Shane returned to the rest of the team, panting.

“You have nice backdoor, Hollander,” Ilya said politely as the other man collapsed onto the bench, and he delighted in the way Shane’s face turned red. The compliment would sound completely reasonable to anyone else’s ears – a backdoor was a deception - but he and Shane knew differently.

Shane rolled his eyes dramatically. “Fuck off, Rozanov.”

“Hey, I am complimenting you! I say something nice!” he protested.

“Oh my god,” Marlow whined from beside him, “do you two ever stop?”

“Never,” Ilya replied gravely. Shane snickered.

Marlow threw up his hands, but before he could come up with a retort, he and his defense partner were called onto the ice. Ilya slid down the bench until he was alongside Shane. “We will win this.”

Shane glanced at him, eyebrows up and looking surprised that it was even in question. “What? Of course we will.”

“‘Ey, Rozanov!” shouted someone from the opposite bench, and Ilya looked over to find one of the other team’s defensemen glowering at him. When he noticed Ilya was looking at him, he switched to grinning dangerously. “We’re gonna be using you to clean the ice all night. Get used to it.”

Before Ilya could reply, Shane did: “Check the scoreboard before you brag, dickwad.”

Ilya couldn’t hold back his laugh. “Very nice, Hollander.”

Shane shrugged primly. “Well, he is being a dickwad. We’re supposed to be having fun and raising money, not threatening each other.”

Ilya found the other man’s naive point-of-view charming, and before he could stop himself, he patted Shane on the head. “Of course, of course.”

Shane batted his hand away and scowled. “Should’ve known better than to defend you.”

A roar went up from the crowd, and both men looked away to focus on the play only to find one of the other team’s forwards sprawled out facedown on the ice. As they watched, he rolled over and scrambled to his feet, looking embarrassed. “What happened?” Ilya asked the bench at large.

Mathieu grinned at him, looking overjoyed. “He tripped. Hey, asshole!” he shouted, loud enough for the downed player to hear. “Better watch out, I hear ice is slippery!”

“Oh my god,” Shane moaned, facepalming into his glove and looking embarrassed by proxy that someone had just said that.

Ilya just laughed. It was an old one, but it never failed to amuse him. Mostly because when you tripped on the ice like a five-year-old, the last thing you wanted was for anyone to draw attention to it in the most childish way possible.

By the time the game was down to its last thirty seconds – thank everything he could think of for the abbreviated All-Star format – Ilya and Shane’s team was leading by one and everyone on the team was holding their breath in the hopes that things wouldn’t go into overtime.

With a mere five seconds left on the clock, Shane fired a shot through the goalie’s five-hole directly into the net and the arena erupted. Nobody except the clock even bothered to count down the last five seconds of play; they knew it was over.

Breathless with elation, Ilya charged onto the ice and flung himself at the other center, who caught him with a shout of laughter. “Fuck yes, Hollander!” he yelled at full volume, and soon they were surrounded by the rest of the team in a messy, slippery group hug.

Directly behind Ilya, Marlow’s arms were so long that they surrounded Ilya and half of Shane. “I love you guys!” he announced. “And it’s so cute when you get along! Like a pair of puppies in hockey jerseys!”

Ilya elbowed him resentfully. “We are not puppies. We are…” He fumbled for a better label, but could think of nothing.

“Bears?” Marlow suggested with a smirk.

“Yes, that!”

“I am not a fucking bear,” Shane complained, pulling off his helmet and running a hand through his sweaty hair.

Ilya eyed him consideringly. “No. You are not.” Shane had entirely too little body hair to be a bear. Nor was he that tall.

Shane glared at him and shoved him away. “Fuck you.”

“Well, you’re snarly little puppies in jerseys,” Marlow corrected himself ruminatively. “I’ll still take it.”

“Fuck off, Marlow,” they both said in unison.

Marlow just laughed.

Chapter 9: It's a secret

Chapter Notes

I know neither hockey nor Russian. I'm just googling and praying things sound real, y'all.

Shane Hollander, September 2018

It was strange, playing against Ilya’s new team. Shane had spent years focused on how to beat Boston, and Ilya in particular, and now he was trying to learn new habits to beat a different team that played very differently. Ottawa was less aggressive, interpersonally speaking. They still played to win, and there were plenty of body checks, but there were fewer nasty chirps directed at Shane and his Montreal teammates when they played. It was actually pretty nice. Shane had never been particularly skilled at chirping, so he appreciated the reduced pressure to always have a comeback.

The exception to that was, of course, Ilya himself, who delighted in razzing Shane every chance he got while they were on the ice. Like now. “Are you sure you are not leftie?” Ilya asked with a grin as he gleefully stole the puck from Shane during a pre-season game and Shane fumbled his stick. 

“Asshole,” Shane mumbled.

“So unoriginal, Hollander.” And he was gone, Dykstra inserting himself between Shane and Ilya so Shane couldn’t even scowl directly at his boyfriend anymore.

Shane finally got clear of Dykstra just in time to see Ilya launch the puck at Montreal’s net and the goalie totally whiff it. “Fuck,” both Shane and the goalie cursed.

Ilya laughed loudly. “Is not dodgeball, Gagnon. You’re supposed to catch the puck. But if it was dodgeball,” he added mock-generously as he circled behind the net to bleed some of his momentum, “you would win.”

Ilya’s wingers both guffawed, while Gagnon made an obscene gesture as best he could through his thick padding.

Ten minutes later, Shane and Ilya were facing off in the circle. Shane was glaring, while Ilya was smirking. “You’re such a tool,” he spat at Ilya, whose smugness was pissing him off and turning him on in equal measures.

Ilya’s smile only grew wider. “Ah, yes, I am very useful,” he replied as if Shane had just given him a warm compliment. “Like all tools.”

Shane ground his teeth and won the face-off through sheer force of will, barely avoiding Ilya’s completely illegal attempt to catch his skate with the blade of his stick. He gave the ref a pleading look, but the whistle didn’t blow. Inwardly cursing the obviously-blind man, Shane tried to focus on the puck as he made his way down the ice.

Halfway to the goal, Ilya came out of nowhere, trying to elbow him out of the way using his heavier body weight. Truly frustrated now, before he could stop himself, Shane had lashed out with his stick, catching Ilya in the shin.

The whistle blew. “Slashing! Two minutes!”

Ilya, clutching his now-sore shin, still managed to grin at Shane. “That was adorable, Hollander. Like angry little kitten.”

Muttering curses at both himself and the ref who apparently only noticed infractions by Montreal tonight, Shane took himself off to the penalty box, where he spent the next two minutes plotting exactly how he was going to get revenge on the other man tonight. Perhaps he’d edge him, refuse to let him fuck him for hours until Ilya was begging.

Oh, who was he kidding, Shane couldn’t hold out that long.

Mid-third-period, with the score tied and both Shane and Ilya one goal away from a hat trick, they were battling it out at the boards for the puck with teammates surrounding them on all sides.

“Shane!” Hayden shouted from behind him, and Shane, already knowing what play his linemate was thinking of, released the puck and ducked under Ilya’s outstretched arm just as Hayden ducked in from the other side. Ilya was momentarily confused by the switch, and it lasted just long enough for Hayden to fire the puck through Ilya’s legs and back to Shane.

And then Shane was on a breakaway with nearly-clear ice in front of him, his wingers flanking him on either side and his defenders coming up behind. One of Ottawa’s defensemen threw himself in front of Shane but was muscled out of the way before they could connect. Shane could feel the smile spreading across his face as the air in the arena turned electric in anticipation of him scoring.

He deked another defenseman and then the goalie, faking left before shooting from the right and putting the biscuit neatly into the basket.

A panting Ilya pulled up alongside him and mumbled something in Russian that didn’t sound complimentary. Shane favored him with a superior look. “Maybe if you stopped smoking, you’d have caught up with me.”

“That’s my boy!” J.J. yelled, slapping Shane on the back of the helmet and forcing Ilya away with his body. Shane patted J.J. back and offered a smile.

Ilya just groaned and protested, “I only smoke one every now and then!” as he was pushed back.

Shane knew that, because he nagged Ilya nearly every time he did smoke one. Ilya seemed compelled to confess about his cigarette habits even when Shane wasn’t present.

“Wait, Rozanov still smokes?” J.J. asked disbelievingly.

“I know, right?” Shane said, affecting shock and horror.

“Pridurki,” Ilya snarked in their general direction. Shane, who had just about mastered at least the rude words in Russian, mostly through pillow talk, thought that meant you dickheads. He just smirked at his secret boyfriend, once again planning how to make him suffer tonight.

Ilya turned up his nose. “Hmph. Let’s just play.”

Shane let his smile turn predatory. “You got it, Rozanov.”

Chapter 10: After the coming-out

Chapter Notes

I don't remember how the book describes Shane coming out to his team, so I just guessed that it didn't go well and ran with that idea. Sorry this one got a little angsty. I TRIED, you guys, I tried!

CW: f-slur

Ilya Rozanov, Halloween 2018

Ilya couldn’t resist; he showed up to the locker room for tonight’s game in full costume. He was dressed in leather pants, a billowing white shirt, and a crimson-lined black cape, and he thought he looked rather dashing.

“What the hell are you?” Wyatt asked, cocking an eyebrow at him as he sorted through his pads.

“Am vampire, duh.” Unfortunately, Ilya’s words came out somewhat muffled because of the plastic fangs in his mouth, so it came out more like, “Mm wumper, tuh.”

Wyatt just looked at him with that cool, goalie expression he’d perfected. “‘Kay. Better suit up, man.”

“Pah.” Resentfully – no one appreciated his genius – Ilya spat out the fangs and set them in his cubby. “I wanted others to see me.”

“Dude, we see you,” Bood called from across the room. “I coulda happily gone my whole life without seeing your dick print in those leather pants, thanks just the same.”

Ilya looked down at himself and smirked. “Is impressive,” he agreed, then shrugged and unlaced the pants and started trying to shimmy them down his thighs. They stuck to his skin, and he quickly found himself fighting for balance with his pants tight around his legs. Around him, his teammates were cracking up.

“Need some help there, Rozanov?” asked Dykstra.

“Yes, actually,” Ilya said, surprised that he was being given an offer of help rather than ragged on some more.

“Not it!” Dykstra retorted immediately, quickly followed by everyone else in the room.

“Fuckers,” Ilya groused. “I will do it myself.” He sat down and started pulling again. If only Shane were here in the locker room; he’d never seen someone so eager to get his pants off. Alas, Shane was in the visiting team’s locker room with his own team, preparing to face Ilya on the ice. He was uncomfortably aware that Shane probably wasn’t having nearly as good a time as Ilya was in this pre-game lead-up; he’d come out to his team a week ago and the reaction had been…decidedly mixed.

Finally, the pants came the rest of the way off. They were inside-out and would be an absolute bitch to get back on when he left after the game (for once, he regretted the special non-suit dispensation the NHL granted players for Halloween), but he’d deal with that later.

In minutes, Ilya was dressed and ready to go. He picked up his phone, glanced surreptitiously around to make sure no one was looking over his shoulder, and texted Shane:

Ilya: You ready to lose?

He hoped a taste of their usual banter would help center his boyfriend, even if his teammates were giving him a hard time.

The answer came so quickly that Shane must have been already holding his phone, too.

Jane: You wish. Get ready to go down.

Ilya couldn’t hold back a quiet snort at the inadvertent innuendo. He knew it was inadvertent because Shane was absolutely shit at sexting, or even flirting. It was ironically endearing, how bad he was at it.

Ilya: After the game, I will happily go down. [wink emoji]

Jane: Oh my GOD stop it I’m in the fucking locker room, I don’t need a hard-on right now

Bwahaha. Perfect, now Shane would be thinking of him as he got ready. Grinning broadly, Ilya stuck his phone back in his cubby, picked up his stick and helmet, and looked around the room at his team. “Listen up, fuckers!” he shouted, drawing all eyes to him. “Tonight, we destroy Montreal! They go home like whipped little puppies!”

A collective battle cry was the response and Ilya was grinning like a madman as he led his team onto the ice for warm-up.

The game was a shitshow from moment one. Montreal was a mess, seemingly unwilling or unable to coordinate themselves enough to compete with the Centaurs on their level. Ilya scored twice in the first period, and he could see, even from afar, Shane’s face growing darker and darker as the minutes passed. His man hated making a poor showing, and even more so when he couldn’t fix it by just trying harder, himself. In this case, it wasn’t Shane that was the problem; it was the fact that the rest of the team seemed to be viewing Shane as an obstacle.

Ilya tried to focus on the game, he did, but by the middle of the second period he was growing increasingly low on patience for the other team’s shit. When a third-liner tried to slam him into the boards and steal his puck, he growled out, “How long have they played you today?”

“What?” asked the other guy blankly. “I dunno, like ten minutes?”

Ilya snorted. “Long time to do nothing. Go bother someone else.” He elbowed the other player and, while he was still fighting for breath, Ilya skated off with the puck.

He saw Shane coming for him – would always notice Shane, no matter what – and prepared himself for a wrestling match, but before they could clash, one of Shane’s teammates – Chandon, Ilya noted as he caught a glimpse of jersey - came in to try for a steal and sideswiped Shane, pushing him out of the way. “Jesus Christ,” Ilya heard the guy mutter in Shane’s direction, “are you from the Make-a-Wish Foundation or something?”

Ilya didn’t get the reference, but Shane seemed to, because he stiffened. Was Montreal now chirping its own men?

Well, Ilya wasn’t having that. He was still in control of the puck and Ottawa was ahead by three. He could afford to play a little. So he let the puck dangle a bit and pretended not to notice that he was dangerously close to Chandon. As he’d intended, the idiot went for the puck. Ilya snatched it out of the way and grinned ferociously as he watched him stumble. “It’s cute when you try,” Ilya informed him.

“Fucking call me ‘cute’? Faggot!” Chandon lowered a shoulder and tried to ram Ilya, but he was ready for it.

Ilya narrowed his eyes and sidestepped. “Your father didn’t mind last night.” Was it crass and probably less clever than he usually was? Yes. Did he care? Nope. Fuck this guy in particular.

Out of the side of his eye, he caught Shane shaking his head in amusement. Mission accomplished. Ilya flashed him a quick grin and then forcibly set his mind back on the game. He had points to score.

Montreal lost by five in the end, and their faces as they passed by Ottawa’s players to say good game were grim. Ilya, on the other hand, was ebullient. His team had won, he’d get to see Shane tonight, and he wasn’t even that sore because nobody had managed to land a check on him in the entire game. Which meant not only was he getting laid, he wouldn’t be in pain while he did it!

Even while thinking this, he was moving on autopilot, slapping the hands of Montreal’s players and muttering pleasantries. His attention was drawn back to what he was doing when a hand slapped his a little too hard. He looked up to find Chandon glowering at him. “What?” Ilya said in his most innocent voice. “You know, is not too late to find new job. Perhaps truck driver? Ditch digger?” He wanted to suggest crash-test dummy, but he didn’t know how to say that in English.

Before Chandon could get out a reply, the man behind him gave him a shove to move him along, and he settled for just glaring one more time at Ilya before he skated forward.

Finally, Ilya came face-to-face with the end of Montreal’s line and the person he’d been waiting for: Shane. The other man was frowning mightily, but his face cleared slightly when he realized he was looking at Ilya. “Good game, man,” Shane managed casually.

Ilya smirked at him. “It was for me, yes. You…were not terrible.” He’d meant it as a light tease, but Shane’s face fell and Ilya immediately regretted his words. 

In the next second, though, Shane’s face cleared as he noticed a TV camera focused on them. “Fuck off, Rozanov,” he gritted out, faking a smile.

Ilya made a mental note to apologize when Shane came to his house later. He hadn’t meant to dig at an already open wound.

Two hours later, Ilya was lounging on his couch in track pants and nothing else when he heard the front door open. Shane must have let himself inside with his key. Either that or Ilya was being accosted by the most polite Canadian robber ever, he mused as he heard shoes being kicked off. 

“Ilya?” Shane called.

“Living room.”

Footsteps, and then Shane emerged into the room. “Hey.”

“Hey, love.” Ilya patted the couch next to him. “Sorry for tonight.”

Huffing, Shane flopped down. “No, you’re not.”

“Well, no,” Ilya admitted. “But I am sorry you are sad.” He considered his next words, then decided to go for it. “Chandon was mean to you.”

Shane snorted. “No different than most of the rest of them. You should have seen them hustle through the showers so they didn’t get stuck in there with ‘the fag’.”

Ilya straightened up in a hurry. “They call you that?” he nearly yelled.

Shane raised a placating hand. “Its not a surprise. I knew to expect it.”

“Hmph.” He still didn’t like it, and he didn’t like that Shane was just taking it. “They are assholes.”

“They’ll come around,” Shane said, and Ilya wasn’t sure whether he was trying to reassure Ilya or himself.

He didn’t want to talk about this anymore, or he’d want to break things. Particularly other players’ faces. “Is too bad they are dicks,” Ilya mused instead, deliberately lightening his tone. “Locker room hookups are hot.”

Shane cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, and you’d know that why? I don’t recall ever doing anything with you in a locker room.” He paused. “Well, there was that one time, but we didn’t do anything.”

Yes, good, he’d taken the bait. Ilya grinned. “Or there is always the arena itself.”

“What? Are you ser-”

“I have good pickup line for that.”

“Oh my god.” Shane sighed. “Oh, fine, tell me.”

He let his smile grow wider, a little maniacal now. “Are you the sin bin? Because I belong inside you.”

“Oh my god,” Shane repeated, facepalming and chuckling through his words.

He wiggled his eyebrows. “Come, I put it in your five-hole.”

This time Shane groaned. “Ilya, no.”

“You must be a puck, because I can’t stop chasing you.”

“Where did you even get these? They’re awful!”

Ah, but he was laughing now. The depression that had been lurking around him since his coming-out went poorly was, at least momentarily, nowhere to be found. Ilya found that he was more than happy to make a fool of himself in exchange for that gift. He fumbled for more ideas from the “hockey pick-up lines” list he’d found on the web. “I must be goal, because I light up when you come near me.”

“Stoppppp,” Shane whined, still laughing.

Ilya smirked and threw his leg over Shane until he was straddling him. “Tonight I score hat trick: I put it in you three times.”

“Ok, no, that one was truly awful. Stop before you hurt yourself.”

Ilya sat back, resting his weight on Shane, and regarded his boyfriend for a long moment. “You mean more to me than a game-winning goal,” he said quietly.

Shane froze, staring back at him. “That…” He cleared his throat. “That one wasn’t bad.”

“You are highlight reel of my life.”

“Ilya…”

He leaned forward and kissed Shane softly. “I love you. You played well. Was your team that sucked.”

Shane sighed into his mouth. “They’ll get over it, right?”

He nodded with confidence he didn’t feel. “They must.” And if Ilya didn’t quite actually believe that, well, he wasn’t going to tell Shane that.

Chapter 11: Yet another All-Stars

Chapter Notes

I realize this version of the skills competition is anachronistic and probably not at all how this stuff actually happens. Apologies for getting fiction in your realism, yo!

Shane Hollander, January 2020, All-Star weekend

“Oh, they send mascot!”

Shane looked around at the sound of Ilya’s Russian-accented voice, expecting to see someone in an animal suit standing on the sidelines. When he didn’t spot any mascots, he turned back to the other man, who had plopped down next to him on their team’s bench. “Huh?”

It was the first day of All-Stars weekend and the completely-random-uh-huh-sure sorting hat or whatever the NHL was using to decide on All-Stars teams these days had once again put Shane and Ilya on the same team, along with a motley crew of a mix of Eastern Europeans, Americans, and Canadians from both conferences. There was no logic to it, as best he could tell.

“Team mascot,” Ilya said again, nodding his chin at the other team’s bench, which still didn’t feature any animal costumes, for the record. When he noticed Shane squinting skeptically at him, he grinned. “Montreal’s fifteenth-best player. They let him come to game. Luckily, he is on other team.”

Shane huffed and rolled his eyes. “You’re such a dick. Hayden earned his place here as much as any of us.”

Ilya scoffed, but didn’t argue, just sent Hayden a sarcastic salute when he noticed the other man looking over at them. Hayden scowled at him, then moved his eyes to Shane and grinned. I’m here, he mouthed excitedly at his best friend, and Shane couldn’t help but grin back. He was so proud of him for this.

They were preparing for the skills competition part of the weekend. First up was the fastest skater, in which Shane, Ilya, and Scott Hunter were all competing for their shared team against, among others, Hayden. All four men were also signed up for the stick handling competition immediately after that, and then they had the rest of the mini-competitions to sit on the bench and cheer for their own teams and heckle the others.

Ilya and Hunter were placed next to each other for the first heat of fastest skater, and as they stepped onto the ice, Hunter stuck his hand out to Ilya. From the bench, Shane could hear him say, “Good luck, Rozanov.”

Ilya took his hand, but then cocked his head, affecting a confused look. “Nice to meet you. What was your name again?”

Hunter’s jaw dropped before he caught himself and restored his composure. “Asshole,” he grumbled, dropping Ilya’s hand.

“Hmm, is not good name,” Ilya mused. “Your mother must not have liked you.”

“Let’s just fucking skate.” Hunter shook off Ilya’s hand and took up his starting position next to the grinning Russian.

The whistle blew and both men took off down the outside of the ice. Fifteen seconds later, they were both puffing hard back at the starting point, Hunter grinning and Ilya not.

“It’s been a pleasure kicking your ass,” Hunter said solemnly, tipping his head at Ilya and accepting back slaps from other competitors. “Let’s do it again sometime.”

Ilya muttered something in Russian and skated off to his bench, where Shane was just standing up to join his own heat.

“You did good,” Shane offered consolingly. “Second place!”

Ilya just grumbled some more, and Shane shrugged and headed onto the ice. He won his heat handily, while Hayden came in third, which meant Shane would be skating against Ilya and Hunter in the final but Hayden was out of the running. He gave his friend a consoling pat on the back, and Hayden shrugged philosophically. “Third isn’t bad,” he said.

“Definitely not, especially considering it’s your first All-Stars,” Shane agreed.

Hayden looked out on the ice, where the finalists were assembling, and smirked a little. “Kick their asses, hm?”

Shane grinned. “I plan to.” He gave Hayden one more pat and headed onto the ice, where he was positioned between Ilya and Hunter. “Good luck, guys,” he said politely.

Hunter offered him a fistbump. “May the best skater win.”

“You can just say ‘Rozanov,’ Hunter,” interjected Ilya, earning him scowls from both of them and a muttered Whatever from Shane. “What?” he protested. “I won last year; I will win this year.”

Shane still kinda held that victory against Ilya; he’d gotten distracted by the man’s ass in front of him and come in a distant third. He was determined that that would not be happening again this year. The whistle blew and all the competitors took up their preparatory stances, and then it blew again and they were off.

Shane took an early lead, but not a comfortable one. Hunter was breathing down his neck on his right, and he could hear Ilya cursing in Russian on his left, so he must be close as well. He didn’t spare the time to look back and see just how close; instead he put his head down, focused, and pushed his thigh muscles to their limit.

Shane blew across the finish line a hair in front of Ilya, who was in turn a hand’s breadth ahead of Hunter. The rest of the pack wasn’t even close. Panting, he turned to look at Ilya. “What was that you were saying about winning again?”

Ilya grimaced. “In stick handling. I meant in stick handling.” 

It was an obvious lie, but Shane didn’t call him on it, just grinned and slapped him heartily on the shoulder. “‘Kay, buddy.”

“Seeing you guys play on the same team and get along will never not be weird,” Hunter commented as they piled off the ice and back onto the bench. “I’m too used to you wanting to kill each other.”

Shane and Ilya exchanged a surreptitious look and Ilya shrugged carelessly. “I tolerate him now. He is not completely awful. Still weak backhand, though.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Shane countered with a roll of his eyes, shoving Ilya, who allowed himself to be rocked sideways into Hunter. 

Hunter shoved him back toward Shane. “Get away, I don’t want your sweaty ass touching me.”

“I hear you like sweaty ass, though,” Ilya commented, and though the words could have come across as a taunt, Ilya’s placid expression tempered them; Shane hoped it tempered them enough to avoid Ilya getting punched in the nose.

Hunter’s eyes narrowed and he scoffed. “You wish. I have standards, and I guarantee you I’ll never have any interest in your sweaty ass.”

“Is not that sweaty,” Ilya said, patting his backside. “Race was not long enough to work up much sweat.”

“Oh my god,” Shane groaned, “would you two stop talking about sweaty asses? I don’t need those mental images.” Because yes, men’s asses were hot, but sweaty, smelly hockey asses just after a game? No. Nope.

Ilya opened his mouth to say something else, probably something equally disgusting, but before he could get out whatever idiocy he was preparing, the announcer called for the stick handling competitors to take the ice.

Both teams’ representatives piled onto the ice, a couple of them clacking their sticks together for luck. “Show ‘em how it’s done, Hollander!” called one of Shane’s teammates from the bench. Shane threw him a wave.

Ilya frowned and looked over his shoulder at the shouter. “What about me? You not well-wish me? Why?”

Hunter snorted. “Because your ego doesn’t need any more polishing, genius.”

Ilya preened showily. “I am very shiny already, yes.”

Shane couldn’t hold back a snort at that. “Sometimes it’s really very clear that English was not your first language.” A couple of the guys around them laughed.

“Pah,” Ilya scoffed lifting his chin. “My English is better than any of your Russian.”

Shane couldn’t resist just a little more chirping. “Mais mon français est meilleur que ton anglais,” he rattled off, knowing Ilya had no hope of knowing what he’d said.

“Tabarnak!” Hayden exclaimed supportively from a neighboring lane.

Ilya scowled. “Fucking Canadians.”

“Ok, ok,” broke in the ref for the stick handling event, “you guys gonna compete or you gonna stand around with your dicks in your hands all day?”

Shane jumped to attention, but the others around him were a bit slower. Eventually, however, all the competitors were ready at the starting line and the whistle blew.

Ten hockey players took off, juggling pucks while maneuvering around the obstacle course. It was all over within forty-five seconds, as one puck after another was fired into the net. And at the end of everything…

“Fuck yeah!” Hayden threw both hands up into the air and screamed his victory. 

Shane skidded to a stop next to him and threw his arms around his best friend. “Thirty-one seconds, Hayd! Holy shit!”

Hayden grinned and hugged Shane back. “You must be a good influence. Holy shit, did I really win that?”

“You absolutely did!”

Other players were now skating by, offering their congratulations and some back slaps to Hayden on their way back to their benches. Just as Shane was getting ready to usher Hayden off the ice as well, Ilya drew to a stop alongside them. He regarded Hayden coolly for a long moment, then nodded in approval. “Didn’t know you could play hockey. You should try it more often.”

Hayden just grinned and gave him the finger.

Chapter 12: After the outing

Chapter Notes

For those of you who, unlike me, haven't obsessively memorized the timeline, Shane and Ilya were outed in March 2021, so this chapter is set approximately a month after that.

Ilya Rozanov, April 2021

The playoffs were always a stressful time, granted, but Ilya would like to burn this particular series with fire, thanks very much. It was still only the first round, and with their beards barely started, the team would typically be playing seriously but not with deadly intent; however, the bracket had paired Ottawa with Montreal this time around and Ilya and his teammates were not about to let a bunch of assholes take them down. It was bad enough that Montreal had taken game one. The Centaurs weren’t going to give up game two.

When Shane and Ilya had been accidentally outed last month, the Centaurs had closed ranks around their captain. Nobody was going to badmouth Ilya for his sexuality, whether on the ice or off, as far as the rest of his team was concerned, and Ilya loved them for it. Unfortunately, Shane’s team hadn’t reacted the same way. The best of his teammates, his closer friends, were regarding him with surprised wariness; with others, it was worse, with them flat-out cold-shouldering him or making bigoted remarks in the locker room.

It was no way to treat your worst enemy, let alone your team captain, as far as Ilya was concerned, and he knew it had been affecting Shane’s game. His boyfriend was struggling with his anxiety, which was bad enough, but some of his teammates had started excluding him from plays and passes, which Ilya knew made Shane feel truly awful. How was he supposed to help his team win anything when they kept refusing to pass their top scorer the puck?

Ilya hadn’t been able to keep himself from bitching to his teammates about the way Shane was being treated. Which meant that not only was Ilya out for Montreal blood tonight, but so was everyone else from the Centaurs.

“We’ve got this,” Wyatt Hayes assured him as he took Ilya’s customary pre-game fistbump when the team stepped onto the ice in Montreal’s arena. 

Ilya honestly didn’t know whether he meant that they were going to win the game, or that they were going to humiliate Montreal independent of the score. He wasn’t sure he cared. Both? Both was good.

Ilya skated out to take the face-off a few minutes later, watching a depressed-looking Shane approach center ice. His wingers were ignoring him rather than their usual laser-focus, and Ilya couldn’t hold back a quiet scoff. Ottawa wouldn’t even need to play particularly well tonight to win if Montreal wasn’t going to concentrate on the game. 

“Good luck, sweetheart,” he couldn’t stop himself from saying as they crouched for the puck drop. Those puppy-dog eyes did things to him.

Shane offered him a weak smile. “Yeah, same.”

And then the game was on. Ilya snatched the puck immediately and took it into Montreal’s defensive zone, where he encountered a brick wall, otherwise known as Gilbert Comeau. Not the first time, wouldn’t be the last. Ilya deked around him and grinned when he heard the offended yell come from behind him, but he didn’t look back. He was too busy scoring his first goal of the night.

One period, two assists, and one goal later, Ilya found himself facing Mark O’Connor, Montreal’s second-line center, for another face-off. He took a moment, just a moment, to look around the arena at the chastened-looking Montreal fans, who appeared to be somewhat in shock at their team being scoreless this late in the game.

“Weirdly quiet in here, since we scored third goal, eh?” he asked his opponent with a smirk. “Almost like Ottawa is humiliating you.”

O’Connor spat on the ice at their feet but didn’t otherwise take the ragebait. “Whatever. Still a period and a half to play.”

“Oh, your team might actually start playing now?” Ilya shot back, affecting an expression of astonishment. “Would be nice. Is getting boring out here.”

The ref between them shook his head and sighed. “Go easy, Rozanov.”

“What? I didn’t even curse!” he protested. “That was barely a chirp!”

The ref just snorted and dropped the puck.

O’Connor won the face-off, to Ilya’s frustration, but thirty seconds later, he missed a scoring opportunity and his line was called back in. Ilya coasted on his blades for a second, watching Shane scramble over the boards for his shift. Even covered by thick padding, his lover was a sight to see, all grace and sleek muscles.

“Roll your tongue back into your mouth, dude,” Bood teased as he skated by. “There’s enough frozen liquid on the rink already, you don’t need to add drool.”

“Otvali,” Ilya muttered to his teammate as he charged back into the fray. Piss off.

Five seconds later, Shane had the puck but was being, apparently good-naturedly, bulled against the boards by Troy Barrett, who had a broad grin on his face and was clearly having the time of his life challenging Montreal’s star.

Ilya approached to try to steal the puck and heard the tail end of Barrett’s chirp: “- couldn’t have better taste in men? I mean, come on!”

“I am best taste!” Ilya broke in as he swooped in and swiped at the puck, only to have Shane maneuver it out of his reach while looking around a little desperately for an exit opportunity. Unfortunately for him, his enforcer, who could have run interference, was nowhere to be found and his right winger was hovering just outside the scrum looking like he’d smelled something bad.

Ilya calculated, at pretty much the same time as Shane, that Shane was stuck and passing was his only option, so he positioned himself to intercept the puck when Shane let it go.

It wasn’t even a challenge. Shane’s winger made only a half-hearted attempt to snag the pass, and it wasn’t nearly enough. Ilya crowed at his victory and was moving to push off toward Montreal’s goal when he heard the winger’s voice behind him: “Fucking fag goddamn just up and handed his boyfriend that one.”

Before he was even conscious of doing it, Ilya had pulled to a stop, pivoted, and advanced on the winger, still juggling the puck. “‘Fag’?” he snapped. “That is the best you can do?”

“What?” asked the startled winger, taking a step back from him.

“You can’t think of a more creative slur than that?” Ilya went on, ignoring the protest.

“I -”

“No? Then don’t fucking use them. It makes you sound like a moron.” He wasn’t usually a spitter, but he couldn’t resist the urge to spit on the ice at the guy’s feet. “Fucking idiot.” And then he spun and, while everyone around them was still gaping, sped toward the offensive zone.

A heartbeat later, Montreal’s goalie was cursing up a storm and Ilya was grinning broadly as he watched the puck hit the back of the net.

Toward the end of the third period, with Ottawa up by two, Ilya found himself dancing to evade a Montreal defenseman named Gateau near the boards. “Enjoying losing?” he asked conversationally, shouldering the other man. “Nice evening for it.”

“Suck my dick, Rozanov,” snapped Gateau.

“Hmm, no.” He pretended to contemplate the proposition as the defenseman shoved back at him. “I mean, it would be the best blowjob of your life, yes,” he added, pursing his lips thoughtfully, “but I think my boyfriend would not be happy.”

“And you don’t want to see Shane pissed off,” chimed in Hayden Pike, making a dive for the puck only to be thwarted.

“Oh my god,” Shane moaned dramatically from Pike’s other side. “That’s not a thing.”

Pike laughed. “Hollander smash,” he said in his best Incredible Hulk voice.

“Fuck you.” Shane darted past his teammates and, before Ilya could counter the move, snatched the puck off Ilya’s stick and whirled around with it dangling. “And bye.” He flipped a wave over his shoulder and was gone.

Ilya could only stand for a second, watching him go, then he shook his head in wonder. “I’m going to fuck him so hard tonight,” he muttered to himself.

Pike’s stick snapped across his shin, so quickly that Ilya wouldn’t have known he’d done it if he didn’t feel the resulting pain. “You’re a pig.”

“Says the man who can’t figure out birth control.” He snorted at Pike’s expression at that and moved away, chasing the play.

Ottawa won the game by three, leaving the ice amidst an almost eerie silence by Montreal’s fans. Ilya fistbumped the teammates nearest to him as he walked into the locker room. “Good game, guys. Haasy, a goal and an assist, fuck yeah!”

Haas grinned. “I’m surprised you didn’t get a Gordie Howe hat trick, playing this team. I heard some of the things they said about you and Hollander.”

Ilya scoffed. “They would have liked that too much. Instead, I just tell them how stupid they are and then beat them.”

Dykstra sidled up next to them. “Your man going to be ok with that loss?” he asked. “It was pretty brutal.”

Ilya could only shrug. “We both lose games.”

“Yeah but like…his team hung him out to dry. That’s not normal.”

“That’s not even just not-normal, it’s dumb,” Bood threw in over his shoulder as he shrugged out of his jersey. “Like, yeah, let’s ensure our own loss because we’re pissed Hollander touched a dick.”

“You call me a dick?” Ilya asked, feigning shock with an offended hand pressed to his chest.

Bood laughed loudly. “Well, I wasn’t, but hey, if the shoe fits.”

Ilya looked down at his bare feet. “What shoe?”

That earned him a snort. “Fucking Russians. Get showered and go hang out with your boyfriend.”

Didn’t need to tell him twice.