Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Patrice Drapeau, Gilbert Comeau

Additional Tags:

Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros (Game Changers), voyageurs is not an asshole, Crack, Fluff

Language:

English

Series:

Part 4 of Heated on ice

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-09 Words: 2,836 Chapters: 1/1

Notre capitaine

Summary

Before Shane could even turn, movement surged behind him.

“Three, two, one—”

Then it hit.

A burst of confetti rained down over his head, sudden and bright, like a miniature snowstorm exploding out of nowhere. Shane instinctively ducked, shoulders hunching as the pieces caught in his hair, his helmet, his shoulders.

Laughter broke out.

And then they were there.

All of them.

Voyageurs players closed in from every direction, forming a loose, uneven circle that tightened fast, until Shane was right in the middle of it. Gloves thudded against pads. Someone’s arm hooked around his neck. Someone else smacked the back of his helmet.

“Capitaine.”

JJ’s voice again, somewhere inside the pile. Lower than usual, but clear.

“If we had to choose again,” he said, “we’d still pick you.”

Notes

I really wanted to write a softer little “what if” for this. The idea is that even after everything, Shane’s old team still treats him like family. Maybe not perfectly, maybe not right away, but still.

In my head, a lot of what went wrong last year came from everything happening at once. Too much, too fast, and no one really handled it well, MTL included. But given some time, a bit of distance, I like to think they’d reflect, calm down, and realize they could’ve done better.

Is this a slightly idealized version of things? Yeah, probably.

But it’s fiction, and I wanted to leave a little space for people to grow, to mend things, and to still care about each other in the end.

So, here we are.

Hope you enjoy 💙

The final buzzer echoed across the ice rink. Shane leaned on his stick, standing there and gasping for breath. Sweat slid down his brow into his eyes, stinging sharply, but he didn’t even want to lift a hand to wipe it away. Because the moment he moved, he was afraid he might collapse to his knees on the spot.

It was finally over.

He closed his eyes and let the hollow exhaustion of survival wash over him. The roar of the home crowd filled his ears. Teammates slapped hands, hugged, and shouted to vent their emotions beside him, but he could not hear any of it clearly. It felt like he had just surfaced from a long drowning and was learning how to breathe again.

Last year had been a nightmare.

It all started with that fan email. Suddenly, everyone’s attention was on him and Ilya’s relationship. Then came his mistake in Game 7, the failed contract renewal, and his departure from the Voyageurs to join the Centaurs. One thing after another came crashing down, chaotic as if someone were pushing him forward from behind, leaving him no time to look back.

During that time, he felt like he was being roasted over a fire. There was the league investigation, online arguments, and every barbed question at press conferences. He had never known he could lose control like that, like a ship without a rudder, battered into pieces by waves.

But he made it through.

Even now, he could not clearly explain how he endured it all. But he did. He learned to let go, to integrate into a new team, and to trust Ilya and everyone who supported him.

Looking back now, not all those changes were bad. The Centaurs were more accepting and supportive than he had imagined. Though leaving the Voyageurs had been painful, he still kept in touch with Hayden and JJ. They had even come to his wedding in the summer.

This should already be the best possible ending, should it not?

Shane had always thought he had accepted everything.

Until this regular season game, Centaurs versus Voyageurs.

Standing in the familiar arena, looking at those who had fought alongside him last year now glaring at him, Shane nearly threw up on the spot.

He stood in the away tunnel, listening to the boos from the crowd, his stomach twisting violently. It felt worse than anything he had imagined. He could even hear his own heartbeat, thump, thump, thump, each beat pounding against his throat as if trying to force all his suppressed emotions out.

Shane took a deep breath.

He pressed a hand against his stomach and held it there for several seconds until the nausea subsided.

Calm down. He was a professional player. He was the captain who had led the Voyageurs to the Cup not once, not twice, but three times. The people across from him now were not friends, not former teammates, just opponents he had to defeat.

But when he saw familiar faces across the faceoff circle, his stomach clenched again, and his breathing faltered.

Breathe. He said to himself. Deep breath. It is fine. Everything will pass.

Shane locked all his complicated emotions into some drawer in his mind. Focus on the puck. Focus on the game. Focus on winning.

So he held his breath and played, one period, then another, then another.

The Centaurs had grown strong over the years, and with Shane joining this season, they were even more formidable. But the Voyageurs were three time champions, and they understood Shane’s playing style inside out. The score stayed tight like a tug of war, back and forth, neck and neck, until the very last minute.

Until just now, when the final buzzer finally sounded, long and piercing, cutting through the air.

Shane slowly raised his head and looked at the scoreboard above the rink. For a moment, he was not sure what he was seeing. His vision was slightly blurred, sweat and light mixing together, making the numbers seem to waver.

The score froze there.

Centaurs 4 to Voyageurs 3.

He stared at the numbers for a long time, long enough for the breath he had been holding all game, the one that nearly suffocated him, to finally settle slowly, like a stone sinking back to the bottom of the water. His shoulders loosened without him noticing, and even the hand gripping his stick went slack.

He did not know whether he should feel relieved or strangely hollow. They had won, but instead of overwhelming joy, there was only exhaustion and a delayed sense of release. He just stood there, head lowered, breathing heavily, letting sweat drip from his chin onto the ice while teammates rushed past him, hugging, shouting, and slapping helmets in celebration.

And he remained where he was, staring at the scoreboard.

The hardest game of his season was finally over.

Shane looked toward the other side of the rink. The players in red, white, and blue were gathered closely together, speaking in low voices. Some patted teammates on the shoulder. Others lowered their heads, took off their helmets, then quickly put them back on, as if encouraging each other. After losing a Game 7, someone always had to speak first to ease the team out of that tightly wound state.

At least, that was how Shane understood it.

He watched for a moment, then deliberately pulled his gaze away, telling himself that was now the other captain’s concern.

But before long, the crowd parted slightly, and a figure separated from it.

It was Hayden.

Hayden skated over at an unhurried pace and stopped in front of Shane. He raised a fist and gave it a small shake. Shane skated forward and bumped fists lightly with him.

"Good game," Shane said, forcing a smile.

Hayden looked him up and down. His gaze lingered briefly on Shane’s soaked hair and the way he was clearly leaning on his stick for support. He raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Wow, you really look exhausted."

Shane let out a breath. His chest was still rising and falling, and the white mist of his breath quickly dissipated in the cold air. He could not help but smile a little too.

"You played really well today. Better than last year," Hayden added.

"Yeah..." Shane started, but trailed off halfway. He seemed to be choosing his words, his gaze briefly dropping to the ice. The skate marks reflected faint light under the arena lamps.

"Honestly... I do not really know," he finally admitted. "My feelings are kind of complicated. I mean, of course I am happy we won, but..."

Hayden picked it up naturally. "Feels strange, does it not? Being on the other side."

Shane looked at him, then slowly nodded.

He unconsciously glanced upward. The banners hung quietly under the lights, red, white, and blue, displaying past championship seasons and retired jerseys of the Voyageurs.

His gaze lingered there.

"I always thought," he said slowly, "my name would be up there one day too."

"It should have been," Hayden replied without hesitation. "They...we fucked up. "

Shane shook his head. "I do not think anyone did anything wrong."

Hayden covered his face dramatically and sighed. "Shane, please. That kind of unnecessary politeness is really not needed."

"Wow, I am expressing goodwill and moral character," Shane finally laughed.

"Goodwill and moral character?" Hayden mimicked him with an exaggerated accent, gasping theatrically and placing a hand over his chest. "That said, I am not actually the only one who wanted to talk to you today." He skated backward a little and nodded behind Shane. "I am just the opening act. You are about to watch a show."

With that, he turned and skated away.

Shane stayed where he was, still a little thrown, watching Hayden glide back into the red-white-and-blue cluster.

A beat later, the group shifted.

From the corner of his eye, Shane caught Ilya and Troy skating toward him from the bench, probably having seen what just happened. They didn’t get far before JJ stepped in and cut them off, saying something low that Shane couldn’t quite make out.

Shane frowned, a flicker of irritation tightening in his chest. The last thing he needed right now was some pointless postgame friction, not here, not after everything. He pushed off instinctively, angling toward them, ready to step in before it turned into something unnecessary—

But a sharp scrape of blades sounded right behind him, close enough to make him stop short.

He turned, and found Comeau already there, closer than he’d expected.

Unlike Hayden, he didn’t open with a fist bump or a joke. Instead, he slipped off one glove and turned it slowly in his hand, the movement just a little too deliberate, like he was buying himself time, working through whatever he needed to say before actually saying it.

Then he looked up. “Hollzy.”

The nickname landed softer than Shane expected, but it still made his shoulders tighten on instinct. He met Comeau’s gaze without looking away, bracing without quite knowing for what.

Comeau drew in a breath, held it for half a second, and then—

“I’m sorry.”

The word landed strangely in the noise of the rink. Applause still echoed somewhere in the stands. Lights burned overhead. But for a second, the space between them went still.

Shane said nothing.

Comeau did not look away. “You don’t have to forgive me,” he went on, steady, matter-of-fact. “Not now. Not later. Not ever. But I wanted to say it anyway.”

Then he flipped the glove over, and a few small, round shapes rolled into his palm.

Shane’s gaze dropped instantly.

Gold foil caught the light, glinting softly under the arena lamps, and he recognized them before his mind had even fully caught up.

Montreal. That old handmade chocolate shop. The stupidly sweet truffles he absolutely did not allow himself.

Except he did, sometimes. Just not where anyone could see.

On the worst nights, he would go out of his way, detouring two blocks just to buy a few, then stash them in the back of his locker and leave them there until everyone else had cleared out. Only then would he unwrap one, slowly, letting the sweetness sit heavy on his tongue until it dulled everything else.

He had always thought he was careful.

Apparently not careful enough.

His throat tightened before he could stop it.

He looked up, sharper than he meant to. “Oh my god.”

Comeau’s composure cracked first. It was subtle, just a flicker, but it was there. He blinked, trying to hold it together, though the nerves were already written all over his face.

Shane, on the other hand, snapped.

“Didn’t I tell you guys not to put random stuff in your gear?” His voice jumped, fast and sharp, words tumbling over each other. He pointed straight at the glove. “What if it gets crushed? What if it melts? What if you forget it’s in there and shove your hand in and cut yourself on the wrapper? Were all those rules I set just for decoration?”

Comeau lost it. The laugh broke out of him, shoulders shaking, completely gone.

That only made it worse.

Shane jabbed a finger at the chocolates like he was listing charges in court. “Ten years! Ten Fucking Years! And you people still haven’t learned anything? Everything I said just went in one ear and out the other?”

He meant to keep going. He really did.

But something caught in his chest. The edge in his voice faltered. That tightness from earlier crept back in, quieter this time, but deeper.

He stopped.

Instead, he reached forward, snatched the glove, dumped the chocolates into his own hand, and shoved it back at Comeau.

“Confiscated,” he muttered.

Comeau was laughing too hard to stand straight.

That, apparently, was a signal.

Drapeau and Miitka were already skating over, still in full goalie gear. They stopped in front of him almost in sync, blades biting into the ice with a dull crack.

Miitka glanced down, then bent awkwardly and tugged something free from under his leg pad.

A roll of tape

Shane’s favorite tape, apparently.

Shane stared at it for exactly one second before detonating.

“Mitty!”

Miitka froze like a deer in headlights.

“We talked about this,” Shane said, each word sharp and deliberate. “Do Not mess with your gear. Do Not shove random junk into it.”

He pointed at the tape, speeding up again. “It’s dangerous. It’s disgusting. and when did you even put that in there? I didn’t see you do it. you know If coach finds out, he’s going to lose his mind.”

Miitka stood there, looking like a kid caught cheating on a test.

Drapeau, completely shameless as ever, cut in. “Relax, Mitty. You stopped Hollzy three times today. Coach can’t touch you.”

Shane shot him a look that could’ve killed. “Not helping.”

Drapeau shrugged, unbothered at all. “Just saying. And for the record, you’re actually pretty easy to read.”

Shane frowned.

“Years of practice,” Drapeau added lazily. “Those little tells of yours? To me and Mitty, they’re basically flashing red lights.”

Miitka nodded in solemn agreement.

Shane’s expression went still for a beat, color creeping up his face. “Get lost.”

Drapeau only grinned.

Somewhere off to the side, JJ pushed off from the edge of the group, gliding in without drawing attention. No one seemed to notice him closing the distance until he was suddenly right there at Shane’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” he said, low and quick.“

Before Shane could even turn, movement surged behind him.

“Three, two, one—”

Then it hit.

A burst of confetti rained down over his head, sudden and bright, like a miniature snowstorm exploding out of nowhere. Shane instinctively ducked, shoulders hunching as the pieces caught in his hair, his helmet, his shoulders.

Laughter broke out.

And then they were there.

All of them.

Voyageurs players closed in from every direction, forming a loose, uneven circle that tightened fast, until Shane was right in the middle of it. Gloves thudded against pads. Someone’s arm hooked around his neck. Someone else smacked the back of his helmet.

“Capitaine.”

JJ’s voice again, somewhere inside the pile. Lower than usual, but clear.

“If we had to choose again,” he said, “we’d still pick you.”

The noise dipped.

Not silent, never that, but something shifted.

Shane barely had room to stand. Confetti drifted through his vision, catching the light as it fell. Through it, he found JJ’s eyes above the rim of his visor, steady, certain, not looking away.

He hesitated.

His lips parted, then stilled, like he was testing the words before letting them go.

A few seconds stretched, long enough for the energy around him to start shifting, people adjusting, waiting.

Then, finally—

“Well… I might accept it.”

The tension broke.

Laughter rolled through the group, shoulders bumping and pads creaking as the energy loosened all at once. Someone started it, soft at first—

“Hollander.”

Another voice picked it up, then another, the name passing through the crowd, low and gathering, like something shifting beneath the ice. It swelled quickly, growing louder, clearer, until it broke into a chant—

“Hollander! Hollander!”

Miitka shoved his way up from somewhere in the middle of the mess, popping his head out and shouting across the rink, “Hey! Rozanov! Don’t you dare treat our Cap badly! We’ll tear you limb from limb!”

“What the fuck?” Ilya snapped back immediately. “Me? You’re asking me? After all the shit you’ve pulled?”

The answer came in a lazy, shameless chorus.

“We’re already the worst kind of assholes. Might as well be hypocrites too. You don’t get to treat our captain badly.”

Ilya threw his head back, rolling his eyes in exaggerated defeat.

Shane, still trapped in the middle of them, shook his head, half laughing, half exasperated.

After a while, the noise began to settle, the edge of it softening as the moment wound down.

One by one, the Voyageurs players stepped in close, tapping the tops of their helmets lightly against his. Once, twice, three times, then stepping away to make room for the next.

Shane knew it well. It was a habit he had started when he first became captain. He had been the one going to them, closing the distance himself, pressing his helmet gently against theirs, one after another, making sure each of them felt it.

Now they came to him.

Each soft tap was light, almost nothing, but it carried.

He did not move. Did not speak.

Confetti still clung to his shoulders. Bits of it scattered across the ice. Around him, people were still laughing, arguing, calling out “double standards” like it was something to be proud of.

He just stood there and answered every tap.

When the last of them finally drifted away, Ilya skated up beside him.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

Shane looked down at the chocolates still in his hand.

Then he smiled.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m good. Couldn’t be better.”