Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

F/M, M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Gavin Free/Lindsay Jones/Michael Jones/Meg Turney

Additional Tags:

Crossover, Ottawa Centaurs Player Ilya Rozanov, Fundraisers, Gaming, Established Relationship, Polyamory, Propositions, Rejection

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-10-03 Words: 8,617 Chapters: 1/1

Jersey Number 1337

Summary

Ilya has attended a lot of charity events, but this one is by far the most unique.

Notes

This started as one section of a five times fic, but the word count kept growing and growing, expanding far more than the other sections had. Eventually I realised it had to be its own fic. I guess I have a lot of charity feelings??? (I miss getting AH ExtraLife every November. It was a staple event in my house)

I have no idea how readable this is if you don’t know AH? And since it’s RPF there’s no quick explanation I can give, besides what Ilya himself is learning. But if you want to watch Gavin and Michael getting pelted with moonballs this is 2019 here. They got 107 donations that year, but I figure adding a totally new set of (partially wealthy) fans would jack up the number.

Please note, Lindsay didn’t come out as nonbinary until Dec2020. I’m genderqueer myself (and constantly astonished at how the 4 year olds at my daycare request/use my cycling pronouns better than any of the staff) and one billion percent believe Ilya would accept and carefully use anybody’s too, but they’re not out in this time and I don’t like changing real people’s coming out stories.

Once the charter bus makes it to DIA, Ilya splits off from the rest of the Centaurs. They’re flying back to Ottawa, off three days before a home game against the Nomads. Ilya, on the other hand, has to take a two hour flight to Austin.

Top tier athletes like him, like Shane, they get invited to a lot. Offers have only gone up exponentially as the Foundation has made its footprint, Yuna making sure whole arenas of networking have built up around them. No one can attend everything, even the most philanthropic of athletes, but it’d be a real dick move -and bad press- to attend nothing. Otherwise alone in Ottawa, Ilya doesn’t mind spending a few hours on the less excruciatingly boring events. What else is he going to do with his time when he’s at home and the Metros are playing the Knights?

This one, though, has potential to be actually fun, Ilya thinks. It isn’t yet another dinner where people pay to eat tiny little foods near him. It’s no ball where he has to lead women who want to cop a feel in a box step. It’s the strangest charity thing he’s ever been invited to, and saying yes was basically a no brainer.

Apparently, just like some people would rather watch others play sports than play it themselves, some people would rather watch people play video games than try them out themselves. YouTube is saturated with the trend, and the biggest of these channels is a company called Achievement Hunter, that puts out gameplay videos every day, as well as behind the scenes vlogging, and podcasting. There’s also a whole network of parent and sister companies with their own topics and formats, animated shows and tech news and improv gameshows, and a handful of semi famous celebrities involved. And every November the most popular and crowd drawing members of each group get to perform during a chunk of a twenty four hour livestream. It’s an internet wide charity called ExtraLife, video gamers raising money for children’s hospitals, but ignoring that it’s not a competition Rooster Teeth fucking crushes every other participant in dollars raised. Not a cause Ilya can say no to.

Ilya’s flight lands in Austin-Bergstrom International at a quarter after five. He’s been requested to join the stream from seven to nine, so he has time to grab dinner first. The barbeque at Rudy’s is fantastic, even if Shane would rather die than eat the double order of brisket and sauce slathered ribs Ilya chows down. He’d take a picture of it to start a delightful lecture about clogged arteries, but he can’t fairly commit the time to an evening long text chain when he has to be on set shortly. Not to mention, where’s he going to enjoy himself for the inevitable sexting? His rental Porsche? The restaurant bathroom? Hiding under the craft services table?

The parking lot is half full when he drives up. Makes sense. From the bit of research his agent’s assistant has passed on to him, it’s kind of a company wide, no, multiple company wide day long party, full of liquor and stupid dares and shit talking for the camera. Who wouldn’t want to attend?

Ilya has to flash his credentials to someone who clearly doesn’t know who he is -which is fine, nerd and jock have overlaps but not completely- but then he’s in the building. The on camera host, up for the whole twenty four hours and probably slap-happy by the end of it, is a large bearded man named Jack, one of the main Achievement Hunter cast, and his wife Caiti. They don’t have time to greet him, but a kind teal haired intern shows him where he’s supposed to hang out until it’s the start of his segment. It’s approximately three minutes from entering the building to being offered a selection of booze. The vodka is shit, but they have rum and half a dozen juices to browse. Ilya doesn’t hang back from mixing himself a drink. There’s an obvious culture here, and he’s going to enjoy himself.

A few minutes before seven, broadcast puts up the commercial explaining ExtraLife, and where the hospital plans to spend its money this year. It airs hourly, fresh information for anyone just tuning in and brutally repetitive for any true fan watching half the stream or more. Half a dozen employees rush out to clear the set of the last hour’s detritus, while the past talent exits and the new enters. Ilya is one of them. He’s here for two bits, and from what he understands the first is supposed to start right at the top of the hour. Ilya’s going to be part of the Picture in Picture feed, he and a handful of men -named Blaine, Miles, and Cole, if he’s correct- playing Laich, specifically ‘15, the one he’s on the cover of, while the on the floor entertainment revolves around two other men. From the brief work up of Wesley’s Ilya knows Michael has a series where he gets really mad while playing shitty games, and Gavin has another channel dedicated to filming in slow motion, as well as being core personalities in AH. Fan favourites, even.

“Oh man, it’s about to get crazy,” Jack declares.

“Oh?”

“Team Nice Dynamite are one of the best donation blocks, along with 2Spooky,” Caiti explains.

“Whoot whoot,” Cole yells from the computer chair beside him. If Ilya had to guess, Cole’s a part of that time block.

“And Barb’s Bob Ross hour,” Jack adds. “Anything that really turns the Wheel Of Destiny into a punishment gatherer.”

Because that’s what makes this fundraiser fun, Ilya’s learned. There’s a segmented spinning wheel that must be spun any time a viewer donates exactly 1337 dollars, some nerd reference Ilya doesn’t get. But he doesn’t need to understand it to know that each pie slice with a ridiculous dare on it being performed by a half drunk loveable personality a certain portion of the internet has declared themselves parasocial with is a great way to encourage healthy spending. And the wallets open even wider for the twist Michael and Gavin put on it.

“Hey, I’m Miles,” says the lightly bearded man in the seat to his left. “Normally for this kind of guest thing we’d do a practice round, a warmup, but we’re pretty sure the community are going to want to see all of it. I’ll start with you, and maybe we’ll switch it up later, see how it goes.”

“Okay.” Ilya doesn’t care who he’s partnered with, he’s going to kick ass.

“Just remember, say what you’re thinking. You don’t have to force a script you make up, but the people watching want to hear whatever you want to say. A lot of people subscribe for the commentary, not the gameplay.”

“You’re Ilya fucking Rozanov, of course they want to hear you!” Blaine, on the other side of Cole, has muscles that speak to long hours in the gym. If he doesn’t play sports he at least works out like he does. Probably listening to Man In The Crease all the while.

“We’re repping Dallas, by the way,” Cole announces.

“You want Ottawa?” Miles asks, already toggling through the menu to the Centaur Captain like the choice is a given. It’s 2015 so Ilya’s obviously not on the roster, but Chewy and Bood will be.

“Ah, no. Better idea. More, um. Engagement?”

Ilya doesn’t have a massive social media presence. His public persona certainly isn’t one of privacy and ducking soundbites, he just doesn’t care if fans find him approachable. Regardless his follower count doesn’t reflect his average daily posts, and tonight seems like a good time to weaponise that. Take a page out of Shane’s book and post some immaculate endorsement posts, only this time there are genuine shits given for the product being sold.

Ilya takes a selfie of himself in front of the Laich loading screen. Checking it over shows a proper grin spread wide on his face, and enough of the game over his shoulder for the gamer-jocks to recognize it. Perfect.

For one night only I’m a Raider again. With @milesluna as my @cliffmarlowRAIDER we can’t lose. #Extralife2020 Streaming now. Ilya adds the link to the YouTube stream and posts.

Lucky for him, Boston’s not playing tonight. Cliff, who is completely addicted to Twitter, tweets back almost immediately.

No one can replace me! 💪500 bucks donated for every goal @ColeCoalKole and @AllButBlaine score.

Ilya refreshes once and Cliff’s already got a thousand likes. Time to capitalize. Never bet against me. 💪🏆🥇Also bet 1337 dollars, terrible things happen to @michaeljones and @slowmoGav when you do. 💵🤣🏒#AchievementHunter #ExtraLife2020

Jack’s not wrong. The moment the commercial finishes and the feed turns back to live the 1337 alarm starts going off. Michael and Gavin don’t even introduce themselves before the alarm wails, and loops the instant the first one stops. And again. And again. It just doesn’t stop. The leet donations are pouring in every second, seemingly every fan with excess money dumping it now. Ilya can hope that some of them are from his fans too, or Raiders fans. If you have enough money to buy season tickets you have enough money for charity.

“You know the controls?” Miles asks into the mic, deliberately. He knows Ilya knows, surely CC’d in the emails about Ilya live-streaming with them. It’s a question for the audience, and that means Ilya has to answer accordingly.

“Do I know the controls? I’m on the cover of the fucking game!”

“We’re completely fucking doomed,” Blaine says into his own mic. There’s a man with his iPhone out, in Blaine’s face, recording his come to Jesus moment. Ilya tucks that into the back of his head, that not only are his gameplay and commentary being recorded, but that there are about seven different angles being captured throughout the set. They may be background to Michael and Gavin now but that doesn’t mean he can’t be clipped and released in snippets online.

It’s a fun hour. He doesn’t keep much of an eye on the main show, the AH men and their antics. He’s got games to win, a rep to keep in front of his fans. He knows at least a few are watching, there have been leet donations from people announced as names like Rozanov’sLeftEyebrow and 3+3equals81. Miles set the first game for four minute periods, below the default, making each game last about twenty real minutes. The first and second Ilya plays with Miles. First Raiders Vs the Stars, to keep Cliff’s Twitter followers engaged. Then Raiders Vs the Admirals, strategically chosen to allow the chirping he’s known for. He can only hope fans are spamming at Scott to make him donate, like Cliff and Hammy and Holmsy and LP and Young have. The third game Ilya switches to play the Dukes with Blaine against the Cyclones, and it must be a family team, because Blaine goes off for at least five minutes about their historic 90s run. All three men are funny, and intelligent, even if there are way too many anime references only LaPointe could understand.

At eight Broadcast puts the commercial back on, and an intern sprints out to clean up some of the whipped cream before Gavin can slip again and break an ankle, while another refills drinks. Ilya lets Cole take care of setting up their last game, this one with five minute periods set to last twenty five real minutes, and another partner switch. It gives him the chance to pull out his phone and tweet again.

Thirty minutes left to help me devastate @michaeljones and @slowmoGav. 💪🏒😭 #AchievementHunter #ExtraLife2020

Also help children. But one is funnier than the other. 🤣 #ExtraLife2020

Either the men have their notifications on, or they have decided a bit of off camera introduction is necessary, because just after Ilya hits post the second time both halves of Team Nice Dynamite are slipping around the bank of computers to say hello. Ilya has to imagine it’s the second. Their notifications would be going fucking crazy during an event like this if that’s what caught their attention.

“So you’re going to murder us in half an hour,” Gavin says with a congeniality that comes with fame. Besides funny enough to have a channel with millions of subscribers, he’s also quite good looking. He’s basically the definition of an otter; lean and tall with a golden short trimmed beard and moustache to match his voluminous left parted hair, body hair visible not just on his long legs and thin arms but peeking out of the collar of his purple shirt. Ilya’s not quite sure what People Like Grapes is about, but he’s sure there are probably dozens of video based tshirt slogans the merch department has pumped out over the years.

“No no. Not at all,” Ilya denies with a returning smile that looks natural enough to say he doesn’t know he’s still being filmed. It might not be the main feed, but there’s surely archive footage that they’ll cut one of their BTS videos from. The Day We Met A Sportsball Player, or something. “I am MLH’s best player. I have the accuracy to not get you in the throat. Everywhere else is survivable.”

“Oh, reassuring, that is,” Gavin replies in his heavy British accent as behind him Michael grins.

“Don’t mind my boi, he’s only pretending to have a delicate constitution. There are like a dozen videos of us hurling moonballs at each other to disprove that bullshit.”

Gavin whirls on Michael with what Ilya could classify as pretty close to a pout. “Come on, boi, have a heart. That’s all, like, Jeremy and Matt and Geoff and all giving it a toss. This is a professional. You think you can compare Ilya Rozanov to Matt?”

“Fuck no! Don’t be a moron. I just don’t think if he was a cunt out to actively hurt people that he’d agree to a charity to help kids. Shit, he’s already part of a charity to help kids.”

“I will not hurt you. Much,” Ilya adds honestly. It’s not like he’s a Mite, like the cute framed picture of Shane at Yuna and David’s. It’s gonna bruise. They’ll just be fine, in a few days, once it all goes from black to purple to yellow.

Broadcast counts down the seconds until they’re live again, and the Internet personalities flock back to the main stage, as Ilya talks strategy for leading the Scorpions to decisive victory against Miles and Blaine. Why they picked the Mariners Ilya doesn’t know, the team’s special is crap. At eight thirty Michael and Gavin wrap up the bit they were doing with balloon animals and everyone seems to disappear off the sound stage in a matter of seconds. Ilya doesn’t know the goings on of the company, so he waits for direction.

It ends up being Caiti leading him outside, to a part of the lot illuminated by enough floodlights to drain the grid. There’s maybe a dozen people out there, including film crew and a safety officer. Frankly Ilya’s more interested in the Bauer net. It’s about thirty feet away from a spray painted line. At the right point of the line is a giant tub filled with pucks. It’s the other stunt the PR emails sold him on. Every member connected to Rooster Teeth tortures themselves during Extralife, or so he’s been told. But the sheer popularity of the duo means Michael and Gavin don’t have time to do individual spins. Instead they do a scaling punishment. Paintball, moonballs, really any kind of projectile. And this year, they’ve got the Captain of the Ottawa Centaurs taking a shot on goal per leet donation. Afterwards he’s promised to sign fifty for a raffle.

“You’ve just spent an hour watching Ilya Rozanov kick utter ass in MLH 15, but he’s not done yet. We managed to convince him to take a slapshot or two on our favourite dumbasses, who will be out in just a moment. Honestly, it didn’t take much convincing,” Jack amends to the camera. Ilya waits for a comment about his brutality, the terror he commits on ice that would fit in to the bloodthirstyness AH plays GTA with. It’d be a nerd compliment, but Ilya could play it up for the audience. It’s a surprise when Jack goes another way. “Ilya is co-founder of the Irina Foundation, which, if you haven’t heard, raises money and awareness for mental health. Past ExtraLife dollars have gone to the paediatric psychiatric unit, and I know everyone watching knows just how important of a cause it is. We appreciate every dollar you’re giving us and the children tonight, but consider a paycheque or two from now checking out IrinaFoundation.org.”

Okay, sudden infobomb it is. Ilya channels the spirit of Yuna, and steps into frame beside Jack. “We also appreciate every dollar, but the website isn’t just PayPal. There are many resources for if you find yourself or a loved one unwell. It is important to take care.”

“Yeah, man. Couldn’t agree more. So, Ilya, have you had-“ Jack cuts himself off as the men of the hour come out of the door. “Ah. Our goalies are here. Let's get things set up, and then we’ll get started.”

Ilya keeps his smile cocky as they settle in front of the net, sure the feed is cutting between himself and them. They’re the victims the fans love to torture, but he’s the instrument. They’re both the show. And despite Gavin’s worry, they’re not totally screwed. Gavin and Michael have come out in full goalie gear, with AH stylized hockey jerseys; green and black with some kind of weird triangle adjacent pipe thingy as their logo. It’s on their helmets too. No doubt the jersey’s going to be in their merch shop in the coming weeks. Probably with a cut of the proceeds going to ExtraLife too. Farah’s financial guy proved the generosity of Rooster Teeth’s contributions before Ilya signed on, not about to waste his time on a shitty campaign that only donated five percent of raised money. But Rooster Teeth isn’t that. They’re a company that makes charitable merch at cost.

Ilya tugs his phone out of his pocket. He wants to text to see if Shane is watching, but he’d kill him if one of the roaming cameras leads all of hockey Twitter to question who Jane is. Instead he takes a picture of Gavin and Michael standing in front of the net and captions it with Make All Stars 2021 Skills Comp less boring with live targets #ExtraLife2020 #MHL

A minute later finds Ilya stepping up to the spray painted line. The hockey stick they’ve provided is some dogshit hunk of wood pulled out of someone’s garage, but it’s fine. It’s not like he wants to actually obliterate them. Behind him are layers of people, the pure spectators the furthest back while the cameramen angle themselves where they need to be and Jack just beside him tells the Internet via the camera that they’ll be accepting leet donations up until Ilya’s last shot, but that they’re currently at a record breaking 189.

“Fucking what?” Michael screeches.

“Oh my god, whhhhy,” Gavin wails, banging on his mask with his gloved hands.

“Boys, you gonna die,” a bald man Ilya is pretty sure is also in the AH cast calls out from the standing audience. Michael raises his arm at him, seemingly forgetting you can’t flip someone off while wearing a goalie mitt.

Ilya looks up from the puck, certain at least one camera is recording him. “Come on, Roz Nation. This is your last chance to donate. If you love me, give. And hey, if you hate me? Maybe I hit too many pucks and tear my rotator cuff. Isn’t one thousand dollars worth the Ilya Rozanov on IR?”

Ilya lines up the edge of his stick with the puck. It’s counterintuitive to send the puck not to the top shelf or the five hole, but to the centre mass of the goalie, but that’s what he’s here for. Gavin shrieks in terror as the puck rockets towards them, but it easily hits Ilya’s goal of Michael’s stomach. The brunet grunts and staggers backwards into the net. Ilya grins, knowing at least one angle’s going to pick it up, then fishes the second puck out of the bucket to place on the pavement. That one he shoots to Gavin, who gets it in the arm after covering his belly in fear. A completely uncensored ‘fuck!’ rings out, captured for thousands to hear.

“One each boys. Ninety to go. How we feeling?” Jack interviews.

“I’m going to die, I’m literally going to die,” Gavin exclaims.

“Bring it,” Michael taunts.

As Ilya goes to pluck up his third puck, two women run onto the set from where Ilya vaguely remembers seeing them in the crowd. One’s larger with blue streaked bleach blonde hair and a shirt proclaiming RWBY. The other has truly great tits and long brunet pigtails dip-dyed purple for the last foot. She immediately gives off Insta thirst trap, while the first woman seems more ‘one of the guys’. Probably she’s worked at Achievement Hunter longer, to fully assimilate.

“More alternative camera angles?” Ilya asks. He can’t imagine them needing even more than what they’ve already got, but it’s a more generous interpretation than possible puck bunny interns approaching to make a move. After all, it’s not like the public knows he’s long since stopped hooking up in favour of being in love with the hottest sure thing in the land.

“That, puck liner upper, water boy. Whatever it takes to be in the action,” RWBY-lover vows.

“You’re a traitor Lindsay,” Michael shouts out.

“For better or for worse, Michael,” she yells back towards the net. Turning back to Ilya and the primary camera she starts, “If you get tired-“

Ilya whips his head towards her. “Me? Tired?”

“Okay, rephrase. I want to shoot at least ten pucks at my husband. Please, sir. Please.”

“Fuck you,” Michael yells across the lot with clear amusement in his voice. Ilya’d bet if he dug into their videos together he’d find them always pranking and talking shit about each other.

“Boyfriend, but same,” the alt model says.

“Meg!” Gavin faux wails from the net.

Aware of the cameras on him, Ilya makes a show of looking from them to the reluctant goalies before winking. “I will give you this. But not because I’m tired. Never in life have I gotten tired, Russians do not do this.”

Each subsequent shot produces a shriek before they’re even hit. Dozens of pucks come at them and never do they dull their panic. Ilya can’t imagine Hazy being so terrified he’d shriek at any player in the League coming at him. Can’t imagine anyone being that theatrically weak. But Michael and Gavin live in a different on camera space than he does. Their fans want them to emote, and rage, and collapse. It’s not about being elite, and competent, and masculine. They’re influencers who play video games and do dares, and stoic masculinity does not gain subscribers.

Ilya doesn’t take every single shot. Lindsay and Meg both take their turns, as promised. The bald AHer, Jeremy, comes out in an old man mask and wheezes chirps at Michael specifically. Some of them are funny enough that Ilya would take notes if tonight wasn’t so publicly marketed that he’d be caught plagerising. That’s way too lame. Jack takes three shots, and biffs them all, badly enough that Ilya’s surprised they don’t call for a redo. Thankfully both halves of a duo that look identical beyond the different ethnicities do much better in making contact, and a black woman Michael calls FeFe to get Mikey in exchange makes all ten shots on him given.

It is him for the majority of it, however. Ilya tries to make as much of a show of it as he can. There’s a wide audience here, thousands of people he can’t see, and for the money they’re handing over they deserve to be entertained. He accepts Gavin and Michael being theatrical to honour their fans and provides his own cocky Russian menace for any MLHer tuning in to see just what the Ilya Rozanov is doing tonight. It’s two parts fake one part real, just like he’s sure all their videos are, the best of them blown up to eye catching proportions, but it provides a career. A future.

Ilya isn’t expecting a donation from Shane. Various Centaurs and Raiders, yes, plus whoever else the MLH fans can bully on social media, but Shane has a game. Metros vs Flames. It’s with great joy, then, that three quarters of the way into the bit Ilya receives ten 1337 donations, one alarm blaring after another, all given by user 1410.

It splits the mood, outside. Jack is frantically consulting with Caiti and online admin to see if there’s something wrong with the system, resending a donation multiple times. Michael and Gavin are yelling about how it must be fake, no one would be that much of a rich sadistic lunatic. And then there’s Ilya, carefully concealing just how fucking warm the obnoxious alarm noise has made him feel. He might be the only one on premises actually happy, beyond the outer sphere of spectators. Unfortunately he can’t assist in a mood change; he has no way of safely telling anyone it’s not spam or a breaking system, Shane is just happy to spend thirteen k on the health of kids and supporting his boyfriend. He’s risking Thériault being furious if he gets caught with a phone mid-game, but Shane’s been working on being more supportive amidst the ugliness of perpetual long distance and this one’s easy.

“With no more last minute leet donations we’re down to five pucks,” Jack explains to any viewer that hasn’t been doing the math, some time later.

“I will make them count,” Ilya vows.

“Or you don’t have to do that,” Michael jokes.

“Oh yeah. What's the likelihood of that, with Ilya Slitty over here killing the piss out of me?” Gavin yelps.

“Haven’t we paid enough?”

Ilya shakes his head slowly, making sure to pop the syllable when he says “nope.”

“Let’s give Captain Ilya Rozanov a cheer for all he’s done, for us and others. Hockey season started in October, and I’m sure the Centaurs will annihilate, just like he annihilated Team Nice Dynamite. And remember, if you or someone you know needs help, please check out IrinaFoundation.org.”

Everyone outside does as Caiti says. A resounding chorus of whoos ring through the night air, and applause scatters itself like confetti.

“Alright! Our final countdown!” Jack hypes.

Lindsay hustles to place the last five pucks in a line, and they do just that. Everyone in the parking lot shouts, “five! Four! Three!” as Ilya rapidfire shoots off the last charity-purchased pucks.

“And that’s it, folks. With a record breaking two hundred and five leet donations, all you brilliant motherfuckers have raised almost two hundred and seventy five thousand dollars in the last two hours alone. That’s not counting all the time and money we’ve put in already, or the merch and exclusive poster sales, or the auction. Let’s keep it rolling for Extra Life 2020. Take a walk, stretch it out, get a drink, and come back at nine!”

Jack’s words no doubt prompt broadcast to switch the stream feed back to the hourly commercial. Ilya doesn’t make the mistake of thinking he’s no longer being filmed, just knows whatever comes next will be carefully cut and compiled for complimentary stories, rather than straight live-streaming. Most of the crowd drifts back inside, including the main camera crew. A few employees start to gather all the pucks from where they’ve rebounded after striking the goals. Ilya should probably help them out, the kind of etiquette no one would believe of him en masse despite the internet having hundreds of positive encounter tweets over the years. He’s distracted, though. Curious as to Michael and Gavin’s reactions to the bombardment now that it’s all over.

Gavin’s is claustrophobia, apparently. He’s pushing inefficiently at the leg pads with his gloves still on, almost frantically. “Someone get me out of this stuff!”

“I want to fall to the ground but I don’t think I could get back up,” Michael admits, unused to the mighty bulk.

“Charity goalies like turtles would make for nice behind the scenes, no?”

“Oi! I don’t need no guff from you. You play the other part of hockey, you don’t got none of these gubbins. No faffing padding!”

Ilya knows less than half of what Gavin’s saying. He’s known Brits in the league, but none of them speak quite like this man does. Are those all even swears? But regardless, he’s wrong. “Centres do wear pads, for the record. Like seatbelt in car. Would be moronic not to.” He’s not having some parent group blaming him when their stupid son doesn’t wear proper gear on ice and gets hurt.

“This is not the craziest Halloween costume I’ve dealt with, lemme help,” Lindsay offers.

Ilya watches as she proceeds to tug off Michael’s gloves, then Gavin’s, leaving them free to undress themselves. It probably says a lot about their personalities that after the helmets are off Gavin immediately transitions to ripping off his neck protector, his jersey, his chest protector like it’s all covered in acid, while Michael much more calmly works off his leg pads.

“We did good, boi,” Michael says. His AH merch shirt is no underarmour, that’s for sure. The bubblegum blue is dark with sweat, and one sleeve is bunched up on his delt as Michael slings a bruise mottled arm over Gavin’s shoulder.

“You did,” Meg agrees, stepping in to the right to kiss her equally sweaty boyfriend.

“You totally did. Icepacks for everyone!” Lindsay agrees before stepping in at the left to kiss her husband, who’s still tucked around his best friend/coworker. If the women were holding hands it’d be a full circuit.

It’s Meg who breaks the intimacy, taking a few steps back from the group. “I gotta get in. Always Open hour starts in what, two minutes?”

“Always Open?” Ilya asks.

“A funny story and relationship advice podcast under the Rooster Teeth umbrella. With a dedicated mixologist, and really creative cocktails,” Meg explains.

“It’s great. Rooster Teeth’s always been pretty dick heavy, but Always Open’s a rotating cast of almost exclusively women. Except the crossover episodes, but that’s a decided on bit,” Lindsay adds.

Ilya too, has to go in. He’s just been given two tote bags full of pucks for him to sign. It’s his last duty of the night, as promised via email. He’s not all that surprised when Gavin and Michael and Lindsay follow them through the door, Ilya slotted neatly behind Meg so he can get in without a keycard. They’re all close friends, clearly. The vibe of them is stronger, more real, than a coworker relationship displayed for the camera would be. They’ll probably get a late dinner together, after Always Open hour, before splitting off to their own homes.

At first Ilya stays because he’s got auction materials to sign. In premium gold autograph marker, because this company has conventions and shit, they know the best brands of ‘signing shit for an hour’ pens. He scrawls his name and ExtraLife2020 on one side, large enough to take up the whole width of the puck. His notation on the other side is smaller, just a x/50 number. Hard to believe they’ll sell for much, considering he gives them away at the arena for free, and has since rookie year, but every dollar counts, he supposes.

Then he stays because Always Open’s main bit seems to be genuinely advising ridiculous Reddit posts. The on set furniture has been rearranged to include an oval table, and at it sit five women; a blonde named Barbara, a hilarious lesbian named Mariel, a goth named Jessica, FeFe from outside, and Meg. They each have fancy cocktails, though half the wedges on the Wheel of Destiny are for horrific shots, like Baileys and lime, or vodka and vinegar. The women sip through them as they read stupid people’s absurdities aloud, and Ilya keeps looking up from his pile of rubber to listen.

The fourth time Ilya chuckles at a reply long enough for the camera to pick it up, Fiona -FeFe must be a nickname- asks if the phantom giggler wants to come on set. Ilya briefly considers fleeing, but there’s really no reason to say no. True he only promised two hours of his time, but he’s not getting paid, there’s no contract to renegotiate. He could stay all stream if he wanted to. Bypass the lonely hotel room altogether, go for breakfast and head right to the airport tomorrow morning.

“Uh, sorry,” Ilya says, coming visibly onto set.

“You shouldn’t be sorry for laughing. They should be sorry for doing that to Henry’s couch,” Fiona points out.

“Yes. Henry deserves, how do you say… compensation?”

“Uh, can we get another chair, I guess?” Barb asks the crew.

“Don’t search too hard. If you can’t find one, one of us can sit in his lap,” Jessica mutters.

“The hockey thighs are harder than you think,” Ilya quickly replies. “Takes certain calibre of person to sit comfortably.”

“And you… have that already? Did we know you have a girlfriend?” Barb asks.

Ilya can’t directly refute the gender. He doesn't have his visa yet. But he can massage the words in a way that doesn’t leave Shane feeling denied. “Have someone with ass like a pillow on hard thighs? Yes. Am very lucky. And probably the Raiders figured out. Centaurs are less nosy. Respectful Canadians and all.”

“I will drink to a good ass,” Mariel announces, instead of chasing the reveal of ‘dating since the Raiders’. Another point to queers clocking each other, Ilya thinks. She’s definitely figured it out, and she just as clearly isn’t going to pursue information to make it awkward for him.

Ilya continues to not leave. Once he’s got a chair for Always Open hour, there’s no reason to go. He even does a mayonnaise shot when the Wheel lands on that cruelty. He has no illusions as to the retching gifs that will be used on Twitter in the coming weeks. And then ten pm is also led by Barbara, though this time with the skinny white twin, Trevor, as cohost. Not that there’s much hosting to be done. It’s Bob Ross hour; a dozen cross company employees struggling through painting by instruction. Barb and Trevor don’t tell anyone anything, they just try to keep up to the videos like everyone else. It shouldn’t cause as much anxiety as it does, but half the participants are melting down, to the amusement of the fans. Bob Rossanov donates 1337 three times, financial mockery of Ilya’s struggle. Eleven pm is hosted by a remote group from LA called FunHaus, and they’re like a team made up of all goalies. Fucking baffling humans, each one of them, but attention keeping enough that Ilya doesn’t even consider ditching during their alien home shopping network longform sketch thing.

Around four am Ilya loses his wind. 2Spooky had a great command of their two hour block, and between R/NoSleep stories read aloud and ridiculous leet punishments and slap-Twister Ilya only yawned once or twice, but the four am cast are some Rooster Teeth affiliate who’s main bit seems to be arguing about which cross franchise video game characters would kick each other’s asses. It’s the kind of speech Ilya’d expect from Hazy, with no personal relationship built in that has Ilya attempting to care. It isn’t long before he’s standing with vague intention to search the studio and beyond for a room with a couch. He doesn’t mind staying until the last block, fully selling until the last possible minute, but a nap is so much better than this. Especially since he consented to two different Wheel punishments, both of which are going to be used against him for all eternity in the form of gifs and chirping. He needs a minute away.

Ilya doesn’t get far before he’s being approached by his ex goalies and their significant others. They, too, look like they’re running on fumes, all a little worse for wear after the great time that was 2Spooky. Gavin’s beard has the smallest traces of the floor spaghetti, and Lindsay’s hair is still in the mess of little braids Meg started folding as a distraction during r/NoSleep. Not to mention the bruising starting to come in.

“We can drop you off at your hotel, or you can crash with us,” Michael offers.

“You are leaving too?”

“Five to six is going to be an hour of Werewolf-“

“A roleplaying card game,” Lindsay interrupts to explain.

“Which is just not enticing enough to stay up. Don’t tell Jack,” Gavin finishes.

“I think you’ve already paid your dues, maybe.” They’re going to be sore tomorrow, that’s for sure.

“Goddamn right,” Meg affirms.

Ilya has a hotel room, technically. He booked it online while devouring all the delicious meat at Rudy’s. But his gear went home with the Centaurs, and he never actually checked in, his backpack is just in his rental. Eating an actual breakfast cooked at a location with actual appliances rather than trying to scrounge from a lacklustre Continental buffet sounds nice. He looks from Michael and Lindsay to Gavin and Meg. “Which house?”

“Doesn’t matter. We kind of go back and forth.”

It doesn’t necessarily have to mean something. Maybe they live on opposite sides of Austin, and sometimes they don’t want to waste forty five minutes in commute. It’s no doubt easier to crash drunk in the guest room than pay for an Uber home, and as witnessed tonight there’s a definite drinking culture amongst their career field. And yet, the way Lindsay spoke filled the comment with an innuendo Ilya can’t help but pick up on. You’d have to be blind, not to.

“Are you swingers?” He asks. He can read the room. No one is trying to joke Lindsay’s words into a new meaning. Everyone is eyeing him in their own different way, but they’re all on tenterhooks, waiting. They want him to ask. And considering Ilya yearns for the day he can talk about his own unique relationship, he gives them what they want. He gives them recognition.

“Close,” Michael shrugs.

“Something like that,” Gavin agrees.

“Swingers are very hetero-coded. Which, gross,” Meg declares. Ilya would bet money on her being the publically out one. But the implication is they’re all not-hetero, whatever that details. Makes the look Gavin is giving him make more sense.

“You’re telling me real quick,” Ilya prompts. It’ll give them the opportunity to brag that they’re confident in what they have. That has to feel nice, to be able to brag.

“It’s not something we talk about on any of the Podcasts. The RPFers would go bloody mental.” Gavin says.

“Oh, you have those too?” Hollanov obviously reigns supreme, and he likes what the fandom has done now that they run a charity together. Rozaleau is just fuckin’ funny, and Boodanov might be his new favourite. The less said about Pikeanov and Huntanov the better.

“A ton. Shit, a leet wheel spin this morning was Larry, one of the editors, live writing fic then reading it out,” Lindsay replies.

Sounds like they handle it better than some of the hockey players Ilya knows. There was a niche pocket for Vic and Carmichael, StCarmy, probably only three authors total, but every time it came up Ryan lost his shit about the ‘perv fans’. He can only imagine how shitty the Guardians and the Metros were and continue to be. Haasy blushes whenever you mention shipping. And then there’s Marley, tweeting to ask for more fanart, like he didn’t know half of it would involve him sucking dick.

“But yeah, we don’t tell fans, but we’re not exactly subtle,” Michael shrugs again. “Pretty sure most of RoosterTeeth has an inkling.”

So they’re semi-out as non-monogamous, and they’re inviting him to follow them out of the building. Interesting. “You want me to come to your house?”

“Yeah.”

“You want me to come home with you?” Only a slight difference in words gives it an entirely different meaning. English is so annoying sometimes.

“I mean no pressure buddy. Us wanting to doesn’t mean you want to,” Michael reassures.

“Yeah. You’re a hot hockey player with pecs bigger than my tits but technically we’re a Jersey family, so it’s not like it’s Sam Gallagher turning us down,” Lindsay jokes.

“Or saying yes? Don’t be such pessimists,” Meg pouts.

“You are kidding. Gallagher put up fifty seven points this season. Mediocrity is a turn off, no?”

“Ouch,” Lindsay says, clutching her chest as she pretends Ilya’s wounded her.

“I can come to your home, but not your bed. You are good people, for what you’ve done tonight. And sexy.” There’s no denying that Meg is a Insta model, that Michael is an amateur weightlifter and Gavin is sleekly furry and Lindsay seems like she’d have a great exploratory attitude in bed. “But I have moy lyubimyy, my beloved, and they are not open in this way.”

“Again, not Sam Gallagher, so care less about your media, but aren’t you known for sleeping around?”

“Check receipt dates, Lindsay Jones. It has been a while.”

“So you’re really seeing someone, not just faking it to hide being single from your fans?”

“Being single in our cultures doesn’t mean the same thing, I don’t think. For gamers it goes sad lonely guy. One step away from incel grossness. For hockey it is badge of honour, proof of endless conquests. Will get more shit from tied down than being single.”

“But they’re worth it?” Meg asks. The word choice could be innocent but Ilya doesn’t think so. Being bi herself she no doubt picked up on the pronoun avoidance just like Mariel. Queers really are smartest.

“Yes. He is worth everything,” Ilya answers. Shane might throttle him later, but these minor celebrities are no threat to him. They have the same secret, as well as prying internet fans who are clueless but think they know everything. Imagine shipping Hollanov but thinking Shane tops, or that it happened for the first time at 2017 All Stars. Imagine shipping Mavin, like the two men don’t adore their wives.

“Good for you, man.”

“Awesome. Do you like cats?”

That has an easy answer. “Dogs are superior, but they’re fine. Why?”

“Ours has five, dunnit?” Gavin answers.

“Sure. Let me pet your cats.” If nothing else, it’ll make a good selfie. Just like something in Ilya melts when he sees pictures of Shane with the Pike kids, Shane seems to respond quickly to any tweet or text featuring him with animals. God bless the Harris clan and their acres of dog friendly land.

“Did you spend half your million dollar salary to cab here, or-?” Michael asks, clearly the practical one of the group.

“Rented a Porsche.”

“Of course you did, Mr Showboat,” Meg laughs.

Lindsay rattles off what is on paper Meg and Gavin’s house, and Ilya keys it into his phone. He has every intention of following them, but it’s good to have a back up in case they get split up at a light.

They spend barely a minute together, once they pull up to the sprawling two storey house. YouTube pays, apparently. Driving gave Ilya a bit of a boost -the Porsche handled so nicely- but turning down the sex invitation has taken the wind out of their sails, understandably. No longer an option, he’s not someone they have to be their most seductive selves with, and that makes Lindsay sit down in the middle of the foyer to start petting three of the aforementioned cats. You’d think she had meat in her pocket, they’re so all over her. Gavin declares his intent to have a steaming hot shower for his pains, and Meg says she’ll be right there, though she takes the time to show Ilya to the kitchen, Michael following behind them. The water turns on in the background as Meg chugs a flavoured seltzer and Michael offers a orange Gatorade to Ilya as he takes one for himself. Meg slips away with a quick ‘goodnight’ and between one second and another Michael disappears too. Awkward, but maybe they don’t face rejection often, and don’t know how to deal with it. Or maybe Michael just wants in on the shower. Ilya can’t blame him. He's had some truly good shower sex with Shane.

Half a litre in, Ilya caps his drink. He should probably join Lindsay on the hardwood, at least for a little bit. She can tell him which guest room is his, and where he can get a clean towel, if Gavin and company are too busy to replace them. Plus, he wants to pet the mega fat grey cat, maybe pose himself around it. He thinks it’ll make Shane smile in the morning, when he gets up painfully early for his run.

He’s just got a picture with Ziggy when Michael comes clomping back down the hall. Either it was the quickest blowjob and dry off known to man, or he didn’t actually join the couple. He’s in pyjama pants and an AH branded long sleeved shirt, and he squats beside his wife, dismissing petting the animals in favour of curving a hand around her jaw.

“Go to bed, crackhead. They’ll be here in the morning.”

“But I love them!” Lindsay whines, both hands working hard on two of the three stampeding on her plush thighs. If Ilya knew them a little better, knew where their sore spots were so he wouldn’t accidentally tread, he’d make a joke about if she loves Gavin and Meg, or just the access to cats they provide.

“No shit,” Michael scoffs.

Almost like Michael’s light bullying has given her permission, Lindsay yawns and stands up. She leans in for a kiss from the now standing man, then heads down the same hallway. It leaves Ilya alone in the hall with Michael, a cat coming to investigate his ankle.

“You wanna play more ‘Laich, or are you off the clock?”

“You want to play video games? Aren’t you the one off the clock?”

Michael tug up one of his sleeves to show off a tattooed arm. Ilya doesn’t recognise most of the symbols and characters, but he gets the point when Michael says, “how do you think I got a video game playing job?”

“Point.”

“I’m sensing a lack of enthusiasm. Mario?”

“Maybe a few laps of MarioKart?” He should try to get a nap in before his flight. It’ll be easier to drive to Montreal tomorrow if he’s at least somewhat rested.

Having agreed, Ilya has no choice but to follow Michael to what he assumes will be a media room. House this big, no way there’s not a media room. Michael stops at the junk drawer in the kitchen first, to pull out some duct tape. It’s with amusement that Ilya watches Michael tape a series of frozen margarita bags to his arms and thighs, the change of clothes making sense now. You don’t have to be a professional athlete to know ice shouldn’t go directly on skin for long.

“Take a picture?” Michael asks.

Michael passes Ilya his phone. It occurs to him as he’s playing with the lighting options to make the makeshift icepacks really pop that at no point has this group asked for his number or implied they should be texting buddies. Most people want to blow up his phone the moment they realise he’s famous. Michael and co being cool paradoxically makes him want to share info. They might not relate to major facets of his life the way Bood or Choui or Marley do, but they have a shared secret.

After he tweets, with surely a caption about the aftermath of ExtraLife -Ilya will retweet it and follow him tomorrow- Michael grabs his once abandoned drink and leads the way. There is in fact a media room, though only one of the herd of the cats deigns to hop up on the couch with them. Michael skritches its head, but doesn’t let that distract him from building his character. Yoshi, to Ilya’s King Boo, against the computer characters.

It’s a fun fifteen minutes, shit talking each other through a few races. It’s far too sedate to be what Ilya wants to do for a living, but he can understand the niche. But when Ilya yawns, only half theatrically, Michael once again admonishes someone to go to bed. This time it’s without a loving insult, or a caress, but there’s still a sense of care. Ilya’s pretty sure Michael’s just the father figure type, albeit with some millennial heavy cursing.

Ilya leaves Michael loading Zelda to locate the guest room he’s been given basic instructions towards. It’s nicely decorated, though every framed poster is nerdy as hell. The sheets are high quality when he strips down to his briefs and crawls under the blanket. And it’s far enough away from the master that Ilya can barely hear the sex at least two of the three are having. Personally Ilya wouldn’t be staying across the house if Shane was making that kind of muffled noise, but that’s probably the benefit of a group relationship; if you’re not one hundred percent up for wild sex with the partner you love, someone else can take care of them while you ice your wounds.

Not wanting to go to bed without saying goodnight, even if Shane is long since asleep in Vegas, Ilya texts his picture of his hand stretched over Ziggy’s fur, cat temporarily relocated to his shoulder.

hotels wouldn’t be losing to airb&b if they had hotel pets
Goodnight, solnyshko

Much to Ilya’s surprise, text bubbles come up as Shane starts typing back.

You got an airb&b? Did you check the reviews?

Aww, his fantastic neurotic baby. Shane’s owned a blacklight flashlight as long as Ilya’s known him. He probably checks for hidden cameras the moment he walks into a new rental property. Vrbo, he thinks it’s called in Canada.

staying with a few of the AH cast, actually.
If they invite me again next year you should come.

Ilya hopes they do invite him back. He’s learned that there are a bunch of reoccurring guests that drop in, like the head chef of McDonalds, or some guy called Buckley from a tv show called In Betweeners. He could be their jock friend.

Not sure it’s the right arena for me.

Come on kotenok. They already painted my nails Metros colours, there’s nothing worse the Wheel of Destiny can do to you.

I saw.

Have you been watching me whole stream? Ilya grins at the screen thinking about it.

Outside of my game, obviously. Yes.

I look good on your laptop? Ilya can’t help but flirt when he feels so fucking loved.

I wanted those blue fingers in me.

Wanted? He prompts.

Still want.
Can I call?

Ilya thumbs the green button instantly. And to think he could be having an orgy with some hot kind strangers right now. There’s really no comparison.