Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

F/M, M/M

Fandoms:

Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike/Jackie Pike

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Jackie Pike, Hayden Pike, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Connors (Heated Rivalry), Brad Hammersmith

Additional Tags:

Serial Killers, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Murder, Attempted Murder, Minor Violence, violence is described but not intensely graphic, Asphyxiation, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Infidelity, (not hollanov), infidelity for the sake of murder, Minor Character Death, POV Jackie Pike, BAMF Jackie Pike, Jackie Pike Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Relationship Reveal, Protective Shane Hollander, Dead Friend Cliff Marlow, Dark Comedy, Crack Treated Seriously, unrealistic reactions to murder, POV Outsider, Boston players do die in this but Ilya is NOT ONE OF THEM I PINKY PROMISE, an attempt is made though, Death Threats, Blood

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-10-23 Words: 7,912 Chapters: 1/1

for the good of the team

Summary

“What the fuck are you doing?” Rozanov shouts, which is just insulting. He’s mourned three of his teammates and now she’s tackling him in his bedroom.

Obviously Jackie’s here to kill him, but he’s looking her dead in the eyes and still can’t see a murderer. Talk about a stereotype.

Or: Jackie Pike’s a serial killer making her way through Boston’s roster. Ilya Rozanov is harder to kill than she expected.

Notes

Happy Halloween! There are spoilers for The Long Game at the end of this, but it largely follows show canon. This is a tad different from what I usually write so mind the tags and exit out now if you don't want to read about literal murder

I've been thinking a lot lately about Jackie and how fanon sometimes overestimates how much we know about her. I had a conversation with icopythefax where I kept saying, "Who is she? What does she do in her free time? We don't know! She could literally be a serial killer."

And unfortunately I've never met a bit I wasn't eager to commit to

It’s all Brad Hammersmith’s fault.

Jackie doesn’t like the NHL awards or any of these big events. She does fine at them, plays the part of the doting wife perfectly. But it takes a toll, the fake smiles, the pinched heels. 

She makes her excuses, takes the elevator up to the roof. She exhales, relieved to find it empty for all of thirty seconds.

“Nice night, huh?”

She turns, blinks. It takes her a moment to place him, because every white man at this event looks literally identical.

Brad Hammersmith, forward for Boston, she realizes. He’s grinning like an idiot, despite the fact that he won zero awards tonight. 

She doesn’t like him on sight. She rifles back through her catalogue of WAG grapevine gossip to justify this instinct. Nothing particularly egregious, but word is he was a bit of a dick to Ryan Price during his stint with Boston last season. 

That’s unfathomable to Jackie. She met Price briefly at a fundraiser once and she really can’t understand how someone could be mean to him of all people. It would be like bullying the cowardly lion.

Besides this rumor, his biggest crime is his general demeanor. He’s just radiating happiness, which she supposes makes sense. They’re at the NHL awards coming off of his team’s first Cup in years. His dear captain Ilya Rozanov just won MVP, equally as smug.

She leans forward, looks at the view if only so she won’t have to look at his unnervingly straight teeth. It’s a short railing for such a long drop. Her heart picks up just taking it in. She’s never done well with heights.

“You scared?” he asks, like he’s going to offer to protect her or something. Barf.

He eyes her chest and doesn’t give her wedding ring a second look, even though it’s fucking massive. Hayden’s mom made sure he got her a rock.

“It’s steep, that’s all.”

“Lucky you’ve got a big strong hockey player by your side.” He emphasizes the word hockey, like he’s certain she’s a puck bunny. In a way, he’s not wrong. Before she set her sights on Hayden, she was eyeing Shane, who ended up being too prudish and uptight to even notice her advances.

That doesn’t mean she’d settle for any hockey player though—especially not some smartass from Boston. “Mmmhmm.”

“What brings you to Vegas?” he asks.

“My husband. He plays for the Metros.” She raises her eyebrows pointedly.

His eyes widen. “No shit. That can’t be true. A girl like you should be with a winner.”

She winces. Both at the use of the word girl, and the reminder that Montreal lost. Again. It always makes her feel like a failure.

The thing is that Jackie’s upheld all her wedding vows. 

She’s a good fucking wife. She carried three children, let them tear her apart limb for limb until Jacqueline Larouche, computer science major, faded away and became just Jackie. Then, eventually, just mommy.

But there’s one that still bothers her, a promise she hasn’t been able to keep. I swear to stand by you and do whatever it takes to help you win the Cup. Seriously, anything. No matter how many bedazzled jackets it requires.

That got a laugh from the WAG contingent, but she wasn’t joking. The Cup isn’t just Hayden’s dream, it’s hers. She’s been a Metros fan since before she could talk. Every year, they lose to a fucking American team and every year, her heart feels like it might just give out.

Marrying Hayden felt like finally, she could do something about it. Finally, she could serve her team well, could make sure her parents see the Cup come home to Canada. She thought surely Hayden and Shane on the first line would be enough to get them there. But as it stands, all she’s done is nurse playoff wounds.

“Next year will be our year.”

“Or we’ll go back to back. I think we’ve got a real shot.” He leans a little closer. “You wanna know what it feels like to celebrate with a winner?”

And she does. God, she really does.

She doesn’t decide to do what she does next. It’s not a conscious choice. It’s more like this pressing need that rams into her, grabs tight, and refuses to let go.

He leans in some more. She does too—and pushes him as hard as she can physically manage.

She gasps as he topples over the railing. It’s as if someone else did that to him, a ghost or a demon or…holy fuck.

It was her.

She leans over, dizzy, stares down at his body splattered on the pavement. It really is splattered. She can’t see much from up here, but what she can make out barely looks human. It looks like he has four legs with how severely bent out of shape they are.

He didn’t survive that. He can’t have.

Her first thought is: oh my God.

Her second is: oh my GOD.

Her third is that Montreal really will have a clearer path to the Cup next season. Hammersmith was a decent forward.

She laughs deliriously at the thought. It’s deranged. This is deranged. She should be crying, she should be despondent, but she’s…why is she happy?

She just finally feels like she’s doing something. Not sitting by, waiting for a win, reheating some bland meals for Shane, kissing Hayden on the temple.

This will actually make their lives easier. It will provide some balance, make up for some of Montreal's weaker players, which is basically everyone besides Hayden and Shane. Sure, Boston isn't their only threat and Hammersmith's just one player, but it's something.

What if it weren’t just Hammersmith? What if Cliff Marlow were gone too? Ilya Rozanov?

She takes a few deep breaths. She’s getting ahead of herself. First, she turns, scans the roof, makes sure there’s no one around. Blessedly, it’s still empty. There’s only cement, a view of the Vegas skyline, and…fuck. A camera.

She makes quick work heading to the security office, blubbering some story about losing her child even though they’re all safely home in Montreal.

The officer sighs, heads out to make a call, and she scrambles into the office. She doesn’t use her degree much these days, with the exception of the immaculate spreadsheet that tracks who’s hosting what WAG event.

It’s still second nature though, navigating the operating system, pulling up the proper file. She takes a short moment to watch the footage before she deletes it.

It’s grainy, but it’s real. Her long flowy dress, her adrenaline-fueled push, all six feet of him stumbling over the balcony.

It’s beautiful. She wishes she could save it. She’s not an idiot though, so she deletes it, clears the trash, then deletes other videos within a two hour period so it looks like a glitch of the system.

She steps out of the office in time to find the security officer returning. She wipes some fake tears and lets him know that her husband called. Her kids are safe and sound.

She heads to the elevator, pacing as she waits for it. She has so much energy, she doesn’t know what to do with it. Should she go to the gym? Ooh, maybe she could go gambling! She’s never been a gambler but, well, she’s never been a murderer either.

The doors slide open and she’s surprised to find a gorgeous, despondent man leaning with his head heavy against the elevator wall. She’s even more surprised to realize that the man in question is Shane.

“Oh, hey!” she says cheerily. For the first time all night, she doesn’t have to fake it.

Shane on the other hand looks wrecked. Poor thing. He has a whole room for his trophies now, but he’s still so crushed over losing MVP to Rozanov.

He’s out late (for him) and his eyes are all glassy. Is he drunk? “Jackie. Hi.”

“You good?” she asks, punching the number for the floor she and Hayden are staying on, lower than Shane’s, no surprise there.

“Yup.” He says it like he’s trying to convince himself. “Yeah. I…”

“Tough to lose?” she offers.

He nods. “Always.”

“We’ll get ‘em next season,” she assures him, squeezing his bicep for good measure.

She’ll make sure of it.

After a summer of meticulous planning, she decides that the best course of action isn’t to decimate the Raiders completely. It’s to break them.

She’ll kill off enough of their team that the survivors will be terrified, disjointed, with AHL call-ups on every line and fear in their eyes. I’m next, I’m next, what if I’m next?

She narrows it down to three more victims, hardly enough to even bump her from a spree killer to a serial killer.

Connor Connors, who seems like an easy enough mark and kind of deserves to have that stupid name etched into a tombstone.

Cliff Marlow, because he’s a damn strong winger and she can’t resist a challenge.

And the pièce de résistance: Ilya Rozanov. That one’s necessary for taking down the team, but it’s also a gift to Shane. She’s still haunted by those sad little puppy dog eyes after he lost MVP.

Four is enough, she thinks. It would probably make more sense to split her efforts and go after players on different teams, leave the whole league scrambling. But she's a Montreal girl. If she's fueled by anything, it's her hatred for Boston. 

It will be good for Montreal, good for her family, and really, good for her. Everyone needs a hobby. Her fellow WAGs agree with her on this. Melinda hosts wine nights and Julia has that book club that reads smutty drivel.

Jackie has the roofie she slips Connor Connors in a swanky Montreal restaurant. Jackie has the stumbled steps he takes outside that she gently guides into incoming traffic. This time, she gets to experience it up close.

It’s actually a pretty cool sound, the scream and the squelch. 

It echoes in her ears when she disappears into the crowd of concerned onlookers, heads home, and straddles Hayden. She rides him hard, fast, and all the while, she hears it over the sound of her own moans, her husband’s grunts.

“Fuck,” Hayden pants after, pulling her close. He can’t resist a good snuggle session. “What’s gotten into you?”

She blinks up at him, considers telling him, if only so he can relish this joy with her. She can’t imagine that he’d look at her the same way if he knew though, which is reasonable. If she hadn’t experienced the rush herself, she’d probably have the same reaction.

“I joined Julia’s book club,” she says. “We’re reading Fifty Shades of Grey.”

Hayden’s eyes widen, like that confession alone is a shock to his system. “Well thank you Julia.”

She laughs, pulling him in for another kiss.

Cliff Marlow is her trickiest target yet on account of being the size of a freight train. Even with the help of drugs or distraction, she won’t be able to push him. 

So she devises a new plan. Jackie isn’t one to cheat on her husband. Really, she isn’t. Her girlfriends are always bemoaning that she and Hayden are still so stupidly in love with each other, and she can’t deny it. They’d live in each other’s pockets if they could and yeah, it’s gross.

She’s never considered stepping out on him. Her eyes wander, sure. Shane’s always bending over to pick up toys for the girls and his ass was literally manufactured in a lab to be ogled. But she doesn’t act on it—not that she could anyway. It’s become clear over the years that Shane is deeply uninterested. She hasn’t pegged his type yet, but it’s definitely not moms with perpetually stained shirts.

She runs the numbers and figures that in the grand scheme of mortal sins, infidelity ranks below homicide. It will all be worth it next season when Hayden’s kissing the Cup.

It’s unnervingly easy to take Cliff Marlow back to his hotel room. She’s never understood why slut shaming goes one way. With the notable exception of Shane Hollander, every professional hockey player she’s met is kind of a whore.

Jackie’s wearing an absurd get-up, a black latex dress with matching gloves so she doesn’t leave fingerprints. He doesn’t question it for a second, as if it’s normal to be seduced by someone dressed like Cat Woman on a Tuesday.

She pushes him to the bed, straddles him, kisses him. He’s a sloppier kisser than Hayden. It’s weird learning the taste of someone else’s tongue, hands never quite grasping the back of her neck how she likes it. Call her a romantic, but she misses her husband.

“I wanna try something,” she whispers, cutting to the chase. He nods eagerly. He’d probably jump off a bridge if she asked him to. That wouldn’t be nearly as fun though. This is purely business, but she may as well get pleasure out of it too.

She opens up her purse, pulls out some rope. Alarm bells should start to sound now. Who the hell brings rope to a hook up? Fortunately, he’s not wired to fear her.

“Oh, you’re a freak, huh?” he laughs.

“Something like that.” She smiles. He lets her push his wrists around like he’s a rag doll, lets her tie them to the headboard.

It will be a funny story to tell his best buddy Ilya Rozanov tomorrow, she’s sure. He would twist the details to his liking. In his version, he’s the one to tie her up. In his version, she comes ten times on his dick alone. In his version, the air is never sucked out of his lungs with the aid of a belt.

It takes an annoyingly long time. He puts up a fight, keeps saying a word that sounds like please. Sort of. He’s barely coherent so it comes off more like peas. 

By the time his breath stutters out, she’s exhausted. Thank God she got her own room at a nearby hotel. She needs a bubble bath and a marathon of Dragons’ Den.

She’s about to head out when his phone dings beside the bed. Her blood runs cold. 

She didn’t watch the broadcast of Hammersmith or Connors’ funerals. It’s easier to live in the moment of the kill. To not think about the fact that somewhere out there is a mother unaware that she’s going to receive the worst call of her life. If it were Jackie…

She can’t go there. Keeping her eyes ahead toward the next kill and a record season is the only way.

Still, she’s curious enough to glance at his phone when the second notification dings.

Roz: Doesn’t matter. My Montreal girl always gags on it like a champion 😤

She rolls her eyes. Yeah, okay, he’s not missing much.

After Marlow, people start to take notice. It’s a little stressful, but she did anticipate this.

The first death was ruled a suicide. The second, a drunken mistake. The third, a botched attempt at erotic asphyxiation.

But three deaths is enough for speculation to kick in. Jackie doesn’t go online as to not create a digital footprint, but the WAG network is as helpful as ever.

They bemoan the tragedy. They call it as much, a tragedy. But every once and awhile, someone poses that question: “Do you think that maybe…?” “Is it possible…?”

She saw this coming, practiced making neutral faces in the mirror. She’s mostly surprised that Hayden thinks of it.

“It’s a fucking serial killer,” he says one night when they’re largely ignoring a game of Scrabble in favor of a bottle of wine. Jackie hides her flinch behind a sip.

“Swear jar,” Shane says, not looking up from where he’s reorganizing his tiles. He’s so focused even though she always wins.

“The kids are already asleep!” He throws his hands in the air. “It’s a serial killer, right? In Boston? It has to be.”

Shane goes very, very still. “You think so?”

“All the deaths were accidents,” Jackie says, her pulse picking up, but not quite in the way she expected. It feels like when she’s out at a bar and hears people raving about Montreal’s roster, not knowing that that’s her fucking guy, that she’s personally helping to make their first Cup a reality.

She’s more turned on than anything. She’s safe. She knows she is. Hayden could never look at her and see a murderer. He’s still gobsmacked that she “read” all the Fifty Shades books. Though mostly he was surprised to learn that there’s more than one.

“Three. Three deaths, one team,” Hayden says. “How does that happen?”

“It’s an awful coincidence,” Shane says softly. He’s fiddling with the tab of his ginger ale, back and forth, back and forth, until it breaks off in his hand. He frowns but keeps it there, presses it so hard that it leaves a red indent.

“No, it’s murder,” Hayden says, eyes casting to Jackie. “Two is a coincidence. Three is a pattern.”

And four? Four will be a miracle.

Jackie should stop. She has three children and she’s not built for prison. Her skincare routine is eight steps long.

Montreal has Shane and Hayden carrying them forward. They’re playing solidly enough as it is. But when she has a plan, she can’t bring herself to not follow through.

Besides, it’s Ilya Rozanov. Boston is only as strong as their captain and their captain is fucking strong. He seemed shaken by the deaths, Marlow’s in particular. But he’s still playing, making speeches about how they’re going to win another Cup in their fallen brothers’ honor or whatever. The worst part is it seems to be working. They're playing a decent season.

The problem is that Rozanov is strangely hard to kill.

She thought he would be her easiest mark yet. She looks like this and he’s an even bigger slut than his friends.

It’s simple. It should be simple. But every time Rozanov plays Montreal, he’s nowhere to be found after. 

The first time, she expects to find him at a club with his teammates. When she doesn’t, she tails him after the following game. He turns sharp corners, drives slow then fast until he loses her, like maybe he knows he’s being followed. Either he’s figured out there’s a murderer on the loose or he thinks he’s famous enough for paparazzi.

She plans to try again in Ottawa, but Ruby gets an ear infection and she’s a mother first. Always.

In the end, she smiles at Hayden one day, says she’d like to see him beat Boston on their home turf. She’s gone on the road with him once or twice, usually to sunnier locations, but he’s happy to oblige without questioning. Never, ever questioning.

It’s a risk, crossing the border for a kill. She did with Hammersmith too, but she hadn’t planned that one and she didn’t have a line of bodies behind her yet.

Unfortunately, she loves the risk. She wants to take another. She wants to leave Rozanov’s body bloody and messy, wants to make sure that no one, beyond a shadow of a doubt, can question if this was murder.

She tells Hayden she’s meeting up with a friend from university after the game. He’s a bit confused about her suddenly having a friend in Boston, but he accepts her story about a marriage to an American finance guy.

Thanks to the WAG grapevine, she’s learned that Rozanov doesn’t go out when Montreal plays Boston. It seems he doesn’t pick up either. He just likes to be alone, they say. To meditate or whatever.

It’s unlike him, but she’s glad to hear it. Usually, she likes to do it out in public, to try to blend into a crowd after, but for this one, she needs privacy. She needs this to serve as a definitive warning, to shake the rest of the team. And okay, maybe she needs to hear him scream as loud as humanly possible.

She doesn’t want him to notice her tailing him again, so she kills an hour at a bar, then heads to his ridiculous house. Thankfully, his address is listed on fucking Zillow. The woes of being a D-list celebrity.

She approaches the door, contemplates it. She could knock, pretend her car broke down. She’s wearing an absurdly low-cut top that poor Hayden thought was for him. With wide enough eyes, Rozanov would let her in for sure.

But she has a feeling…she pulls on her gloves, punches the numbers 8181 on the keypad. It glows red. She frowns, then taps 8118. Green.

She grins to herself. He’s so predictable. He probably has a portrait of himself hanging above the fireplace. Shane would love to hear that.

Tentatively, Jackie pushes inside. She takes off her shoes, because she may be a murderer, but she’s still Canadian.

She can hear sound from upstairs, a shower running. Perfect. She’ll catch him completely off guard in there. He’ll slip and he won’t be able to overpower her.

She didn’t make much of a plan for this one since part of the point is to make her mark known. All she has is a knife, some pepper spray, and a dream. The shower will serve her well.

She makes her way through the house. It’s so sad, so sterile. It looks like a showroom more than a home. She hopes the next owner actually hangs some damn photographs.

She pushes the bedroom open softly, scanning the room for the bathroom door. She inhales sharply when she makes direct eye contact with Rozanov, sitting on his bed, shirtless and sweaty.

He gapes at her, blinks a few times like maybe he’s hallucinating. He seems confused more than anything. She’s wearing a pale blue low cut tank top, jeans, and white gloves. To him, it must look like a modern day Cinderella stumbled into his bedroom.

She could back out now. She could make up some ridiculous excuse and let her eyes well up with tears. He would be confused, but he would accept it, she’s sure. He would let her leave.

But she doesn’t want to leave. She wants to tackle him to the bed. She wants to watch the life drain from his eyes. The moment they realize there’s no hope is the best part.

Fuck it. She lunges forward, making it to the bed just as he jumps to his feet. She wraps her hands around his throat, desperate and nowhere near firm enough.

He grabs the back of her hair, pulls it hard, says something in Russian. It’s a struggle, her first real one since Marlow's was such a snoozefest. She could die. She could die, she could die, and oh, she’s never felt more alive.

She tackles him to the ground and he gains control immediately, rolls over on top of her. He’s so strong and so shirtless. It would be hot in any other circumstance. Okay, it’s a little hot in this one.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Rozanov shouts, which is just insulting. He’s mourned three of his teammates and now she’s tackling him in his bedroom. 

Obviously Jackie’s here to kill him, but he’s looking her dead in the eyes and still can’t see a murderer. Talk about a stereotype.

She reaches a frantic arm out. He’s holding her but not very tightly. Weird. Still, she doesn’t want to waste time digging through her jean pockets. Not yet.

She reaches for the nearest solid thing she can find, slams it hard against his head. It’s not heavy enough to do much and after one hit, it slips away from her grasp. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees what it is: a bottle of lube.

She almost laughs, but she can't let herself get distracted. She takes advantage of him falling slightly off kilter to dig through her pockets once and for all.

She’s aiming for the pepper spray, knows it will be enough to destabilize him. Instead, she lands on the knife.

It will do. It will have to. She’s never used one before, but it can’t be too different from cutting up steak for dinner, right? They use a meal delivery service, but she gets fancy on Hayden’s birthday.

She takes a shaky breath and reaches out, begins to slice a line across his neck and—

“WHAT THE FUCK?” a voice shouts. It’s alarmingly deep, strangely familiar, and way, way too close. “What are you doing? Who is that?”

Jackie tries to keep her hand steady, to keep slicing, but the man grabs Rozanov by the back of the neck, hoists him up. Shit, he must be strong.

“I don’t know! She ran in and attacked me. Is like fucking Scream in here.” Rozanov’s footsteps, strangely, move toward the man’s shadow, like he’s cowering behind him.

Jackie can’t bring herself to look the mystery man in the eyes, but his calves are wide as hell. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She can’t overpower two men. Why did she ever think she could do this with basically no plan? Why did she let the other murders get to her head? She should have just joined that stupid book club. She should have just—

“Jackie?”

Slowly, her eyes raise toward Shane. Shane. Shane with a towel slung low around his waist. Shane with bruised lips and an ever so light hickey on his collarbone. Shane who’s looking back and forth between her and the bottle of lube in horror. 

Oh. Oh.

She remembers every date with a hot friend he turned down, every one of her tight shirts he’s ignored. In spite of the circumstances, she does feel a bit relieved. It was never about her, he’s just gay.

He’s gay. Does anyone know? Oh, poor Shane. This must be so hard for him to keep to himself. Does he not know she’s an ally? She’s pretty sure she told him about her love for Rupaul’s Drag Race.

“You know her?” Rozanov asks.

“Yeah. She’s, uh, Hayden’s wife.” He stares at her for another moment, dazed, like he can’t believe she’s here. She resonates with the feeling. Shane Hollander is naked in Ilya Rozanov’s bedroom. 

How did she not see this coming? She really should have. She’s seen him sweat profusely when Rozanov’s shirtless on their TV, but she thought that was a primal male jealousy thing.

“Hayden PIKE?”

Shane turns to the sound of Rozanov's voice, then gasps. “Oh you’re bleeding,” he says softly, running his thumb across the bit of blood trailing down Rozanov’s neck. His eyebrows are all furrowed, that same way they get when one of the girls trips and falls.

“Is nothing,” Rozanov says quietly. He’s not wrong. The cut wasn’t much, she didn’t hit any major arteries. She should have found a squirrel or something to practice on. That would be harder to stomach than killing a man though, she thinks.

“You need a bandage,” Shane says. “Do you have bandages?”

“Downstairs.”

“Okay, let’s…” Shane stalks over to the dresser, picking up his clothes. How long has this been going on? How serious is this? He’s moving around Rozanov’s room like he lives here part time.

Maybe he does. Rozanov never goes out in Montreal. He never goes out when Montreal plays Boston either. Oh fuck.

He pulls his t-shirt on, then deftly slides his briefs on beneath his towel. It’s almost charming how modest he’s being. He throws on some sweatpants too. Then, rather politely, he reaches a hand down to her.

With one shaking hand, she accepts it, standing to her feet. “Come with me. Both of you.” Shane gestures for Jackie to go downstairs, like he doesn’t trust her behind him. She would never, ever do anything to hurt him, but she doesn’t know how to say that, doesn’t know if he’d believe her.

She feels like she’s going to throw up. Shane wasn’t supposed to see this. He wasn’t supposed to know. Maybe she would tell him at his hall of fame induction, accept the glory, but not now. Not when the bodies are barely cold and he can turn her over to Hayden, the police.

When they get downstairs, he ignores her. He physically guides Rozanov to the dining room table, sits him down hard. She sits down across from him, folds her hands, unfolds them.

“Where are the bandages?” Shane asks. His voice is so gentle, so foreign.

“Bathroom by the kitchen,” Rozanov says. “Under the sink.”

“Okay.” Shane approaches Jackie, sticks a hand out. “Give me your weapons.”

Jackie stares up at him. It seems like a bad idea with Rozanov across from her, twice her size and glaring hard.

“Your weapons,” Shane repeats sternly. Her knife is still upstairs, splattered in blood. She pulls out her pepper spray, drops it in his hands. “Yell if you need me,” Shane says—to Rozanov, not to her. 

He’s big, even bigger than he looks on TV. He could get his revenge here, now. She’d fight back but without a weapon, she’s not sure she’d win. 

He doesn’t make any movements though. He’s watching her, like he’s assessing.

“You are really Pike’s wife?” he asks.

“Yes. I’m Jackie.” She extends a hand. Reasonably, he doesn’t take it.

“Why?” he asks.

“Why…what?”

She waits for the inevitable. Why did you kill them? These men were friends to him, maybe even family. No answer would satisfy him, especially not the truth.

“Why are you with Pike? You are so much hotter than him.”

Jackie lets out a startled laugh. “He’s sweet.”

“Hmm.” His face solidifies, turns stony. “You are the Raider Traitor, yes?”

Jackie winces. She’s heard that nickname a few times and she despises it. Traitor implies that she was loyal to Boston in the first place. She would never.

“The what?” Shane asks, re-entering the room, first aid kit in hand.

“That’s what they are calling the murderer of my team!” Rozanov points at her. “Carmichael sent it to the group chat. You fucking killed them.”

She could say no. She should. But Shane’s hall of fame induction is decades away. She’s so tired of never getting any glory. Besides, after tonight, how would they believe her?

“I reject that name,” she says. “It’s stupid.”

It’s not a confirmation but it’s close enough. Rozanov jumps to his feet, like he’s angling for a fight. Jackie hates herself for flinching.

“Hey. Hey.” Shane presses a hand to his bicep. Immediately, Rozanov settles. It's impressive, the hold Shane clearly has over him. “You’re hurt. Stay still.”

Shane turns away from her. He presses a cloth to Rozanov’s neck, tenderly rubs a circle on his arm when he winces.

His fingers are so careful cleaning and bandaging the wound. Like the expanse of his skin is precious, like it physically pains him to see Rozanov in pain.

Jackie has no idea when this started, but she knows they’re in love. Shane’s face is so fond. She didn’t know he could make an expression like this looking at anything besides a puck hitting a net.

Shane drags a seat over next to Rozanov. He sits close enough that their thighs are touching. “Is it true?” he asks.

“I…”

“Did you kill the rest of them?” He wields those puppy dog eyes better than she wielded that knife. “Did you? Yes or no?”

“Yes.” She doesn’t know how to explain it. She’s never had to.

It’s like a drug to me. It’s for the good of Montreal. I was only trying to help. I was only trying to remember what it feels like, being alive.

None of them sound sufficient. None of them are sufficient. These men have families, friends, Rozanov being one of them. He’s looking at her now like he’s disgusted by her. Shane surprisingly looks more thoughtful than anything.

“You can’t kill him,” Shane says, sticking his chin out like he does on the ice or when he’s denying the twins’ pleas for extra dessert.

“What?” Jackie asks.

“You can’t kill him,” Shane says again, nodding in Rozanov’s direction. “You can’t hurt him. If you ever lay a finger on him again, I will tell Hayden. I will call the police. I will destroy you. I will testify against you in court and I will make sure you get the longest sentence humanly possible. And then after you’ve rotted for twenty miserable years, I will find someone on the inside to kill you so slowly, so painfully, that you’ll miss the comforts of your tiny fucking cell. Do you understand?”

“So you won’t—”

“You do not fucking touch him,” Shane interrupts hoarsely, “ever again. Are we clear?”

Rozanov swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, like maybe he’s turned on by this. She honestly can’t blame him.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes. I…I won’t. But if you do go to the police…”

She doesn’t want to say it outright. She doesn’t want to blackmail her friend. But it’s just right there. There are no out NHL players. This would destroy him.

“I know,” Shane says lowly. “We keep each other’s secrets. Okay?”

“What?” Rozanov says. “No. Not okay. These are very different secrets! I kill your ass with my dick, she actually kills people.”

Huh. She wouldn’t have pegged Shane for a bottom. No wonder he’s so particular about what he eats. 

“I’m not saying they’re the same!” Jackie says. “Obviously they’re not. I’m an ally.”

Rozanov laughs. “Oh, you’re an ally? Great! You and Freddy Krueger can be on a pride float together and throw rainbow pens at the crowd.”

“Rainbow pens?” Shane whispers to himself.

“Pride has bad merch.”

“I’m not—I’m just trying to say that it’s okay.” She looks at Shane, can’t resist squeezing his hand. He must be so scared. “Really. How long have you guys been together?”

“Oh we’re not—we just hook up sometimes. It’s nothing,” Shane says. Rozanov flinches harder than he did when she literally stabbed him. Interesting.

“Okay…well still, I won’t tell anyone. It’s all good with me.”

“Thank goodness we have the blessing of a serial killer. Maybe Crowell will approve next!” Rozanov claps. 

“I’m—”

“Seriously, what the fuck is your problem?” he asks. “What did they do to you?”

“Nothing,” she admits.

“Then why?”

Shane looks at her, turns his head. “You were making it easier for us to win the Cup, weren’t you?”

Her eyes widen. She never expected anyone to figure it out, to just get it. “Yes.”

“You’re fucking crazy,” Rozanov says. “You’re…Hollander. We have to report her.”

Shane looks back and forth between the two of them, biting his lip. “We can’t. She has kids.”

“She shouldn’t be around children!”

“I would never hurt my kids,” Jackie says. Maybe it’s unfair of her to be this defensive, but the mere thought makes her sick. “You know that, Shane.”

He’s seen her with them more than her own parents have. He’s seen her carry them, coddle them, rip her own hair out when Arthur got colic. He has to know she wouldn’t hurt them. He has to.

“I know,” he says, leveling Rozanov a hard stare. “She wouldn’t.”

“And I won’t kill anyone else,” she offers. “I’m done. I already was. You were meant to be the last.”

“Lucky me.” He chuckles darkly. He turns to Shane, his eyes softening. “The children are safe around her?”

Shane nods. “Yeah. Always. And I don't want them to be those weird kids with the serial killer mom, you know?”

“Fine,” Rozanov grumbles. “Fucking…fine. But if you kill any more of my teammates—”

“I won’t,” she promises.

He leans back in his seat, squeezes his eyes shut. “Next time kill Pike instead, will you?” Jackie knows she shouldn’t, but she laughs. “Okay. So I guess Theresa Bundy here will drive you back to the hotel?”

“What?” Shane says. “No. I’m staying here tonight. You’re hurt.”

Rozanov covers it up quickly, but it's obvious he's shocked. Have they never spent the night together before? They look so cozy smushed together on their dining chairs, almost domestic.

“I’m fine,” Rozanov says stiffly. “It’s barely bigger than a papercut.”

“What if it gets torn open in your sleep? Or infected or whatever? Or…what if you get hurt again?” Shane’s lip is trembling, like he's on the verge of tears picturing it.

“I don’t think someone will attempt to murder me twice in one day. But fine. If it will make you feel better, you can watch me all night.” He runs a hand through Shane’s hair. “Such a good guard dog.”

“Fuck off.” Shane beams up at him. Then his eyes cast to Jackie and the smile drops right off his face. “I’ll, uh, walk you out.”

She waves awkwardly to Rozanov, lets Shane walk her to the door, as if this was just a casual meet and greet. She takes her time pulling her shoes back on. “I would have picked literally any other man for you, but I get it. You’re sweet together.”

“We’re not—”

“I know. But you should be.”

He hunches his shoulders, shoves his hands in his pockets. “We can’t.”

“Why not? It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

He scoffs. “Forgive me if I think your standards are skewed.”

“Okay, fair. But you guys have been a thing for awhile, huh?”

“Since. Um.” He looks around, like maybe there’s a hidden camera beneath Rozanov’s ugly prints of ambiguous shapes. “Since our rookie season.”

She lets out a breath. Fuck. She’d been expecting two years at most. “You should take him on a date.”

He laughs at that. Hard. “Oh yeah, sure. I’ll just take him out for some chicken parm and spoon feed him chocolate cake after.”

“That’s…specific,” she says, watching in real time as his ears turn pink. “I’m not saying it will be easy, but isn’t it hard to pretend you don’t love each other?”

“We don’t…” Shane splutters.

“How did you feel tonight? Almost losing him?”

He thinks on it for a moment. “I used to have nightmares about falling through the ice. Before big games and stuff. I guess…it felt like that. Like the ground was giving out and I was about to drown all at once.”

“Shane.”

“Fuck.” Shane blinks a few times. “But we can’t…He wouldn’t…”

“You should ask.” Rozanov leans in the entryway, still shirtless. There’s a smirk on his face, but Jackie sees right through it. They’re both just scared little boys who want each other so, so badly.

Shane stares at him, takes a deep, cleansing breath and a tiny half step toward Rozanov. Rozanov’s feet move forward to meet him. “Will you get dinner with me?” Shane asks.

“When? I will have to check my calendar.”

“Oh shut—”

Rozanov lunges forward. It’s a hell of a kiss. His hands are cradling the back of Shane’s neck, his tongue halfway down his throat. Jackie really should get out of here, but she only has one shoe on.

“Yes, Shane,” he whispers. “I will order takeout. Okay?”

“Okay Ilya,” Shane says the name like he just heard it for the first time and it's changed everything. “We probably shouldn’t do cake during the season though.”

“I almost died tonight. We’re doing ice cream too.”

“What happened to just a papercut?”

“I want cookies and cream,” Rozanov says.

“Fine.” Shane says it like he’s put out, but it’s becoming clear that he’s not skilled at saying no to Rozanov.

They lean in again, neither of them seeming to notice when she opens the door and steps through it.

Montreal wins the Cup.

It’s a surreal sentence, one that Jackie can barely comprehend. She looks at the silver shining in Hayden’s hands and thinks of Brad Hammersmith’s splayed limbs, of Connor Connors’ seeping blood, of Cliff Marlow’s choked gasps.

This is her victory too. When her mom calls her screaming congratulations, she accepts every one as her own. It was all worth it.

It’s worth it even when Shane drunkenly stumbles up to her during the celebration and says, “Fucking…taints it. You know?”

“What?”

“What you did,” he says, chugging from his umpteenth bottle of champagne. “I’ll never know if I really earned it or if it was because of you.”

“You got past a lot of strong teams. Not just Boston,” she offers. “You guys played an amazing season.”

He laughs. The use of guys is doing a lot of heavy lifting, she knows. They would never be here without Shane. 

After that, neither of them talk about it. He doesn’t thank her and she doesn’t acknowledge what she’s given up. She’s kept her promise to Shane, to Rozanov. She hasn’t killed again.

It’s not until Montreal wins their second Cup that she’s able to admit how much she misses it. She got what she wanted and then some. Killing now would be meaningless. She doesn’t want to risk getting caught again, but she wants…

Fuck, she just wants.

It takes a few more years and Scott Hunter’s dramatic coming out for Hayden to say the words she’s been waiting on: “I think Shane’s dating Ilya Rozanov. And I think I have to kill him.”

Get in line, Jackie thinks. Instead, she suggests they have Shane and Rozanov over for dinner.

It’s…awkward to say the least. Rozanov swirls a cracker in hummus, glares daggers at her. “This hummus is killer, Jackie,” he says pointedly. “Where did you get it?”

Shane chokes on water. Jackie keeps her hands steady. “Costco,” she says.

“Ah. I hear their deals are to die for.”

There’s a noise that sounds like what must be Shane kicking Rozanov under the table. Jackie dares a glance at Hayden, finds him giving her a thoughtful look. “We should get the salad, babe,” he says.

“Please! I could murder a salad right now,” Rozanov says. Jackie doesn’t catch the look on Shane’s face. She’s too busy shuffling to the kitchen after Hayden.

It’s fine, she thinks, picking up a knife and cutting a cucumber. Rozanov is just being a little shit, like always. 

The salad is all done, technically, but she needs to cut something right now. Needs to put all her focus toward a blade in flesh and pretend it’s enough to settle her.

Hayden’s leaning next to her in the kitchen, quiet. He’s livid that Rozanov’s in their home. They’re thirty seconds away from a literal pissing contest.

“Does he know?” Hayden asks.

“Hmm?”

“Does he know what you did to his teammates?”

Her knife slips. She makes contact with her own finger, just a nick, but enough for blood to gush onto the slimy cucumber seeds.

“Oh fuck! Sorry, babe.” Hayden rushes forward, cleans her finger, and wraps it in a Hello Kitty Band-Aid. 

She can barely see it, the pink blurring before her eyes. He knows. He knows? “How do you know? How long have you…”

“Since Marlow,” he says softly.

“Since…” That was years ago. “How?”

“I was putting Advil in your purse. You said you would sleep over at Julia’s after book club and I thought you might be hungover the next day,” he says. Ugh. He’s so thoughtful. “All that was in it was rope and gloves. The next day when they found Marlow…”

“Fuck.” She presses her undamaged fingers to the bridge of her nose. 

“I thought maybe it was a Fifty Shades thing at first, but…you got so much happier right around the time Hammersmith…you were so happy.” His face is almost fond. 

Her heart races, images flashing by of him taking the kids, leaving her in this stupidly big house alone with her thoughts. But wouldn’t he have left already?

“Do you have any questions?” she offers timidly.

He cocks his head. “Did you even read those books?”

“Books…?”

“Fifty Shades of Grey. For the book club.”

“Oh. No. I never went to a meeting.”

His face crumbles, like this is the most disappointing news yet. “But you told me the plot. Did you make up that whole helicopter crash?”

“I read a summary online.”

“Huh. It was all so vivid...”

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew?” she asks.

“I thought maybe you’d tell me yourself eventually. Apparently you told Rozanov,” he scoffs.

She almost smiles. He’s so cute when he’s jealous. “I didn’t tell him,” she says. “He found out when I tried to kill him.”

He drops his head to her shoulder, groans. “Why couldn’t you have succeeded?”

“You’re not scared of me?” she whispers. “You don’t think I’m…like a freak?”

“I was worried at first. For awhile, really. I considered taking the kids and fleeing across the country, but…I don’t know.” He leans back, cradles her cheek in his hand. “There was one night where you were standing outside, Amber on your hip, laughing at something Jade said, and I thought…that’s still her. That’s my Jackie, you know? Maybe I’m the freak. I just don’t know how to not love you.”

Fuck. Jackie leans in, kisses him so hard it hurts.

“See,” a Russian accent says, startling her. She turns to see Rozanov looking down at Shane. “I told you we could make out in the bathroom.”

It’s a beautiful wedding.

That’s saying a lot considering there are no chairs and only a few string lights for decorations. The guests are limited too. J.J., Hayden, and literally no one else from Montreal’s roster.

Jackie tries and fails to tamp down her rage. She can’t fucking believe how the guys reacted. It's upsetting to her as an ally and as Shane's friend, of course. As a Metros fan, it's flat out appalling. They let Shane Hollander walk away. It’s sickening.

At least Shane’s happy. He’s dancing with Ilya, as she’s come to know him over the years. The kids have softened him on her, just a tiny smidge.

“JACKIEEE!” Shane shouts, managing to pry himself away from his husband’s grasp for what she’s pretty sure is the first time all night. “Dance with me.”

Ilya pouts, but it doesn’t stop Shane from tugging her into his arms. She’s surprised he’d want to dance with her, but he is drunk off his ass.

He holds her close, hums a tune that doesn’t at all resemble the song playing, and says, “Do you miss it?”

“Hmm?”

“You know,” he says. “Your…pastime.”

“Oh. I…yeah.” Jackie nods. 

She knows she shouldn’t still want this, crave this. It’s like drugs, alcohol, and a gambling addiction all wrapped up in one. 

She does try. She watches horror movies, true crime, compilation videos of the Raiders' biggest fails, but it’s not enough. Nothing scratches the itch. Nothing fills her up. Certainly not bedazzled jackets and bake sales.

Shane leans in closer, enough that she can feel his breath on the shell of her ear when he says, “Just Hayden and J.J.”

“What?”

“The only ones you have to spare.” He pulls back and looks her dead in the eyes. “The rest of the roster can go. Make it painful, okay?”

He pulls away, stumbles back to his husband, falls into his arms.

Jackie stands stock still, her pulse picking up, up, up. When she smiles, it’s completely genuine.