Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Hayden Pike, JJ Boiziau, Rose Landry, Wyatt Hayes, Svetlana Vetrova, Troy Barrett, Ryan Price (Game Changers), Zane Boodram, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Theriault (Game Changers), Misc. Game Changers ensemble cast

Additional Tags:

Ghost Shane Hollander, Hockey Coach Shane Hollander, Doctor Ilya Rozanov, Retired Hockey Player Ilya Rozanov, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Temporary Character Death, Temporary Amnesia, Major Character Death is NOT tagged for a reason, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ghost Sex, Supernatural Elements, Hand Wavy Magical Rules for Romance Purposes, Ilya Rozanov Solves a Mystery and Tries to Keep His Sanity While Doing It

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-19 Words: 3,075 Chapters: 1/?

a light refracting (i’ll let you in)

Summary

“I know you’re there,” he spoke gently, proud when his voice sounded nearly confident in spite of the way his hands were shaking under his desk, “I’ve seen you.”

The air in front of him seemed to shimmer in a way that was almost corporeal. Beneath his lab coat, the hair on his arms was standing on end.

Suddenly, so softly that it could hardly be called a whisper, a man’s voice answered, “So what if I am here? What would it matter anyway?”

Or, a scientist and a skeptic, new Team Physician Dr. Ilya Rozanov holds no belief in ghosts or ghouls or anything remotely supernatural, but soon even he can’t ignore the strange and inexplicable occurrences happening around the university’s sports complex.

Hollander Arena isn’t haunted… except for it sort of, probably is.

Notes

In my humble opinion, every fandom needs some mysterious death Ghost!Fic and I have arrived to quench my own thirst.

Brief disclaimer notes:

- Yes, Shane is dead. Will he stay dead? The tags should hopefully give you a clue.

- If you've read my other fics, you'll know that I'm an obsessive pro hockey fan. I know admittedly a bit less about hockey in a Canadian university setting and even less about being a Team Physician/staffing for college sports in general, but if you know me, you'll also know that I research like a fiend to avoid most glaring inaccuracies. That being said, there are literal ghosts in this fic, so... hopefully we can suspend our disbelief on the rest of it ;)

- And finally, I do not use gen AI. Ever. For anything. Not to research, write, edit, or perform any other task related to my hobbyist writing. I have been publishing fic in various spaces since 2008, so trust me when I say I happily use my own silly brain and hands to create spooky nonsense like this.

(Title is from See Through by Stella Lefty.)

Happy haunting! 👻

Chapter 1

In hindsight, maybe he should have known this job was going to be… different, given that the first thing Dr. Ilya Rozanov heard as he stepped through the sliding doors of the Saint Luke’s University sports complex was:

“Welcome to hell!”

He immediately frowned, wondering if somehow — after a decade in Canada and multiple English-taught degrees — that there was still a strange culturally-specific idiom he had yet to learn.

“Pike, knock it off,” a handsome Black man said, shoving at the chuckling blond next to him. His accent was not-quite-French-Canadian in a way that intrigued Ilya’s immigrant ear, though he couldn’t immediately place the origin.

Hesitating, Ilya took a few tentative steps toward the smiling pair, swiveling his head to take in the full atrium as he did so. Red and black banners hung from the rafters listing the school’s many Canadian championships across men’s and women’s sports, some as recent as the previous season. Rugby, football, lacrosse, swimming, track and field… SLU was often dominant and even unrivaled. It was only the years on the Men’s Hockey banner that seemed conspicuously short. That was… sort of why he was here, after all.

“Dr. Rozanov, welcome,” the man greeted as he approached, holding out a hand for Ilya to shake. “I’m JJ Boiziau, the Head Athletic Therapist for Loons Hockey.”

As Ilya reached out to complete the handshake, Boiziau added, “And this melodramatic clown is Hayden Pike, our Strength and Conditioning Coach.”

Apparently quite happy to accept the clown accusations, Hayden Pike executed a full on bow with a flourished arm gesture, like he was some sort of European butler. “Enchanté.”

Ilya blinked.

“It is nice to meet you both,” he managed politely after a moment, though he feared he was doing a poor job at hiding his flummoxed expression. 

He’d heard enough about Saint Luke’s before accepting the position to know that the university’s men’s hockey program was regarded as being a bit… strange; he just hadn’t expected to come face to face with that the moment he arrived.

“I’ll take you through to the administrative offices first,” AT Boiziau was saying, motioning for Ilya to follow, “They’ll get you all set up with your ID badge and any remaining paperwork. I’ll probably have to duck out for Loons practice before I can give you the full tour, but I’ll make sure someone from our staff is around to do the honors otherwise.”

“I could—” Coach Pike began to offer, but he was immediately cut off by Boiziau’s sharp ‘No!’

Once more, Ilya could only look on helplessly, wondering what exactly he’d gotten himself into.

“Crisse, Pike, you know you can’t,” Boiziau continued, with a sigh so exasperated it seemed to emanate from his entire person. “The last time you tried to enter that hallway a literal ceiling tile fell on your head.”

“Faulty installation,” Pike said with a chuckle, though it was noticeably nervy, “C’mon dude, this is a super old building after all. That probably wasn’t even related.”

“White people,” Boiziau muttered, not quite under his breath, “This is why you die in the horror films.”

Pike’s laughter was lighter this time, as he turned to look at Ilya and explained, “Hollander Arena isn’t actually plagued by ghosts or demons or anything, or at least I don’t think so. It’s just… creepy here at times. Most times. And a little, uh, inexplicable, one might say.”

“A little,” Boiziau scoffed. He opened his mouth as if to continue that train of thought, but seemed to think better of it. “Sorry, Dr. Rozanov. I’m sure this all sounds like crazy talk to you. You will find that the staff around here are… varying degrees of superstitious.”

Two pairs of expectant eyes turned on him, as if the men were wondering just how much Ilya was liable to believe. They would be very disappointed, if that were the case.

“Um,” he replied inelegantly, searching for a kind way to say that he thought spirits and supernatural creatures and whatever else were deeply unscientific phenomena. He swallowed, shifting into professional Physician Mode. “It is natural for human minds to seek out explanations for things. Some reasons more… ah, fantastical than others.”

As they turned another corner to head deeper into the dimly lit, mazelike depths of the arena, Ilya could see how a walk here alone could spark a feeling of unease. Surely that was all this was; a bit of ‘liminal space’-induced delusion. A humming fluorescent light on the ceiling flickered overhead as if to prove his point.

Ahead of him, Boiziau was nodding, seeming unsurprised by Ilya’s rationale. “Yes,” he said easily, “I used to think that way too.”

“Most new hires don’t stick around long,” Pike added, his placid smile bordering on unnerving, “Once they realize most of it can’t be explained without a little… fantasy, as you said, it tends to make them upset.” He let out a shaky breath. “Those of us who do stay just learn the rules and, um, if you’re like me, ignore why we all follow them.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “The rules?”

Boiziau coughed, pushing open a door marked ‘STAFF ONLY’ in stark black lettering. “All in due time, Dr. Rozanov.”

The tone was ominous enough to make Ilya shiver — not because he believed a word of what these apparent paranormal observers had to say about an inanimate building, but rather the realization that this was the team he was meant to work with to provide medical treatment and rehabilitation to student athletes. The bizarre first impression was making him slightly worried that they were casting healing spells on sprained ankles here, instead of prescribing pain management, taping, and adaptive exercises. He half imagined a candle-lit summoning circle in place of an exam table. But maybe he was getting ahead of himself.

In all honesty, Ilya didn’t actually mind a bit of whimsy at work — in fact, a lot of his former hospital colleagues and classmates would probably describe him as dryly funny and almost recklessly adventurous (in his early twenties, at least) — but this introduction to Saint Luke’s was already so strange, it verged on unsettling. Enough so that he was now envisioning himself as the protagonist in his favorite horror films, ignoring all the neon signs to Turn Back while he still could. Ridiculous.

The vibes felt that much stranger when Ilya realized their group of three now stood in a very normal-looking university admin space, with a front seating area and a long hallway of identical doors leading to individual offices. Ilya could see the closest name placard designating the office on the right as belonging to Scott Hunter, Director, Hockey Operations.

“Rose,” Boiziau called out, “I’ve brought you a sacrifice.”

Ilya looked at him sharply. God help him if another person at this school started speaking like they were reciting passages from a gothic novel—

A pretty, petite woman with red hair and even redder lipstick appeared from behind them with a light cough, making all three men jump.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said sheepishly, waving the paper cup in her hand. “I was fighting with the coffee machine again. It refuses to make anything that isn’t—“

“A vanilla latte,” Pike finished, nodding solemnly. He glanced over at Ilya, shrugging, and said ‘it’s Wednesday’ as if that explanation was self-evident.

In that moment, Ilya decided the fewer questions he asked, the better for his sanity.

“Hi, I’m Rose Landry,” the redheaded woman was saying, holding out a manicured hand, “I lead our Human Resources team under our Head of Athletic Operations, though I work with Scott Hunter, who was on your virtual interview panel, for hockey staffing specifically." Her wide blue eyes flitted around, hypervigilant in the way that Pike had been. “Scott, um, doesn’t use his office down here much, but you’ll meet him in person at some point, I’m sure.”

“At some point,” Boiziau echoed, chuckling oddly.

Everything here was odd, Ilya was coming to realize. The academic rumor mill had not been exaggerating one bit.

Boiziau clasped Ilya on the shoulder then in a friendly goodbye, motioning to Pike as well as he said, “We should get going. Practice soon. Talk later, Dr. Rozanov.”

Ilya nodded his head in acknowledgment, watching as they both exited with unconcealed haste.

At their leave, Rose continued her onboarding spiel. “I had security activate your badge this morning. You’ll have access to most areas of the arena and its adjacent sports complex, excluding a few equipment storage areas and locker rooms that belong to specific sports.” She shrugged her shoulders, smiling apologetically. “Well, theoretically anyway.”

This time Ilya couldn’t help his curiosity. “Theoretically?” he asked, the word a stretch against his still stubbornly thick Russian accent.

Rose frowned. “Um, I wouldn’t worry about it, really,” she hedged, “It’s just more common than not that things don’t work how they’re meant to around here.”

“Okay,” Ilya replied, because what else could he say really? He added a joking, light-hearted: “Could you remind me what does work around here then?”

She took this in stride, eyes crinkling. “For sure! SLU loves its sports so there are always resources and funding available. We have great wellness benefits and pretty generous vacation time, especially during the off-season. There’s an on-site cafeteria that does amazing paninis on Thursdays — the tuna melt is to die for. And, well, it certainly never gets boring?”

Ilya nodded slowly. “And… the ghost?”

At that, Rose blanched, her expression transforming into something that looked like genuine fear. Her voice came out a low murmur. “They don’t like to be called that.”

Ilya felt both skeptical eyebrows approach his hairline. “You do not really believe—”

Suddenly there was an ID badge, a key with a loon-shaped charm, and a packet of papers shoved toward him. 

“Here you are, Dr. Rozanov. Your office is on the fourth floor,” Rose said hurriedly, “And the team medical facilities are just around the corner from the locker room, sub-basement level one. Someone from IT should be by later to help you get your laptop set up.”

He accepted the items from her, trying to hide his shock at the sudden shift in demeanor. Had everyone at SLU worked themselves up to this level of paranoid mass psychosis? Surely there had to be at least one other employee here who shared Ilya’s healthy scientific skepticism for… unobservable ideas.

“Happy first day!” Rose said, valiantly attempting a cheerful smile. In the end, it was sort of half smile/half grimace if anything.

“Thank… you,” Ilya said slowly, mustering up his own smile in return.

She gave him a perfunctory nod and then scurried off back down the hallway of offices, turning the corner where it curved at the end, tracing the oval-shaped arena’s perimeter. 

Ilya stood there for a moment, briefly considering what it would mean to tinder his resignation — a cancelled work visa and a one way ticket back to Russia probably — before spinning on his heel and exiting the room.

Getting settled in his office space first seemed the logical next step and so he retraced the winding pathway back to the atrium before locating a bank of elevators on the right side. Once inside, he pressed the number 4 button, frowning when it didn’t light up in response. Confused, he poked at the button again, a few times gently and then with one hard jab of his pointer finger. Still, nothing.

“Oh, you’ve got to press 2 first,” a voice said, startling him.

He looked up as a strikingly beautiful woman in a black Loons polo stepped into the elevator alongside him. Embroidered below the red school logo on her chest was the name ‘Vetrova’ which Ilya recalled from the athletics website. Svetlana, then. The head coach of the women’s hockey team.

“But I am not going to this floor,” he said, confused. 

Laughing, Coach Vetrova tucked a copper curl behind her ear, and explained, “Just one of the… quirks of this place. If you’re going to the fourth floor, like we both are, you have to stop on the second.”

She reached over and hit the 2 button, raising an eyebrow in challenge and gesturing for him to select his stop. Sure enough, when Ilya hit the 4 this time, it lit up with a single tap as normal.

“Is someone going to fix that?” he asked, as the elevator rose.

Coach Vetrova flashed him a rueful smile. “They’ve tried. Even put in a brand new set of elevators by the south entrance two summers ago. They all do this.”

Ilya could admit that was odd, if true. Some kind of universal electrical wiring issue, surely. Still, he ventured, “And I am guessing you also believe the building is haunted?”

She cocked her head, appearing nonplussed by the question. “Oh, it definitely is.” 

Fantastic, apparently hot and crazy is a hiring prerequisite, Ilya thought nonsensically, wondering what that said about his own qualifications.

The elevator doors slid open on the second floor, paused, then closed again.

Ilya felt his shoulders sag in defeat. “Right, great.”

She regarded him with a puzzling mix of pity and a little condescension. “He’ll make his presence known to you soon, I’m sure.”

“He?” Ilya asked, wincing when he remembered he’d committed to stop asking follow-up questions. The alleged ghost having preferred pronouns? Anything felt possible at this point.

Unlike the other staff so far though, Coach Vetrova looked perfectly at ease with the idea of a resident spirit, gender notwithstanding, as she explained, “Everyone has a theory about who or what haunts the arena. My theory is right.” She side-eyed him, lips pursing. “Though I’ll wait for you to form your own conclusions.”

As the elevator chimed its fourth floor arrival, she stepped out, waiting for Ilya to follow.

“Ah, sorry I didn’t introduce myself,” she said, holding out a hand, “I’m Svetlana Vetrova, head coach for women’s hockey.”

“I figured, from the polo,” he replied, gesturing toward her shirt before clasping her hand in greeting. “Ilya Rozanov, new team physician for men’s hockey. It’s my first day.”

“I figured, from the elevator buttons,” she teased, echoing his syntax. Blowing out a dramatic whoosh of breath, she added, “But men’s hockey, hmm? I wish you all the luck with that. You seem more stubborn than the last doctor at least. He only made it through half the season.”

Luck? Ilya was beginning to think he’d actually need it, though not for the reasons everyone else involved in Loons Athletics seemed to believe.

Looking at him appraisingly, Coach Vetrova abruptly asked, “Вы говори́те по-ру́сски доктор?”

He smiled a little at the formality, and at the way her neutral North American accent shifted into something sharper in their native tones. At his nod, she continued in Russian, “Let me take you to dinner sometime as a welcome gift. I know a great place for the kind of food that will make you miss the homeland.”

There isn’t much I miss, Ilya wanted to say, but he nodded in polite agreement instead.

Smiling, she fished her phone out of the pocket of her black athletic trousers and handed it to him, watching as Ilya added his number obediently. Then, with one last ‘Welcome to SLU!’ she was marching down the mezzanine in the opposite direction.

Well, that was better than ‘Welcome to hell’ anyway.

For a moment, he stood rooted to the spot in front of the elevator bay, tempted to descend back to the first floor to replicate the button trick in another elevator entirely. If the university’s bizarre reputation had not preceded itself, he might have thought this was a prank or some elaborate hazing ritual for newbie staff. But Coach Vetrova had seemed so matter of fact about the haunting. And hadn’t Coach Pike — the most skeptical of the bunch, if you could call it that — mentioned following strange rules too? All this combined with the fact that everyone else he’d met so far appeared to be genuinely afraid of… well, of something anyway…

Maybe things were just different on this side of the country, Ilya considered optimistically, where the colonial history was older and the British and French influence more deeply entrenched; he had only just moved a few weeks ago after all. UBC and its city of Vancouver had been quirky, sure, but in that sort of artsy, coastal way that Ilya had found warm and intriguing over the decade he’d spent there. Saint Luke’s on the other hand had less than a third of UBC’s enrollment and was situated two hours from Toronto on the shores of Lake Erie — cold and grey and constructed with castle-like stone and faded brick, not entirely unlike the old Moscow city centre of his youth, albeit with the saturation turned down.

If anything, it was buildings like the library on the main quad with its turrets and gargoyles that seemed more worthy of a haunt. Hollander Arena — renamed and refurbished after catastrophic flooding in the nineties — sported a contemporary glass and steel facade and a clean, almost hospital-like interior. A ghost flitting about the complex’s ice rink, basketball and tennis courts, and Olympic-sized swimming pool while placing curses on elevators and espresso machines seemed comically modern in comparison. But whatever, it was all spooky nonsense anyway.

Shaking his head, Ilya shrugged his shoulders back and stalked toward office 410 as his new key’s loon-shaped tag instructed, determination renewed.

He had overcome plenty of impossible challenges before — a difficult childhood, life in a new country in a language full of stupid contradictions and pronunciation that plagued him, several hockey-induced concussions, and enough years as a depressed, sleep deprived med student to put him in an early grave. He could handle this job, diagnosing and treating common sports injuries; he’d worked and trained for it thoroughly, dreamed of making it here even, and now he finally had. A few strange personalities and a location intent on making him feel like a horror movie ‘Final Girl’ would not be enough to stop him.

“I would say I am not afraid of you,” he muttered under his breath as he walked, “but that would mean I think you are real. Which I do not.”

The empty hallway said nothing in return, save for the soft buzz of the HVAC system and the squeak of his footsteps on the speckled vinyl floor.

Overhead, a light flickered.

* ⚕️*