Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Player Shane Hollander, English Is Not The Author's First Language, Coming Out, Secret Relationship, Panic Attacks, Hurt/Comfort

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of Heated on ice

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-04 Completed: 2026-03-15 Words: 8,503 Chapters: 3/3

Call It What You Want

Chapter 1

Chapter Summary

“Who the hell are you? What do you want?”

The stranger seemed startled by the sudden hostility and took half a step back. He lowered the plunger slightly.

“Wait. Relax. It is me.”

He quickly pulled off the mask and removed the cap.

Dark hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.

A familiar face appeared under the bright locker room lights.

“Shane Hollander,” he said, breathing slightly hard.

His eyes swept across the stunned players before landing firmly on the man sitting in the corner.

Time seemed to freeze.

Chapter Notes

The Chinese version is here:
夜奔

Sooo, I’ve read a lot of fics where Shane breaks down and Ilya is the one comforting him. And suddenly I had a thought: what if we flipped it?

Because I think Shane is, at his core, an incredibly strong person. The kind of person who can take Ilya rejecting him again and again, and still show up every single time with his whole heart in his hands, look him straight in the eye, and say, I love you.

I really, really want to see that version of him. A captain who’s that steady. That determined. Calm, reasonable, and rational even when everything is falling apart. My knees are weak!!!

And so… here we are.

I’m planning to write Chapter 1 from Ilya’s POV, Chapter 2 from Shane’s POV, and then bring them together in Chapter 3.

Let’s go!!

In September, Ilya Rozanov said goodbye to the summer in Montreal, a summer he would never forget, and returned to Boston, where life was built from ice, sweat, and a rigid training schedule.

Day after day of practice, video analysis, and tactical meetings filled his life again. Everything seemed back on track, even better than before. He was in peak condition, he had a new family who supported him, and he had his boyfriend, Shane Hollander.

Ilya was thrilled.

Hell, who was he kidding? He was practically ecstatic.

This year will definitely be his year to win his second Stanley Cup. Just imagining Shane Hollander stomping around in frustration was enough to make him want to take flight on the ice.

And! Only one year remained before he could transfer to Ottawa as a free agent. When that happened, Montreal would be just a two-hour drive away.

The thought wrapped around him like warm amber and made Boston’s final season feel much shorter.

The regular season had barely begun before Ilya became unstoppable.

Goals. Assists. Crucial blocks.

His performance dominated the ice so completely that commentators seemed ready to spend entire broadcasts talking about him.

In the locker room, talk of a championship was everywhere, and Ilya’s good mood practically overflowed.

“Jesus, Roz,” his teammate Marleau said, slapping his bare shoulder with a sweat soaked glove and wiggling his eyebrows. “How many women did you sleep with in Moscow this summer? You’re on FIRE, man.”

Ilya snorted and did not even look up as he removed his gear.

“If you beg me hard enough, Marleau, I might send you my exclusive training secrets.”

He casually picked up the phone from his locker. He only meant to check for messages from Jane or maybe scroll through sports commentary.

Instead, a push notification exploded onto the screen.

[EXCLUSIVE] Late Night Meeting! Boston Bears Captain Ilya Rozanov Leaves Voyageurs Captain Shane Hollander’s Private Apartment at 2 A.M.! Photos Included!

Ilya saw his clothes.
 
Even in the blurry preview image, it was unmistakably him.

A hoodie pulled low, slipping quickly out of a building he knew all too well.

Ilya’s heart dropped.

Blood rushed to his head and then drained away just as quickly, leaving only cold numbness. His fingers froze. The glow of the screen illuminated his suddenly pale face.

“Hey, what kind of secret training requires begging?”

Marleau leaned closer. His grin disappeared the moment he saw the screen.

“Holy shit!” he gasped. “What the hell is that? Roz!”

The shout cut through the relaxed post-victory atmosphere of the locker room.

Nearby players paused and turned.

“Fake news!” Ilya’s voice came out sharper than he intended. He locked the screen immediately and clenched the phone in his palm until his knuckles turned white.

“Clickbait garbage,” he said quickly as he stepped toward the equipment alcove in the corner. “It's nothing.”

The denial sounded thin. He knew it, and so did everyone else.

Other players were already checking their phones, muttering low curses under their breath. Shocked whispers rippled through the room. Someone began reading lines from the article out loud.

The joy of victory vanished instantly. In its place came disbelief, suspicion, and uncomfortable silence.

All eyes, openly or not, settled on the man trying to disappear into the corner.

Ilya forced himself to read the article.

It was viciously detailed.

The writer claimed to be a devoted fan of Rose Landry, who had held a grudge against Shane ever since their breakup before last year’s All-Star Game. The author had followed Shane for months, hoping to uncover a scandal, and had instead captured photos of Ilya visiting his apartment late at night.

Multiple angles. Exact timestamps. Anonymous sources hinting at a special relationship.

Some passages even suggested that the connection might influence subtle moments on the ice.

The comment section had already exploded into chaos. Speculation, insults, and fan wars filled every line.

Ilya wanted to punch someone.

Some obsessive Rose Landry fan. Was this a fucking joke? That had all happened before last year’s All-Star Game.

Rage surged through him, tangled with a deep, helpless frustration.

Someone with nothing to do with hockey had spent an entire year quietly gathering evidence, waiting for the perfect moment to release it and drag both him and Shane straight into hell.

Their relationship had only just begun to stabilize.

This weekend he was supposed to have an online dinner with Yuna and David.

Now the locker room felt suffocating. Questions hung in the air:

Was it true? He and Hollander? The rival captain, they tried to crush every game.

Had it started last year?

What exactly was going on between them?

Ilya had no answers. He cannot answer.

At that moment, any explanation would have sounded like a lie.

Images flickered through his mind. Shane’s shocked face. Management erupts in fury. Cameras flashing as reporters swarmed the arena. Fans are shouting his name for all the wrong reasons.

Then the locker room door opened with a loud bang.

The assistant coach stood in the doorway, his expression grim.

“Ilya Rozanov,” he said quietly.

“Come with me. Now.”

Coach LeClaire sat behind the meeting table and rotated his laptop toward him.

The article filled the screen.

“So,” LeClaire said calmly. “Shane Hollander?”

Ilya met his eyes and nodded.

There was no point denying it.

“How long?”

“It’s complicated,” Ilya said. His fingers tightened together. “We only decided to take it seriously recently. But the beginning probably goes back to the summer before our rookie season.”

Several people in the room inhaled sharply.

LeClaire leaned back heavily in his chair and rubbed his face.

“Jesus! Fucking 2010?” he muttered. “This is not happening. I never imagined you two already had something going on back then.”

“My relationship with Shane does not affect my performance,” Ilya said firmly. “I am still the best player on the ice. I am still the captain. And I will win a second Stanley Cup.”

LeClaire stared at him, rephrased in a calm tone. “Our second Stanley Cup.”

“Yes,” Ilya replied. “Our second Stanley Cup.”

They held each other’s gaze for several seconds. Finally, LeClaire exhaled and leaned back in his chair.

“No matter what happens,” he said, his voice rough with reluctant acceptance. “You’re still our guy. Our captain.”

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Your contract is almost up, right? What are you planning to do?”

“I want to go to Ottawa.”

“Ottawa?” LeClaire nearly jumped out of his chair. “The Ottawa Centaur? That bottom team?”

“It's two hours from Montreal,” Ilya said calmly.

LeClaire stared at him as if he had just spoken another language.

“You’re a world class star,” he said slowly. “And you’re planning your entire career around romance?”

He took a long drag from his vape and let out a tired groan.

“Unbelievable, Rozanov. Absolutely unbelievable.”

For a moment he just sat there, rubbing his temple. Then he sighed again.

“Fine. Have your agent talk to Ottawa. If it works out, you go there. If not, Boston will back you.”

His expression hardened.

“But one thing is not up for discussion. No matter what happens, we are not sending you back to Russia.”

Ilya froze.

That possibility had never even crossed his mind. Of all the outcomes he had imagined, this was the last one he expected.

LeClaire snorted when he saw the look on his face.

“What?” he said. “You thought I was some kind of heartless old dinosaur?”

He waved a dismissive hand.

“Cliff will handle the press conference tonight. You go home and stay away from reporters.”

Then he fixed Ilya with a sharp look.

“And if we don’t win the Cup this year, you’re staying in Boston and skating on my ice until you drop.”

“Yes, sir.”

For the first time that day, Ilya smiled.

“We’ll win it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” LeClaire muttered. “Now get out of my office.”

As Ilya reached the door, LeClaire added under his breath,

“I still can’t believe Shane Hollander ended up with you.”

Ilya did not return to the locker room.

Instead, he slipped out through the players’ tunnel exit, crossed the parking lot at a quick pace, and slid into the driver’s seat of his Mercedes. The engine rumbled to life as he pulled away from the arena, leaving behind the building that would soon be drowning in reporters and flashing cameras.

By the time he reached home, the first thing he did was pull out his phone.

The screen lit up instantly. Messages flooded in one after another.

Marleau:
Man, sorry about earlier. I was honestly shocked. But I just want you to know one thing. I support you. No matter what happens. You will always be my captain.

Yuna:
Ilya, don’t worry. David and I are already dealing with things on our end. Right now the most important thing is that you stay safe. Ignore everything outside.

More names followed.

Teammates. Friends. Staff.

Support. Concern. Anger. Reassurance.

The screen filled with them.

But as he scrolled through the messages, one name never appeared

There was nothing from Shane.

Something inside his chest seemed to hollow out quietly. 

Ilya walked into the living room and switched on the floor lamp in the corner. A dim pool of yellow light spread across the room, barely pushing back the darkness.

He dropped heavily onto the couch and looked at his phone again. Then he opened Shane’s chat window.

Shane, are you okay?
Sent.

I saw the news. Call me when you have time.
Sent.

The chat window remained silent.

Ilya stared at it, his fingers cold as he tried to decide what to say next.

He knew Shane well.

He knew how fiercely Shane guarded his privacy. He knew how easily he unraveled when carefully made plans fell apart.

Only two months ago they had been lying together in the small cabin bed. Shane’s eyes had been bright as he talked about the future, outlining it piece by piece. Ilya still remembered the way his fingers had curled and uncurled unconsciously as he spoke.

Ilya could not become another weight pressing down on him.

Slowly, he began to type.

If you need to deny it, I’ll cooperate.

His thumb hovered above the send button.

Then he deleted the sentence.

No. It felt wrong. Too final. Like carving the ending into stone before the story had even played out.

What if Shane didn’t want to deny it?

The possibility was faint, almost fragile. Still, Ilya couldn’t bring himself to extinguish it.

He tried again.

Do whatever you think is best. I’ll support whatever you decide.

He stared at the words for a moment.

Then he deleted them too.

Too distant. Too careful. It didn’t sound like him. It didn’t sound like them.

He should say something braver. Something reassuring.

Don’t be afraid. I’m here.

Or maybe something simpler.

Fuck it. Let’s just go public.

But what right did he have to be brave for Shane?

Right now, his very existence might be the biggest disaster in Shane’s world.

Words appeared in the message box, only to vanish again moments later. Over and over.

Until finally there was nothing left but the blank screen, faintly reflecting his tense face.

For once, language felt completely useless.

“Fuck.”

Ilya turned the phone face down on the coffee table.

He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Cold air spilled out and brushed his face.

Inside there were only a few energy drinks, condensation on the shelves, and a single unopened bottle.

A good Russian vodka.

He twisted the cap open and drank straight from the bottle. The liquid burned down his throat and spread warmth through his chest.

The day was already ruined.

And the house was empty anyway.

He carried the bottle back to the living room and sank into the sofa. With the remote he turned on the television.

A late night talk show filled the screen. The host’s exaggerated jokes mixed with the audience’s artificial laughter.

Ilya raised the volume.

One bar. Two. Three.

The noise swelled until the apartment vibrated with voices, applause, and obnoxious music. Even the bottle on the table seemed to tremble.

He needed the noise.

He needed it to crush the questions circling endlessly in his head.

Maybe they were finished.

The thought surfaced cold and clear.

Shane might be angry. Disappointed. Blaming him.

Blaming the terrible timing. Blaming the carelessness. Blaming the fact that he was Ilya Rozanov.

All those years of careful touches in hotel rooms and whispered conversations in dim light might disappear from this moment forward.

Shane.

Shane.

Shane.

The name burned in his thoughts like a red hot nail.

He could almost see him.

Shane sitting alone in that equally empty apartment in Montreal. His face pale, fingers cold as he stared at a phone buzzing endlessly with calls and messages.

“Bang!”

On the television a guest on the talk show fell dramatically onto the stage.

Ilya closed his eyes and drank again.

He hoped the alcohol would make everything lighter for a while.

When Ilya woke the next morning, he felt almost functional.

That was, if “functional” meant a foggy head, floating limbs, and a dull pulse throbbing in his temples.

He completed his morning routine almost entirely through muscle memory. Shower.Breakfast. Exercise.

The locker room atmosphere was still strange. Teammates tried very hard to act normal. Some even greeted him with exaggerated enthusiasm.

Ilya accepted the effort with quiet nods.

On the ice he finished every drill.

Every stride. Every turn. Every shot.

His body moved flawlessly, carried forward by years of training and instinct.

But his mind seemed to hover somewhere above him, detached, watching the figure on the ice as if it belonged to someone else.

After practice, he returned to the locker room and began removing his gear. Sweat cooled against his skin, leaving behind a sticky discomfort that made him shift restlessly.

Around him, the familiar sounds of the room continued. Teammates laughing. Equipment clattering against the floor. Water rushing in the showers.

Yet everything felt strangely distant, as if he were hearing it through a wall.

Then a voice came from the doorway.

“Uh… is Rozanov here?”

The entire room paused.

A strange figure stood in the doorway.

A gray hoodie pulled tight. A black baseball cap pulled low. A blue medical mask covering most of the face.

And in his hand, strangely enough, he was holding a plunger.

Marleau jumped up instantly and stepped in front of the room.

“Who the hell are you? What do you want?”

The stranger seemed startled by the sudden hostility and took half a step back. He lowered the plunger slightly.

“Wait. Relax. It is me.”

He quickly pulled off the mask and removed the cap.

Dark hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.

A familiar face appeared under the bright locker room lights.

“Shane Hollander,” he said, breathing slightly hard.

His eyes swept across the stunned players before landing firmly on the man sitting in the corner.

Time seemed to freeze.

Only the faint sound of running water came from the showers.

Ilya’s fingers were still resting on the strap of his leg guard.

Slowly he lifted his head.

The fog of alcohol and the numbness of the past day shattered instantly when he saw those familiar brown eyes.

He opened his mouth but only managed a dry whisper.

“Shane?”

“Ilya,” Shane said quietly as he crossed the room and crouched in front of him. “I tried to call you. I sent messages. You didn't answer.”

He drew in a small breath

“I got worried.”

Ilya didn’t let him say anything more.

He leaned forward and pulled Shane into a fierce embrace.

His arms closed tightly around Shane’s shoulders and back, his face pressed into the familiar warmth of Shane’s neck. The scent of travel, sweat, and something unmistakably Shane filled his senses.

The cold anxiety that had gripped him since the night before began to melt away.

Slowly, Shane’s arms came up around him as well. At first they were stiff, almost hesitant, as if he needed a moment to convince himself this was real.

Then they tightened.

His fingers curled into the damp fabric of Ilya’s training shirt.

In that moment, in front of the entire locker room, words felt unnecessary.

Amid all the chaos that still waited outside, Ilya understood one thing with absolute clarity.

He loved Shane.

And unbelievably, wonderfully,

Shane loved him too.

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

His fingers trembled, but every word he typed landed like a hammer.

I'm admitting everything. Be ready. 

If the league tries to stop us from playing, I’ll take every one of them to court.

If Ilya’s club won’t protect him, I’ll marry him.

Get ready for everything. Contact whoever needs to be contacted. Don’t worry about the cost.

Shane saw the news in his apartment.

It was supposed to be a quiet day, the kind that bordered on boring. A rest day, following the same routine he had repeated countless times before: a run, a workout, yoga, and maybe sinking into the couch afterward to watch a few clips of old matches. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, slicing the floor into neat bars of light. Dust drifted lazily within the beams. Everything was orderly and predictable, calm enough to make a person drowsy.

Then his phone vibrated.

Shane picked it up and saw the team group chat. JJ had dropped a news link into the thread, followed immediately by three lonely question marks.

No one responded right away.

Shane tapped the link.

The moment his eyes reached the headline and the photo beneath it, the world went silent. The hum of the refrigerator, the distant rush of traffic outside the window, even the rhythm of his own heartbeat seemed to vanish at once, as if an invisible hand had suddenly cut off every sound.

The group chat stayed quiet for twenty minutes. It felt like a grave that had suddenly fallen into absolute stillness. Time thickened into something viscous, wrapping around him and making even the simple act of scrolling feel heavy and slow.

Finally, Hayden ventured a message.

“What the hell? That’s gotta be clickbait. Fake news.”

Still, no one replied. The chat sank into an unnatural silence, as if everyone were holding their breath behind their screens, waiting for him to react.

And Shane could feel, with terrifying clarity, that something inside him was coming apart.

Everyone knew he was a control freak. He liked to keep everything firmly in his grip, from match strategy to sponsorship deals. Nothing was left to chance. Yet before he ever managed to control everything, in the quiet corners of locker rooms and in the long hours past midnight that no one saw, he was also the one who could be drowned instantly by a flood of information. The one who suffered panic attacks again and again.

Now that familiar sense of losing control returned, stronger than it had ever been.

The first thing that came was a cold numbness spreading outward from his chest, freezing his limbs in seconds. Then it felt as if all the bones and strength had been pulled from his body at once. He swayed and had to reach out to steady himself against the kitchen counter. His fingertips pressed against the cold marble surface, yet he could not feel the chill at all.

His breathing betrayed him before his mind could.

The air suddenly turned thin. No matter how wide he opened his mouth, all he could manage were short, sharp gasps, as if someone had wrapped a hand around his throat. His lungs contracted uselessly, unable to pull in oxygen. His vision began to narrow. Flecks of static flickered at the edges before bursting into spinning sparks. A ringing roar filled his ears and swallowed every other sound.

Calm down. Calm the FUCK down！

A faint but stubborn voice struggled somewhere deep in his mind.

You know the steps. You have been through this countless times. Breathe in. Breathe out. One. Two. Three.

Shane forced himself to breathe.

With what little willpower he had left, fraying and almost scattered, he fought against the instinct to curl inward and tried to push the air slowly and heavily down into the bottom of his lungs.

Once. His chest heaved violently, a rasping sound escaping his throat.

Twice. The spinning sparks in his vision slowed a little.

Three times.

Each difficult breath felt like trudging through thick mud, an effort to gather the fragments of himself that had already scattered and pull them back together piece by piece.

Not yet. Hold it together. It was not time yet.

He stared at the blurred reflection on the countertop and gave the order silently to himself.

Everything would have to wait until this was dealt with. After that, he could do whatever he wanted. Smash something. Tear something apart. Disappear entirely, if he needed to.

But not now. Not while things were still unresolved. Not when he had not yet earned the right to collapse.

Shane remained braced against the kitchen counter, like a sailor nailed to the deck of a ship in a storm. His forehead rested against the cold cabinet door, eyes squeezed shut as he fought through wave after wave of dizziness and nausea. He could feel cold sweat sliding down his spine, soaking through the back of his training tank.

Time lost its meaning. Maybe it had been a minute. Maybe ten.

When he finally managed to open his eyes again and make out the blurred shapes in front of him, the first thing he did was very slowly loosen the hand he had clenched into a fist. His fingernails had nearly dug into the skin of his palm.

Gradually, he forced the faint tremor out of his fingers. His breathing no longer sounded like a broken bellows. When he straightened up, every muscle in his body protested, as though he had just finished a long and brutal match.

He walked into the living room and picked up the phone he had left on the couch. The screen was still lit, frozen on the group chat. The news link sat there like an ugly scar.

He did not look at it again.

Instead, he moved with careful, almost mechanical precision. His thumb slid across the screen, backing out of the chat until the thread disappeared. The contact list replaced it, rows of names glowing coldly against the glass.

For a brief moment, his finger hovered above the screen.

Then he found the name he was looking for.

*Farah*.

He tapped it and lifted the phone to his ear, listening to the ringing begin.

"I have already grasped all the information here." " Farah’s voice was calm and level, the way someone might present a tactical breakdown after a game. “Right now, there are two possible paths.”

“The first is denial. No matter how convincing the photos are, no matter how detailed the story looks, we deny everything. Completely. We make no further public comment after the initial statement. The league runs on headlines. Give it a few days and something else will take its place.”

She paused briefly, as if giving him time to process.

“But from this moment on, you and Rozanov cannot be seen together. Under any circumstances. No interactions, no shared spaces, no photos, no acknowledgments. Total social distance. Two parallel lines that never intersect.”

Shane managed to make a sound in his throat, something rough and indistinct, just enough to let her know he was still on the line. Farah took it as a cue to continue.

“The second option is to admit everything. But that choice is almost the same as ending your career. And his. At least in NHL. Whatever the two of you have built here will be crushed overnight.”

Farah had made it perfectly clear. Shane understood completely.

If this were a math problem, he would have written the answer down without hesitation: Denial.

It was the rational choice. The cleanest one. The one that protected the most people.

Ilya would understand.

Neither of them could leave hockey. They were captains, men who wore the C stitched over their hearts. The kind of players a franchise built itself around, the kind fans pinned their hopes to year after year. Cities breathed through them. Arenas roared their names. They were supposed to lead their teams toward the Stanley Cup, to fight their way through the long, brutal seasons until their names were finally carved into silver.

Shit.

Shane felt something in his chest splinter when the word **denial** settled into his mind, shattering the fragile calm he had only just managed to piece together.

Why?

How had things spun this far out of control?

They had been careful. Careful enough that every step felt like crossing a minefield. Every meeting is calculated. Every glance is controlled. They had trained themselves to be cold in public, to pass each other in arenas and hallways like strangers.

He had spent countless sleepless nights building a fragile architecture of the future in his head, piece by careful piece.

Just a little more time.

That was all he had needed. Enough time to build something that could hold. A story sturdy enough to carry the weight of both their lives. A version of the future where the two of them would not have to hide quite so completely. Maybe they would never be able to stand together in open daylight, but at least they could exist somewhere along the edges of it, side by side in the quiet margins.

At least they would not have to keep twisting every ounce of love and longing into the public theater of sworn enemies every time they met on the ice.

And now, because of one paparazzi camera, all of that—

Everything he had protected so carefully, everything he had fought for in silence, would have to be denied by his own mouth. Declared something that never happened. A fabrication. A lie.

Shane knew he should not resent it. Resentment was a useless luxury, the emotional equivalent of slamming your stick against the boards after a bad turnover. It made a loud noise and changed absolutely nothing.

But anger still rose inside him anyway, hot and metallic, surging through his chest like molten iron.

He hated the cold pictures from the camera. Hated himself for being stupid enough to think they could keep it hidden forever, that careful steps and calculated silences would somehow be enough.

But most of all, he hated that he had dragged Ilya, unsuspecting, straight into the center of the storm.

Where was Ilya right now?

What was he thinking?

Was he staring at his phone too, looking at the same choices, carrying the same weight?

Maybe even more?

Fuck....Fuck!

His phone vibrated, snapping Shane out of the tightening spiral of his thoughts.

The screen lit up with one simple words.

Mom.

His heart clenched at the sight, a sudden, painful squeeze in his chest.

He didn't want to answer. He can't answer her right now.

His throat already felt tight. He knew he would not be able to produce a single sound that would reassure her. He was afraid that the moment he spoke, everything he had forced down would burst loose.

But he also knew he had to give his parents something.Some sign that he was still upright. Still functioning.

Still here.

So Shane declined the call and opened the message window instead. His fingers shook slightly enough that he mistyped twice before he finally finished.

Shane: I’m okay. Just… give me a little time, please. I’ll call you later.

The message showed as read.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the reply appeared.

Mom: Okay sweetheart. I’ll wait for your call. We’re here whenever you need us.

No questions. No long reassurances. No panic.

Just quiet certainty.

Shane stared at the words on the screen. For a moment his vision blurred, heat rising sharply behind his eyes. He blinked hard, forcing the sting back down before it could spill over.

Not now. He could not afford to fall apart now.

There were still other things he had to deal with.

After a few slow, steady breaths, Shane finally gathered enough courage to open the chat labeled **Lily**. Two messages were waiting for him.

Shane, are you okay?

I saw the news. Call me when you can.

No, I’m not okay. And right now… I don’t think I can call anyone without having a panic attack.

Shane let out a long breath and tipped his head back, staring up at the ceiling as if the blank white surface might absorb some of the chaos crowding his mind.

Then he slowly looked around the apartment.

The apartment he had bought specifically to meet Ilya in. The same apartment where the first photo of the scandal had been taken.

He had come here today planning to photograph the place and put it up for sale. Everything had been arranged in advance. From now on, he and Ilya would meet at the apartment Shane actually lived in, and this one, the one officially labeled an investment, would be quietly disposed of.

The money from the sale would go toward another place in Ottawa. Somewhere close to Centaur’s training rink. Somewhere discreet.

A place where the two of them could stay when Ilya was in the city.

A home.

Once, in secret, he had allowed himself to use that word.

But now the air in the apartment felt almost funereal.

His gaze drifted to the stair railing.

Ilya had leaned against it once, tilting his head back to finish the last swallow of vodka. Shane could still see the movement of his throat, the slow roll of his Adam’s apple. Afterward, Ilya had grinned at him, the colored lights from the window reflecting in his eyes.

At the time, Shane had thought the whole world was nothing more than that single line of light and that single person standing in it.

The kitchen island was cold and hard beneath his hands, yet his fingertips seemed to remember warmth. How many nights had they ended up there, tangled together? Ilya shoving him lightly against the counter, lifting him onto it with an easy strength, Shane’s legs wrapping around his waist.

Shane would laugh at him.

Ilya would swipe a thumb across the corner of his mouth and lean in to kiss him quietly.

The hallway was narrow. They were always too impatient to make it to the bedroom fully dressed. Clothes abandoned along the way, every brush of skin like striking a hidden match.

Almost without realizing it, Shane found himself walking down that same hallway.

The bedroom door stood half open now. He pushed it wider and stepped inside, seeing the bed where Ilya had once joked there were far too many decorative pillows.

And Ilya had held him there, murmuring how much he liked the way Shane looked in his glasses. In that moment, Shane had felt, with sudden clarity, that whatever existed between them might have long outgrown the word hookup.

There had been so many nights. So many kisses. So many quiet murmurs in Russian, half-lost between sweat and breath, soaked into the walls and floorboards of this place.

And now Farah’s best solution was denial. Silence. Wait for the storm to pass.

“Fuck…”

The word slipped through his clenched teeth.

Shane grabbed one of the bedroom pillows and finally let himself break. The sound tore out of him, raw and loud, the kind of crying that left his chest aching.

Was he really supposed to erase everything that had been real?

Turn all that light into something unspeakable?

Leave it as a splinter lodged forever between him and Ilya, buried in every future kiss?

Why? Why would he choose a future like that? How could that possibly be the best choice?

The anger came then, bursting through whatever remained of his restraint. But it wasn’t heat he felt. It was cold.

A deep, glacial cold, as if all the blood in his body had frozen solid.

He wanted to protect the man who skated across the ice as he owned it. The arrogant, dazzling captain who could turn a rink into his personal stage.

He wanted to protect the man who held him tight in the quiet hours of the night.

He wanted to protect those memories. Bright, reckless, untouchable.

Ilya.  
Ilya.  
Ilya Rozanov.

Shane made his decision.

He walked into the bathroom and pressed a hot towel over his swollen eyes. Through blurred vision, he picked up his phone. The light from the screen stabbed at his eyes.

His fingers trembled, but every word he typed landed like a hammer.

I'm admitting everything. Be ready. 

If the league tries to stop us from playing, I’ll take every one of them to court.

If Ilya’s club won’t protect him, I’ll marry him.

Get ready for everything. Contact whoever needs to be contacted. Don’t worry about the cost.

He stared at the message for half a second.

Then he pressed send.

He couldn’t wait any longer. Not another second.

He flung the towel onto the sink, his fingers still damp as they slid across the phone screen, searching for the earliest flight to Boston. Purchase confirmed. Even the ticking digits of time felt painfully slow.

He rushed into the bedroom, yanked open a drawer, and shoved clothes into his backpack without looking, crumpling them into tight bundles. The zipper had barely finished its rasp before he was already running for the garage.

The engine roared to life in the cold. As it did, he dialed Ilya’s number and pressed the phone to his ear, reversing out with his other hand on the wheel. Each pulse of the ringing tone tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

No answer.

Redial.

Still nothing.

“Fuck!”

The low snarl came out with a dull thud as his fist slammed against the steering wheel. The car shot out into Montreal’s lead-gray blizzard. Snow hurled itself against the windshield in dense white sheets, driven by violent gusts of wind. The wipers thrashed at full speed, clearing a moment of visibility before the glass was swallowed again. Untouched snow on the roads made the tires slip and catch, slip and catch, while the speedometer’s sixty kilometers per hour felt like a taunt.

He kept glancing at the clock. Every passing minute twisted his stomach tighter. The heat in the car might as well not have existed. The cold crawling up his spine came from somewhere deeper than the weather.

At the airport parking lot, he practically slammed the door behind him. The storm swallowed him instantly. Snow stung his face like coarse salt. He didn’t bother pulling his collar up. Instead he leaned into the wind, slung the backpack over his shoulder, and strode toward the terminal.

Each step sank past his ankles in snow. Pull free. Sink again. Like fighting against something invisible.

He didn’t look back. As if looking back for even a second would drain whatever momentum was still pushing him forward.

Inside the terminal, the noise of the airport blurred together into a dull roar against his ears. Announcements. Voices. The rattle of luggage wheels. He ran toward security, the backpack bumping awkwardly against his side with every hurried step.

They were already making the final boarding call at the gate. His name was seconds away from being skipped.

Even the metal detector seemed slow when he passed through.

When he finally collapsed into the window seat, breathing hard, sweat dampening his temples, the engines were already beginning their low, gathering rumble, as if echoing the vibration inside his chest.

He immediately pulled out his phone. His fingers weren’t steady just enough that he tapped the Wi-Fi connection twice before it registered. He opened Rose’s chat window and began typing so quickly he nearly mistyped.

Shane: Hi Rose. Can you do me a favor?  
Rose: Shane! Oh my god, are you okay? I’m so sorry things turned out like this…  
Shane: It’s not your fault. It’s those paparazzi.  
Rose: What do you need? I’m always here. You’re my best friend.  
Shane: Thank you. Actually, I have a plan.

The rest of the conversation hardly registered. He skimmed the messages, concerned only with stating what he needed and confirming that it would be done.

The moment he hit send, something inside him drained away. He leaned back heavily in the seat and looked out the window.

The city shrank quickly beneath the thick curtain of snow, fading into a vague white model in the distance.

Everything had to be planned. Everything had to be solved.

Shane closed his eyes. His thumb rubbed unconsciously along the edge of his phone again and again. His mind held no images, only a rapid carousel of time stamps, phone numbers, contingency lines spinning endlessly through his thoughts.

The three-hour flight stretched his nerves taut, pulling them thinner and thinner. When exhaustion finally pried open a crack in his awareness, he realized his forehead had come to rest against the cold window.

Outside was a shapeless ocean of clouds. A thin mist fogged the glass.

When he came to again, he noticed his finger had traced something in it.

I-L-Y-A

The letters were crooked, written with an unconscious urgency.

He jolted awake. As if burned, he wiped the fog away with the flat of his palm. When his hand fell back, he shoved it deep into his pocket.

The air in Boston was damp and biting, heavy with the briny scent of the sea.

When Shane passed through the automatic doors of the terminal, a violent shiver ran through him before he could stop it. He pulled his collar higher, lowered the brim of his cap, and hurried into the waiting Uber at almost a jog.

The driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror, perhaps because of his pale face, or perhaps because Shane had barely sat down before he began checking his phone again and again, his knee bouncing uncontrollably.

Shane didn’t notice.

The glow of the screen lit the hard line of his jaw.

Shane: Ilya, I’m here. I’m in Boston.
Shane: I’ll be with you soon.
Shane: Please be safe.
Shane: I’m with you. I love you, baby. We’ll face this together.

The last message hung alone at the bottom of the chat, still without a read receipt. Every time Shane refreshed the screen, his heart sank a little deeper.

“We’re here. Training facility.”

The driver’s voice cut through his thoughts.

Shane jerked his head up so suddenly his neck twinged.

In front of him stood a building of cold, hard lines, gray-blue against the winter sky.

He grabbed his bag and jumped out of the car. The wind rushed instantly into his coat. Standing there, he took a deep breath, trying to push down the metallic taste rising in his throat. But his heartbeat only grew louder, pounding against his ears.

From the side pocket of his backpack he pulled out the ridiculous red toilet plunger he had bought earlier at a dollarama store. The rubber head looked absurdly bright in the dim light. Keeping his head down so the brim of his cap hid most of his face, he walked quickly and decisively toward the side entrance.

For once, luck was on his side.

After only a few minutes, a man in a facilities uniform pushed the door open, apparently just stepping out for a cigarette. Shane hurried forward and, just as the door began to close again, jammed the rubber end of the plunger into the narrowing gap.

“Hi. I’m the new cleaner. They haven’t given me my badge yet.”

He flashed the man a quick smile as he spoke. Whether the man believed him or not didn’t seem to matter. Shane slipped through the gap like a fish.

Inside, cold air rushed down the corridor, carrying the mixed smells of disinfectant and sweat. Somewhere in the distance came the sharp scrape of skates on ice, the crack of sticks, and indistinct shouts echoing through the building.

Shane’s heartbeat thundered in his ears.

Like a clumsy spy, he avoided the scattered staff members and moved deeper into the hallway, guided mostly by instinct.

Doors slid past one after another, most of them closed.

Until, at the end of the corridor, a door stood slightly ajar.

Light spilled through the gap. And there—under the harsh white lights—was a familiar strand of golden-brown curls, unmistakable, like something burned permanently into Shane’s memory.

Ilya?

Every plan he had made, every line he had rehearsed, every careful strategy disintegrated in an instant. Blood rushed to his head, then drained from his feet.

Shane nearly stumbled as he rushed toward the door and raised his hand.

His knuckles hit the door in quick, heavy knocks, loud enough to echo down the empty hallway.

“Uh… is Rozanov here?”

His voice was low, but the tremor in it was impossible to hide.

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary

For a moment, time seemed to hold its breath.

Then Ilya spoke, very quietly.

“Marry me, Shane.”

Shane nodded against him.

“Okay.”

Chapter Notes

The moment Shane saw Ilya, the noise in the locker room turned into a distant buzzing.

Like a radio with the volume turned down—only a vague white noise left in the background.

Ilya was sitting on the bench in the corner of the locker room, head lowered, slowly pulling his jersey over his head. His movements were sluggish, as if every joint hurt, as if the ordinary compression shirt had stuck to his body.

Shane’s heartbeat pounded so hard it felt like it might smash through his ribs.

He saw the locker room was full of Bears players. Naked bodies, half-naked bodies, sweat-soaked bodies. Gear and tape scattered everywhere. Ice skates lying on the floor reflected the pale white lights above.

A dozen pairs of eyes locked onto him at the same time—like a dozen loaded guns. Cold. Suspicious. Hostile.

Shane swallowed nervously, fighting the instinct to turn around and run. His feet felt nailed to the floor, yet at the same time as if they might betray him and bolt for the door at any second.

He was here for Ilya.

Ilya said he was brave. He could get through this.

Marlow moved first.

He had been standing by his locker, but now he strode over, planting himself in front of Ilya like a wall—an immovable fortress. His eyes swept over Shane’s dull gray janitor uniform, the low baseball cap, the mask hiding most of his face.

His expression carried undisguised suspicion.

“Who the fuck are you?” he growled.

Shane’s hand was trembling. He clenched it into a fist until his knuckles went white.

Ok. Here goes nothing

He pulled off the mask. Then the cap. He gripped both tightly in his left hand, like the last piece of driftwood keeping him afloat.

The exposed skin of his face burned under the stunned stares. Cold sweat soaked through the cloth on his back.

Now everyone could see clearly:

The Shane Hollander was standing in the middle of the locker room.

Someone gagged.

Someone cursed under their breath. Quiet, but Shane heard every syllable.

Marlow’s expression shifted from suspicion to complete shock. His mouth hung open like a fish gasping for air, disbelief written across his face.

And Ilya......

When he heard someone whisper that familiar name, he finally looked up.

Shane’s heart clenched painfully.

He had seen many versions of Ilya.

The wild, arrogant grin after a win.

The dark, silent profile after a loss.

The lazy satisfaction when he woke up in Shane’s arms in that little cabin.

The pixelated face on FaceTime whispering “I miss you.”

But he had never seen Ilya like this.

Dark circles hung beneath his eyes like bruises, purple shadows dragging down toward his cheekbones. His lips were pale, cracked, peeling at the edges. Sweat clung to his temples, and his hair stuck in damp, tangled strands against his face, like he hadn’t touched it all day.

And those blue eyes. Those blue eyes Shane had seen countless times in dreams and memories. The pupils were blown wide, trembling violently, like a lake startled by wind, like the surface of the ocean during a storm.

He was checking, making sure this wasn’t a hallucination. Not another dream where he saw Shane again

Shane took one step.

Then another.

He crossed the locker room past bodies frozen like statues. When he passed Marlow, the man instinctively stepped aside, as if pushed by something invisible.

Shane stopped in front of Ilya and sank to his knees. The sound was soft, but in the silent room it landed like a hammer blow.

Ilya stared at him.

For a long moment, he only stared.

Then he reached out suddenly, grabbed Shane’s arm, and pulled him forward. Ilya held him so tightly Shane could barely breathe. Shane buried his face in the hollow of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent: sweat, deodorant, and a faint trace of alcohol.

Shane didn’t care.

He inhaled greedily, gripping the fabric of Ilya’s shirt with aching fingers as the anxiety slowly drained out of him. The fear, the tension, the uncertainty—all of it receded like the tide.

Only the man in his arms remained.

They had only been apart for a few months. Compared to the years of long distance before, those months were nothing.

And yet the hug still felt like salvation

Like a drowning man finally grabbing driftwood.

Like someone lost finally seeing a light in the distance.

Like a traveler in the desert drinking water after walking too long.

Shane had no idea how long they stayed like that.

Maybe seconds. Maybe centuries.

Time had lost meaning.

Eventually, Ilya loosened his arms. Shane’s eyes stung, and he realized he was about to cry.

They pulled apart slightly, though their foreheads still rested together, breaths mingling.

Ilya’s voice came out hoarse. “You should be in Montreal.”

Shane wiped his eyes. Damn it. He hadn’t wanted to cry.

“I saw the news and bought a plane ticket,” he said, sniffing once. His voice still shook. “I had a lot to say to you. I just… couldn’t do it over text.”

Ilya finally looked Shane over. The plunger stood out. His eyebrow lifted. A tiny smile appeared.

“What’s with the outfit?”

Shane cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Well… Rose has that movie where she sneaks into a building dressed as a janitor. I figured it might actually work.”

He added sheepishly, “Security didn’t even look at me.”

Ilya snorted.

“They need to update their training.”

“Hey, I just exploited a loophole.”

“Of course you did. And of course it’s Rose.”

“Ilya!”

“What? I only said a name.” He raised an eyebrow higher. “She’s a very famous actress.”

“Shut up,” Shane muttered, burying his face in Ilya’s neck again. “You smell. Did you drink yesterday?”

“Oh please,” Ilya drawled lazily. “I was upset. I had to cope somehow.”

Marlow’s voice cut in from the side.

“Let me ask on behalf of everyone here… what the fuck is this?”

Ilya sighed dramatically.

“Marlow, you’re blind. No need to see a doctor, I’ve diagnosed you already.”

“Fuck off!”

“We’re together. Seriously,” Shane siad calmly.

He still had his arms around Ilya, but turned slightly to face the room.

Dead silence.

Everyone stared, expressions frozen: wide eyes, dropped rolls of tape, someone grabbing a teammate’s arm like he needed the support.

The most hated player in the league. The Russian asshole who provoked everyone.

Had actually pulled Canada’s golden boy???

Holy shit. I must still be asleep.

Ilya pulled Shane to his feet, slung his bag over his shoulder and grabbed Shane’s wrist.

“Alright, that’s enough chatter, assholes. I’ll hold a locker-room press conference later if you have questions.”

He started walking toward the door.

“But for now—”

His grip tightened.

“I’m taking my boyfriend home. Bye.”

The door slammed behind them.

A second later, the locker room erupted into chaos.

When they finally drove out of the arena parking garage in Ilya’s McLaren, Shane felt like his heart had returned to its proper place.

Sunlight poured through the windshield.

He should have looked out at Boston in daylight. He had played here many times but never really seen the city.

But he couldn’t focus on anything except the hand that slid over to hold his.

Ilya’s fingers were cool and gripping tightly, as if afraid Shane might disappear.

They reached the apartment. The elevator ride was silent, just the two of them, their reflections faintly shimmering in the metal walls. At last, the apartment door closed behind them.

Shane stood in the living room, looking at the familiar gray sofa. The memory of the tuna-sandwich day surfaced suddenly, and he laughed.

“What’s funny?” Ilya asked, emerging from the kitchen with two ginger ale.

“Nothing,” Shane said, opening the can and took a sip. “Just remembered last time.”

“Ilya, I have an idea.”

“Alright,” Ilya said casually, eyes never leaving him.

“We’re exposed now,” Shane said slowly. “Half the plan’s useless.”

He ran his thumb over the cold aluminum of the ginger ale can, watching the condensation bead and slide down the side.

“So we have two options. If Boston won’t protect you, we call Ottawa and start preparing to move you to Canada.”

He glanced up at Ilya.

“If Boston does protect you, that buys us time.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “But either way, for your safety, we need to start your residency application immediately.”

“Farah is already drafting the legal plan. We should have the first version tonight. If the league retaliates or tries to ban us, we file suit. My mom’s already talking to lawyers.”

“Shane,” Ilya said softly.

Shane stopped.

“Boston says they’ll shield me from Russia and the commissioner,” Ilya added.

Shane blinked. “Well… that's actually better than I expected.”

“Shane.”

Ilya’s eyes were a little red.

“Sweetheart” he whispered.“Are you proposing?”

Color rushed to Shane’s face.

“Ilya! I’m talking about serious things.”

He hesitated, then added more quietly, “and I want to propose properly.”

“In a place full of candles,” Ilya said.

“Electric candles.”

A real smile tugged at Ilya’s mouth. “You’re incredibly boring. But fine. Electric candles.”

Shane looked at him.
“Would you say yes?” Shane asked quietly. “You know everything will change. Even more than it already has.”

“We’ve been sleeping together for eight years,” Ilya said, calm as ever.

“But we only just admitted we’re together,” Shane insisted.

Ilya frowned slightly.

“Shane,” he said. “I’m not forcing you. If you don’t want this—”

“I do.” Shane cut him off.

He hesitated, then said more softly, “I just don’t want you making a decision you’ll regret later.”

“I’m not.” Ilya pulled him into his arms. “I love you.”

Shane closed his eyes.

“I love you,” Ilya said again, his voice softer this time.

Shane melted against him.

“I love you too,” he murmured into Ilya’s shoulder.

Sunlight spilled through the window, dust drifting lazily in the beam of light.

For a moment, time seemed to hold its breath.

Then Ilya spoke, very quietly.

“Marry me, Shane.”

Shane nodded against him.

“Okay.”

Chapter End Notes

I know I’ve been a bit lazy these days, but believe me, I really did try. I have many, many ideas sitting in my draft, and I just haven’t figured out the best way to turn them into actual scenes yet. Some of them are really funny, but right now they’re still just bullet points. I’m trying to connect the dots.

Anyway, I hope everyone enjoys this as much as I do. Heated Rivalry honestly saved me from this desperate winter. I never realized before that I might have Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) :( But things are getting better now, and the sunshine really does give me strength.

Thank you for reading, and hopefully I’ll see you again in my next work