Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

POV Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Confrontations, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Episode: s01e03 Hunter (Heated Rivalry), Relationship Reveal, Kind Of, Situationship Era, Shane Hollander and Scott Hunter's Fight in Episode: s01e03 Hunter

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-13 Words: 1,803 Chapters: 1/1

Scotty Didn’t Know (but he sure does now)

Summary

“You have problem, you bring it to me,” Rozanov growled. “Not him. Me. I am not so easy of a target, not like boring Canadians. And you keep that shit off the ice. Chirping, yes, fine. Not that. Never that. You are older than the game of hockey, should understand difference by now.”

Canadians?

“Wait,” Scott said slowly. “Is this about what I said to Hollander the other day?”

—
Or: Scott has no idea why Ilya Rozanov suddenly showed up in New York itching for a fight, but he knows it can’t be good.

Notes

I wrote this in my notes app at 2 am idk

Like there aren’t enough post-fight fics already

“Hunter!”

Scott had barely opened the door to leave the stadium after a humiliating loss to Tampa Bay on home ice when the familiar voice thundered through the frigid air. Scott couldn’t stop himself from doing a double take, sure he had to be mistaken, but the tall figure currently stamping out a cigarette outside the Admirals’ players’ entrance could only be one person, no matter how unlikely.

What was worse than Ilya Rozanov?

An unexpected Ilya Rozanov.

An unexpected, irate Ilya Rozanov.

It wasn’t enough that Scott was pretty much having the worst season of his career, apparently. Not to mention that he had no idea where things stood with Kip—he couldn’t think about that, right now, or he would risk having a full breakdown in public.

No, apparently the universe had decided that Scott didn’t have enough going on, and now Ilya fucking Rozanov had shown up out of nowhere—no, seriously, why was Rozanov in New York? They weren’t playing the Raiders again for another three weeks—and Scott had no idea what he wanted.  

But based on his tone, Rozanov was out for blood.

“What?” Scott grunted, turning to face him.

“You think you are big man? Huh? Is that it? Big Scott Hunter, not enough to chirp like normal hockey player, has to resort to fucking personal shit, private things, low fucking threats? Fuck you,” Rozanov spat savagely. Scott would probably be more offended if he weren’t so fucking confused.

“Hey, whoa,” he said, hands up. “Rozanov, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Rozanov scoffed, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Is that really how you want to play this?” He said, softly but no less dangerously. “Won’t say it to me, hmm? Because I fight back, no? So you say it to him instead, punch down, because you know he will not fight back? Fuck!” Rozanov burst out suddenly. Scott jumped slightly. He still didn’t know what was happening, but he had never seen Rozanov like this. Scott was starting to wonder, actually, if he’d ever really seen Rozanov angry before. He’d thought he had, but this….this was different.

He wasn’t just mad, he was incandescent with rage. And Scott still didn’t know what he’d done to deserve it.

“You have problem, you bring it to me,” Rozanov growled. “Not him. Me. I am not so easy of a target, not like boring Canadians. And you keep that shit off the ice. Chirping, yes, fine. Not that. Never that. You are older than the game of hockey, should understand difference by now.”

Canadians?

“Wait,” Scott said slowly. “Is this about what I said to Hollander the other day?”

“Obviously,” Rozanov replied, still looking like he might deck Scott any second.

“He…told you about that?”

“What did you expect? That he would keep secret? That you could threaten him on the ice and nothing would happen?”

“No! Jesus, Rozanov, it was just a chirp, stop talking like I pulled a gun on him or something! I don’t know what Hollander told you I said, but it sounds like he blew it seriously out of proportion.” Rozanov finally looked a little less angry, and his face was starting to mirror some of the confusion Scott himself was feeling. “How was I supposed to know it would get back to you, much less that it would strike a nerve? I didn’t even realize you guys talked!”

Rozanov was pale. His anger had evaporated, and the expression remaining on his face was impossible to read.

“You said…he was starting to sound like me,” he said uncertainly. Scott laughed nervously.

“Yeah! So? He chirped me, I chirped back. I thought he hated you, and wouldn’t appreciate the comparison.” Rozanov looked like he was trying very, very hard to breathe normally. 

“All you meant…was dumb fucking rivalry joke.”

“Yeah, man, what else would that mean?” Even as he was saying it, an absurd possibility popped into Scott’s head. He could think of one other thing it could mean, but….no. No way. “Hold on, did you come all the way to New York to fucking—to defend Shane Hollander’s honor?”

“He was scared shitless,” Rozanov whispered, half to himself.

“Rozanov,” Scott said slowly, because fuck it, he had to ask. “Don’t hit me for asking this, and I swear this conversation stays between us, but are you and Hollander fucking?”

Scott expected a number of reactions: laughter, maybe, or a punch. What he didn’t expected was the way Rozanov absolutely crumbled. He looked so young, suddenly.

Oh.

“Holy shit,” Scott breathed. Rozanov stared him down as if waiting for him to have a problem. “Tell him I’m sorry, would you? I didn’t mean—I would never do that to someone, or even threaten to. I know how—I promise I had no idea, man.”

“That is your first thought?” Rozanov asked, and his voice was uncharacteristically quiet, vulnerable, even, but he looked like he was at least breathing a bit more normally. “Apology? Not…”

“Jesus, Rozanov, of course,” Scott said earnestly, although he supposed there was no of course about it—Rozanov had no idea about him. “I’m not that guy. I’m…I’m not a homophobe. I would never hold that over somebody like that. Never.”

It occurred to Scott that he could tell Rozanov about himself, right now. Rozanov was probably the last person he’d ever pictured himself coming out to—frankly, he’d assumed Rozanov was probably a bit of a homophobe himself. The idea was tempting, but Scott found he didn’t have the words.

“Tell your boyfriend I’m sorry,” Scott said instead. Rozanov snorted.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Oh, come on, don’t start denying now—“

“No, no, not denials,” Rozanov said, waving a hand in the air. “We are not anything, we are just…I forget the word. Fuck buddies?”

Jesus. Ilya Rozanov was standing in front of him, ready to fight for Shane Hollander’s honor, because they were sleeping together. But not dating! Definitely not dating.

Scott didn’t know either of them well, but he was honestly having a harder time wrapping his head around Shane Hollander doing a casual fuck buddies situation than he was the gay thing.

Well…

“You seem to be linked with a lot of women for someone who’s apparently having an illicit gay affair,” Scott remarked. Rozanov rolled his eyes.

“Did they not have bisexuals when you were growing up, in caveman times? Don’t be stupid, Hunter, I am hoping you are not stupid but this conversation is not promising. I am very hot, I like hot people, I like to fuck, why limit it? Hard for manly straight man like Scott Hunter to understand, maybe, but if you ever want to….” Rozanov’s wink was cheeky, and, well, Scott hoped his nerves were just causing him to overthink and read into things, but it seemed somehow knowing, and the flush he could feel creeping over his face certainly wasn’t helping matters.

Did Ilya Rozanov really just offer to experiment with him? Was this Purgatory?

“You’re not my type,” Scott coughed, thinking of a certain short nerd and blueberry smoothies.

“Relax, Hunter, I am not really offering to fuck you, one hockey player is enough for me,” Rozanov said casually and Scott physically felt how deep he blushed. “But yes, I like both. And if that is problem for you, we have even bigger problem here.”

Scott felt like he was in the twilight zone.

“Of course that’s not a problem,” he said quietly. “I won’t tell anyone—about anything. Thank you for telling me.”

Rozanov snorted. “Was not much of a choice.”

“You’re lucky you have each other,” Scott blurted before he could think better of it. “It’s…it gets lonely.”

Rozanov gave him an appraising look. “Yes, it does,” he said, sounding nicer than Scott had ever heard him sound, and he knew Rozanov had picked up on what Scott wasn’t saying. Scott cleared his throat.

“I just mean…we’re good here?” He asked awkwardly. Rozanov let out a small chuckle.

“Yes, Hunter, we are good here,” he said with a ghost of a smile. “Do not tell Hollander we had this conversation, please. He will have panic attack, I will have to stroke his hair and do deep breaths, very annoying.” Rozanov’s tone was as cool as ever, but his small smile whenever he said Hollander’s name was impossible to miss, once Scott knew what to look for.

No, Scott was not going to tell Shane fucking Hollander that his rival/secret gay hookup had almost fought Scott on his behalf over a misunderstanding, and outed them both in the process. That was something they could deal with themselves.

“I got you, man,” is all he said. “Good looking out.”

“Do you—“ Rozanov started, then stopped as if he were rethinking what he was about to say. “Do you have anyone?”

Scott flushed. “No. Yes? Maybe. I hope so,” he said awkwardly. Rozanov nodded stiffly.

“I hope it works out with him,” he said. “Is not good, hiding. Being alone.”

Scott had to hand it to Rozanov, the man was perceptive as shit.

“Me too,” he admitted. Rozanov nodded once more and stuck his hand out. Scott shook it willingly.

“You are not so bad, Hunter,” he said. “Next time we play Admirals, we will get drinks, you will stay up past your bedtime and give me update on yes/no/maybe, yes?”

“Sure, Rozanov,” Scott said, not even bothering to respond to the age quip, because they were having a moment and he was magnanimous like that. He coughed slightly, embarrassed to even ask, but— “How did you, uh…”

“Lucky guess,” he replied. “Or maybe wishful thinking.” And he had the audacity to fucking wink again. Scott was only a little bit horrified to realize that he was, somehow, charmed.

He was starting to understand that he had seriously misjudged Ilya Rozanov. Relentless chirping aside, it was obvious the man cared about the people around him, and Scott was beginning to think that even the chirping had an undercurrent of respect. It was possible, he thought to himself, that being an obnoxious little shit was Rozanov’s love language.

Rozanov turned to leave, conversation clearly over.

“Your secret is safe with me,” Scott couldn’t resist saying one last time. Rozanov scoffed.

“Yes, Hunter, you have said. I believe you, don’t worry.”

“Not that one,” said Scott. Rozanov cocked an eyebrow at him. “Well, yes, obviously that one. But I won’t tell anyone you’re secretly a nice guy, either.”

Rozanov’s smile was crooked, almost shy, and looked more genuine than any expression Scott had ever seen on him. “Say whatever you want, Hunter, no one will believe you,” he said, and this time Scott let him leave.