Rating:

Not Rated

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, Original Characters

Additional Tags:

POV Outsider, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Secret Relationship, Relationship Reveal, Hockey Fights, Hockey Injuries, Flirting, Light Angst, lowkey referee propaganda, the only hockey referees I trust, author mostly understands how face-offs work

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-02 Words: 7,615 Chapters: 1/1

A Fly on the Wall

Summary

Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov have a bad habit of flirting during games, especially when meeting for face-offs. At some point or another, those unfortunate, invisible bystanders in black and white were going to start putting the pieces together.

or: The story of 4 NHL referees and how they came to learn the worst kept secret in hockey.

Notes

I saw this prompt on twitter and couldn't rest until I finished whatever the hell this turned out to be. I'm so sorry in advance if this fic leads to the humanization of nhl refs, every single one of them are on my shit list until they stop being mean to the Penguins <3.

thanks for reading!!

1.

Russell Hanson knew hockey. For nearly four decades he had lived and breathed it. As far as Russell was concerned, there was nothing better in the world than the smell of fresh ice and the satisfying snap of pucks against a net. Baseball was fine and basketball had its fans, but hockey was something entirely different. The speed, the skill, the risk; it all culminated into a glorious and spectacular ritual that was more comforting than even the warmest hug. Hockey was sacred, hockey was holy, so hockey became Russell Hanson's life.

He played all through pee-wee and junior leagues, making it to the QMJHL and becoming a wholly unremarkable but reliable left-winger. He wasn't the biggest, he wasn't the fastest, but damn it to hell if he wasn't going to be the smartest skater in the rink. Russell knew where to be and what to do, who to pass to and who to check into the boards, always the coach's favorite but never familiar to the fans. His work ethic earned him a nice spot on McGill's third line in the early 90s, where his modest wrist shot and unparalleled knowledge of the game kept him consistently on the ice. They even won a couple national championships before Russell took a dirty hit towards the end of his senior season, fucking his knee up beyond all comprehension and squashing his already foolhardy hopes of going pro.

But hockey was Russell Hanson's life. There was nothing on the planet he knew more about, not a single subject that could ignite the icy fire within his heart. 

So Russell Hanson went to the dark side. He became a referee.

He didn't mind it at all, actually. He already knew everything there was to know about the game, every minor rule and penalty and call was etched into his mind like a physical map. Even so, he studied each league's rulebook tirelessly and watched whatever game film he could get his hands on. After nearly a decade of working his way up local kids' clubs, beer leagues, high schools, and college teams, Russell achieved his lifelong dream of skating on professional ice.

Reffing the NHL had become Russell's true passion. He loved every single moment. Having control over the best players in the world and deciding their fates was a dangerously good time as it turned out, and he soaked in every crowd's hatred of his very being with pride. Plus, he had the best seats in the house to the greatest hockey games of the season. Even on the rare occasion that he received an accidental punch or stray elbow to the face while breaking up a scrum, he wore the bruise like a badge of honor. Russell was truly a dedicated man and held nothing but respect and reverence for the beautiful, violent sport that he called home. He'd even gotten to officiate the Stanley Cup Finals last season, and, despite the horrifically inappropriate comments that Philadelphia's fans had thrown at him and his colleagues, it was the greatest day of Russell Hanson's life.

Now it was the start of the 2010 NHL season, and Russell skated idly up to the circle for another face-off. The match between Montreal and Boston had been an outstanding display of hockey thus far, with each team's rookie centers stealing the show at every chance they got. 

Russell thought that Hollander and Rozanov seemed like good kids. He kept up with all the hockey news and gossip pages, so he'd of course heard about the Russian Terror's reputation as a partying-playboy, but Russell knew hockey and that those things were often blown way out of proportion. The world of professional sports was full of edgy personas and heightened egos, so Russell had come to not judge a book by its cover. Except for Hollander. 

For all it's worth, the Canadian phenom seemed to be exactly what the media described: uptight, serious, determined, and completely hockey-focused. A real plain-Jane with some fucking insane talent. There's nothing bad about boring, though. Russell had always been boring and it seemed to serve him pretty well.

Whenever the two rookies met on the ice, it was pure pandemonium in the arena. Sports journalists had been talking about the Hollander/Rozanov rivalry long before they'd been drafted by their respective teams.

Russell waited patiently at center ice, letting the steady screams of the crowd wash over his face. As Montreal sent Hollander drifting over to the circle, a low rumble erupted from the spectators as Boston's coach tapped Rozanov in for the face-off, who hopped the boards without a second thought.

Russell Hanson knew hockey, but he knew the players just as well. Face-offs always carried a unique energy compared to the rest of the game, where everyone in the arena seemed to disappear except for Russell and the two unlucky souls sent to receive his puck. It had become one of his favorite parts of the game, like untangling a knot of nervous energy and frantic breaths. As Hollander and Rozanov closed in on the circle, Russell knew something was off.

Don't get him wrong, Russell knew that the vibes at center ice were always alien in comparison to other face-offs, but this was... something. 

Rozanov gave Hollander an easy smirk, surely playing up on his persona as a cheeky bastard to get in his rival's head. That in itself wasn't weird, it was Hollander's reaction that made Russell pause. The kid wasn't exactly irritated at Rozanov's presence or blind confidence, if anything he was a little... flustered? No, that couldn't be right.

"Shane. Hollander." Rozanov said it smoothly, letting his Russian drawl coat the words. Hollander made a pointed effort of keeping his eyes down, hands twitching as they gripped his stick. "Will you disappoint them?" Russell thought it was kind of an asshole move, and weirdly charged in a personal way that hockey chirps normally weren't. If Russell didn't know any better, he'd say that these two-

"Nope." Hollander replied shortly. Russell had developed a penchant for operating on autopilot while working, so right after Hollander's comment, he dropped the puck and the game continued on. It was only once someone had full possession of the puck that Russell had time to ponder on the fact that Hollander had almost just been blushing while talking to Rozanov.

Huh.

The game flew forwards, ending with a nifty final goal from Hollander to seal things up. With less than a minute remaining in the game, Hollander and Rozanov were back together to face-off. This time, although it went completely against his almost robotically-rehearsed internal clock, Russell took his time getting to the circle.

"Cool trick." Rozanov offered, wiping the back of his glove over his face. Once again, Hollander held back and kept his mouth shut. Rozanov let himself slide forward ever-so-slightly. "Is that the only stick handling you have practiced since I saw you last?" Hollander turned beet-red as Russell skated his way up to them.

"Fuck. Off." He growled, eyes set firmly on the ice as Rozanov bit back a shit-eating grin. Russell dropped the puck and the game ended soon after, Hollander and Rozanov going their separate ways, but not before briefly meeting each other's eyes from across the ice, something passing over their faces that Russell couldn't even begin to describe.

"Ostie de criss de tabernacle." Russell mumbled, watching the two players begrudgingly tear their obviously longing gazes away from each other.

Well. That was certainly unexpected. Russell was definitely surprised by what he thought he now knew, but he couldn't say he was shocked. Hockey was so much gayer than anyone ever had the balls to admit, anyways. Besides, it wasn't any of Russell's business. That being said, he was definitely going to start monitoring the situation closely. After all, hockey was Russell Hanson's life, if there was something to know, he was going to make damn sure he knew it.

2.

Being an asshole was kind of Tim Callahan's thing. Honestly, since the day he was born he loved to piss people off. What was more fun than getting a rise out of people? Tim fed on anger and irritability, living for negative reactions and troublemaking.

Because of his general taste for being a complete douchebag, Tim's parents signed him up for hockey in middle school. Tim wasn't necessarily a world class athlete, but he was a good skater and a bright kid, so the rules of the game were pretty easy to get down. Following those rules, however, was another challenge entirely. Tim still holds the record for total penalty minutes in a season at his high school.

There wasn't a fight that Tim couldn't manage to start, and he certainly didn't shy away from ending them as brutally as possible. With a mouth full of fake teeth and a fuse so short you'd need a magnifying glass to find it, Tim played for three years in a midwestern junior league before deciding he was sick of the game. 

Unfortunately, with no outlet for his assholery, Tim was a little lost on what to do with his life. He was a generally unlikable guy, the kind of son only a mother could love (and even she was nearing the end of her rope). If only there was some kind of job out there when Tim could get paid to be hated, yelled at, and make people's lives harder.

Tim Callahan soon became a hockey referee. 

It was a match made in black and white striped heaven. Tim was able to make a career out of being the worst person you know. He was a man who had to physically hold back a smile when players and spectators alike hurled the meanest threats and insults they could cook up at him. He enjoyed his work a lot and was, despite being a dickhead, a very good ref. It was because of his skill and masochistic appreciation for verbal abuse that Tim wound up reffing professionally.

Boston was by far Tim's favorite arena to work. Everyone was just so damn mean and nasty and crazy. He could make the most bland, basic-ass call and all 18,000 people in the TD Garden would erupt in furious protest. Better yet, Boston was playing their mortal enemy: Montreal.

Getting to officiate any game involving Holland and Rozanov was bound to be an entertaining time, but the two of them together? It was a damn madhouse. They were a few years into their careers by now and surely the greatest players in the league, respected and feared by everyone across the sport. Everyone except each other, apparently.

Tim had been off the entire game. Not to worry, he was still being the usual amount of shitty he always provided, but he was lagging behind mentally. It all started at the top of the second period. The score was 1-1, with Hollander and Rozanov both earning a goal for their team. Tim was the last to center ice, and as he skated up he could tell that Hollander and Rozanov had been talking.

"-just a pain in my ass." Hollander finished the end of a sentence Tim didn't get to hear the start off. Rozanov's lip quirked up and he quickly replied.

"Oh, I thought you liked that." Tim could've sworn he felt the residual heat coming from Hollander's bright red face as the player's eyes widened.

"Shut the fuck up!" Hollander hissed right as Tim arrived in-between them, pretending to have heard nothing and not seen the satisfied grin on Rozanov's lips. The puck was dropped and the game resumed.

Okay, Tim Callahan was nothing short of a rat bastard who craved chaos and spent his past as a hockey player dishing out the dirtiest, most uncalled for chirps on this side of the Atlantic, but he had never, ever said some weird shit like that. And it wasn't just what Rozanov said, it was the frantic, hushed reply from Hollander. Any other player would have dropped the gloves right there and knocked some sense into Rozanov, or at least taken a little more offense. Hollander wasn't at all offended, he was spooked.

Now maybe it was just a fluke. A strange, one-off moment that Tim caught out of context. He hadn't heard the first part of their conversation, it was perfectly plausible to believe that he missed an important factor. Until he found himself approaching the face-off circle again towards the end of the game, Montreal leading 3-1. Tim kept his ears open as they lightly bickered about their respective goals.

"Maybe if you score again, you'll score later." This time Hollander was the instigator, glaring at Rozanov over the circle with hooded eyes. Rozanov's mouth dropped open slightly, his brows arching in surprise before settling into an expression that Tim could only describe as hungry.

"Aye aye, captain." Rozanov said under his breath, the two taking their positions before Tim released the puck, albeit a little off-center compared to normal. Tim watched carefully as Rozanov and his line worked down the ice, passes lightning-fast and messy. When Rozanov got possession of the puck seconds later and fired a mighty slapshot that slammed into the back of the net, Tim couldn't ignore the fact that the first person Rozanov looked for across the ice wasn't a teammate, but Hollander. 

Uh oh. This was messy. Interesting, of course, but terribly messy. What the hell was hockey going to do about those two?

3.

Sean DeWitt really never meant to end up as a referee in any sport at all. It just didn't occur to him, never in the slightest. Refs were always the enemy, the tired, middle aged guy that your parents yelled at during summer basketball youth camps at the YMCA. Who in their right mind would want to spend their life as a verbal punching bag for crazed sports fans?

Sean didn't come from a hockey family, but his mother had been a semi-competitive figure skater, so he was put on skates practically before he could walk. As he grew up and showed signs of real athleticism, his parents put him in junior leagues where he thrived as an all-around talented forward, covering any position on the line he was called to. After high school, he bounced around the USHL in the midwest for a year or two before signing with Michigan State University, where he got a fair amount of ice time. After college, though, Sean knew he was done playing hockey. There wasn't anything in particular that pushed him to this realization, he was just done playing.

As for the rest of his life, he had no clue what to do. His only passions had been watching or playing sports, and how exactly was he supposed to make another career out of that? So he took his half-assed business degree from Michigan and got a job at a sports marketing firm, which was about as exciting as it sounds. It wasn't until Sean ran into some old asshole he played with in juniors that he got an idea of what to do next. 

Tim Callahan was reffing college games at the time and told Sean to take some officiating courses, swore that Sean would love it and it was easy money. So Sean listened, and here he was, a little over a decade later, skating around the ice at the Bell Centre in Montreal to ref the team's matchup against Boston. Sean always hated that Douchebag Tim was right.

It was the middle of the 2015-16 NHL season and Montreal were the reigning Cup champions. They were just as dangerous of a team this season as they were last, led by the enormously popular Shane Hollander who seemed to have a magic touch when it came to the game. Ilya Rozanov was here, as well, clearly eating up the deafening boos that radiated from the sold-out crowd. Sean was always excited to ref a game between those two, even if he was just serving as a linesperson tonight.

Sean's excitement quickly divulged unto confusion as the game tore on. His mother always told him was very perceptive when it came to being on the ice, that it was what helped make him such a good referee, but now Sean wished that he couldn't see or hear at all. In the middle of the first period, Sean had been along the boards when Hollander flew nearby to corral the loose puck. Before he could grab it and skate away, Rozanov sprang from nowhere and threw his body into Hollander's, adding his own stick into the battle. Hollander huffed impatiently as he dug against the boards.

"Get off!" Hollander snarled, eyes still trained on the puck as he frantically fought for it. Something bright and playful glinted in Rozanov's maniacal smile.

"You know you like me on top." He grunted out.

"Jesus." Hollander hissed as Rozanov's stick grabbed the puck and he raced back down the ice. Sean didn't have a lot of time to catalogue the expression on Hollander's face before the player darted off, but it was something akin to flustered. 

Sean replayed the interaction in his head while he sat drinking a Gatorade during intermission. He knew Rozanov could be a shithead, and especially annoying during Montreal games, but that was a pretty odd joke. It was a chirp so direct and so personal that it managed to get into Sean's head, let alone whatever fucked up effect it had on poor Hollander. 

Whatever. Hockey was a strange game with strange players. Truthfully, Sean had witnessed weirder things in his time with the game. It was just one comment, it didn't have to mean anything. Sean was a professional, he was good at his job, and he would carry on.

By the third period it was 3-3. It had been a tense, back-and-forth game with enough penalty minutes to fill a whole extra period. Both teams were out for blood, that much was clear. Rozanov had even managed to earn himself a Gordie Howe hat trick as he tussled with Montreal's Hayden Pike over something that Sean wasn't able to catch. When things had gone far enough, Sean and his fellow ref jumped in and were narrowly able to separate the two erratic players. Pike, the one who appeared to instigate the scrum, was still hurling insults from his bleeding mouth as he was hauled off to the penalty box. Rozanov was much easier to handle, so Sean simply dragged him away from the boards until he felt it was safe to let go. Right as Sean was turning to move towards the other refs meeting across the ice, Hollander skated up.

"Rozanov!" He barked. "What the fuck?" Rozanov, for some ungodly reason, looked sheepish. He looked down to the ice, spitting out a patch of blood.

"I did not start it." He offered, looking back up at Hollander with a lopsided grin. An exasperated, somewhat amused expression passed over Hollander's face.

"Fuck you, man." Hollander said it with little heat, moving to glide past Rozanov.

"Later." Rozanov said it under his breath as Hollander passed by, and Sean chose that as the exact right moment to get the fuck out of there, skating quickly to the other side of the rink.

Well now that was incriminating. Oh god, Sean was so bad at keeping secrets. This season was going to be fucking torture.

4.

Sergio Lumet, known fondly as Serge to his closest companions, was a pretty weird guy. Now he wasn't a fool, he knew people thought he was strange, but he didn't mind because he'd always had a place to focus his off-putting traits: hockey. Despite being proud Quebec City natives, his father was probably the world's biggest Admirals fan, so Serge grew up living and breathing the sport. He loved everything about it, he knew everything about it, and he dedicated every breath he took to it. There just wasn't anything better than the deliciously violent game of hockey. 

Serge was a very talented skater, but thanks to his large frame and all-around weirdness, he wound up as a goalie for the entirety of his hockey career. He was a pretty good goaltender, too, taking his career to the AHL straight out of high school and playing for nearly a decade. Perhaps Serge could have wound up playing in the major leagues, but it just wasn't how life turned out for him. Serge had proudly inherited his mother's endless empathy, but he also inherited his father's back problems, leading him to hang up his mask following his eighth year in the AHL.

Serge couldn't deny his need to skate for long, though, and promptly began his referee training. He wouldn't claim to be the best official in the league by any means, that title probably went to the infamous Russell Hanson, but Serge had a quick wit and fast feet, so he did pretty well for himself. He also loved getting to break up fights, even if it did earn him a few undeserved or accidental hits over the years. 

It was 2017 and the NHL season was beginning to ramp up towards playoffs. Serge was standing with his fellow refs against the boards as the bloodthirsty Boston fans screamed at the top of their lungs, despite it being warmups and the arena only about half-full. The game was against Montreal, so Serge had mentally prepared himself that morning for a lot of nasty scrums. Especially with Ilya Rozanov on the ice, you never knew what that crazy prick was going to pull. Rozanov's supposed mortal enemy, Shane Hollander, had just entered the rink and was skating lazily towards where Rozanov was stretching at center ice.

Serge watched on carefully as the two exchanged a short, clipped conversation. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but the way they held themselves and the manner of which they tried not to look at each other stuck out to Serge like a sore thumb. Even as the confrontation ended and Hollander drifted back to his bench, there was a misplaced energy between him and Rozanov that Serge just couldn't quite put his finger on. 

Growing up as a goalie, Serge became accustomed to picking up on the little things that other players often didn't catch. Small twitches of the eyes, the angle of someone's wrist, and the pattern of a man's breathing could tell Serge a lot about a person. Even with his mystical goaltender intuition, Serge wasn't sure what to think of the two stars.

The situation wasn't helped at all by something that Serge witnessed the last time he officiated a Boston/Montreal matchup. It was last November, kind of around the time that Hollander started dating Rose fucking Landry (all the NHL refs who knew Hollander even a little bit were still shocked about that). The game was complete and utter shit. It was absolutely no fun to ref, so Serge couldn't imagine that playing was much better. He'd ended up in charge of a few face-offs throughout, and every time that Hollander and Rozanov met, the tension was blinding. Once, after a particularly sloppy play and failed goal attempt, the two players lined up over the dot and Serge skated up with the puck. As he got within earshot of the two, one of his fellow refs called out to wait a moment, so he turned around to see where he was. With Serge's back turned, Rozanov began to speak.

"Is your movie star here?" He said with a bitter air of jealously, something that Serge wouldn't have expected from a famous womanizer. Hollander didn't give much back.

"Fuck you." Hollander breathed out, clearly wanting to end it there. Mouthy Ilya Rozanov had other plans.

"You wish." He drawled, the words sour as they left his mouth. When Hollander didn't reply, and at the exact moment that Serge got the go-ahead to turn around and drop the puck, Rozanov had one last thing to say. "Does she call you by your first name?" That grabbed Hollander and Serge's attention, with Hollander's focus shifting up from the ice to Rozanov's face and Serge hesitating a moment before letting the puck loose. Rozanov won the face off by a mile.

Of course there were always a few rumors circulating here and there around the league about players and coaches who might not fit into the category of straight, but Serge, even with his outstanding skill for reading people, had never faced a possible entanglement like the one Hollander and Rozanov shoved in his face. It was so far-fetched and downright unthinkable that Serge tried to do just that: not think about it. Referees heard a lot of shit and smack talk on the ice, but the honorable ones always kept the personal stuff to themselves. Serge had no business starting any harmful rumors, not without solid proof. 

Serge had prayed last night, actually got down on his knees and prayed, that this next meeting of Hollander and Rozanov would not supply him with any real evidence. That crazy fucking prospect was the last thing he needed on his mind.

"Dude." Serge felt someone smack an open palm against his chest. "You're doing that weird stare again." Sean Dewitt said it firmly, like he was handing out a penalty. Serge always liked getting to be a linesperson with Sean, he felt that they made a good team when it came to breaking up fistfights between grown men on skates. He was definitely nicer than Douchebag Tim, and a lot less serious than Mr. All-Knowing-Referee himself Russell Hanson, who were the other two officials joining them tonight.

"Sorry." Serge said with a lopsided smile, his Quebecois accent being the only vaguely smooth thing about him. "Was it the thing where-" Douchebag Tim skated up and cut in.

"The thing where it's like you're looking through people rather than at them." He said flippantly, taking his helmet off for a moment to ruffle his hair.

"Helmet stays on, Callahan." Russell barked, gliding his way up to the rest of his refs. "C'est un câlisse de tata, eh?" He added, shooting Serge a wink. Tim rolled his eyes at the Québécois allegiance, dramatically slapping his helmet on and clipping it with purpose.

"Yes, mother." He droned. "Right away, mother."

"You know, I always really like reffing with you, Tim." Sean began. "It's like getting to work with my three year-old son, down to the temper tantrums and everything." Tim held a pissy frown as the other three laughed around him.

"Laugh it up, Sean. Don't forget you and Frenchie here are on fight watch tonight. I hope you catch an elbow from Boiziau." Sean pretend to take offense, grasping an imaginary set of pearls with a gasp.

"Have you no decency, sir!" He shrieked. Tim opened his mouth to probably say something much worse before Russell stepped in.

"Seriously, though. Let's keep the attitudes to a minimum tonight, these two teams are gonna cause more than enough problems on their own." Everyone nodded in agreement.

"Especially with Hollander and Rozanov." Serge added. "Something always goes down when those two meet." Serge made a detailed mental note of the way his fellow refs' faces shifted at the mention of the rivals. Like someone sucked the air out of their corner of the arena. A silent agreement passed over the four of them in that moment to pointedly not bring up anything too weird. Referees had this way of communicating whole sentences with just their eyes, and Russell, Tim, Sean, and Serge had all just given keynote speeches as they looked around at each other. Russell was the first to break as the arena lights dimmed in preparation for the start of the game.

"We've got our work cut out for us, that's for sure." He said grimly. "I hope you boys did your stretches, 'cause tonight we're skating with the two fastest players in the whole fucking league."

"Let's do this, shitheads." Tim declared, clapping his hands and rubbing them together with a devilish grin.

"You really do get off on all the hate from the crowd, don't you?" Sean asked.

"The best feeling in the world." Tim confirmed. "Second only to a good blowjob." He said with a wink.

"You get a lot of bad blowjobs, Timothy?" Serge asked, unable to hold back his laughter as the cocky smile was wiped from Tim's face.

"This is why I love your weird ass, Serge." Sean said through a fit of laugher.

"C'mon kids, party's starting." Russell called. The four of them instantly transformed into straight-faced, hockey robots as they prepared for the first face-off. Of course, it was none other than Hollander and Rozanov meeting at center ice. 

From Serge's position across the rink, he could tell that the two weren't necessarily talking, but something was being shared as they locked eyes over the circle. They were all smiles, holding each other's gaze as their sticks clacked together in anticipation. Russell gave his final remarks and dropped the puck, Hollander hooking it away and instantly darting off down the ice. He was speeding towards the net, the wild grin on his face matching the one Rozanov wore as he trailed behind him. 

Then, for some fucking reason, Hollander looked back. He turned his head almost completely as he flew, unmistakably locking eyes with Rozanov and smiling even wider.

Then Cliff Marleau came out of nowhere and fucking smashed into Hollander. The kid went flying, taking to the air and crashing onto the ice with a terrible cracking thud. His body went limp as it landed, his face hidden where it rested against the ice. 

Shit instantly hit the fan. Serge ran his eyes helplessly across the rink as small fights were breaking out everywhere, Montreal's players clearly pissed beyond reason. Russell and Tim were jumping in, pulling guys apart and threatening penalties like they were prison sentences. Serge vaguely registered Hayden Pike shouting something before lunging at Marleau and attempting to knock him down. Although Pike wasn't very successful, Serge intervened anyways, working with Sean to pull the two apart and put distance between them. It was pure hockey havoc, Boston fans roaring their deafening cries of approval at the display of violence.

Serge knew he was a great ref, and he was sharing the ice with some of the best and most experienced officials in the league, but even he could admit that this moment frightened him.

What scared Serge even more was when he caught a glimpse of Hollander. He was just lying there, still and crumpled into an awkward position. It had been too long, far too long, the kid should at least be halfway towards the tunnel by now. As the medics began to approach the ice, Serge also spotted Rozanov. The player had not returned to his bench, he hadn't picked a fight, he hadn't even fucking moved. He stood over Hollander like a watchdog, peering down through his visor with a ghostly-pale face. Serge moved closer, kneeling down to give Hollander a quick check himself as they waited for the medics.

"Saint ciboire." Serge cursed, taking note of the nasty bruise blooming across Hollander's cheeks and the eerily unnatural stillness with which he rested. "Hey, Shane? Shane?" He asked, lightly placing his hand over the exposed section of Hollander's neck. His pulse was fine, but it was unfortunately the only active thing about the kid.

"Hollander?" Rozanov called, spooking Serge and turning his attention upwards. Rozanov didn't spare Serge the slightest glance, darting his eyes all over the expanse of Hollander's unmoving body. The medics arrived, turning Hollander over and clamping a neck brace around his throat. "Hollander?" Rozanov tried again, Serge making eye contact with Tim as they both certainly caught the desperation in Rozanov's voice.

"Go to your bench, Rozanov." Tim snapped, moving to push the player back and away from the scene. The medics were placing Hollander on the spinal board and preparing to lift him onto the stretcher.

"Is he okay? Fucking tell me!" Rozanov growled impatiently. Tim just kept a light pressure on his chest and pushed him away.

"Go to your bench, I'm not gonna tell you again." Tim said, finally able to corral Rozanov off the ice. Serge watched the interaction with a heavy heart, noting how Rozanov's anxious eyes never left Hollander once, not until the stretcher was off the ice and had disappeared down the tunnel.

The rest of the game was shit. Montreal struggled without their star player, and Boston may as well have been in the same situation, with Rozanov's performance being anything but stellar. He played like a dead man walking, not earning a single point by the time the game ended 2-0 for Boston. Even the fans knew it wasn't a well-earned win as they half-heartedly cheered their home team off the ice. What an awful night, huh?

"Jesus Christ." Sean muttered, ripping off his helmet and tossing it on the ground. "That fucking sucked." The four refs staggered into their changing room.

"I didn't even have any fun." Tim said morosely, plopping down in his chair with a frustrated groan.

"That was just a nasty hit." Russell sighed. "Legal obviously, part of the job, but nobody wants to see a guy go down like that. I feel just awful for Hollander, he's such a good kid." They slowly moved to untie their skates and shed their sweaty uniforms when Serge just couldn't help himself. It was eating away at him. He had to say it, he just had to.

"I feel bad for Rozanov." Serge's statement was a play-for-play redo of the one he inadvertently created earlier, where each of the officials were frozen in a silent standoff. Serge looked to Sean, who looked to Tim, who looked back to Serge, who was too scared to look at Russell. As per usual, Russell was the one to break the ice.

"So those two are definitely a thing, right?" He said meekly. All at once, everyone in the room let out a huge sigh of relief.

"Oh my god, yes! Finally!" Sean exclaimed. "Fucking hell, it has been so hard to keep quiet about it." Tim ran his hands over his face and laughed.

"I mean, you guys should hear some of the freaky shit I've caught them saying over the years. It's beyond chirping, it's fucking foreplay." He shook his head in disbelief. "I'm serious, my theory is that what they do on the ice dictates what they'll do in bed later." The other three groaned in equal parts disgust and despair.

"If just the four of us have seen and heard so much, I can't imagine the horror stories that other refs across the league have." Serge said.

"Well, it's a damn miracle for those boys that nobody's started any rumors yet." Russell stood up and shimmied into his hoodie as he spoke. "Players are always so quick to hate on us refs, but look at us here. We're doing God's work and keeping the biggest scandal in hockey history under wraps."

"We don't get paid enough for this shit. Any of it." Sean added. The conversation came to a natural lull before Serge spoke up again.

"I can't stop thinking about Rozanov." He murmured. "Did you see the guy? I've never seen anyone so scared." Sean laced up his sneakers and nodded at Serge.

"Yeah, he was pretty damn shaken." He agreed. "Gotta be a terrible feeling, seeing someone you love laid out like that. If it was my Elizabeth that got taken out, I don't think I'd make it." Even Douchebag Tim had an understanding frown on his face.

"Good on Rozanov for having so much self-control." Tim conceded. "I've only been with my boyfriend for two years, but if someone knocked him out cold? They'd lock me away for life. You'd see me on the news for inventing a new way to kill someone." 

"How the hell did he play an entire hockey game after seeing that?" Serge asked, blood going cold at the thought of having to go to work while his wife was in the hospital. He imagined how worried he'd be if he didn't know where she was or how she was doing. "Tabarnak, he must be freaking out right now. There's no way Rozanov could have any updates on him, nothing is gonna hit the news for a while." The officials sat with the dreadful realization for a tense minute before Sean piped up.

"Hey Russell?" He asked.

"Yeah?"

"Are you still seeing that chick who works for Montreal? The redhead with the media team or something?" Sean asked carefully, gauging the slow reaction on the lead ref's face.

"I mean, we get together every once in a while, but it's nothing serious." He answered genuinely. "...Why?" Sean looked around the room and gave everyone a moment to figure it out. "Oh, I don't know, guys."

"Come on." Tim complained. "Have a heart, Russell."

"Russell, you know it's bad when Douchebag Tim is begging you." Serge said. "Allez, capitaine. We gotta help the guy. It's the right thing to do."

"Violating medical privacy laws is the right thing to do?" Russell asked incredulously. The three refs before him simply nodded.

"Ask her about Hollander, Russell. I know where we can probably find Rozanov." Sean pleaded one last time. "Pretty please..." Sean, Tim, and Serge all gazed hopefully at Russell, who signed and shook his head.

"You fucking people." He muttered under his breath. "Fine! I'll text her, but you saps owe me." They all cheered and clapped Russell on the back, hastily finishing getting ready and following Sean through the back corridors of the arena.

"How the hell do you even know where to go?" Tim asked as the group ducked into another dimly-lit hallway.

"We're all allowed to have our secrets, dickhead." Sean replied, silencing the refs behind him until they reached an emergency exit way towards the back of the building. "This is where he goes to smoke when he's all moody and downcast." Sean explained, shoving open the door and leading everyone outside.

Serge's eyes found him immediately, Rozanov leaning against the side of the building in loose track pants and his compression shirt from the game. A cigarette hung from his trembling fingers, orange embers flaring as he took a deep drag.

"Hey, Rozanov!" Sean called. Rozanov's head whipped to the side, knocking ashes off the tip of his cigarette. He eyed the four of them suspiciously and gestured in their direction with his free hand.

"Why are the game referees coming to hassle me?" He asked, completely unimpressed with their presence. "I do not think you can give out penalties for smoking after the game is over." His joke fell flat, but Serge could tell that it wasn't really meant to be that funny in the first place. Rozanov looked worse for wear, with a lopsided frown and uneasy disposition that Serge picked up on right away.

"Uh, we're sorry about the game." Serge blurted out, his empathetic soul getting the best of him. Tim smacked the back of his head. "Ow."

"Way to make it weird." He hissed. Rozanov let his sharp gaze flicker between the four of them.

"Sorry for what? Bad calls? You know Boston won, yes?" Tim rolled his eyes and sighed, apparently ready to go asshole-for-asshole with Rozanov.

"Don't mind him, he's a weirdo." He explained. "He meant that we're sorry about what happened to Hollander." Serge was actually blown away by how quickly Rozanov froze up. The man just suddenly stilled completely, heated stare burning a hole through Tim's face. Then, just as quickly as it was there, the paralyzing fear on Rozanov's face was gone, melting into a smooth indifference.

"Nothing to be sorry about. Is hockey, people get hit." Russell, Tim, Sean, and Serge all swapped the same unsure look, using their silent referee communication skills one last time before Russell addressed Rozanov.

"Okay, kid, I'll be blunt here." He looked Rozanov dead in the eyes. "We know." Rozanov let his cigarette fall to the ground before stomping it harder than what as strictly necessary, stalking over the refs and getting up in Russell's face.

"You know nothing." Rozanov insisted. Serge could feel the electricity in the air and practically sense the fight that was building in Rozanov's chest. As far as Serge was concerned, Russell was the bravest fucking person in the world for coming at Rozanov like that.

"We know a lot more than what we'd prefer to, Rozanov." Russell continued. "I mean, I've been reffing you and Hollander for your entire professional careers. Do you realize how much freaky shit you two say?" Rozanov didn't answer, didn't even shift his eyes from where they settled on Russell's. "Anyways, we all know, and we haven't said anything to anyone yet, and we don't plan to." At that, Rozanov deflated ever-so-slightly, like they were words he had been praying to hear.

"We knew you'd probably be worried sick about him, so Russell talked to his contact with Montreal and we found out where they took him and what room he's in." Sean said it quietly, but the unbelievably relieved expression in Rozanov's softening eyes was thunderous.

"Where is he?" Rozanov asked.

"He's at Mass General, just across the way. Room 904 in the main wing." Russell answered. Rozanov nodded once silently, training his eyes on the ground and looking much younger than he usually did on the ice.

"And-" He began, stopping to clear his throat. "And he is okay?" Serge thought that he himself might start crying, the sickening fear that accompanied Rozanov's words was just too much.

"Yeah, last I heard. The lady I talked with doesn't know exactly what's wrong with him yet, but he's definitely stable. No permanent damage or anything like that." Rozanov took in a deep, shaky breath. He closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face.

"Okay." He said, shoving past the refs and opening the door into the building. "Ah... thank you." He offered. Serge and the guys all gave curt nods in return, with looks that said "our lips are sealed." Before Rozanov ducked back inside, he stuck his head out to say one last thing. "Sorry for all the uhh... details you have heard over the years." He had the gall to look embarrassed.

"You're not sorry for shit." Tim spat. Rozanov just grinned and winked, disappearing behind the door. Russell, Tim, Sean, and Serge stood in silence for an unclear amount of time before anyone had it in them to say anything.

"What a bizarre fucking night." Russell exclaimed.

"I think I need to take a week off after that." Tim added.

"Do you think Rozanov's gonna do something about us now that he knows we know?" Serge asked anxiously. "Like, would he send the Russian mafia or something to shut us up?" The other three refs just stared at him blankly.

"Sergio Lumet." Sean said.

"Quoi?"

"You are so fucking weird." Tim broke in out in a fit of laughter at that.

"Who's the douchebag now, Sean?" He asked through cackles, eventually calming himself down and letting the conversation enter Serge's least favorite status: silence.

"Really, though?" He started, Sean and Tim groaning tiredly. "I mean are we sure we did the right thing? That had to have been against at least a couple rules." Sean and Tim rolled their eyes at Serge's nerves, turning to walk back inside the arena.

"I'll see you at the Philly game, Serge." Sean said, holding the door for Tim.

"I hope I don't see you for a long, long time, Mr. Lumet." He said, following Sean in and letting the door slam behind him.

"Je vous déteste imbéciles." Serge muttered weakly under his breath. Only Russell remained, then, clasping a hand onto one of Serge's broad shoulders and tilting his head up slightly to meet his gaze.

"Look, Sergio: we're referees. All we do is memorize rules, and repeat rules, and interpret rules. We are paid to be the skating, talking personification of rules. Nobody knows them better than us. You know what that means?" Serge thought carefully.

"No." Russell leaned in. 

"It means that we deserve to break 'em more than anyone else." Russell patted him on the back once, twice before wandering over to the door himself. "T'inquiète, mon petit gardien de but. Hollander and Rozanov will figure it out." He added.

"Is it weird that I'm really hoping things work out for them? Even if it means we have to suffer another decade of mid-game flirting?" Serge asked honestly. Russell just smiled, big and open.

"Serge, you're the weirdest guy I know, but that's maybe the most normal thing you've ever said." He opened the door and shuffled inside. "Bonne nuit, Sergio." Serge stood alone in the quiet of the alleyway for a fairly long time, staring up at the sky before finally saying:

"I just had to keep paying attention?" He asked the silence. "I just had to keep perceiving shit?" Oh well. The night was over. Rozanov had been updated on Hollander and would probably get to visit him in the morning. Serge figured that was as good of closure as he'd be able to get. With his mind settled and the events of the strange night taken care of, Serge turned to the door and walked inside.