Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

I wrote my college thesis on indirectly expressing care through food, welcome to my wheelhouse babyyyy

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-20 Words: 3,487 Chapters: 1/1

bon appétit (you've eaten me alive)

Summary

Ilya is minding his own business, fucking Shane Hollander into a hotel mattress, when out of nowhere, he is struck by a thought. Struck, a word he knows from hockey, and it feels like that, like a collision, maybe because it is so abrupt and maybe because it is so stupid.

I should cook something for him.

 

(Fighting the urge to show care towards the person you're sleeping with, or: Ilya Rozanov thinks about the tuna melt an extremely normal amount.)

Notes

Many thanks to my betas, who include rarefiednight and lapislaluzie. Title comes from the song "Mass Romantic" by The New Pornographers; I was contractually obligated to name this fic after something put out by a mid-aughts Canadian indie band, you know how it is.

Ilya is minding his own business, fucking Shane Hollander into a hotel mattress, when out of nowhere, he is struck by a thought. Struck, a word he knows from hockey, and it feels like that, like a collision, maybe because it is so abrupt and maybe because it is so stupid.

I should cook something for him.

Ilya’s hips stutter for a second, losing the rhythm, and then Hollander arches his back and whispers, “Please” into the pillow, and the thought drops out of Ilya’s head in favor of mouthing at the sweat-damp nape of Hollander’s neck, and rasping, 

“So polite. Beg me again.”

Just the idea of begging makes Hollander’s breath come faster, his fingers grasp at the sheets. Ilya thought it might. 

But this is Hollander, so, what he manages to say (on his second try) is, “I wasn’t. Begging.”

Ilya grins slowly against Hollander’s shoulder, and they are both hungry, but not for anything that comes from a kitchen. They have practice in the morning, not much time left, and Ilya still needs to make this man come apart beneath him.

The thought returns a few days later. Ilya is jogging outside. Next time, you could make Hollander something to eat, he thinks, and almost stumbles. 

Nobody cooks on the road, except for Johansson, who insists you can make a decent grilled cheese on a hotel iron. Maybe this is true, but why? The other guys give him shit for it. Room service is a call away, and who skates professional hockey and then goes back to his room to slice cheese and butter bread?

Ilya can cook. A little, anyway. He can make eggs, things like that. Sometimes his hookups are surprised by this.

“Damn, is there anything he can’t do?” one of them said to him, a few years ago. She was a model, he thinks, something like that. She had a wicked smile and amazing breasts but she said it the way you would talk about a trained bear, or a dog dancing on two legs. You mean you can do something other than fight, fuck, and play hockey? He didn’t see her again.

Ilya keeps running. Maybe it will clear his head.

In porn, people eat off of each other’s bodies sometimes. In Ilya’s experience, this is a good way to get tired of the taste of whipped cream. Also, Hollander folds his underwear; probably he would hate to waste food. And also. Ilya isn’t sure if—he pokes at the thought again—he doesn’t—

He’s not sure if it has anything to do with sex. 

Or no, that’s stupid. It would be convenient, if Hollander stayed over, that’s all. They could fuck until they got tired, go to sleep, wake up, eat, and then have another round. Eggs, simple. Hollander’s food is complicated and boring, part of some plan designed to keep him playing hockey into his old age. He and Hollander don’t talk about this sort of thing, of course, but it was in the documentary. Eggs must be okay, though. Protein, right? Hollander probably eats eggs. Hollander probably eats them all the time.

A second thought, without permission: what if Ilya made something Hollander doesn’t get to eat much? Hollander would be surprised, but not like the model—it would be different. Hollander would be surprised, and he would smile, not the forced expression he wears for the press but that quiet curve of lips that isn’t aimed at anyone at all. He would smile, and—

Ilya runs faster, doubles his pace. He’s thinking too much. He goes home, showers, and doesn’t think about it again.

Not for a while, at least.

Ilya practices, and plays, and texts Hollander dirty things for the pleasure of imagining those dark brown eyes locked on the screen in shock and interest. They face off on the ice and they fuck in private, and Ilya has Hollander wherever he wants him, if not whenever. Shane Hollander, the most famous hockey player in the world (and second best player, Ilya thinks out of habit, although there is nobody in Ilya’s head to look back at him and say, You’re such an asshole) is regularly begging for Ilya’s cock, is driven out of his mind with lust at the feel of Ilya’s hands. It would be very stupid to ask for more. 

Svetlana is out of condoms, and she wants to show Ilya what Boston has to offer in disgusting American junk food. They’re at 7-11, Svetlana raising her eyebrows at some awful packaged cupcakes that are bright blue with red, white, and blue sprinkles, when Ilya thinks,

You could cook Hollander dinner. You could make chicken.

This is even worse than the other thoughts, and there is no excuse. Ilya has never made chicken—too complicated, no point—and the 7-11 does not sell raw, plucked dead birds.

When Ilya was very young, his mother could cook anything. Later, she was too tired. Ilya brought her tea sometimes, or toast, grilled cheese. Some days it made her smile and push his hair back from his forehead. Some days it made her cry. 

Ilya is not thinking about this. He grabs a bottle of vodka, even though it is terrible shitty American vodka, Svetlana flashing him a curious look. When he takes it to the register, the cashier says, in a very tired voice, 

“I’m so sorry, sir, but alcohol sales are finished for the night.”

Ilya checks his phone and sighs. “It is 11:04,” he tells Svetlana. 7-11s in Boston don't sell liquor after eleven pm.

“Fucking Puritans,” Svetlana mutters, and Ilya smiles. 

The next morning, Ilya makes omelettes. He’s never made an omelette before but there was a video about it on YouTube. It came up in his recommendations because every now and then, he watches a cooking video, just to relax. No reason.

“This is actually good,” Svetlana says between bites. “Fluffier than I thought it would be.”

“Was it too fluffy?” he asks. “I could stir it less. Or more?”

She kicks him under the table, light. “It’s good. You’re being a little fucking weird, though.”

The Metros have a game in New York. Ilya and Svetlana watch it on TV. One of the Admirals checks Hollander, and Ilya feels the small flare of anger he gets when anyone other than Ilya does something like that to Hollander. Nothing new there. 

“He is not hurt,” Svetlana says, out of nowhere.

Ilya darts a look at her but her eyes are on the screen still, where Hollander is already skating again like normal.

Svetlana doesn’t say anything more about it. She spends the next half of an hour picking apart everyone’s playing. Ilya listens and thinks there is no sound more soothing in the world than Svetlana’s voice pinpointing every flaw in Scott Hunter’s game.

Hollander is fine—Ilya has taken worse damage and been fine, and so has Hollander. Ilya still has the thought that someone should give Hollander a bowl of soup. This has to end, he thinks.

If Ilya made it a sex thing—if Ilya got Hollander naked, then blindfolded him and said, Eat what I give you and then maybe I’ll let you cum after, Ilya thinks Hollander might do it. Fifty-fifty chance. The trouble is, somehow it doesn’t seem fair. The trouble is, even if it worked, the thought of it does nothing to sate whatever has come loose in Ilya’s mind.

Ilya is making this too complicated. It is not hard. A few days before the Metros next play the Raiders in Boston, he goes to the nearest Trader Joe’s. He will poach salmon. He has never poached salmon before, but there are many recipes online. It’s only supposed to take about ten minutes. Hollander will be impressed, maybe, although he will try not to show it. Where’d you learn how to do that, Roz? he will say, and Ilya will say something obviously not true, and Hollander will laugh and not push it. They will talk while they eat, and it will be simple, easy, perfect— 

Trader Joe’s is out of salmon. Ilya’s life is one of unending torment.

Salmon is too much effort anyway. Too much like a date, too much of a chance Hollander will be suspicious. Not that he has any reason to be, of course. Ilya is not going to be fucking weird about this. He is going to be so cool, so casual. The most casual. He is going to win the Stanley Cup of not really caring about cooking for his—for a hookup.

Ilya returns to the Trader Joe’s an hour later and doesn’t think about it too hard. He buys bread, cheese, and tuna. Hollander will say yes; it’s still fish, and fish is good for you. Nobody is going to hear an offer for a tuna melt and assume that it is the result of more than a year of whatever Ilya has been doing. From here on out, he thinks, it will be easy.

Ilya makes a practice sandwich. This is not weird, right, practice is such a part of life that it would be weirder not to do a dry run. When he is finished, he takes a bite and frowns; the fish is wrong. Ilya had picked up canned salmon by mistake, the kind with bones in it. He does not think this will fly.

Ilya returns to the Trader Joe’s, finds the dry goods again. They don’t offer many options for each product, which is nice, actually. American stores usually assume you want to wade through 40 different choices when you just need toothpaste.

Half of the cans say Skipjack and half say Albacore; Ilya doesn’t know either word. He googles on his phone “healthiest canned tuna” and frowns. There is some controversy on the internet about which tuna is best. 

When he looks up from his screen, a kid, maybe eight, is watching him with the look hockey fans get sometimes, seeing Ilya Rozanov in the wild: is that—? Are you—? 

Ilya winks. The kid immediately turns and runs away, as if Ilya might try to start a brawl right there in the canned foods section. It stings because usually he is good with kids. 

He wonders then if Hollander is good with kids. His guess is that Hollander overthinks it, too serious, too earnest, but that he’s okay when he can get out of his head. Does Hollander want babies of his own someday? Probably. Ilya tries to steer his thoughts to the sour place they used to land years ago, in rookie season: of course golden boy Shane Hollander will settle down and have a family when he retires, the way normal, boring people do when there is nothing jagged and broken deep inside of them.

This does not take, though. 

Instead, Ilya remembers a hockey podcast he’d listened to years ago, when he was trying, in fits and starts, to better his English. At the end of the episode, the hosts had played Smash or Pass about the players, in that laughing, sideways way that men can get away with when the idea of trying to make another man feel pleasure is only a big joke. When they got to Shane Hollander, one of the hosts said “Pass,” which was annoying, terrible taste, and the other one had said, “Oh, are you kidding? Smash like the Hulk,” which was also annoying. 

“Shane Hollander would treat you right,” the second host had said, still joking. Aren’t we funny? Can you even imagine? “Shane Hollander would make it romantic. Husband material for sure. There’d be rose petals and, and candle light—”

“Bill, you’re crazy,” the first host had said, also laughing, and Ilya had thought,

Yes, Bill, you are insane. 

First, Hollander would never be able to relax with open flames close to the bed. Second, who else out there could do what Ilya can do for Hollander? Can anyone else get between those strong thighs and render Hollander a desperate, cockhungry, beautiful mess? 

But Ilya thinks of this now, and what comes to mind is the person Hollander will raise his kids with, someday. They will kiss each other on the cheek in the morning and they will all eat dinner together at night, peaceful, the way people only do on TV. They will cuddle together on the couch. Boring things like that.

His fingers tighten on the can. Skipjack. He’s still not sure this is the best one, but it will have to do.

After Hollander has lain in Ilya’s bed—lain in Ilya’s bed, dozed in Ilya’s arms, and smiled a little when he woke up—after Ilya manages to bring up the tuna melt so casually that Hollander agrees, after “I don’t know that side of you at all” and that awful phone call with his dad, after Hollander’s head on his chest like it belongs there, after Hollander straddles him on the couch and they kiss almost all the way through, after Ilya gets to hear his first name on Hollander’s lips, after Hollander freezes up out of nowhere and invents an obvious lie to leave, after “I can’t do this” and the sick sudden shock of Hollander gone for good—

After all of that, Ilya’s entire house still smells like fucking tuna fish.

Within the year, Shane Hollander is spotted with Rose Landry at a taco place in Montreal. Tacos are not permitted in Hollander’s special food routine; Ilya knows this from the documentary, but apparently nothing at all matters anymore.

In Tampa Bay, it is sunny and warm, they are playing on the same team, and Hollander is not compatible with Rose Landry.

If life was fair, this would quell this urge to feed him, to see him fed, but life is not fair. Hollander asks for Ilya’s room number and along with the familiar anticipation, Ilya has one long moment where he considers finding a store near the beach that will sell bread, cheese, and butter. They might get hungry, after. Ilya can finally learn if it is possible to grill a sandwich with a hotel iron. But there are a thousand reasons not to. When he gave in last time, Hollander ran. And if he really looks at what’s going on, the entire shape and size of the thing inside him—

Well. There are a thousand reasons to keep things simple. Going to that kind of trouble is the opposite of simple.

Except Hollander—Shane listens to Ilya talk about his family, even when his voice catches, and hugs him. Ilya, who has not believed in God since he was very young, thinks about mercy. 

He thinks that if he gave Shane a grilled cheese, Shane might understand, now. 

He is not sure he wants to be understood.

Moscow is fucking freezing. Ilya is always surprised, when he returns. He grew up here; he should be used to it, how the cold gets into everything. How the air wants you dead.

“I want to help,” Shane says, in his glasses. This is something the world does not get to see, and Ilya drinks in the sight of him, even before he is telling Shane to take his clothes off. But Shane is small on the screen, far away.

Ilya pays for the funeral dinner. He is careful to choose dishes that his father loved, although love is not a word Ilya often thinks about, in connection with his father. Guilt, yes. Obligation. Shame. Everything tastes like chalk anyway. His father is gone, and his brother will never see Ilya except to resent him when there is any limit to what he will give. 

He is glad Svetlana intervenes. Distantly, he is glad that she stops him before he hurts Alexei, but only distantly. A terrible thought.

Svetlana, who sees Ilya, and has the courage to say what she sees.

Ilya calls Shane. It is barely a decision. Shane stays on the line when Ilya struggles with his English, asks him to switch to Russian, lets him spit out the whole tangled mess. Things he has barely let himself think, and the worst of it all: I love you. 

It hurts, wanting things that will never happen. A hunger that goes on and on.

For a second, they are on the ice together again, and everything makes sense. Then Shane is struck down, and Ilya remembers what fear feels like.

Even seeing Shane alive in a hospital bed is like swallowing broken glass. Ilya wants to go to him, knows he can’t. With a fractured collarbone, holding Shane would hurt him more than he has already been hurt, and anyway, a nurse could walk in at any moment. Just taking his hand feels like too much, like anyone watching would know exactly what is happening inside of Ilya. One second could ruin Shane’s life, and also his.

He still holds Shane’s hand, still strokes his face, brief and helpless.

Shane is high from whatever they gave him, and it would be very cute if Ilya was not terrified. 

“Will you come to my cottage this summer?” Shane asks, smiling. And Ilya says, 

“Maybe.”

When he leaves, in the hallway, he passes a nurse carrying a dinner tray. It looks like shit; hospital food always does. Ilya wants to say, You can’t give that to Shane, he is an athlete, he has specific needs, didn’t you watch the documentary? He wants to turn back around and Doordash something decent. He thinks that if he did, Shane would grin at him, loose and goofy, and right there in front of everyone, say something he would later regret. Ilya keeps walking.

Will you come to my cottage this summer?

As though it is that simple. As though it will ever be that simple. What would they do? What would they talk about? Ilya tries to imagine it. Then he tries not to. 

This need to cook something for Shane has been out of control since the concussion. He pictures Shane in the cottage, waking up in the morning to find Ilya scrambling twenty-four eggs, like something from a fairy tale, food for a giant. Shane would look at Ilya, and he would say—well. He would say something kind, and then Ilya would not even be left with anger.

Or else he would understand, and nod, and thank him for breakfast, and this is worse, because then they would both have to admit how trapped they are.

They can keep doing what they’ve been doing, and Ilya can swallow down everything else, or they can stop. There is no other way it ends.

Then Scott Hunter, of all fucking people, wins the Cup and kisses a man right there on the ice.

At the cottage, finally, Ilya is free. The voice in his head insisting that he find recipes for Shane stops tormenting him. It doesn’t go away but isn’t terrible. He can’t pinpoint the cause of the change. Maybe it is because when Ilya wakes up in Shane’s bed with the light slanting through the windows, bodies curved together, it is easier to simply say, “Good morning. I like you.” 

Also maybe because Shane has cooked them eight fucking hamburgers like a crazy person.

Once they get over their shock, Shane’s parents are generous and good, which is not a surprise. It is a surprise how Ilya feels, folded up in that warmth, drinking their vodka and eating their pasta, watching Shane’s mom strategize like they are all on the same team now.

When they get back to the cottage, they are both tired. Shane kicks off his shoes and goes to the fridge. Ilya steps up behind him and rests his chin on Shane’s shoulder, because he wants to and there is no reason not to.

“Do you see the ginger ale?” says Shane, absently turning his head for a kiss. 

“Behind the burgers,” says Ilya, when he has his mouth free again.

They both stare down at the tupperware, the patties stacked up in a tidy row.

“I hope you know I will not help you eat those,” Ilya says. “I am full of pasta. I am mostly pasta.”

“Yeah,” Shane says. The back of Shane’s neck is warm like he’s embarrassed. Ilya can feel it on the side of his face. He considers putting his mouth there, but he thinks if he tries to really start something now, Shane will say, Not with the fridge open. It is okay. There is time. 

“You’re right, I should’ve halved it,” Shane says when he finds a can of ginger ale and closes the door. He turns in the circle of Ilya’s arms until they are facing each other again. “Guess I got carried away, y’know?”

Ilya almost laughs. He kisses Shane very slowly instead.

“Yes,” says Ilya, “I know.”