Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Yuna Hollander, Coach Theriault, Rose Landry, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, No TLG Spoilers But Some Character Appearances, Anxious Shane Hollander, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Player Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov is a Menace, Hayden Pike Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Mentioned Dallas Kent, Author is Also a Menace

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of Inty's Gay Hockey Boys (Heated Rivalry fics)

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-30 Words: 4,078 Chapters: 1/?

Better Than the Fucking Yankees

Summary

Shane Hollander thought that everyone hated Ilya Rozanov. Okay, so maybe they didn't all hate him for the same reasons: hockey players hated him because he was an asshole on the ice, the League hated him because he paralyzed another player, and the fans hated him because he abandoned them for Russia in the middle of his best season.

Shane only hated him because he broke Shane's heart.

But suddenly up is down and down is up: the ban has been lifted, and Rozanov is back in the League. Worse, he's playing on Shane's team. Making friends with Shane's teammates. Sending heart eyes across Shane's locker room floor. Sending flowers to Shane's apartment in the middle of the night!

And somehow, everyone in Shane's life thinks he should be just fine with all this. (Well, okay—he didn't tell them about the flowers.)

But if Ilya Rozanov thinks that Shane Hollander is going to roll over for him a second time, he's going to have just enough time to regret it before Shane proves how very, very wrong he is...

Notes

I make absolutely no promises on how often I will update this—I really am trying to focus on my two existing longfics—so I completely understand if you want to wait until it's finished. I just had the idea and couldn't resist jotting the first chapter down!

🎶 That said 🎶 If there's suddenly a bunch of buzz about this one, I might write it faster… 😈😈😈

---

Many thanks to multifandomhomo and sunless_garden for the beta!

Chapter 1

July 2, 2017

“Hey, Coach,” Shane said casually, pushing his way into the back office, “You wanted to see me?” 

He stopped short as he took in what was waiting for him on the other side of the door. Not only Pierre Theriault, head coach of the Metros, but also Martin Lecavalier, their general manager, sitting in one of the comfortable chairs in front of the coach’s desk. Why would the GM be here. Unless—

He took a deep breath, reminding himself that the Metros couldn’t, shouldn’t, surely wouldn’t be trading him. The modified no-trade clause in his contract that had gone into effect literally two days before, upon the completion of his magic seventh season in Major League Hockey, specified that he couldn’t be traded to any team based in the United States or Alberta. Which meant that the only teams they could trade him to without his permission were Ottawa, Toronto, Winnipeg, and Vancouver: two divisional rivals and two teams that didn’t have much to offer at the moment. 

Except first round draft picks, Shane reminded himself. After all, the Metros had disappointed everyone in their last postseason, losing in the third round to the New York Admirals. It had clearly been Scott Hunter’s year—Shane felt the now-familiar thrill when he thought of what had happened after Hunter had finally raised that Cup—but management might feel that the loss meant that time had come to start planning for their next rebuild, especially if one of their aging goaltenders had privately announced an impending retirement. Toronto wouldn’t trade to us directly, but if they managed a three-way deal, Hayes is wasted there, and they could pick up some defensemen—

“Désolé,” Shane said out loud, pushing the loud, spiraling thoughts to the back of his brain. He stepped forward, offering his hand. “Je ne savais pas que vous étiez ici, Monsieur Lecavalier.” 

“Pas de tout, Monsieur Hollander,” Lecavalier said easily, standing and shaking his hand. “Je sais que nous vous avons surpris. Asseyez-vous, s’il vous plaît.” 

“But close the door first, would you, son?” Theriault asked. 

Shane obeyed both requests, giving silent thanks for the language shift as he sank into the chair next to Lecavalier. Theriault was French-Canadian as well, if less in your face about it—he and Lecavalier both came from old Québécois families—and it certainly wouldn’t have been out of the realm of possibility for them to conduct the entire meeting in Montreal’s favorite language, once Shane’s stunned mind had stupidly pushed him there. Granted, he was fluent enough in his second (or arguably, third?) language, but he felt immensely relieved that they weren’t going to fire him in French. 

Stop it, he scolded himself. They’re not going to fire you.

“We have some good news, Hollander,” Theriault began, once they were all settled.

See? I told you.

“Very good news,” Lecavalier broke in, grinning. “But a little, ah, shocking, maybe? Surprising, anyway. But good! So we wanted to tell you before we broke it to the entire team.” 

“Yes,” Theriault confirmed, badly hiding his annoyance at the interruption. “We’re counting on you to be a strong leader in the room, and make sure that if anyone has a problem with this—” 

“—Not that we’re anticipating any problems!” 

“That you’ll take care of it and bring it to our attention immediately,” Theriault finished. 

Are they trading Drapeau, then? Shane wondered. Or Mitty? That had to be it, right? The team would be upset to lose one of their tendies, even if the replacement was younger and better. He could deal with that. 

I hope it’s Drapeau, though. I like Mitty. 

“Of course, sir,” he agreed aloud. “I’ve always given this team a hundred percent, and nothing could change that. And as Captain, it’s my job to keep the room together and let you know about any problems.” 

“That’s what we wanted to hear,” Lecavalier said, nodding. “And like I said, I don’t anticipate any issues, once it’s had a chance to sink in. You’re all professionals, and you know how the game works. Rivalries are always fun, a good motivator, great for the fans, but that ends when players switch teams, right?” 

Okay, so definitely Drapeau or Mitty, Shane concluded. And with all the talk of rivalries—I bet it is Hayes. Well, that wasn’t all bad. He’d played Hayes several times—Toronto rarely used its starting goaltender during preseason games—and thought the Guardian’s backup goalie was badly underutilized. 

“Yes, of course,” he said again. “None of my boys would hold a player’s former team against them.” 

“Good man,” Lecavalier said, nodding. 

“Well, enough beating around the bush,” Theriault said brusquely. “We made a significant acquisition yesterday. It’ll be announced shortly, so we need you to help us get in touch with everyone on the team, make sure the press doesn’t catch anyone with their pants down. We’ll send the usual email out, of course, but I know none of those fuckers read shit from me in the off-season.” 

Shane grimaced and nodded. He read all of his emails, of course, even in the summer—and he’d long since set up an automatic forward of anything from the franchise to his team for filing—but he knew Theriault was right about most of his teammates. Alright, fine, all of my teammates. 

“Acquisition, sir?” he asked politely. That wasn’t usually the way that they referred to a trade, but—

“We just signed Rozanov to a three-year deal,” Theriault confirmed. 

Shane… froze. 

Theriault and Lecavalier said nothing, letting him process. 

“Rozanov,” Shane said. He thought he could be forgiven if his voice came out rather… strangled. “Um. Ilya Rozanov?” 

It had to be, but—

“You know a different one?” Theriault asked, raising his eyebrows. 

“And he’s coming… here?” 

“Now, we know this is a surprise—” Lecavalier started. 

“Rozanov was banned from MHL four years ago,” Shane said, interrupting a member of team management for the first time in his entire life, “after sending a man to the hospital and ending his career. The Raiders put him on waivers and bought out his contract. He…” 

“Now, come on. Obviously, he didn’t intend for the hit to paralyze Kent—” Lecavalier said, raising his hands. 

Like fucking hell he didn’t, Shane just barely managed not to say out loud. Ilya Rozanov had never delivered a check in his professional career without knowing exactly what it was going to do.

“He was indefinitely suspended,” Theriault corrected, leaning back in his comfortable chair. “Not banned. We’ve spoken to Commissioner Crowell, and he’s agreed to schedule a reinstatement hearing before training camp begins. Given that the civil case has been settled, we expect to get the go-ahead.” 

Shane opened his mouth. Closed it. 

“I know that Rozanov isn’t one of the most popular men in Canada,” Lecavalier said apologetically. “But then, Dallas Kent wasn’t greatly liked in Montreal, either.” 

Well, that was certainly true. It wasn’t as if Shane had ever shed any tears over what had happened to him. 

“Rozanov has expressed his remorse for the hit, both at the time and in the years since,” Lecavalier went on. “Lord knows they bring it up every time he’s done an international tournament. He’s already had discussions with our team about the best ways to rehabilitate his reputation—he’ll be holding a press conference in which he’ll publicly apologize, again, and we’ll be having him volunteer at animal shelters and kids’ hospitals, that kind of thing…” 

“All the usual PR bullshit,” Theriault muttered. 

Lecavalier shot him a remonstrating glance, but went on without further comment. “We’re counting on you to help us out, there, too—maybe come to the press conference, definitely a public statement, doing a few activities together during preseason, some social media posts.” 

“Obviously you’re going to get asked about it at pressers,” Theriault put in. “Jill’s already working up talking points for you, but I know your team will want to throw their oars in, too.” 

“Which is fine!” Lecavalier said hastily, “We welcome their input. Just make sure that Ms. St. Claire approves whatever language they give you.” 

Shane rubbed his face with both hands—he knew he couldn’t give in to the sense of overwhelming dread that was creeping up his spine, but he could at least hide from the world for a few seconds. “I—yeah. I’ll talk to them. I’m sure they’ll have… a lot to say.” 

That’s the understatement of the year. Farah was going to flip her shit. 

“What is he even going to do here?” Shane asked a moment later. “I mean… Where is he going to play? We’re both 1Cs.” 

“Rozanov’s said he’ll play wing or drop down to second,” Theriault said. “We’ll try out both combinations in training camp and preseason. Might still be working it up in the regular season, for that matter. Opens up a lot of possibilities.” 

“Frankly, Hollander, we got him for an absolute steal,” Lecavalier said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Less than two million dollar cap hit, American.” 

Shane’s eyes widened. That was barely more than twice the minimum salary for an MLH player. Granted, it was probably still a bit more than Rozanov had been making in Russia, but it would place him squarely in the bottom quarter of earners on the Metros, and was barely twenty percent of what Shane was making.

But they’ll probably spend at least that in legal and PR fees the first year, he thought. Not to mention lost income if it blows up in our faces. And with only a three-year contract…  We do all the hard work of supporting his rehabilitation, take all the risk, and if it goes well, he signs with another team for six or seven times that the second our contract expires. 

Still. Three years of play from a center of Rozanov’s stature, in the prime of his career, wasn’t anything to sneeze at. The deal made sense for the Metros—they could shore up their aging defense with an utterly overpowered offense, and hopefully get another cup or two before the franchise’s life cycle started winding down again and they needed to look toward that rebuild. And if things went badly, they could always hang Rozanov out to dry. It was perfectly reasonable. 

Except for how it completely fucking fucks me. 

“I know the two of you have a history, Hollander,” Lecavalier said. “The whole rivalry, and all. But you’ve proven pretty decisively that you’re the better player at this point, right? You’ve always been a stand-up guy, a true leader for this team on and off the ice. I hope we can count on you to be professional about this.” 

There was only one thing that any hockey player could say to that, and despite the chaos whirling inside his head, Shane smiled—alright, maybe it was more of a grimace—and said it. 

“Of course, sir. Whatever the team needs.” 

“Good, good,” Lecavalier said, smiling jovially. Then he chuckled. “And of course, we’ll also be counting on you to keep your mother from murdering him before the first game!” 

Oh, Jesus fuck, Shane thought. Mom.

A Little While Later…

“Are you being serious with me right now, Shane?” Yuna breathed. Her face had gone ashen, and her eyebrows were up near her hairline. 

Shane winced. Well, she wasn’t throwing things, at least. Yet. “Yeah, mom, it’s true,” he said. “It’s hitting the net now, and the Gazette will be running with it tomorrow morning. They even showed me the contract.” 

“Rozanov. Isn’t he the one who got kicked out of the country?” David asked mildly. 

“Rozanov. Playing for the Metros!” Yuna said, her voice rising—but still sounding considerably calmer than Shane had expected. “I can’t believe it.” 

Shane bit back a groan. “Look, I know it’s not, uh, anything we were expecting, but, uh, I think that—” 

“My god. And the rest of the League is just letting us get away with it? This is incredible!”  

“Wait, what?” I have to have misheard that. Right?

“Two generational talents on one team!”

“Don’t we hate Rozanov?” his father asked. 

“You’ll take the Cup easily!” Yuna gushed, ignoring her husband’s question. “Just think—this will cement your dynasty, Shane. And the optics! He’s light and you’re dark, he’s loud and you’re reserved, you’re both gorgeous, obviously—” 

“Mom!” 

 “You’re the same height, even—” 

“He’s an inch and a half taller than me.” 

Yuna waved that off. “So we put you in lifts. Do you think he’d be open to some joint appearances? Once he finishes rebuilding his reputation, obviously, we wouldn’t want to tie the two of you too closely together before that, but… Is he going to be playing 1R or 2C? Ooh, if they put him on your wing—imagine how good it will look to have him and Hayden on either side of you.” 

“Mom. What are you even talking about? Joint appearances? You hate Rozanov!” 

“Well, of course I hated him before, Shane,” Yuna said reasonably. As if anything about this is reasonable. “He played for Boston.” 

“And he crippled a man for life—” 

“Don’t say crippled, Shane, it’s not PC,” Yuna scolded mildly. “Through unfortunate circumstances, he accidentally injured a man, leaving him with lifelong disabilities. Something like that, we’ll workshop it. And it’ll better to avoid mention of the disabilities entirely when you can, of course.” 

“I don’t think that was Shane’s point, honey—” 

“And I hope you don’t expect me to feel bad for Dallas Kent, that asshole.” 

“Jesus Christ, Mom!” 

“Am I wrong? Don’t think I didn’t catch wind of some of the shit that man said to you on the ice over the years. I don’t even think Toronto misses him, anymore, given how Troy Barrett’s bloomed in the last couple years.” 

Shane winced. “No, of course you’re not wrong. Barrett’s been amazing. But no matter who it happened to, no one wants to see someone hurt like that—” 

“Well, no, of course not, Shane. Obviously Rozanov went too far. But it isn’t as if the Guardians didn’t provoke it. Remember that hit Kent put on Connors, earlier in the season?” 

“ … Yeah, but—” 

“He was out for three months! Rozanov was just being loyal to his teammate. I’m sure he didn’t intend to injure Kent so severely.” 

Shane gaped at her; he distinctly recalled some of what she’d had to say about Rozanov at the time, and none of it had been anywhere near as flattering about his intentions. 

“And Rozanov’s statement afterward was very sincere and apologetic. He even settled the civil case after he was deported, and it’s not like anyone could have made him do that from Russia. Anyway, it’s been four years.” 

“Three and a half,” Shane said. “And I don’t think he was actually deported, I think he left voluntarily when US immigration started asking questions—” 

“He’s older, now, more responsible. I’m sure he learned from the experience.”

“I really wouldn’t bet on that,” Shane muttered under his breath. 

“Do you remember that goal he scored in the gold medal game in Sochi?” Yuna enthused. “Weaving through three defenders on his way to the net, it was an incredible play—” 

Shane gritted his teeth. “Yeah, Mom. I remember.” 

At least I still took home a medal, even if it was only bronze, he reminded himself. And I have two Cups to his none. 

Except that Rozanov had never truly been able to compete for a Cup. They hadn’t been considered a true contender until the 2013–14 season, and the Kent Incident, occurring three months before the break for the 2014 Olympics—

—and two weeks after he fucked me for the first time—

—had put an end to that. 

“Can you imagine what an amazing complement to your line he’d be?” Yuna was still rhapsodying. “I mean, I know they’ll probably want him to center the second, but I can just see the two of you together—brawn and brain, discipline and passion, fire and ice…” 

Shane groaned and let himself collapse down over the table, burying his head in his hands. His dad put an arm over his back, kneading at the ball of his shoulder. 

“Buck up, kiddo,” he whispered. “It’ll be okay.” 

“Oh, Shane,” his mother said. “Is it really that bad? I mean, I know you two had that whole rivalry thing, but I didn’t think… When the incident happened, there was a lot of talk about how out-of-character it was for him, so I assumed… But if he ever bullied you, or used slurs in his chirping, it’s not too late for me to call Lecavalier and—

“No, no,” Shane rushed to say, popping his head up. “No, I mean… Yeah, he’s an asshole, but he’s not… He’s just good at getting under his opponent’s skins. He never took it too far in that way, that I ever saw. The thing with Kent; it was out of character. I was… I was really surprised, when it happened.” 

“Well, what did your teammates have to say about it?” she asked. “Are they upset?” 

Shane made a face. “I don’t know. Some of them are pissed, but most just hope that this will help us win another Cup.” 

He’d been genuinely surprised at how chill most of the team had been about it. Comeau had even made a comment about how Rozanov would probably be more fun to party with than Shane. The fucking asshole. 

“Well, there you go. Do you think you might even be able to win the President’s Trophy, this year?” 

Shane groaned and laid his head down again. At least Hayden and J.J. appreciate how fucked up this is. Even if they don’t actually understand why.  

And a Week After That

“What do you mean, you overreacted?” Shane demanded. 

Hayden blinked at him, cocking his head to the side like a puzzled dog. “I mean… After you told me, I yelled about it for like two hours. That was kinda overkill, don’t you think?” 

“The man who used to captain our biggest rivals, one of the biggest assholes of the League, is suddenly gonna be on our team! Probably on our line! I think you can be forgiven for not taking it well!”

Hayden’s head jerked back, his face painted with surprise at Shane’s vehemence. “Well, yeah,” he said tentatively. “But then, you know, there was that whole thing with the newspaper cover, and I didn’t shut up about that for like, three days.” 

Shane pressed his lips together. He was used to being on the front cover of the sports section, but he’d only made the front page twice: once for each Cup. And then Rozanov had done it just by announcing that he was going to play for the Metros. 

“And then Jackie said… Well, and weren’t you the one telling me how Rozanov could be a huge asset to the team, when I was bitching about it the other day?” 

“I…Yes, I was, but….I said that because…” Shane fumbled over his response, trying to figure out how to say ‘because management made me’ without actually saying ‘because management made me.’

“Because you’re a good guy,” Hayden concluded, with a hangdog expression on his face. “Better than me, I get it. But I got there eventually, you know?” 

“What? No, Hayden, you’re a good guy, too—I mean, not too, of course you’re a great guy.  Better than me, honestly—”

Hayden laughed. “Okay, let’s not go overboard, there, Hollywood.” 

“Don’t call me that,” Shane snapped, glaring at his best friend. 

“Sorry,” Hayden said, looking apologetic. “I forgot you don’t like it.” 

Shane rolled his eyes. The moniker had originally been pinned on him during his first season, when the League’s determination to make him and Rozanov stars, and the plethora of sponsorship opportunities he’s had, had been less than popular with the players who’d already been MLH stars for years without half as much prime time recognition. He’d laughed along with it for a couple of years, knowing that pushing back would only cement their resentment of him. The first Cup had allowed him the space to mention, as if was no big deal, that he preferred Hollzy; the second had allowed him to banish the other nickname entirely. Or so he’d thought; it had resurfaced, to his dismay, during his brief romance with Rose, a frequent whisper in the back of the locker room that set his teeth on edge. 

“Anyway, I talked about it with Jackie, and I realized—” 

Jackie told him, Shane translated, with the ease of seven years of friendship. 

“—that a lot of what was getting me upset was just jealousy and insecurity, you know? I mean… I know that Rozanov is a better player than me. I was just worried that I could get pushed off your line, you know?” 

Shane shook his head, his own consternation about Rozanov’s impending arrival buried in his compassion for his friend. “That’ll never happen,” he promised. “You’re a great winger, Hayd—you always know exactly how to set me up, what support I need, where I’m moving to. Plus, Kosigan used to play center down in the OHL. If they put Rozanov on the top line, they’ll move Miles down to center the second.” 

Hayden looked relieved for a second, then frowned. “But what about Jesek?” he asked, referring to their current second-line center. 

“Baz is strong and reliable, but he’s slow, and he’s never made an original play in his life,” Shane said flatly. “Kosigan’s a better center than he’ll ever be—the only reason they haven’t had him as our 2C before this is because we don’t have another winger who can keep up with me as well as he can. For that matter, Jesek wouldn’t be able to keep up with Rozanov, even if he could switch to wing—even if they put Rozanov on the second line, they’ll move Jesek down to the checking line, with Jole and Laine, and send Stedlund back to the AHL.” 

“Well, I won’t miss Stedlund,” Hayden muttered. 

Shane laughed. Stedlund was a stereotype of a jock, an enforcer who’d had at least three concussions and rarely did anything off the ice but play video games, drink beer, and say stupid shit about the girls he couldn’t attract anymore. 

“But you—you’re really fine with playing with Rozanov?” Shane pleaded. “You’ve always hated him.” 

“I mean, yeah,” Hayden admitted. “I hated him because he’s fucking good, and he made me look stupid and slow. And his fucking chirps are annoying as hell—they’re always shit that gets you right where it fucking hurts, but if you tell anyone about it, they’ll just laugh.” 

“Yeah.” Shane snorted. Wasn’t that just a perfect encapsulation of Rozanov. 

“But hey, I figure—his team fucking loved him, you know? You get Connors or Marleau talking, dollars to donuts they’ll mention how much they miss him in the first five minutes.” 

“When the hell have you ever gotten a chance to get either of those guys talking?” Shane asked, scrunching his face. “You’re hanging out with Raiders now?” 

Hayden shrugged. “We see them at bars and clubs sometimes, after games. You know, all those green light nights you never come out for?”

Shane shrugged uncomfortably. 

“Anyway, it’s not like the rivalry’s been what it was, anyway. Can’t really get too heated up about it when they’re such an easy win.” 

Shane nodded. It was indisputably true; Boston had managed to keep things together for a couple of seasons after Rozanov had left—not a contender, but clinging to the middle of the standings—but last season they’d been truly bottom of the barrel, finishing fourteenth in the conference, above only Ottawa and Buffalo, and twenty-ninth out thirty-two in the League. 

Shane was losing his best friend, and his team, and his city, to a man who probably wasn’t even in the country yet, who was also the person that had given him one single night of the best fucking sex in his life, three years and seven months ago. That was also indisputably true. 

In three months, Shane was going to have no choice but to play on a line with the man who had broken his heart. That was also indisputably true. 

“But hey,” Hayden said. “I mean, you and me on a line with Rozanov? That’s gonna be incredible, isn’t it?”