Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Post-Book 2: Heated Rivalry (Game Changers), Pre-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, and he always has, Ilya Rozanov is a Menace, Humor, Fluff

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-19 Words: 4,866 Chapters: 1/1

Centerfold

Summary

"I knew it!" Ilya crows much too loudly, smacking Shane in the chest with the magazine. "Shane Hollander, did you buy this to jerk off to?!"

Or: Ilya is tasked with helping Shane clean out his childhood bedroom. He is totally, completely, extremely normal about this.

Notes

This fic takes place between Heated Rivalry and The Long Game, during the summer after Ilya's first season with the Centaurs

"I know, Mom," Shane says for what must be the tenth time in the last several minutes. He paces slowly from one end of Ilya's living room to the other, like a mimicry of a toy soldier as he wears a path into the carpet. Ten steps across, 180-degree turn on the ball of his foot, ten steps back until Ilya is half-hypnotized with the repetition, the mindless game he'd been playing on his phone abandoned in his lap.

Shane makes another sound of assent, not even bothering to form actual words this time, which means Yuna has really hit her stride. Phone calls with her have been like this a lot lately. The stress of moving, mixed with the exhilaration of all the minutiae she has to plan for on a daily basis, have come together to turn her usual chattiness into frequent monologuing. Ilya doesn't mind it too much, but it's been driving Shane up the wall. So much so that's he's found excuses for them to beg off the last several Hollander family dinners. Which is just as well for Shane, but Ilya is getting tired of eating rabbit food. He's started having dreams about David Hollander's cooking — which wasn't really something he would have ever pictured happening in his life, but here he is.

"Mom, I really have to go," Shane says. It's not the first time he's tried to get her off the phone, but he seems determined to make it the last. "Okay. Okay, I have to go. Yeah, I love you, too. Okay, bye. Bye. Goodbye."

Shane hangs up the phone at long last, tossing it onto the couch before flopping face-down on it himself, his feet coming to rest in Ilya's lap.

"How is Yuna?" Ilya asks lightly, receiving only a pained groan from Shane in response. The movie they'd been watching long since forgotten about, Ilya slides down to the floor, moving to sit near the opposite end of the couch, where Shane's face is pressed to the soft fabric. He runs his fingers through Shane's hair — shorter on the sides now, but still long enough for Ilya to get a hold on, when he wants to do that sort of thing. Shane settles into his touch easily, scooting closer to the edge and giving Ilya better access to play with his hair.

"I still don't understand why they want to move," Shane complains, his words somewhat muffled, given that his face is still half-smushed into the couch. "Their house is fine."

"Is very big for just the two of them," Ilya says gently. He knows Shane doesn't see it, but during this last season with Ottawa, Ilya had visited the elder Hollanders without him many times. So he understands, maybe better than Shane ever could — their house is one meant for a family, and when Shane isn't there, the absence of him is palpable.

Maybe it's just that Shane has never seen the house without himself in it, or maybe Ilya is just a bit more familiar with grief. The way you can miss someone, even when they're standing right in front of you. Yuna and David can love Shane, can be so proud of him that they're practically bursting with it, and yet still miss the little boy in the pictures that line every wall. The one who needed them to tuck him into bed at night, and drive him to every practice. The one who lives in the notches marking his height in the kitchen doorway, and the scuffs on the baseboards from the pucks he used to knock around any moment he wasn't at the rink.

Ilya may not know much about family, but he knows about haunted houses.

Pulling his knees up to his chest, Ilya traces the curve of Shane's bottom lip with his thumb, banishing those thoughts as he feels Shane's smile form against his fingertips.

"I don't think we're going to be able to get out of dinner this weekend," Shane says, his eyebrows drawing together, though he still doesn't open his eyes.

"Oh no," Ilya says sarcastically, his stomach practically growling at the promise of normal food after a summer of making meals that comply with Shane's performance diet. God, he misses cheese. "How terrible."

"You say that now, but we have to clean out my old room while we're there."

"You mean your dad is going to cook for me, and I get to dig through all of your embarrassing childhood possessions?" He asks, wheels already turning in his head. "Can we go right now?"

Ilya cries out as Shane bites down on the thumb he doesn't manage to pull away in time.

---

Because this is Yuna Hollander's house, there are already pre-labeled boxes waiting for them in Shane's room. One for trash, one for donation, and one for Shane and Ilya to take home with them — because Yuna was very clear from the moment they crossed the threshold that nothing from Shane's room will be making the trip to the new house with them.

Ilya takes a detour from their assigned task the moment Yuna turns her back, wandering to the kitchen to see what they might be having for dinner. He's greeted by the most beautiful sight he can possibly imagine — a large wedge of cheese, just waiting on the cutting board. Unable to resist, Ilya grabs a knife from the block, cutting a large piece for himself before David can scold him for eating his ingredients.

Catching wise to Ilya's plan, David pulls the rest of the wedge from his reach, but Ilya doesn't care — he got what he came for. He makes an obnoxiously loud sound as he takes a bite of his stolen bounty, catching Shane's attention from the living room.

"You're ridiculous," Shane says affectionately, leaning against the doorway and crossing his arms over his chest.

"You've deprived me of cheese all summer," Ilya complains, despite his mouth still being half-full.

"You don't let him have cheese?" David asks, positively scandalized by the revelation.

"He's a grown man!" Shane argues, incensed that they're ganging up on him already. "He can do what he wants!"

"He starves me," Ilya says seriously. "Never buys the snacks I put on the grocery list. I think he is trying to make me lose muscle mass — better chances for Montreal next season."

Shane rolls his eyes, swatting at Ilya's arm. "Montreal's chances are just fine, thank you very much. Now come on, we have a job to do."

Ilya heaves a sigh, following Shane out of the kitchen. He brightens significantly when David catches his wrist as he passes, sneaking another large chunk of cheese into Ilya's eager hands.

"Like children," Shane mutters as he heads for the stairs, knowing exactly what's transpiring behind him without bothering to turn around.

---

"Hollander. We have to take this."

"No."

"Is very important."

"Fuck off. Put it back with the trash."

"We cannot throw out your kindergarten hockey league participation trophy," Ilya says, carefully swiping dust away from the dulled plaque with the pad of his thumb. "I want to put it up next to your Stanley Cup rings."

Ilya dodges the pillow Shane launches at him without looking up, able to read him much too well after so many years.

So far, Ilya's only contribution to the day has been making a nuisance of himself. While Shane has been working diligently, Ilya has spent his time pulling out every item designated for the trash as soon as Shane puts them there, reassigning at least half to the take home box and forcing Shane to wrestle them away.

But Shane knows Ilya at least as well as Ilya knows him, which means he knew exactly what he was signing up for when he invited Ilya along to assist with this task. Between that, and the terrible job Shane is doing at pretending he isn't amused by the antics, Ilya doesn't really feel too bad for him.

Ilya's next find is a veritable treasure trove. It's shoved down in the bottom corner of the discard box, tucked beneath a well-worn high school textbook — clearly something Shane didn't want him to find. Intrigued, Ilya digs out the small bundle of silky material, holding it out of reach as Shane makes a swipe for it.

"You did not tell me you used to be a swimmer," Ilya accuses, tugging apart the tangled ribbons.

"When I was like six," Shane grumbles, a flush rising in his cheeks. His disproportionate embarrassment only fuels Ilya's curiosity, driving him to look closer at the ribbons. They are indeed designed for children, a big-eyed, cartoon fish printed on them in gold and silver. There's no ranking listed at the top of the ribbons, and Ilya is almost ready to write them off as yet more participation awards when he notices the script at the bottom. In small letters, every single ribbon proclaims: somebody else won, but I had fun!

"Shane. Hollander." Ilya says, his voice flat and disbelieving. Shane doesn't acknowledge him, just lets out an annoyed huff and keeps his focus intent on the stack of books he's sorting through.

Undeterred, Ilya holds up one of the ribbons, the yellow loop of string at the top hooked over his pointer finger. "Are you telling me there is something in the world that you are actually bad at?"

"I'm not bad at swimming," Shane grumbles, the flush climbing yet higher to claim his ears.

"This giant stack of last place ribbons would say otherwise."

"They are not last place ribbons!" Shane explodes, snatching the offending items out of Ilya's hands and hurling them back in the box. "Only first through fifth place got real ribbons! Everyone else got these!"

Ilya's entire body is vibrating with mirth. Of course Shane would still remember such trivial details a solid two decades later. This man never fails to delight him. "Is okay, solnyshko. You do not have to defend your very bad swimming to me."

"Fuck off."

"We should get you some floaties before we go back to the cottage, yes? Like the ones we got for Amber, with the little princesses on them?"

Too distracted by the thrill of this new discovery, Ilya doesn't see it coming when Shane tackles him to the floor, his palms coming down flat to pin Ilya's shoulders to the carpet. His eyes are narrowed, glaring down at Ilya in his best feral kitten imitation. Ilya just grins back up at him, abdominal muscles contracting as he tries and fails to stifle his laughter.

"You're such an asshole."

"It's okay, Shane," Ilya says in his best soothing voice, smoothing his hands up over Shane's back and letting them rest at his waist. "It is good for you to be bad at things sometimes. Good character building."

Shane growls low and quiet in his throat, pressing down hard for a moment on Ilya's shoulders, causing him to bounce a little against the floor. He opens his mouth to give some cutting remark in response, but before he gets a chance the bedroom door, stiff with disuse, creaks open the rest of the way as Yuna bumps it with her hip, another large box of Shane's belongings in her arms.

Shane releases his grip on Ilya immediately, embarrassed at having been caught in a mildly compromising position, though Yuna looks entirely unfazed. Ilya lets his own hands fall to the floor, acquiescing for the sake of Shane's comfort, even though he knows full well that she and David have both accidentally witnessed much, much worse over the years.

"Please don't break the house," Yuna scolds lightly as she balances the box on the bed, the mattress bowing alarmingly under its weight. "The buyers haven't signed closing paperwork yet."

"Shane, you let your poor mother carry so many heavy boxes," Ilya chastises, poking Shane in the stomach as he sits up. "Bad son behavior."

"I was busy trying to keep you from undoing all of my hard work."

Ilya shakes his head. "No. You were attacking me. With violence. Bad boyfriend behavior, too."

Shane waves a dismissive hand in Ilya's direction. Yuna rolls her eyes, the corners of her mouth turning up in an amused smile.

Ilya pushes himself to his feet, rolling his ankles against the pins and needles sensation from sitting on the floor for too long. "I will carry the rest of the heavy boxes because I am a good son," he says, gesturing for Yuna to lead the way.

"You're just going to go downstairs and steal more cheese," Shane says, unable to let Ilya get away with anything.

"Of course not," Ilya shoots back, mock-offended. "I am going so Yuna can tell me more about how terrible of a swimmer you were."

Yuna lets out a noise that's half-laugh, half-pained groan at the memory. "He hated doing flip turns. He used to swim all the way to the end of the pool and then stop, stick his head out of the water, turn around and start swimming again."

"Mom!" Shane squawks, aghast that she would so easily out him. "Don't tell him that!"

Yuna's laughter echoes down the hallway as she goes on ahead, but Ilya lingers behind for a moment. He runs gentle fingers through Shane's hair where he still sits on the floor. Shane swats at his hand, but without any real intent behind it.

"Aww, don't pout, moya lyubov," Ilya teases. "You are still perfect, even if you cannot swim."

"I can swim just fine!" Shane argues, his put-on irritation somewhat undermined by the way he leans into Ilya's touch. "I don't know how you always manage to make calling me perfect sound like an insult."

"Noo, not an insult," Ilya says, gently tugging at Shane's hair until he looks up at him. He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to Shane's forehead. "You are perfect and I love you."

"Fuck off," Shane says with a smile, and Ilya takes it as the reciprocation they both know it is.

---

Ilya and Shane lay on their stomachs, side by side on the floor, surrounded by dozens of photographs from one of the boxes Ilya had dragged up from the basement. The smell of chicken parmesan is starting to fill the house as Ilya pulls the next picture from the stack, the image of Shane in his mites gear making him grin so hard it's almost painful.

"That was my first lost tooth," Shane says, nodding to the picture where a five year old Shane is giving the camera a wide grin, a hole where one of his front teeth should be. "It's a lot cheaper when you don't have to get them replaced after."

Ilya hums in agreement. It's been a while since his last trip to the dental surgeon — so long that he hasn't bothered to find one in Canada yet, which feels akin to jinxing himself somehow. Although, between Shane and Yuna, he's fairly certain he wouldn't have too hard of a time getting an extensively researched and vetted recommendation for just about anything he might need.

Ilya takes another photo Shane offers him — this one of David, carrying a maybe three-year-old Shane on his shoulders, Shane's tiny hands splayed across his father's smiling cheeks. He holds the photo up next to Shane, comparing them side by side as he tries to swallow against the overwhelming affection that fills his chest.

"Took a while, but you finally grew into those ears."

Shane snorts, pulling the picture from his grasp, careful to only touch it at the corners. "You're one to talk."

Ilya narrows his eyes. "Meaning?"

Shane smirks, leaning out of Ilya's immediate reach in a way that does not escape his notice. "Svetlana sent me some baby pictures of you a while back. That nose did not suit a one year old."

Ilya gapes at him, equal parts shocked and impressed by their collusion. "Hollander! I introduce you to my oldest friend, and you team up with her to bully me?! Unbelievable. No more Sveta for you."

"Way too late for that. I already made plans to take her to dinner after we play in Boston next month."

Ilya would like to say that it's not often that Shane renders him speechless, but that would be an obvious lie. Even so, he's still not used to the sensation.

Of course Shane would make plans to see Sveta when he was in Boston. And of course he would bring it up to Ilya in passing, mentioning it as if it was meaningless. Just another way to kill time in a random city that isn't home. As if the mere thought of Shane and Sveta spending time together, sharing food and wine and laughter, doesn't take him out at the knees. Not sure what might come spilling out of his mouth if he were to open it at the moment, Ilya shifts closer to Shane, hooking his left ankle over Shane's right, the soft material of his sock a familiar comfort against his bare foot.

Several minutes pass in easy silence, Shane continuing to flip through the stack of photographs, periodically handing over those he thinks might be of interest to Ilya. Of course, in reality, they're all of interest to Ilya, and he's already planning to steal as many as he can. He's never been one for maintaining photo albums, but maybe he's just never had the right incentive. Or maybe he'll just go all out — replace the boring neutral paint job in his living room with a shrine to Shane Hollander. It would certainly make the next team gathering he hosts a lot more interesting.

When they get to the bottom of the stack, Shane carefully collects the photographs, tucking them back into the cardboard envelope, and then into the box to go home with them.

"What is left to be sorted?" Ilya asks, rolling to his side and giving his elbows a break from holding him up. Yuna has already checked on them twice in the last hour, scolding them both times for their lack of progress, but investigating every picture of Shane Ilya could get his hands on was much more important.

Shane sits up, folding his legs in front of him. "Uh, there's the last couple boxes you brought up from the basement. And then the stuff in my desk," he says, surveying the room for a moment before pausing to squint at the shadows under his bed. "Oh, and this I guess."

He tugs a clear plastic box out from under the bed. It's fairly small, only about the length of Ilya's forearm and maybe twenty centimeters deep. Nowhere near full, the contents slide and shift against each other as Shane drags it to sit between them.

"I don't even know what this is," Shane mumbles mostly to himself as he pops off the lid. Ilya leans forward, intrigued as to what was so important that it warranted a place under Shane's bed. He's supremely unsurprised to find that the first object he recognizes is a hockey puck. There are a few other hockey-related items floating around — a roll of rainbow stick tape, probably from some pride night long since passed, and one of the miniature plastic sticks the pro-teams sometimes give out to fans at games, bright blue and branded with the Voyageurs' logo. Ilya starts to reach for it, ready to make a quip about Shane being such an embarrassing fanboy of his own team. Instead, he's startled by Shane slamming the lid back on the box, narrowly avoiding losing a finger or two.

"What—"

"Nothing!" Shane's voice has reached an octave Ilya has never heard before, his eyes wide as he tries to shove the box back under the bed.

Well, he absolutely cannot let that stand.

Ilya sticks his foot out, blocking Shane's path, the plastic corner of the container digging into his shin painfully with the force Shane put behind it.

"Show me."

"No."

Ilya makes a grab for the box, Shane managing to pull it out of his reach just before he can get a grip on it. Unwilling to give up for absolutely anything at this point, Ilya grabs Shane around the waist instead, wrapping his arms around him in a bear hug and wrestling him to the floor. Shane throws an elbow blindly, catching Ilya where his shoulder meets his neck and trying to wriggle out of his grasp, but it's no use. Ilya manages to pin him down on his back, sliding forward to sit heavily on his hips and giving him his best shit-eating grin. Shane glares at him, his physical ability to flip Ilya off of him warring with his unwillingness to actually risk hurting him. Not to mention the fact that one or both of his parents are likely to come see what all the commotion is about if they were to really get into it.

"Just tell me what it is," Ilya says, reaching for the box slowly, dragging out the moment as long as possible just to annoy Shane.

Shane shakes his head petulantly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Figure it out yourself, asshole."

"If you insist," Ilya sing-songs, popping the lid off and tossing it aside. He's confronted once again by the same seemingly random bits of hockey memorabilia, none of which seem to be the likely culprit. He shifts them aside, this time noticing the glossy back cover of a magazine beneath them. The dark, moody advertisement is for Under Armor — some model meant to look like an athlete dressed in black material so tight it leaves very little to the imagination. It's presumably just a sports magazine of some sort, but Shane visibly tenses when he pulls it out of the box, so Ilya knows he's struck gold. His eyes linger over the man on the back cover for a moment. Maybe a younger Shane had found this man attractive — hiding the magazine away out of sight instead of examining the feelings it brought up too closely.

That doesn't seem to quite fit, though. They've talked before about the men Shane had found attractive growing up; Ilya even managing to get him to admit to having a crush on Scott Hunter back when they were in Juniors. But even that revelation hadn't gotten Shane anywhere near as keyed up as… whatever is happening right now. Shane is way too keen to keep this from Ilya for it to be something as trivial as a juvenile crush. There has to be something more to it.

Careful to keep the magazine out of Shane's reach, lest he try to snatch it away from him, Ilya flips it over, and the pieces finally fall into place. His delighted cackle when he registers what is on the front cover is something he has absolutely no control over, long and loud and bursting with glee.

This particular magazine issue is one that Ilya is very familiar with, though it's been a while since he's actually seen one. During his rookie season he used to be confronted by it constantly, both from teammates chirping him and fans thrusting it toward him, asking him to sign it. He had always obliged, careful to keep his signature contained to the blurred background of the rink behind him, not wanting to cover any of his many assets that were on display.

Most of that photo shoot had been fairly run of the mill — Ilya in various pieces of hockey gear, a close-up of his intense expression as he crouched for a face-off, his back to the camera as he sported his freshly minted Boston Bears jersey. All of that had been perfectly tame, in comparison to the picture they had gone with for the cover — though, after seeing it himself, Ilya couldn't really say he blamed them for their decision. In it, a nineteen-year-old Ilya is shirtless from the waist up, his black pants slung tantalizingly low on his waist. He leans casually back against the boards, arms draped over a stick balanced across his shoulders, showing off the toned muscles of his arms as he smirks at the camera, something hot and molten in the cool blue of his eyes. The publication had done a whole series that fall on up and coming athletes, the newly drafted futures of various sports, but Ilya's cover had been a notable departure from their usual action shots, firmly cementing his position as hockey's newest playboy before he even set foot on NHL ice.

That cover had certainly gotten him a lot of attention — apparently even some he was completely unaware of.

"Shane," Ilya says, still a little disbelieving that this is actually happening right now. "Did you buy a magazine about me?"

"No!" Shane objects immediately, though his inability to meet Ilya's eye is telling.

"Then what is this?" Ilya asks, holding the magazine between his thumb and forefinger, letting it swing lazily back and forth over Shane's head. "It's okay, I understand. I was very beautiful even then."

Shane scoffs, rolling his eyes. "I just got it to read about my competition."

"Oh, yes?"

"Yes!" Shane insists. "It was after the draft. And I knew I would be playing against you at the World Juniors again even before the season started."

"After the draft," Ilya repeats, his tone suffusing the words with meaning. Because Shane had told him, once, about what had happened after the draft. The two of them had been tucked away at the cottage, during the last season Ilya had played for Boston. Back then they would often go a month or more at a time without seeing each other in person, so they had been giddy at the prospect of spending their Christmas break together, the next few empty days stretched out in front of them like a glimmering promise. They had gotten drunk on each other's company and a fancy bottle of champagne Shane had leftover from some endorsement or other, the two of them giggling as they lay on the floor with their heads under the Christmas tree, sharing kisses and secrets and mouthfuls of bubbly.

Somewhere between finishing the bottle and Ilya taking Shane apart with the focused precision of a man who had spent weeks thinking of little else, Shane had told him exactly what he'd done after the draft. Something that Ilya has never forgotten, though Shane seems to only just now remember having copped to it. Color rises in his cheeks, and he squirms between Ilya's thighs. "That's not what I meant!"

"If it was just about hockey stats, then why was it hidden in a box under your bed?"

Shane opens and closes his mouth, apparently unable to come up with a plausible explanation for that particular evidence against him. "Uh—"

"I knew it!" Ilya crows much too loudly, smacking Shane in the chest with the magazine. "Shane Hollander, did you buy this to jerk off to?!"

"We are in my parents' house!" Shane hisses, attempting to cover Ilya's mouth but mostly ending up slapping at his chin and chest. "Stop yelling about me jerking off!"

Ilya shrugs, swatting his hands away. "Does not matter, they will find out eventually. I will tell everyone about this. I'm going to have Sports Illustrated interview me about it. Will be big cover story, with new photo shoot for you to jerk off to."

Distracted as he is, his brain on fire with this new revelation, Shane is easily able to flip their positions, pinning Ilya to the floor, forearm pressed to his chest. "For the record, I never jerked off to it."

Ilya snorts. "Is way too late to deny it now, Hollander."

Shane pinches his side, making a grab for the magazine, but Ilya tilts his hips up sharply while he's already off balance, knocking Shane squarely on his ass between Ilya's knees and giving him a chance to escape.

"This is going in the keep pile," Ilya informs him, carefully shifting the items in the box destined to go home with them, trying to clear a place for it where it won't get crushed or wrinkled.

"Good, it can keep me company instead of you," Shane says. "You're much less annoying when you can't talk."

Ilya waves a hand dismissively. "Real thing is much better. Besides, I am not keeping it for you. I am framing it and hanging it over my fireplace. This is my greatest achievement."

"You are so fucking annoying," Shane says, turning his back to Ilya to drag one of the boxes down off the bed, ready to go back to their assigned task, as if Ilya is ever going to let this go.

"Yes," Ilya agrees. "But hot. And you have always thought so."

"Whatever."

Unable to resist getting one last rise out of Shane, Ilya gives it a moment, letting him think that the worst is over. He waits until Shane's attention has completely refocused on the box of books at his feet before opening his mouth again.

"Hollander. The pages are all stuck together."

"No they're not!!!"