Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category:

Gen

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Theriault (Game Changers), Troy Barrett, Harris Drover, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Bashing (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Action, Fighting, Canon-Typical Violence, Graphic Description, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Slurs, Post-Canon, Canon Compliant, Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Minor Original Character(s)

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-12 Words: 5,017 Chapters: 1/1

Always Meet Your Heroes

Summary

Right now, his eyes were locked on the Centaurs jersey with 81 on it, carrying the puck down the center and crashing into every single Metro on the ice. And every single one fell just as hard as Beaulier had.

'Oh,' he thought vacantly, 'he really is gonna kill us.'
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The knock-down drag out grudge match that is the first Ottawa-Montreal matchup of the season after the Metros abandon Shane, all from the eyes of a young Russian rookie playing for his old team.

Notes

Sorry for being gone for like a month I was unfortunately gainfully employed ;-;

Content Warning for homophobic language and slurs

He was nineteen years old. 

Drafted by the Metros straight from the Russian International team. He’d been so excited to come to the Americas for a professional career, following in the footsteps of the legends from his country. Fedorov. Datsyuk. Rozanov.

Like every other young Russian hockey player, he’d worshipped Ilya Rozanov. Had posters in his bedroom, wore his Boston jersey with pride. Even wrote him fan letters a few times, although he’d never admit it. And then… everything happened last year, and he’d become a pariah. Derided by people who used to love him. Ilya Rozanov had been cast out by Russia, but it didn’t matter to the rookie trying to win Prospect Cups. He still held the Russian Terror in the highest esteem.

And so when he was drafted to the Metros in the sudden wake of their captain leaving, he considered it a stroke of luck. He’d get to play in the US Canada league! He would actually get to be on the ice with Ilya Rozanov. He couldn’t wait.

The season opened fine; the Metros were a good team, although to him they seemed scattered. Unfocused. Even the veterans that had been on the ice since he was in diapers seemed to be distracted. But they were good enough guys. Took him in, made him feel like a part of the team. Even when they lost to Chicago in the opening game, when they won in overtime with a lucky shot to San Jose, when they bombed in New York to the Admirals, he still felt like he was a part of something.

But as the plane touched down in Ottawa, he felt the mood shift. Felt people getting restless. Getting… nervous.

Why was a professional hockey team nervous? Sure, they’d had a rough opener, but they could pick things back up. Get back on top like they’d been a few years ago. Maybe it was Hollander that made them nervous, playing against their old teammate. But that happened all the time; people got traded or became free agents. Ex-teammates were as common as current ones in the league. 

He wasn’t nervous about Shane Hollander though. He’d always liked him as a shooter, but he was Canada’s darling. The rookie was most excited to go up in a line against Rozanov. Damn whatever the press said about him and Hollander, they could do whatever they wanted. Rozanov still held the spot in his mind of the ideal, the perfect Russian hockey player. God, he couldn’t wait.

The strange mood carried through morning practice, and into the locker room that night. The guys were all murmuring in low voices to each other, all seeming to talk about something in common, but no one cared to mention it to the rookie, and his English wasn’t good enough to parse things from the snippets of conversation. He finally decided to take matters into his own hands.

“Pike. Hey, Pike,” he called quietly, sitting next to his captain as he laced up his skates. Hayden Pike halted his conversation with their enormous lead defenseman, J.J. Boiziau, and turned to look at him. His face was pale with anxiety. “What are they all saying? Everyone talks about the game, but everyone seems scared for Ottawa. Do I miss something?”

Pike glanced knowingly back at J.J, telling him something with his eyes before speaking to their newest player. “It’s kinda complicated, Rook. See… Hollzy didn’t exactly leave on the best terms with us. A lot of the guys in here treated him pretty badly when all the shit with Rozanov happened, and they’re getting worried about the game. I guess… worried that their shit’s gonna get aired out on the ice.”

He was confused. Shane Hollander had always seemed like a stand-up guy, not one to bring his personal life into the game. Sure, he and Rozanov had gotten married, but in the last few games they’d played together, you’d never know them to be anything more than teammates. Besides, Hollander was a pacifist. He hardly ever fought. They were afraid of this guy?

“They are worried about Hollander?” he asked earnestly. “Worried that he will… what, tell them off?”

“Oh, they don’t worry about Hollander, mon jeunot,” J.J. chimed in, sharing a grave look with their captain. “They worry about Rozanov.”

The arena was packed, loud, and downright hateful when Montreal stepped onto the ice. A chorus of angry boos and stomping of feet accompanied them, even from the people wearing Metros jerseys. But quickly, he realized that all the Metros merchandise he could see had Hollander’s name on the shoulders. They were here for their hometown hero, not the team. It didn’t exactly inspire confidence in the rookie.

And then when the home team skated out… God the noise could have brought the roof down. These people adored their team, even the bench warmers and their own colt, a kid from Sweden or something not much older than him. But when the big names began skating out, he felt the noise in his chest. 

Troy Barrett and their goalie, Hayes both got standing ovations, their defensive line stirred up the crowd like nothing else, but it was when the captain skated out that the sound grew deafening. 

Something was off. In all the games he’d watched with Ottawa, in all the play footage they’d reviewed, the Centaurs had looked… happy. LIke they were having a good time on the ice. Even the way they interacted with fans was often a bit much for a pro team, but they always seemed very friendly.

But not now. Now, the team in front of him had faces of iron. Every single player from their rookie even to their coach had murder in their eyes. Like they were gonna leave bodies on the ice tonight.

And Ilya Rozanov was no exception.

Hollander never really seemed to have much to show, always letting his features sit in careful focus. That’s the same way he looked now. But Rozanov, a guy who was known and loved for being playful, was undeniably furious. Staring hard at the Metros line. Eyeing up every single player. And it unnerved the rookie almost as much as it excited him.

There he was. Ilya Rozanov. The Russian Terror. He was so honored to be in the presence of his hero, he nearly forgot to be afraid. Nearly forgot what J.J. and Pike had said. 

He’s gonna kill us out there, they’d whispered, not wanting to spread more worry among the team. He’s gonna get revenge for Shane.

The rookie watched from the bench as the starting lineup took their spots, the crowd rumbling softly. Beaulier taking up center ice right across from Rozanov. Rozanov looking him dead in the eyes. Whispering. Telling something to Beau that made his face go pale. And then…

Puck drop. Game on.

Beau lost the face-off by a mile, reaching for the puck when it was already between Rozanov’s legs and on its way back to Barrett. The wing caught it and began racing down the ice with it, Rozanov still locked with Beaulier in the center. 

They wrestled against each other’s strength until finally Rozanov won out and Beau fell to the ground hard. The rookie’s heart jumped in his throat watching Rozanov skate off, shouting something behind as he took control of the puck and slammed their left defenseman into the boards. He caught the tail end of the phrase, a spit in Russian. Find out. 

“C’mon, Beau, get up there!!” he heard Theriault shout behind him. He rattled his play clipboard against the windows, mad as a bull. “Get the fuck up and skate, you lazy bastard!”

The rookie watched as Beau struggled to his feet and got back into play, barely catching his breath as it continued. But he didn’t care about his teammate in this moment. 

Right now, his eyes were locked on the Centaurs jersey with 81 on it, carrying the puck down the center and crashing into every single Metro on the ice. And every single one fell just as hard as Beaulier had. Find out.

Oh, he thought vacantly, he really is gonna kill us.

By the first break, fear had wormed its way into the rookie’s heart. Not exactly fear of losing. They were down two with no prospects; they were probably going to lose. No, fear of something a little more instinctual. Fear of pain, of injury. Fear of the men on the ice who had sent half of his team crashing down.

He hadn’t played a shift yet, but his compression layer was damp with sweat as he entered the locker room. Nervous. His teammates crowded around on the benches, many of them holding ice packs to body parts or getting patched up by sports med. Taylor had been in the room for the last twenty minutes getting stitches in his eyebrow. The Centaurs had charged and hit them with everything, Rozanov especially. 

He was barely listening to the game plan for the second period. His mind was locked on that deep, unmoving look on Rozanov’s face. The look he’d had the entire night without any of his usual antics or chirps. Only play calls and quick stabs in Russian at the Metros. 

Fuck you. 

I want it to hurt. 

Find out.

It was these running through his head when the coach called his name once, then twice.

“Huh?”

“Rook, are you fuckin’ listening?!” Theriault spit at him. “I’m tellin’ you you’re opening center this round. Get your shit straight and get ready for the ice.”

“Y-yessir,” he muttered quickly. He was opening for them. In center. And the Centaurs would almost definitely use Rozanov to start the period.

Oh God, I’m gonna die. Ilya Rozanov’s gonna kill me.

His head was all screwy as he trudged out of the room and onto the ice. The sound of the crowd felt like it was pressing in on him, like it was a solid presence in the building. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. 

And then… And then he was at center ice. The faceoff circle traced around him, and then only a foot away, was Ilya Fucking Rozanov. He thought he might puke.

His face was angry and sweating from so many shifts in the first period, blood hastily wiped away from his mouth smearing across his cheek. The rage written in his body language. Aggressive, he thought. Better than me and he knows it. And there, dangling down the front of his sweater, was a gold crucifix with a wedding ring. His wedding ring. He was out for revenge for the man he loved most. 

In his panic, the rookie barely noticed the isolated noise getting lost in the crowd. Rozanov was trying to talk to him. Him! A punk kid on a team he hated! But there he was, saying his name as they crouched low for the face-off.

“Huh?” He finally got out dumbly.

“Mind your feet.” He chided in Russian. “You’ve got no grip.”

What? The rookie checked himself; Rozanov was right; in his anxiety, he’d gotten his skates too close together. When he took off, there was a good chance he’d end up ass over tea kettle. He corrected his stance and got low just as the ref took position. And then he heard it, just as the whistle blew.

“Good luck.”

He lost the face-off. Of course he did. There wasn’t a chance he’d win against Rozanov. As he skated after the puck, the words echoed in his head. Good luck. What kind of weird mind games was Rozanov after? 

The Centaurs had been playing dirty all night, the game a complete afterthought in their minds. Hit after hit had taken their team apart, and despite having at least one guy in the sin bin at all times, the home team had them pinned for points. He’d seen their right wing Barrett take out a center at the knees, and one of their defensemen had smashed Koch into the glass so hard he’d probably broken his nose. Not their play style at all, and yet it seemed horribly effective. Montreal was useless.

He was terrified to be out on the ice among all that violence, and yet, as his blood rushed and he skated up and back down, praying for an opening, he noticed something. All the old timers were getting pummeled by the other side no matter who had the puck, but he was… fine. No one was bearing down on him to lay him out, they didn’t even have a defense guarding him. It was like he wasn’t even there.

This was the weirdest game he’d played in his professional career. 

When he got called off the ice, he took stock of his surroundings, paying closer attention to everyone, his own teammates included. The Centaurs had two in the box for fighting, and his own had one for retaliation, and yet no one let up when the puck was dropped. Sticks tripped, fists flew, and the trash talk was overwhelming. English and French and German and varieties of Creole from both sides, all with Rozanov’s furious Russian chorusing over them. 

Over the entire second period, the only man on the Cens who didn’t fight was Shane Hollander. Hollander almost never fought, he knew, but neither did a lot of the other players. Even the pacifists were out for pain tonight, leaving Hollander free to take as many shots as he could manage. 

And on the other side of things, every single player on the Metros who had been sent out onto the ice that night had been hit, and hard, with only three exceptions. Pike, J.J. … and him. No one had touched him during his shifts. For better or worse.

“Hey, Rook,” Comeau whispered from next to him on the bench, nursing a badly split lip. He jutted his chin out to Rozanov. “What’see sayin? The russkie, what’sat nonsense he’s talkin?”

The young Russian looked out onto the ice where his hero, the man he’d worshipped the last ten years ever since he heard the name Rozanov was getting held back by a referee from the Metro’s left wing. His face was red with anger and his own cheek had a mark blooming from a brawl in the first period. And above all the noise, he was screaming in Russian, his voice starting to go raspy from the effort. 

“He says...” the rookie translated, his heart breaking just a little, “He says, ‘you never deserved him.’ ‘He was too good for you always.’” 

His spirits fell as he felt the emotion coursing through his native tongue. “He says, ‘I loved him before you ever did.’”

The rookie sat in his cubby during the last break in play, hearing the shouting of Theriault bouncing off the walls, but hardly processing it. 

“What kind of low-down, dog-shit little bitches are on the ice tonight?!” He hurled, smashing his clipboard against the cinderblock wall. “What the hell kind of team do I have under me?!”

A muttering of sorry, Coach pattered around the room, but he didn’t bother chiming in. He hadn’t done anything in particular wrong, and neither had any of the other players last night. This was a grudge match and everyone knew it. 

“I can’t fucking believe you’re all gonna let Ottawa beat us, you pathetic assholes! Pike!!” 

The captain’s head snapped up from where he’d been inspecting a bruise darkening on Wilson’s leg. “Yeah, Coach?”

“You got something to say for your sorry-ass team? Or are you just gonna sit there with your mouth open?”

Pike snapped his jaw shut and looked at the floor with his cheeks burning. “We’re up against a few powerhouses on the ice, and they know how to hurt us. They know our weak spots.”

“We’re the goddamn Metros, Pike, we aren’t supposed to have any weak spots!!” his coach screamed. “What kind of a fuckin’ operation d’you think we’re running here?!”

Pike let the old man get his rage out, and it was only when his back was turned that the rookie caught him sharing a look with J.J. The defenseman shook his head subtly at the captain, but it didn’t matter. When Pike wanted to say something, he’d be damned if he could keep his mouth shut.

“There’s the other reason too,” Pike called loudly, prompting the entire room to look at him. Half the faces read fear, and the other half murder. Theriault turned slowly to face him.

“What other reason, Pike?” he seethed. “What other reason d’you have that we’re getting whipped by the team we’ve crushed in the dirt the last ten years?”

“You know damn well they’re beating us down because of Shane.”

So there it was, out in the open. A hum of resentment began among the other members, mutterings in a scattering of languages the rookie didn’t speak well. But Coach didn’t give them a dime. His eyes were focused on Pike. 

“You’re sayin’ we’re losing because Ottawa cares about that little weasel?” he spat. “That we’re down four nothing in the third because the Cens have a hard on for their queers?!”

“I’m saying that this team treated Shane like shit and drove him away!” Pike roared back, standing up to his full height. The rookie was used to his captain being kind and humorful, an easy man to get along with, if a little crazy on the ice. But this… this Hayden Pike put the fear of God in him. 

“I’m saying that the guys in this room didn’t have their captain’s back when he opened up to them about any of his personal shit. He was our fucking backbone, and we ripped it out! You especially!!” he pointed at Theriault, getting close and towering over the older man in his skates. “You spew all this bullshit, no wonder Shane left!! And now that your star fucking player is on the other side of the line you panic, because you know he carried this team!!”

“That little faggot didn’t carry shit!!” Coach raged, a vein bulging on his neck as he screamed up into Pike’s face. “I made this team what it is, not him!! And certainly not you!!”

With a quick movement, he shoved Pike back by the chest protector hard. The rookie froze as his captain stumbled and caught himself, and the entire team stood up as one, no one positive who they stood for. But in a flash it didn’t matter. 

Pike was back on his feet and in Coach’s face, forehead to forehead like a pair of rams. 

“You gonna hit me, kid?” he goaded, a hand grabbing onto Pike’s sweater like they were about to brawl on the ice. “You gonna take a swing for your sissy best friend?”

The rookie was shaking in his seat. He was gonna watch a man get beaten to death on the floor of the locker room, he was sure. But then, Pike shoved away their coach hard and turned back to grab his duffel out of his locker, shoving past Theriault and out into the tunnel. 

J.J. trailed after him, giving a dirty look to the rest of the room before slamming the door. And then, silence. The entire team staring at their coach that just drove out their captain and alternate. And it was like the ground was made of sugar dissolving under their feet. 

He felt sick, like he’d become unmoored. Is this what pro hockey was like in the Americas? Screaming and fighting and spite? Was this something he wanted to be a part of?

They trudged as a group back out to the ice and saw those same unforgiving faces across the rink. And now… he couldn’t even fault the Centaurs. He was beginning to hate Montreal too. 

He watched the opening lineup, mostly just the guys who could still stand up well enough to play. They got beaten down, same as last time, with high sticks and trips and the ringing of angry words skating over the ice in time with the players. 

And it was during this first shift that he realized… the Metros weren’t executing the plays Coach was calling. They weren’t heeding the vitriolic yell of Theriault from the bench. They were playing hard into defense, not moving the puck down the ice at all. They were gonna run the clock out. 

They were gonna throw the game. 

The rookie could do nothing but jostle his leg up and down as the clock got lower and lower, perpetuating the screams from his coach. Demands of them to do better, to listen to him. But none of the players bothered with him. And after a few shifts, the Centaurs seemed to catch on. They played easier, relaxing by a degree on their warpath. They managed to score another point, but by the time the clock came down to the wire, no one was in the penalty box. Five on five, just how it was meant to be. 

He’d resigned himself to losing this game the same way they’d lost the last ones, and had just begun to stand for the handshakes when Theriault pointed his beam of fury his way. 

“Rookie!! Get your sorry ass out there in center and score us a fucking point! I'm not gonna have us go down five to nothing!!”

That lit a flame under him, and he quickly skated out to center ice, feeling the strange mood among everyone, home team and away. Like a deal had been struck. We’re sorry, the Metros seemed to say. We’re tucking our tail and going home. Don’t mind the coach. He’s lost us.

And then, as he took his place in the face-off circle (his feet far enough apart this time) he looked across into the focused eyes of Shane Hollander. Man of the hour. 

He thought a guy who had caused so much uproar would be thrown a little further off his game, but the player in front of him… He could have just come from a practice. The way he stood, the way he held his stick, it was all business. He was so… centered. 

“Hey, Mister Hollander,” the rookie said, feeling obliged after all the shit he'd born witness to tonight, “I-I am sorry… about the team… the way they treat you last season.”

“S’okay, man,” Hollander assured. “It’s not like you had anything to do with it.”

So that's why he'd been invisible all night. The rest of the team, the ones who’d fucked with Hollander so much, they had targets on their backs. But he was left alone, even given advice by their captain. Maybe the Centaurs weren't as bad as Theriault thought they were. 

“Focus up,” Hollander calls across the face-off circle. “Last shift.”

He was right, it was their last shift. His last chance to prove himself, to show he wasn’t like the rest of the Metros. That he was better. 

He lost the face-off; of course he did, against the best player in the entire league. But he chased after Hollander as he bolted down the ice, carrying the puck closer and closer to the goal. He passed it hard to Barrett on his wing, then it got into a skirmish around Gilbert, and as the players fought, the world melted into a ticking down of the clock. The roar of the crowd, the belligerent screaming of Theriault, the snick of skates on ice. The rookie felt it in his veins. 

And then, just as suddenly as he’d lost the face-off, Gilbert gained control and rocketed the puck toward him. He caught it on instinct, but for a split second he was lost. 

Goal, he thought distantly. Get it to the goal.

His legs began pumping automatically, careening down the ice with the puck in tow. The Centaurs hadn't had a guard on him, and he was so far away from the action, he was practically home free. They laid chase, but there wasn't a hope of them catching him. 

The clock was spiraling down by the second, he could hear his coach berating him to take the fucking shot Rook, now!!!! but he waited. He waited until the time was so close that he didn't have a chance to hesitate. 

He slapped the puck hard toward the Ottawa goal, just as the horns echoed through the arena to signal end of game. It wouldn't make a difference to their win/loss if it made it in, but at least he would have scored a point. Would have made Coach happy. 

And just as he watched it sail up and perfectly into the top left corner, a goalie glove came up fast and snatched it out of the air. 

The crowd went absolutely nuts. They’d lost. He'd lost. They’d suffered injury after injury all night, and in the end the Cens had gotten a shutout. He felt his heart sink to his feet. 

“Hey kid!”

He looked up in time to spot the Centaurs’ goalie climbing out of his crease, the puck still in his hand. He tossed it to the rookie and set his helmet high up on his head, smiling broadly. 

“That was a wicked shot, man. Seriously, you catch me on a different day, that could win you a game. Keep it up.”

He skated off without another word, joining his team for the line up. 

The rookie held the game-losing puck in his gloved hand, looking down at it even as Theriault berated him off the ice. His beaten down teammates passed him one by one to take their spot in the line and shake hands with the bottom-of-the-standings team that had taken them to hell and back. And he felt a nudge on his shoulder, not from an Ottawa player this time. 

“Y’wanna join us, Rook?” He looked up to J.J. and Pike towering over him, both in their street clothes and skates. They’d walked out of the room, but they’d show up for their team, despite it all. 

“Y-yes. I do.”

“I saw that last shot,” Pike praised as they joined the line. “Killer. I think if Hazy hadn't been so well rested from sitting around the whole game, you woulda gotten it by him.”

“She was beautiful, mon jeunot,” J.J. agreed. “You keep shooting like this for us, you will be our new Hollander in no time.”

He thought of this as he finished up their line and waited to shake hands with the opposing team. The Metros’ new Shane Hollander. Hollander was famous for sticking with Montreal for so long, for dragging them out of the bottom of the ranks. He’d won them back to back Stanley cups, for God’s sake. It would be an honor to take his spot. 

But… they’d treated him so terribly. They'd rested entirely on his laurels and abandoned him when the going got rough. He couldn't imagine having to listen to Theriault spew that heinous talk day after day, knowing he was talking about you when he said it. Sure, he could try and be the new Shane Hollander… but did he really want to be?

He was lost in thought when he felt the first hand in his. 

“Good shootin’ kid.” A twangy defenseman grabbed up his hand tight and clapped him on the shoulder. 

“U-uh, thanks.” He was baffled. They respected his game even after all that? After destroying his team?

“Keep your head up, colt, you did alright,” the next man said, knocking their helmets together.

“Good game, rookie, see you around.”

“Way to play, man.”

“Got an arm on you, kid, you did great!”

“Mad props for that last shot, dude.”

Complement after complement rolled over him from this team that seemed intent on destroying them. Even their own rookie gave him a fist bump and said something encouraging in German before skating off. It was nothing he’d ever heard before. These guys were being… nice.

Finally the lines were coming to an end. He watched as both J.J. and Pike grasped Hollander in quick hugs and gave Rozanov his own helmet knock, despite some harsh-sounding words passing between them. But at the very last second, he saw Rozanov’s crooked smile jump out. The one he wore when he got an especially effective chirp on someone, or when the press asked him a snappy question. He was joyful. 

And then it was his turn to shake with them. Hollander took his hand first, shaking it in a quick, practiced gesture. 

“You did good tonight, man,” he said, simple and effective. There was nothing in his eyes to betray what he was thinking.

“You too,” he answered limply, feeling ridiculous. Of course Shane Hollander had played well. No one played better. But then the only man to ever give him a run for his money was grasping his hand, nodding hard. 

“You mind your feet, and you'll go far, yeah?” Rozanov encouraged with that crooked smile. “Make Russia proud of us.”

“Y-yessir,” he answered in shaky Russian. “We miss you there, some of us. A lot of us.” 

God, why did he say that? Ilya Rozanov probably didn't give a rat’s ass what his country thought of him, now that he’d emigrated and married his husband. But something flickered behind those blue eyes. Something sad. 

“I miss it too. Give them my love, whoever you know.”

The rookie nodded quickly and began to follow his team back to their locker room, where they’d almost definitely be subject to more of Theriault’s verbal assaults. Talking about how shit they’d played, how they'd better do well next time, or they’d be sorry. More of his awful talk about Hollander and Rozanov. 

And before he knew what he was doing, he'd rounded on the ice. 

“Hey!!” 

Rozanov and Hollander both turned to face him, looking every bit as powerful as they played. Every bit as welcoming. 

“Do you have any openings on your roster?”