Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, characters based on NHL people, Probably others idk

Additional Tags:

Injury, Shane is an assistant coach, Plot deviates from heated rivalry halfway through rookie season, Slow Burn, Angst, But not that bad, no beta we die like men, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of "second chances" universe

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-20 Completed: 2026-01-29 Words: 15,698 Chapters: 9/9

Second Chances

Summary

"He allowed himself one last moment of anger, and slammed his already broken stick into the edge of his cubby.

And with that, Shane Hollander walked away from his hockey career."

 

Halfway through his rookie season, Shane Hollander suffered a concussion that took him out of hockey. Three years later, he returns to hockey as an assistant coach. In Boston.

Notes

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Welcome to another snowy evening in beautiful Montreal, where the Canadiens are gearing up to take on the Detroit Red Wings. Steve, I know you’re excited for this one.

Absolutely, Carl. Detroit has been excellent on the road recently, earning a point in seven of their last eight games. But don’t count the Canadiens out. Shane Hollander, Montreal’s first round draft pick, is back on the ice tonight.

He is STILL leading the team in goal scoring despite his one month stint on the Injured Reserve. Steve, it just goes to show how much of a difference maker he is for this team.

He’s an all around player. Not only is he putting the puck in the net, he’s a defensive minded center putting in time on the penalty kill as well. He has a current plus/minus of twenty-five, one of the best in the league.

And one of the best I’ve seen in any player at this point in the season. When we spoke with him earlier, he told us he was feeling healthy, ready to work, and ready to get the Canadiens back into reach of a playoff spot.

The fans here tonight are hoping he can make that happen. Look at all these Hollander jerseys in the crowd. He may be only a rookie, but they love him already. They have faith that he can take this team to the level they want to see.

If I’m a Montreal fan, I wait a couple years until I can buy a Hollander jersey with the “C” sewn on.

Always thinking of efficiency. We’re going to take a quick commercial break, and when we come back it will be time to drop the puck at the Bell Centre.

“Post-concussive syndrome? You’ve gotta be shitting me.” Shane was still holding both ends of the stick he’d snapped in half. It was his third stick in as many games, but he couldn’t help it. He was still nauseous and dizzy, and skating didn’t help. For one of the first times in his life, playing hockey was making his problems worse, not better. 

His trainer was talking to the ground, like he always did when he delivered bad news. “It can happen to anyone. Head injuries can be unpredictable.” 

Shane ground his teeth and tried to steady himself. “You said six weeks. I did everything. I locked my phone in a fucking cage. I went on walks on the treadmill. I fucked up my entire weight lifting schedule. And it was all for nothing?” 

“Not nothing,” his trainer said, prying the broken stick from Shane’s hands. “You were working toward recovery. You still are.” 

“I’m trying to get this team into the playoffs.” 

“You threw up on the bench today. Your passes aren’t connecting. A few guys have told me that they’re afraid to get physical with you in practice because sometimes your face goes blank.” 

Shane scoffed. “Who the fuck said that?” 

“Hollander, look. This is more than hockey. This is your life. You and I both know we’ve lost guys over this. Sure, you can fake it through the rest of the season and lie to my face about it. But what if you wanna marry some woman someday? Have some kids? Start a new business? Don’t you wanna give yourself the best shot at it all? Are you going to let something that happened before you even turned twenty define you forever?” 

Shane turned away so the trainer couldn’t see the tears welling in his eyes. What the trainers and the doctors didn’t understand was that there wasn’t some other life to fall back to, a future college degree or white picket fence fantasy for him to look forward to when he retired. Hockey was it. 

Since he had come back from IR, his headaches had started back up again. On bad nights, nausea rolled through him like waves. But he had passed all the concussion tests. He wasn’t scoring as many goals as he had earlier in the season, and his plus/minus had gone down to 10, but he wasn’t nothing. He had figured if he just kept skating through it, he’d either learn to work around the headaches or eradicate them for good. 

Now, he was being asked to step away again. Maybe for even longer, this time.

The trainer was still talking. 

“Just take a few more weeks, and we can do a check in. Hollander, no one wants you back to top form more than this organization. But you can’t ignore a lingering brain injury like this.” 

Shane picked his broken stick back up from where the trainer had set it on the examination table. “Fine.” 

He heard voices in the hall as his teammates filtered out of the showers. He was still in the bottom half of his gear- not the standard way to meet with the trainer, but he hadn’t found the energy to shuck off the rest of his stuff before getting pulled aside. 

By the time he got back to his spot in the locker room, everyone else was gone. He tugged off his pants, wondering whether it was even worth going over game film tonight. 

His jersey hung with his name and the number 24 facing out, still pristine despite the recent game. As he methodically laced the fancy dress shoes his mom had convinced him to buy, he allowed himself to remember how it had felt to pull that jersey over his head for the first time. To see a kid in the stands wearing his number, joyfully waving a sign that said “First Hockey Game!” 

He allowed himself one last moment of anger, and slammed his already broken stick into the edge of his cubby. 

And with that, Shane Hollander walked away from his hockey career. 

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Ilya Rozanov was on a tear. He had points in eleven straight games, and multiple goals in eight of them. His one-timer gave goalies nightmares, and he was just as dangerous streaking through the neutral zone. He was at the top of his game, and he knew it. 

No one could keep up with him, including his own team. Despite Ilya’s prowess as a goal scorer, the Boston Bruins had not won a game in three weeks. They’d gotten a few overtime points in that time, thanks to Ilya’s uncanny ability to find the back of the net in the last minute of the game to tie it up, but couldn’t seem to get the win. 

It had been a little bit of a crazy month. They’d had to fire an assistant coach suddenly when a scandal broke that he had been in gambling debt and had started placing bets against the Bruins. The coaching and management staff had been in talks with potential other coaches around the league, but to Ilya’s knowledge had not yet found the right fit. Meanwhile, trade rumors were flying on social media, making players feel uncertain of their future in Boston. The team wasn’t clicking, on or off the ice. 

Ilya was thrilled when his phone finally rang well before he was due at the rink for practice. As captain, he would get to meet the new hire first. He clicked through his translator app, making sure his arsenal of vocabulary was ready for what was sure to be a long off-ice meeting, and speed walked through the North End. 

The little window on Coach Julien’s office showed most of the coaching staff already there, shaking hands with the new assistant coach. Ilya caught a flash of dark hair before it disappeared behind another coach’s shoulder. 

He considered knocking before ignoring that thought and pushing the door open, coming face to face with “Shane Hollander?” 

Hollander looked surprised that Ilya remembered his name. “Rozanov. Nice to see you again.” He stuck his hand out slowly, as if Ilya would walk away before he shook it. 

Ilya grasped Hollander’s hand for less than a second before letting go, letting his arm fall to his side. He tried to keep his jaw clenched shut, hiding his shock. 

Shane Hollander? They had been drafted the same year. They had been miles above the rest of their draft class, pushing each other to excel further, reach higher, outdo one another. Boston had had the first pick and chose Ilya, while Montreal, one pick later, chose Hollander. Suddenly, Ilya’d found himself as the focal point of one of the most talked about rivalries in hockey. His games against Montreal were fast and hard-hitting- his favorite way to play. 

Where he could normally thread the needle with a breakout pass so good his winger barely had to adjust to catch it, Hollander would cut off his pass, reading him as soon as he looked across the ice. Where he could normally bury a shot from the top of the circles, Hollander was throwing himself in front of the puck, nearly taking a shot in the face to keep Ilya from a chance at scoring. Ilya was forced to raise his level, to make quick decisions, to lengthen his stride. 

Playing against Hollander had made Ilya a better player. He’d loved how angry Hollander looked when Ilya managed to score against him. He’d made audacious comments to reporters about how he was going to match Hollander shift for shift and block every single one of his shots. He would murmur insults in Hollander’s ear before face-offs, citing facts about Montreal when he ran out of things to say. 

“Montreal bagel is bad,” he’d say, “why is hole so big?” 

It would make Hollander’s eyes turn murderous. He was more fun to play against that way. 

Then, Hollander took a late hit to the head just halfway through rookie season, and never came back the same.  

Looking at Hollander now, Ilya could see nothing of the eager, snarling rookie he’d seen across the face-off dot. Hollander’s face was calm, the corner of his mouth turned up. He was already wearing a Boston hat. 

It had been three years since Ilya had last seen Hollander, but it still took restraint to bite his lip before he said ah, you’re wearing my clothes now I see, in a room full of people. 

Coach Julien spoke before Ilya could. “You know, I bet they still have that banner with the two of you on it buried around here somewhere.” 

Ilya remembered. A fifty foot banner across the Garden’s main entrance with the two of them lining up for a face-off. 

Hollander’s mouth flattened for a moment before curving up again. “They hate to get rid of those.” 

Everyone looked at Ilya, waiting for him to say something. Ilya froze, eyes on Hollander. “Was too big,” he managed. Hollander cocked his head at him. 

Ilya cleared his throat. “Welcome to Boston.” 

Hollander nodded. “Thank you.” He wiped his hand on his pants. “Can’t wait to work with you and the guys.” 

Ilya nodded back. His vocabulary refresher had not prepared him to think of something to say after all. 

Coach Julien led Ilya and Hollander to Hollander’s cubicle. “Rozanov, I told Hollander you’d meet with him right away. He wants to get started on that power play today.” 

Ilya leaned on Hollander’s cubicle. “No problem. Me too.” 

Coach Julien beamed. “What I wanted to hear. Good luck, fellas.” He turned and left leaving Hollander and Ilya to look at each other.

The other coaching staff had dispersed, probably to get coffee. They’d all shown up early to get Hollander’s day started. 

Hollander was already dragging another chair over from the cubicle next to his. “Here, sit. I have some film I want to go over with you.” 

Ilya sat. He raised his eyebrows at the pages of notes that were already on Hollander’s desk. Hollander swept them to the side. “I brought a few notes from the interview last week.” He clicked his mouse around as the computer screen flickered to life.

Ilya was suddenly looking at about ten clips of him standing in front of the goal. 

“You’re on the power play in all of these,” Hollander pointed out, “you won the puck back, and now you’re looking to tip it in.” 

The clips played, showing the only times (in Ilya’s opinion) that he’d ever fucked up a scoring chance. Ilya almost getting hit in the face with the puck. Ilya getting hit in the foot and swearing in Russian while battling to get the puck back. Ilya getting pushed around by both defensemen while the puck missed the net. 

“Thanks, Hollander.” Ilya reminded himself that Hollander was his coach now, and he couldn’t goad Hollander into trying to do any better.

“Why does he have you down here? Even well after the face-off, you don’t ever move from in front of the net on a power play.” Hollander pointedly ignored Ilya’s narrowed eyes. “You haven’t scored from here in weeks. And even when you do, you don’t do anything someone else on your team couldn’t do.” Hollander pointed to one of the paused clips, where the camera had started to zoom out. “Halfway up the boards, or here,” he pointed at the middle of the blue line, “you’re more dangerous. You do what no one else in the league can do from here.” 

Ilya shrugged. “I’m a big guy, I screen the goalie.” 

Hollander looked unimpressed. “Boston is a big team. Let’s try you up in one of these spots on the power play today. Let me know if you have any questions.” 

“Who am I with? Same unit?”

“I’m going to try some different combinations. Hang on, I actually have a picture on my phone of my whiteboard from home. Haven’t had the chance to copy down the lines yet.” Hollander dug his phone out of his pocket and swiped a couple times to bring up a picture of a whiteboard crammed with text. “Shit- I mean, uh, oops. It’s kind of small. I can text it to you.” 

Uh oh. Ilya gave another glance around the room. No one was back from their coffee break yet. “Just air drop it to me. You know air drop?” 

Hollander was already shaking his head. “I never set that up. Now what number-” He cut off. Silence exploded between them as Hollander’s calm demeanor cracked for just a moment.

Ilya kept his eyes on the ground. He’d been thinking about it since he saw Hollander’s face behind the door. He already had Hollander’s number, of course, and from the looks of it Hollander seemed to still have his. Probably still under the name “Lily.”

Ilya stood. “My number is on team roster. Get a copy from Coach.” He left the office, nearly tripping over his feet to get back to the safety of the locker room. 

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

So they’d hooked up a couple times. And of course, Rozanov remembered. It hadn’t been that long ago. Shane had almost managed to convince himself that he’d dreamt it, that he’d never seen Rozanov in the showers that day, or knew how it felt to be pressed between the wall and Rozanov’s body, so turned on he could barely speak. 

He always wondered what might have happened if he’d never gotten a concussion. He and Rozanov had never properly discussed an arrangement between them, aside from planning to meet at Shane’s apartment before a blizzard forced them to cancel.

They’d never really discussed much at all, opting instead to let the tension between them physically snap, getting off with an urgency Shane had never truly felt up to that point in his life. But the reality was that no one else really understood the pressure of a stand-out rookie season the way Rozanov did. No one else- even the other stars in the league- knew what it was like to get asked about the other in every radio interview or by fans on the street. 

But there had been more pressing things to do with each other than talk about their experiences in the NHL. Maybe it would’ve come up if they’d kept meeting. 

Rozanov never got in touch again after Shane’s injury, and Shane wouldn’t have expected him to. Shane was suddenly a horror story, a cautionary tale for kids dreaming of playing in the NHL. When he finally realized that his brain could no longer handle the high intensity and full contact game he’d loved his whole life, he officially announced his retirement. 

He’d heard years before that athletes died twice: the first death being when they quit their sport for good. It really was as if he had died, yet was still at the funeral. His former teammates sent condolences. ESPN and NHL Network sent flowers to his house. He never checked any interviews or articles to see whether Rozanov had commented on his retirement. He wouldn’t have been able to handle anything Rozanov had to say. 

He hadn’t watched any hockey for the first few months after his announcement. He didn’t do much of anything, feeling aimless for the very first time. Once his parents started threatening to take him to a new set of doctors if he didn’t start engaging with the world again, he’d check in on Montreal from time to time. Inevitably, he tuned in when they were playing Boston.

As he watched Rozanov dance through Shane’s old team, coming up against no one quite good enough to stop him, Shane couldn’t help but think of himself in Rozanov’s place. He imagined clashing with Rozanov, year after year, as their teams got stronger and their games began to have playoff implications. He imagined the chirps Rozanov would’ve come up with, and his shock when Shane eventually chirped him back. 

Would he have met up with Rozanov off the ice again? Probably not. They would’ve realized how much there was to lose if they got caught. 

The funny thing was, now that he wasn’t an NHL player anymore, he could’ve explored the part of himself that had gotten on his knees for Rozanov as soon as they were alone and behind a locked door. As the NHL and its fans moved on, he could’ve gone to clubs or made an online account, likely without getting recognized. But he never got past just thinking about it. 

When he heard about Boston’s gambling scandal and the firing of the assistant coach, Shane felt a new life plan fall into place. He’d moved back in with his parents after his retirement and couldn’t handle another minute of his dad’s pitying glances or his mom’s disappointed sighs whenever he refused to meet with someone who worked in real estate. She wanted him to become some kind of property developer, apparently. 

He’d known it would be a long shot to get the job, but he made a strong case. He had presented power play stats, knowledge of the team’s weaknesses, and comprehensive plans to turn Boston into an offense that could match any top NHL team. Most importantly, he argued that he could leverage Ilya Rozanov, making him the kind of goal scorer that elevated the rest of the team along with him. 

After several interview rounds, Shane became the youngest assistant coach in the NHL. He packed some boxes, kissed his parents goodbye, and moved to Boston.

The phone number thing had been a hiccup. He’d never meant to even come close to making Rozanov acknowledge that brief thing between them. In fact, he’d done his best to eradicate all memories of their encounters. He couldn’t think about that kind of thing anymore.

He was on edge from Coach Julien’s comment about the banner, but knew he was going to get more of that as more people heard about his new job. He’d prepared himself for it, told himself it would be worth it when he found a way to make Boston a dangerous opponent and prove he wasn’t done with the NHL after all. He had no time to think about Rozanov in any way other than the core of his new and improved power play unit. Sure, much of the time he spent watching hockey was focused on the way Rozanov played, but what offensive coach worth anything wouldn’t focus on Rozanov? 

He would proceed with the plan he’d set out to bring to Boston, and hoped Rozanov would follow his lead. 

The first practice went well, after the players got over the shock of seeing Shane Hollander out on the ice with them in his coaching uniform. There had been a few mutters, a few looks of disbelief as Shane started instructing the power play unit, but overall the team had listened. 

Shane couldn’t help but notice Rozanov pulling some of the players aside throughout practice, especially the ones who had been particularly shocked to see Shane as their coach. No one seemed to throw Shane any looks after Rozanov had spoken with them. 

Other than that, Rozanov seemed normal, ribbing teammates when they messed up a drill and patting them on the shoulder when they nailed the passing pattern Shane gave them. He nodded along as Shane gave instructions, raising his hand when he had a question.

“Why no one-timer from the left side?” He asked, gesturing to the open player behind him. 

“You’re playing Nashville next.” Shane had already memorized Boston’s schedule. “Rinne has been stopping those every time. Feed the one-timer if you see it, but let’s focus on other options.” 

Rozanov grinned. “Yes. We will make him look stupid.” 

Shane looked at the rest of the team. “You heard him. Let’s run it again.” 

Shane had promised the Bruins coaching staff that his plan would work, but he’d only been faking confidence in his strategies in order to get the job. Incredibly, his coaching really was working. 

After his first few games with the coaching staff, Coach Julien had complimented him in a meeting. 

“Hollander,” he’d said, “this is really excellent stuff. We knew your experience playing against Rozanov at the level you did, if only for a short time, would give you insight on how to make him even better. But you’ve made the entire team better too. Even our defensemen are scoring goals right now.” Shane had kept his face as neutral as possible, holding back a wide smile. 

Rozanov was putting pucks in the net at a high rate, even for him. And this time, the rest of the team was following suit. Since Shane’s arrival, the Bruins’ power play was converting 30% of the time, one of the best in the league. 

Boston was buzzing with excitement, thrilled that they were getting to witness a comeback story both from the team and from Shane. When he appeared on the Jumbotron during home games, the crowd cheered. He felt nearly as excited as he’d been skating out onto the ice three years ago, knowing this could be the way he’d become a part of NHL history. 

He wished he wasn’t so afraid of it all falling apart. 

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Ilya felt like hell. 

Things had been going much too well for him lately. He was on top of the league in scoring and showed no signs of slowing down. Since Hollander had signed on as an assistant coach, Ilya’d had a steady stream of tips and information that only helped him increase production. 

“Rozanov, Toronto’s second string left defenseman is the weak link. Keep the puck on the outside to get around him and then cut in.” A two goal game. 

“Rozanov, Thompson has been winning every face-off lately. Lift his stick and kick the puck back.” A four point game. 

“Rozanov, go five hole.” A hat trick. 

Nothing could stop him, except for the flu, which he currently had. 

Chills ran through his body as he drank glass after glass of tap water. He’d probably be able to get through the game tonight if he napped after practice, but he suspected the sickness would really hit him later on. He quickly placed an order for some decongestants, put on an extra layer, and headed to practice. 

Okay, maybe he lied. He definitely wasn’t going to get through tonight’s game. They’d come on to do their warmup and Ilya had immediately turned around and left the ice before he puked all over someone’s skates. 

He’d been okay during practice earlier, but Hollander had called him out.

“You alright, Rozanov?” When it came to the health of his offense, Hollander had eyes like a hawk. Ilya had grunted and skated away. 

Now, Ilya was bracing himself over the locker room toilet, heaving as he vomited out the last of of his pre-game snack. He coughed and hung his head, sweat rolling down his temples. He could hear the muted warm up music coming from the ice, and could practically feel the footsteps of fans finding their seats. He hoped no one in the stands cared much about seeing him play. 

Behind him, the door creaked open. “Rozanov?” 

The last thing he wanted in this moment was an audience. 

“So they sent the new coach back to check on the sick player? Is hazing, yes?” 

He heard Hollander sigh behind him. “No one sent me. I’m confirming that you’re a scratch tonight.” 

Ilya groaned, but didn’t have the strength to argue. “Probably for the best. Don’t want to puke on a fan.” 

“Gross.” 

When he finally turned around, Hollander was much closer, his hand halfway to Ilya’s shoulder pad. He frowned before pulling his hand back. “You know, if you can get your gear off in the next five minutes I can probably drive you home.” 

“The game starts in half an hour.” 

“You live in the North End. I have my car. It’ll take two seconds.” 

“How do you know where I live?”

“One of the roster sheets has it.” 

Ilya tried to smirk, despite having just thrown up. “I told you, the roster sheet has everything.” 

Hollander just stared at him. “Do you want to go home to your bed or not?” 

Ilya considered asking Hollander to help him up off the floor, but thought better of it. “I’ll be ready soon.” 

Miraculously, Hollander zipped around the Garden traffic and dropped Ilya off on Hanover Street in record time. When Ilya turned on the game from his couch, Hollander was situated in his usual spot next to Coach Julien, ready to yell in everyone’s ears when he needed to. 

“Real Boston driver now,” Ilya muttered, weirdly annoyed. Hollander had even offered to help him into his apartment. Ilya had given him what he hoped was a murderous look before gingerly stepping out of the car and making sure he wouldn’t fall on his face where Hollander could see. 

“Rozanov,” Hollander had called out as he walked away, “just- just text me after the game, or when you wake back up. I’ve gotta make sure my best forward doesn’t die on me.” 

Ilya stared at the corner of Hollander’s mouth, trying not to let his vision blur. 

“Do you have my-”

“Yes, I have your number, Hollander. Unless it changed.” 

A blush crept up Hollander’s cheeks. “Nope, it didn’t change. Okay. Uh, bye.” He’d inched forward on the ridiculously narrow street and driven away, evidently in time to make the start of game as he’d promised. 

L: I’m not dead. 

J: Glad to hear it. Are you well enough to come in tomorrow?

L: Probably not. 

J: We can have the doctor look at you.

J: I can pick you up. 

L: It’s a flu. You’re lucky I didn’t puke in your car.

J: I could’ve gotten it cleaned.

L: You should do that anyway. 

J: Just let me know if you need anything. 

J: Hey, how are you? Coach is asking about you. A couple other guys went down with the flu today.

J: Rozanov? 

J: If I don’t hear from you in the next three hours I’m coming over. 

Ilya didn’t know how much time had passed since he had left the game. As he’d predicted, the illness had hit him like a truck. Even his softest t-shirt felt like it was scraping his skin raw, and he was too congested to lie down all the way. He presumably slept, although he was so tired he felt as if he’d been up for days. Sunlight wavered in and out of his window, his only real confirmation that he had probably been in bed for over twenty-four hours. His phone was somewhere on the floor where it had fallen. 

A persistent buzzing was splitting his skull in half. He stumbled out of bed and into the kitchen, pushing whatever buttons he could find on the wall until it stopped. 

He collapsed on the couch, groaning when the blanket he pulled over himself brushed his bare arm. He didn’t get sick often, but he never got sick halfway. It always went away after a few days of hibernation and suffering. 

There was a knock at the door.

“Rozanov?” 

Ugh. 

The knocking continued. 

“I need you to open the door.” 

Hollander sounded concerned. Ilya decided that was not his problem. 

“I’m going to try and open-”  the door handle turned. Ilya had forgotten to lock the door when he’d stumbled in the other night. 

Hollander was standing in his apartment, presumably judging every last inch of it. Ilya didn’t have much on the walls or any decorative flourishes, which his friend Svetlana liked to tease him about every time she visited. Ilya did not have the energy to make some kind of excuse to Hollander about it, but reminded himself that he didn’t actually care what Hollander thought. 

Even the slight vibration of Hollander’s footsteps towards the couch were enough to make Ilya’s head pound again. 

“Rozanov.”

“Hi, Hollander.” 

“You sound like shit.” 

“Well, you look like shit.”

“You can’t even see me from under that blanket.” 

Ilya just needed Hollander to leave so he could suffer in peace. “What do you want?” He was sweating under the blanket, despite the chills that made him pull it tighter around his body. 

“I want to make sure you’re okay.” 

“I am not okay. I am sick. I will be better soon.” 

“Please take the blanket off your face.” 

“Fucking make me.” 

“Rozanov.” 

Ilya inched the blanket off his face, wincing as Hollander’s scowl came into view. He noticed a black bag with the spoked B stitched into the side slung over Hollander’s shoulder. 

“Are you the team doctor now?” 

Hollander sighed. “No. I was just… concerned. Guys were puking all over the place yesterday, they were in pretty rough shape. Looks like you were a little ahead of them.” 

“I always am.” 

“So humble. It’s a wonder you’re not swimming in brand deals.” 

“I have no brand deals because my accent is strong and other teams call me a rat bastard. Maybe you should get a brand deal.” 

“That would be really weird.” 

Ilya’s head hurt too much to think of anything to say to Hollander. Anything that wasn’t you would have so many brand deals if you still played, you would be a billionaire.

“You see that I am not dead. You can leave now.” 

Hollander shifted on his feet as he jostled the bag at his side. “I actually brought you some soup. And some flu medicine. The good stuff, not that bullshit they have out on the shelves.” 

Ilya stared. “You made me soup?” 

“Oh god, no. I bought it.” 

Ilya snorted, and then winced as his head pounded again. 

“Do you want to eat it now? Have you been able to keep anything down?” 

He much rather would go back to sleep, but he didn’t think Hollander would leave unless he ate some. “I can try. Maybe I’ll eat a little.” 

“If you have bread here I can make you some toast to start.” 

“Okay.” 

By the time Hollander had ransacked Ilya’s kitchen in search of some bread and a suitable pot for the soup, Ilya had pulled himself into a sitting position. Hollander crouched in front of him, placing his hands on Ilya’s upper arms. 

“Let’s eat at the table. Ready? Stand up.” 

Ilya stood. Hollander relaxed his grip on Ilya and led him to the table. 

“You know what you’re doing, for someone who is not a doctor.” 

“I have a little experience with puking and dizziness.” 

The toaster popped. 

Ilya watched Hollander retrieve the small plate he’d taken forever to find so he could serve Ilya his single piece of toast. 

“Try this first, and then we can see about the soup.” 

Ilya nibbled on the corner of the toast. So far, so good. “Do you still get dizzy?” 

Hollander shrugged. “Sometimes. Not as often. It used to be- it used to be pretty bad.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“You had nothing to do with it.” 

“Still.” Ilya took a bite of his toast. 

Hollander took a breath. “They changed the penalties for late hits after that.” 

“I know.” 

Hollander’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it. “Do you want to try some soup now?” 

“Okay.” 

The soup went down surprisingly well. Ilya ate it silently, concentrating on staying awake. Hollander couldn’t seem to stay in one place, tidying up the kitchen and assembling any meal he thought Ilya might eat. 

“I made a stack of toast. It’s on that plate, under the Saran Wrap. I brought a can of ginger ale for if you get nauseous again, it’s in the fridge, right next to the Gatorade and those almond butter squares you have. There’s more soup for you to heat up too, oh and some saltines over here.”

“Hollander.” Ilya was done with his soup. “Thank you.” 

Hollander waved him off. 

Ilya pushed back his chair. “I think I’m less dizzy now.” 

Hollander was at his side in an instant. “I’ll just walk next to you then. Do you want to go to bed?” 

“Couch is fine.” His bedroom was a fucking pigsty. 

Hollander didn’t fight him on it, and let Ilya make his way to the couch. He pulled the blanket back over his head, making Hollander let out a soft chuckle. 

“Please check in tomorrow if you can.” Hollander was back in professional mode. “We’ll be happy to see you back once you’re feeling better.” 

“I know.” 

“See you soon.” 

The door clicked shut as Hollander left. Ilya fell right to sleep. 

Chapter End Notes

I am aware that it would be unheard for a coach to drive a player home right before a game like this… there is no need to live in the land of reality in times like these.

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

Good evening folks, and hello from Boston! We’ve got what’s sure to be a good one in store for you tonight: Ilya Rozanov and the Boston Bruins are taking on Scott Hunter and the New York Rangers. 

Steve, the Bruins have surprised us at every turn. After the rough start to the season, they have turned it around. They’re sitting in a playoff spot right now, if things keep going their way.

If you asked me three years ago whether I thought I’d be talking about Shane Hollander in the future, I’d have told you yes. But I never thought I’d be talking about his success as an assistant coach on this Bruins team. What a year for him. It’s nice to see. 

Last week, Coach Julien told us that it’s the way he sees the play unfolding that makes him such a valuable addition to the team. His hockey IQ was a big deal as a player, and it’s only gotten better. 

He sees it all from behind that bench, Carl. But we can’t leave Ilya Rozanov out of the equation here. Spent his early hockey career playing against Hollander in some high stakes match-ups, and now he’s performing at the highest level we’ve ever seen him thanks to Hollander’s guidance. 

I wonder if they had a few words before they could set it all aside and play for the same team.

Rozanov might drive other teams crazy, but the Bruins organization has said before, he is completely respectful to the coaches and staff in Boston. 

He’s certainly been giving Boston all they’ve wanted out of him this year. 

That’s why he wears the C. 

L: You never go out with the team. 

J: I’m not on the team.

L: As Captain I say you’re part of it. 

L: I’m always right about these things.

L: We owe you for that win.

J: You were the one with two goals.

L: You can buy me a drink as a thank you, then.

J: Fuck off. 

L: Other coaches are here…

J: Fine.

It was just barely too cold, too dark, and too far of a walk to get from the Seaport to the bar on Commercial Street. Shane figured it was for the best that he had to Uber over anyhow- walking would’ve given him too many opportunities to chicken out and go home. 

The Bruins had been truly exceptional tonight. Rozanov had been even better. For the first time all season, Shane had been nothing but proud to get the win, and happy that Rozanov was playing so well. That occasional whisper, that ghost of himself as a hockey player that was bitter and jealous of the life he didn’t have, stayed quiet while he switched around the lines to confuse the Rangers’ defense. He had simply enjoyed his job, the way he’d always hoped he would. 

The bar was pretty energetic for a random Tuesday night. Shane stood at the entrance taking in the brick walls and curved ceiling, flickering with shadows as the bar patrons moved in the dim light of several antique-looking lamps. 

Rozanov was leaning against the far end of the bar, chatting with the two goalies. He’d changed into dark jeans and a striped button-down, his golden cross necklace catching the light when he tilted his head back to take a sip of his drink. He’d rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, but hadn’t bothered to button them in place- they kept sliding down his forearm before he tugged them back up and took another drink. Shane had to look away. 

“Hollander!” Marlow, one of the defensemen, waved at Shane from a table in the corner. 

At Marlow’s shout, Rozanov looked up just as Shane looked back over to his spot at the bar. Their eyes met for a moment, Rozanov holding his gaze with a clenched jaw. Shane started to walk toward him before he remembered Marlow had been the one to call him over. 

Shane didn’t see any other coaches at Marlow’s table (or anywhere else in the bar, it seemed), but Marlow pulled out a chair and patted it. Shane sat on the edge of the seat, his back to the bar. He could feel eyes on him from over where Rozanov was standing. 

“Good to see you out, coach.” 

Shane smiled as the other players at the table echoed Marlow’s greeting. “Good game, guys.” 

“Same to you,” Wheeler, a winger on Rozanov’s line, raised his beer in Shane’s direction. “You always know exactly what’s gonna get ‘em. I swear, you have a superpower.” 

Shane tried not to shrug, reminding himself he couldn’t look too casual in front of the players. After all, he wasn’t one of them. “I just pay attention.” 

Wheeler laughed. “Even Rozanov doesn’t see half the things you do. And I thought he saw everything. Remember that game he won every single face-off?” 

Marlow snorted. “He knew fuckin’ Smitty just had a baby. Told him he was a bad father for going on a ten day road trip so soon after the birth. The guy couldn’t handle a little ribbing and lost it.” 

Shane barked out a laugh. Jesus, Rozanov. 

“Hollander, you haven’t seen the half of it. Last season he was battling in the corner with O’Reilly and told him his new tattoo looked like shit. O’Reilly got it earlier that day too, on his fucking back. Not even his wife fucking knew he had that.” The guys were laughing harder, making the beer on the table slosh back and forth. Shane couldn’t help but join in. 

Then, Marlow glanced over his shoulder, where Rozanov was ordering another beer. “He’s been real well behaved lately, if you ask me. He’s got a girl now. That’s why he’s been playing so well.”

Wheeler made a crude gesture. “Scoring on and off the ice.” The guys howled in laughter. 

Shane tried to laugh along again, but could only manage a weak chuckle. “He has a girlfriend?” 

Marlow shrugged. “Don’t know if it’s officially a girlfriend, but he’s really into this chick. Last week on our roadie I ate some really fuckin bad lasagna, probably expired. I was gonna wait til Rozanov was asleep before I went to shit it all out- just trying to be good to our captain,” he explained as another round of laughter went around the table, “but he wasn’t fuckin falling asleep. He was up half the night texting some chick. I saw the name on his phone when I walked by. Jane. Crazy, right? I think we can all agree you don’t stay up that late on a game night unless your girl is fuckin smokin. Or if you’re shitting your brains out, like I was.” 

Wheeler was laughing so hard Shane could see a vein in his forehead. Shane stood up. “I’m getting a drink.” The guys only laughed harder. 

As Shane walked to the bar, he heard someone at the table say, “Marlow, you scared him off. He didn’t wanna hear about your shit.” He beelined to the opposite end of the bar, to an open spot between some women he’d never seen before. 

He’d just ordered a ginger ale when a voice right behind him said, “No alcohol for the coach? A small hangover is probably fine for tomorrow, no?” Goosebumps rose on the back of Shane’s neck. 

He turned, looking down when he realized Rozanov was way too close. “Alcohol’s not good for the-” he trailed off, tapping the side of his head. 

Rozanov frowned. “Does it hurt now?” 

Shane shook his head. “It’s just better to be safe.” A roar of laughter erupted at Marlow’s table, cutting through the din of voices at the bar. Shane winced at the sudden noise. 

Rozanov noticed. “There is another room, it’s much quieter.” 

Shane waved him off. “It’s fine. You should go join the guys.” 

“They are fools. Come.” Rozanov’s hand brushed Shane’s elbow, and Shane yanked it away as if he’d been shocked. 

“Going so soon?” One of the women next to Shane at the bar turned to face them, setting down the martini she’d been drinking. Her skin shone next to the silver tank top she was wearing, showing off the floral tattoos decorating her shoulders. She looked Rozanov up and down, then turned to Shane. “You two must be some of those hockey players.” 

“Yes, we are.” Did Rozanov sound impatient? “Nice to meet you.” 

The woman smiled warmly at him. “My friend is coming back from the bathroom, if you both wanna stay and chat.” 

Shane tried to respond, potentially with something along the lines of “I was actually just leaving,” but Rozanov beat him to it. “We have to strategize. Hockey business. Sorry. Bye.” He grabbed Shane’s arm with a grasp too firm for Shane to pull away from this time, and led Shane to the other room. 

Shane mouthed “Sorry about him,” as he walked away, but the woman just laughed and turned back to her martini. 

The bar’s second room was clearly a dining area during dinner hours, with tables and chairs arranged haphazardly after a night of drunk patrons shuffling through. There were only a handful of other people in the room- all couples, it seemed, faces inches apart as they whispered over the remains of their drinks. 

Rozanov pulled out a chair for Shane in the corner, at a table for two. Shane sat. 

“You know,” Shane started, “it’s really fine if you wanna go talk to her. She’s cute.” 

Rozanov just narrowed his eyes at Shane. “Coach Hollander finally joins for a drink and wants to get rid of me already?” 

Shane scoffed. “No, it’s just-”

“There will be plenty of women around another night.” 

“Okay, then.” 

Rozanov leaned back in his chair. “I invited you out after many games. Why did you come tonight?” 

“Because-” Shane was about to say something easy, like because you wouldn’t fucking shut up about it, or because I was bored, but he knew Rozanov wouldn’t buy it. As good as Shane was at finding the weaknesses of teams and players on the ice, Rozanov’s insight was more transferable. While Shane could see cracks in the armor, Rozanov could see when the armor didn’t quite fit. There was little use in lying to him. Besides, after weeks of texting with him and chatting with him before practice, Shane was starting to consider Rozanov to be something of a friend. 

“Because I felt really, really, good about this win.” 

Rozanov raised his brows. “You didn’t feel good about the other wins?” 

“No. I mean I did, but this was different.” 

“How?” 

Shane let out a breath. “I love this job. But I think I’ve been… I don’t know. Really jealous?”

“Of me? No problem, Hollander, everyone is.” 

“Shut up.” Shane went on. “Just- watching you, watching the guys. It can be hard, I guess, sometimes. It’s hard not to, you know, wonder.” 

“Ah.” Rozanov’s lips curved up, but his eyes remained serious, locked on Shane. “You wonder what it would’ve been like, getting beat by me year after year. How it would’ve felt being second best hockey player.”

“I hate you.” 

Rozanov took a sip of his drink. Shane did the same. 

“How do you like Boston?” 

Shane shrugged. “Fine, I guess. The Seaport feels a little corporate, but good.”

“Seaport is boring. North End is best. Svetlana told me all about it when I moved here.” 

“That’s nice, to have someone here.” 

“Yes.” Rozanov leaned forward in his chair. “Do you have a woman? Here?” 

There was suddenly too much saliva in Shane’s mouth. He swallowed it. “No.”

“In Montreal, then? Do you miss it?” 

“Um, I didn’t live there that long. I miss Ottawa sometimes, though.” 

“You have a woman in Ottawa?” 

“…No.” 

“What about another city? Columbus, maybe?” 

“Fuck you. No.” 

Rozanov glanced around the room. One of the couples had left. The others were wrapped up in each other. He leaned farther forward, lowered his voice. “What about a man?” 

“Jesus, Rozanov.” 

“You have a man?” 

“Fucking- no.” 

“You can tell me.” 

“I fucking don’t.” 

“Why not?”

“Are you serious?” Shane wiped his palms on his pants. “I’m not talking about this.” 

Rozanov shrugged. “Okay.” 

Shane watched as Rozanov took another sip of his beer, his lips wrapped around the outside of the bottle. He watched as Rozanov put the bottle down, letting his teeth graze over his bottom lip ever so slightly. Electricity shot through him as he realized Rozanov was staring at his mouth too.

Rozanov cocked his head towards the door. “It’s a long way back to the Seaport, no?” 

It was less than two miles, but Shane didn’t want to argue. He wanted Rozanov to pull him across the table and sink his teeth into Shane’s neck. He wanted to kiss down every inch of Rozanov’s chest and write his name with his mouth on Rozanov’s inner thighs. He wanted- 

He wanted to not lose his job as Rozanov’s fucking hockey coach.

He pushed back from the table. “I have to go.” 

Rozanov stared at him, taking a sip of his beer. “Hollander.” 

“I just- it is a long way back. I’m getting up early tomorrow.” 

“Okay.” 

“Tell the guys I said bye.” 

“Okay.” 

“See you later.” 

“See you later.” 

Shane waited for his Uber outside the bar, pacing to keep warm. He looked at his phone, willing it to buzz with a text from Lily, sharing some kind of funny picture or telling him something about a player he definitely was not supposed to know. Anything to show that everything was okay, that everything would be normal by tomorrow morning. 

His phone never buzzed all night. 

He should never have come to Boston. 

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

Well, Steve, Boston gets the win, but I don’t think Rozanov’s going to be too happy with his performance tonight. 

He’s been struggling, Carl, for what looks like the first time all season. After an unbelievable scoring pace, he’s missing open shots and throwing the puck away. 

He’s taking stupid penalties too. Looking at the replay, this trip here was behind the play, right in front of the ref. They’re gonna call that every time. 

Let’s just hope this is the lull before the storm for Rozanov. Boston is still hanging onto that playoff spot, but they need him in top form if they want to keep it. 

Agreed. 

Ilya’s scoring streak had snapped, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t start one back up again. He was skating hard, and doing everything the coaching staff told him to do, but something was just off. 

What’s more, he was starting to feel stupid on the ice for the first time in his career. Normally, he’d take Hollander’s advice and give the play his signature flare, putting the extra snap in his shot or timing a hit perfectly to let it all unfold in a highlight reel-worthy sequence. 

Now, he felt like a glitchy automaton- programmed to carry out demands, but never able to make all of his actions make sense together. He’d taken his knack for threading the needle through every play completely for granted.

 
He’d been stupid off the ice too. He couldn’t believe he thought Hollander might ever want him again. There had been a moment, a shadow crossing Hollander’s face, where Ilya thought he might be thinking about it. But the moment had passed, and Ilya was left regretting saying anything to Hollander at all. 

Hollander seemed completely focused on getting the Bruins to the playoffs, and didn’t treat Ilya any differently on the ice or during team meetings. He shuffled Ilya around on the power play, up to the point, down along the boards, back to the point opposite Marlow on the blue line, wherever Ilya could fire off his usual passes without the puck deflecting off an opposing player. He was still telling Ilya to shoot, even though the pucks weren’t going in. 

Off the ice, however, Hollander hadn’t texted Ilya since the night at the bar. He greeted Ilya in the mornings before practice, but would segue into an overview of the drills he had planned. Gone were the pictures of fan-made t-shirts from around Boston that Hollander had furtively taken, shirts that had slogans like “Rozanov course!” with a picture of Ilya giving a thumbs up, or “Guns N’ Rozes” next to Ilya’s flexed biceps. Gone were the late night complaints about food in other cities, even when every restaurant on the street boasted of award-winning chefs. Ilya would tease Hollander about it, saying he must just love complaining more than he loved food. 

Ilya had gone from someone in Hollander’s life to just another part of Hollander’s job. And right now, he was probably making the job worse. 

After a game where Ilya got a double minor penalty by hitting a Minnesota Wild defenseman with the end of his stick, Hollander finally confronted him. 

Ilya sat in his cubby with his skates still on, well after everyone had already left. He couldn’t find the energy to undress himself further. He’d depleted himself on the ice, despite the fact that he’d played like shit. That was the worst part of his job, he realized, that he could give all his effort only to still have nothing work out. 

“Rozanov? You in here?” Ilya groaned. His heart, long back to its resting rate since the end of the game, started to pick up again. 

Hollander walked in, still in the suit he’d worn on the bench. Ilya couldn’t find a single wrinkle in Hollander’s shirt as he regarded the skates and pads that were still on Ilya’s body. 

Hollander pointed at the skates. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Ilya shook his head. “I am fine.” 

“Why are you still in your stuff?” 

“Just for fun.” 

Hollander pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. “Can we have a meeting? Once you change out of your gear?” 

“Mmm… no.” 

Hollander narrowed his eyes at Ilya. “Rozanov, I’m your coach.” 

“I am too tired. We can meet tomorrow. I’ll come early.” 

“Will you?”

Ilya bent down and untied his skates, taking the time to loosen the laces all the way to the end of the skate. He gripped his right skate with both hands and pulled it off his foot. He did not respond to Hollander.

“So you’re not even gonna talk to me now?” 

Ilya’s head snapped up. Hollander’s chest was rising and falling as if he was the one who just played a hockey game. His hands were on his hips as he stared down at Ilya.

Ilya looked around the locker room. “You do not talk to me either,” he said softly. 

“I talk to you every day.” 

“That is not what I mean.” 

He unlaced his other skate while Hollander scoffed. When he looked back up, Hollander’s face was turned away from him. 

Hollander sighed. “Fine. Tomorrow morning, first thing. I mean it.” He stalked off, his dress shoes making no noise on the rubber floor. 

Ilya dropped his head in his hands. His hair was still damp with sweat, and his hands smelled like the inside of his hockey gloves. He was aware that he was acting like a petulant child while Hollander just wanted to pull him aside and tell him to get his game together. 

Once he got all his gear off, he stood under the shower head until the pads of his fingers started to prune. The water pressure on the top of his head and back of his neck helped to make him forget where he was, that he even played hockey, that he had to meet with Hollander tomorrow. 

As he pulled on his team sweatsuit, he heard voices coming from down the hall. Maybe if Hollander was still here they could just meet now- the shower had brought Ilya to a relatively better place, more open to getting the lecture over with. 

The door to the coaches’ offices was open just a crack. Ilya paused outside. 

“-does not realize that we are so close.” It was Coach Julien.

“I think he does, Coach.” Ilya could hear the tension in Hollander’s voice. 

“Then why isn’t he trying? All game, he was barely skating out there.” 

“I have the numbers here, Coach,” there was a faint clicking of a mouse. “He played over twenty minutes.” 

“Crazy, given the four full minutes he spent in the box.” 

They were talking about Ilya. 

“I think he’s in all the right places most of the time. It’s just not bouncing his way right now.” 

“We brought you on to make sure it bounces his way, Hollander.”

There was a pause. Ilya swallowed. 

“I know. I’ll figure it out. I won’t let you down.” 

Ilya had heard enough. He retreated back down the hallway and out of the Garden, letting his shame walk alongside him on the way home. 

---------------------------

The morning meeting was agony. Hollander looked as if he hadn’t slept in three days, with dark circles under his eyes and skin a shade paler than usual. He just looked at Ilya, barely muttering, “Rozanov, sit,” before pulling up game clips. 

Ilya was so antsy he was practically vibrating out of his chair. He ignored Hollander’s annoyed looks when he couldn’t stop bouncing his leg. He wanted to get on the ice as soon as possible. 

Hollander, ever the professional, patiently explained that goal scoring slumps were to be expected, but he had to keep going to the net as if he was sure it was going to go in. He had to remember the other parts of his game that were just as important, like backchecking and clearing the puck out from in front of the net. Most importantly, he had to stay focused.

“Do that,” Hollander said, pointing at the sketches he’d made on his whiteboard while talking through key passes, “and we are in these playoffs.” 

Ilya blinked. Where was the anger? Why wasn’t Hollander threatening to bench him if he didn’t step it up? It was as good as he deserved. It was his fault that Hollander was getting yelled at by Coach Julien, the least Ilya could do was to sit here and let Hollander yell at him too. But, no. Hollander only turned back to his computer and told Ilya he would see him on the ice. 

------------------------

The team started filing off the ice after practice, only to run into Ilya in front of the door. 

“Go back out,” he said, voice low. His teammates looked at him in disbelief. 

“Roz,” he heard someone say, “it’s been three hours.” 

“I am captain,” he responded, “do what I say.” 

He could feel the hostility in the air as his team followed the orders. “We are running the breakout again.” 

“Dude. We’ve been doing-”

“But it is not perfect. We will go again until it is.” 

They skated for another half an hour. Ilya jumped into every line, skating with a ferocity not typically required for a breakout drill. The rest of the team followed suit, finishing every hit and tracking every rebound. They were all dripping sweat, trying to pretend the Zamboni driver wasn’t sitting in the empty stands with his arms crossed and his mouth twisted in annoyance. When his teammates tried to talk to Ilya, he told them to shut the fuck up. 

Finally, Ilya heard a banging noise on the glass. Coach Julien was back, his face set in a deep frown. Hollander was next to him, looking even paler than he had in the morning meeting. Ilya skated over as they opened the door to the rink back up. 

Coach Julien just looked at Ilya. “You made your point, Rozanov. Go home.” 

“Coach, I-”

“Get out.” 

Hollander didn’t say anything as Coach Julien waved the team off the ice.

Ilya skated to the opposite end of the rink. He took slapshots at the empty net until everyone was gone. Then, finally, he went home. 

-------------------------

He was just waking up from a nap when his phone buzzed. 

J: Please let me in. 

Was there any version of him that would turn Shane Hollander away? 

Hollander practically barged through Ilya’s door before hunching over the table, placing his palms down flat as if he was plotting an elaborate poker strategy. His weight shifted from foot to foot. He was breathing hard again, like he had run all the way to Ilya’s apartment. His professional demeanor, the one that was full of helpful pointers and ideas to improve Ilya’s stats, was completely gone. 

Ilya hovered near him, wondering if offering Hollander a drink right now would get him punched in the face. 

Hollander looked up at Ilya. His eyes were dark. “I know you’re frustrated.” 

Ilya bit back a laugh. Yea, no shit.

“I know you’re angry. I know sometimes you can’t- you can’t bear it, with how badly you want things to go your way. No matter what you do, how hard you try, it just doesn’t work.” His hands clenched into fists, but he didn’t move from his spot on the table. “You probably want to- to punch something. Or slam your stick on the boards. But that’s not gonna fix it, so you just keep trying.” He straightened, running a hand through his hair. “Do you know how I know that?” 

Ilya could hear his pulse in his ears. “Because you are frustrated too.” 

“Yea, I fucking am.” Hollander pressed two fingers above his eyebrow. “But do you know the worst part?” 

Ilya didn’t answer.

“The worst part is that I always thought I would be someone who could fix my own problems. I thought if something wasn’t going well, or I fucked something up, I’d know how to make it better. I’d work harder, or train more, or making fucking sure-” Hollander cut off, his eyes boring into Ilya’s. “But I can’t do that.” 

Ilya took a breath. “Because of me.” 

“Yea, asshole, because of you. Because my success, my job, everything I’ve worked toward this year somehow depends on you.” 

Ilya took a step toward Hollander. “That is unfair. To you.” 

“It is. But it’s unfair to you too.” 

Ilya cocked his head. “How is it unfair to me?” 

“Because I can’t give you what you want.” 

Against his better judgment, Ilya took another step forward. “I think you can.” 

“Rozanov,” Hollander practically growled, “I’m not getting you to score goals. I’m not giving you the insight on the bench that can get you past this. I helped you set this, this fucking crazy standard everyone’s holding you to- I mean, you’re the best in the league and everyone still flips a shit when you go a few games without a goal. And I’m not helping enough to keep you there. So I know you’re frustrated. With me. Because I’m part of the reason you’re not doing well.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Ilya. “And you’re the reason I might get fired. So I’m- I’m obviously frustrated with you.” 

Ilya stepped in front of Hollander, gripping his shoulders. “No one is getting fired.” He steered Hollander backwards until his back hit the wall. Maybe it wasn’t so bad he never put up any decorations that would get in the way of this. He slid his hands to rest on the curves between Hollander’s neck and shoulders. The tips of Hollander’s fingers found Ilya’s waist, brushing him so lightly that he wouldn’t have even noticed if he hadn’t been paying very, very close attention.

“Why do you still have me as Jane in your phone?” Hollander’s voice was barely audible, but his eyes were glued to Ilya’s mouth. 

Ilya smirked. “Why did you come here?” He ghosted his mouth over Hollander’s, breathing in when Hollander sighed. 

“This is a really, really bad idea.” 

Ilya pressed his mouth along Hollander’s jawline. “Yes.”

“We could get fired.” Hollander gripped the back of Ilya’s t-shirt. 

“Probably not.” 

“Please kiss me.” 

“Okay.” 

Chapter 7: Chapter 7

It was the last road trip of the season. New York City, to Washington DC, to Detroit, to Denver. If Boston won at least three of the games, they would clinch their playoff spot. 

If Shane had been spending a lot of hours analyzing game film before, he had nearly doubled it as the season drew nearer and nearer to a close. He kept a log of every team, tracking player strengths, weaknesses, and the most efficient way for Ilya to beat them. He met with Ilya before every practice, going over what the best approach to the power play would be in the next game, and asking whether there was anything Ilya had noticed with the other forwards that Shane should be aware of. 

Ilya, thank goodness, was back to his usual on the ice- if Shane could ever call scoring in almost every game “usual.” Whenever he got a goal or assist, he’d flash Shane a smile through his mouthguard, and Shane would pretend not to notice. 

Shane was even getting requests for interviews with local radio stations and NHL Network- something he’d gotten as a player, but hadn’t imagined he would encounter as an assistant coach. He’d get questions about how it felt to have the comeback of the year, and what it was like to work in partnership with Ilya Rozanov after their brief and intense rivalry as rookies. He’d give vague and impersonal answers, making the interviewers laugh about how he was “always so serious.” 

In reality, he just thought it was too risky to answer questions about Ilya live on air all the time. 

They had been hooking up with alarming regularity. The fact that Ilya lived so close to the Garden was turning out to be the kind of problem that Shane did not want to fix. 

He hadn’t meant to make it a constant thing. After that first time, after Ilya had picked him up and dropped him on the bed, kissing an urgent path down his chest before swallowing his cock and making Shane bite back a scream that would alert the entire North End, Shane had tried to end it.

“We can’t be doing this, Rozanov,” he’d groaned, still unable to fully regain control of his limbs. Ilya hadn’t stopped kissing him, lazily making his way from Shane’s shoulder to his mouth, always kissing the corner of Shane’s lips before pausing and making Shane chase the kiss he wanted. 

Ilya had laughed. “Why not?” 

Shane gave him a flat stare instead of kissing him back. “I’m your coach.” 

“Assistant coach.” 

“Fuck you.” 

Ilya traced a finger through a bead of sweat that had not yet cooled in the center of Shane’s chest. “Mmmh.” 

Shane propped himself up on an elbow. “You’re really not worried?” 

“No.” 

Shane was about to start listing all the reasons why this would ruin both their lives, but Ilya cut off his train of thought. 

“I think we are both very good at keeping secrets.” 

Shane couldn’t argue with that. 

So it wasn’t just a one-time thing. Or a five-time thing, for that matter. But it had to be more than that. If Shane had to go more than three days without Ilya’s mouth, then working with Ilya every day would’ve been a fresh new layer of hell. How on earth had he managed it before? 

That did not stop Shane’s palms from sweating every time Ilya so much as blinked in his direction in public. When they’d hooked up as rookies, their hockey lives had quickly whisked them away from each other. Now, Shane was worried that it was written on his face as he outlined drills or watched Ilya fire a pass across the offensive zone that should’ve been impossible. He had never been more aware of his posture, or the pitch of his voice, whenever he pulled Ilya aside to go over a play. 

Ilya, on the other hand, seemed to think that Shane worried too much. “You look normal, Hollander,” he’d say whenever Shane came into his apartment stressing that another member of the coaching staff had seen him in the North End. “Seaport does not have Mike’s Pastry, no? He thought you were hungry.” 

Still, Shane decided that they would have to stop during road trips. To his surprise, Ilya easily agreed. 

“Okay Hollander,” he’d said, propping his bare feet on his coffee table. “I will fuck you when we get back.” 

Shane had deflated a bit at that, expecting more of an argument. He supposed Ilya had hookups in other cities when they traveled, anyhow. The thought of it made him feel a little sick to his stomach. 

He wondered if Ilya had to worry about how he interacted with Shane too.

They beat the Rangers and the Capitals, but lost to the Red Wings. As Shane was distributing oxygen canisters on the bench before puck drop in Denver, he felt a tap on his shoulder. 

“Yes, Rozanov?” 

Ilya was leaning over the bench in a position that could’ve been considered a stretch, if Shane didn’t know that Ilya never stretched before games. “It does nothing,” he’d claimed when Shane had asked why one night at the Garden, “and I am warmed up already,” he’d said with a wink, making Shane blush and remember how Ilya had bent him over the table just hours earlier. 

Now, Ilya was fiddling with his glove, watching Shane. “See you soon?” 

“What? I’m seeing you right now.”

“No. After we get back from our win.” 

Shane glared at Ilya. “Let’s focus on getting the win first. Okay? Remember, Duchene loves that spin move at the blue line, and if you shoot at the bottom right corner you’ll probably get a re-” 

“Hollander,” Ilya sounded exasperated. “I know. We will win. And then,” he leaned over the boards even more, just a few inches away from Shane’s ear, “we will celebrate.” 

Shane turned away as Ilya skated off to join the warm-up. 

The Bruins won 4-1. 

Shane barely bothered to close the door of Ilya’s apartment behind him before he was launching himself into Ilya, their heads nearly colliding before Ilya caught him by the shoulders and kissed him behind his ear, murmuring “careful of this, sweetheart.” Shane felt his heart fly out of his throat as he crashed their lips together. 

They stumbled to Ilya’s bed, nearly tripping over the pile of clothes already on the floor despite having just arrived back in Boston that day. Ilya tossed his shirt aside as Shane pushed him down, sweeping the pillows out of the way. 

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya moaned, as Shane straddled him and kissed his neck, one hand sliding down to Ilya’s waist. 

“You were so fucking good.” Shane kissed above Ilya’s nipple. “You were like magic out there. What I would give to play like that… what anyone would give to play like that… fuck.” He was about to start kissing down Ilya’s torso when he suddenly found himself on his back. 

Ilya’s face was above him, his necklace nearly hitting Shane in the chin. “It was not magic,” he said, his voice a deep rumble that went right to Shane’s cock. “It was you.” He pressed his entire body on top of Shane’s. “I was good, yes. But you, you made me-” His mouth twisted as he tried to find the word. “You made me a legend.” 

Shane grasped either side of Ilya’s face. “Ilya, I-”

“Take your clothes off. Now.” 

Shane’s eyes were rolling back in his head as Ilya pushed into him when his phone buzzed. He glanced at where the phone was sitting on Ilya’s bedside table- it was his mom calling. Ilya saw it too. 

“If you even think about answering that phone I will make sure you come so loud your mother will go deaf.” 

“I- fuck, wasn’t gonna.” 

“Then why did you look over? Are you bored?” 

“No- oh jesus christ- I’m not.”

 “What was that? Did you say go faster?”

Shane was barely even in his body anymore by the time they both came. Ilya panted into his shoulder. 

“Fucking hell, Shane.” He kissed down Shane’s arm as he regained his breath. “I think I need the trainer’s ice bath.” 

Shane closed his eyes. He couldn’t trust what Ilya might see in his face if he opened them. 

He couldn’t tell how long they stayed there, not wanting to speak and break the fragile tether that kept Shane from having to get up and go home, when his phone buzzed with a text. 

Ilya groaned. “I am throwing your phone away next time.” 

“Shut up.” Shane reached over to grab it. “I should probably call my mom back. It’s been too long since I last talked to my parents.” 

“Do you talk to them every day?” 

“God, no. Maybe once a week. It was weird, going from living with them and needing them so much for a while and then just, suddenly being on my own. At least I actually have a life to tell them about now. Dinner conversation used to be rough when I wasn’t doing anything.” 

Ilya turned to look out the window, his eyes calm. 

A thought occurred to Shane. “I was thinking, I should maybe come out to them.” 

Ilya turned back to Shane. “Come out?” 

“I mean, I’m probably gay. Maybe I should tell them.” 

Ilya snorted. “Probably?” 

“Fuck you.” 

As Shane pulled his pants back on, Ilya propped himself up on the bed. “Would your parents- would they like it? If you had a boyfriend?” 

Shane shrugged. “They might be surprised, but sure. I think they’d be happy, eventually.” He unfolded his shirt and slipped it over his head. “Do you think you’d- ah, never mind.” 

“No, what?” 

Shane tried to steady his breath. “Would you ever date a man? Like, have a boyfriend?” He didn’t look at Ilya, keeping his eyes on the ground as the sheets rustled. 

Ilya let out a slow sigh. “No,” he said quietly, “it would not be possible.” 

Shane nodded, running his hands through his hair. “That- that makes sense.” He patted his legs, making sure his phone was in his pocket. “I should go. I’ll, uh, I’ll see you later. Okay?” 

Ilya nodded. “Okay. See you later.”

Shane stumbled out of the apartment and onto the street, pretending the tears in his eyes were only from the wind. 

Chapter 8: Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Ilya readjusted the buttons on his shirt as he checked his reflection in the mirror again. The Bruins were having an “end of season social” to celebrate making the playoffs and to thank the staff and crew throughout the organization for their hard work. It made more sense to do it now, rather than waiting until after they’d been eliminated from the playoffs. Most people didn’t usually feel like celebrating much after that. 

All players and coaches were required to be there, take pictures, and to sign jerseys for the children of the staff. Ilya was hoping that spending some time around excitable kids would lift his mood, especially if he’d have to see Shane Hollander’s fucking perfect face there too.

So, Shane wanted to come out. He probably wanted a real boyfriend, one he could take home to his parents and treat to a fancy dinner. Even if he didn’t share his sexuality with his workplace, he’d be open among his friends and family. He could settle down, get a dog. Be happy. 

It was, undoubtedly, the best option. Ilya wanted it for Shane maybe as much as Shane wanted it for himself. He’d already had to give up his lifelong dream- there was no reason for Shane to have to give up dating too. 

So then why did just thinking about it put a lump in Ilya’s throat? 

He hadn’t been careful enough, that last time. He was letting himself fall for Shane, and fall hard. What’s more, he was going to make both their personal and professional relationship awkward if he let Shane find out.

Unfortunately, the thought of breaking it off with Shane made Ilya nauseous. Ilya would have to make up some reason why they couldn’t have sex anymore, and Shane would undoubtedly see through the lie and think it was something he did wrong. 

No. Ilya would enjoy Shane’s time while he had it, and then accept Shane’s decision to live a happier life when he made it. He’d continue to take Shane’s coaching advice and support him as a friend and colleague. Maybe if someone ever gave Shane a hard time, Ilya would get to punch the asshole in the face. 

People usually got over things like this, right? So would he. Maybe he’d even date someone one day, someone he could take outside without worrying about getting ostracized from his family and home country. He’d eventually forget that right now, the only person he could picture himself ever being with was Shane. 

He tried to clear his mind as he walked over to the Garden, counting the Italian restaurant signs on the way. Anything at all to get his mind off how Shane had kissed him as if it was his last day on earth. 

The party was subdued when Ilya arrived, but the line at the open bar suggested it wouldn’t stay that way. Whoever had planned this party must have been really excited to make the playoffs. A mob of kids swarmed Ilya as soon as they spotted him, and he ushered them to a corner of the room where he could sign every jersey, stick, or t-shirt they had. And maybe teach them a few ways to swear in Russian. 

As he finished with the kids and made his way over to the bar, he scanned the room for Shane but didn’t see him. Maybe Shane was too wrapped up in analyzing possible playoff matchups to remember to come to the party. 

“Rozanov!” It was Coach Julien, waving Ilya over with the hand that wasn’t holding a beer. “Congrats, kid. Top scorer in the NHL. We knew you were impressive, but this season was a whole new level.” He was talking much louder than necessary, and Ilya assumed he wasn’t on his first beer.

“Thank you, Coach.” He swallowed. “It was not just me. Thank you for hiring Coach Hollander. Our season changed when he got here.” Because he couldn’t help himself, he added, “I am looking forward to working with him again next season.” 

Coach Julien gave a self congratulatory smile. “It really worked out, didn’t it?” 

A kid ran behind Coach Julien, nearly hitting him. Someone else seemed to be signing things for kids just beyond where they were standing, creating another small mob. 

Ilya was going to suggest that they move, but Coach Julien continued, “You know, things were looking pretty bad for a moment, there, with the whole gambling thing. Every damn headline was coming after us, saying we were a dirty organization, that we’d given Boston a bad name.” He took another sip of his beer. “So imagine my luck when we heard from Shane Hollander, the biggest heartbreak of the NHL. He could’ve been the best, that kid. And now he wants to make a comeback here? With his former rival?”

Ilya felt frozen to the spot. He hoped he was misunderstanding. 

“The rest of the staff didn’t want to bring him on, said that he had no experience and he should work with a college team first. But me? I knew. I knew the media would not fucking leave it alone. They’d forget about that gambling bullshit in seconds. Even if he failed, they’d all fixate on his story.” 

It was as if Ilya was in a wind tunnel, lost with a sense of building panic. “So you just hired Hollander for what? Media?” 

“PR, yea.” Coach Julien was smiling. “Risky move, right? But hey, it worked out. We were going to get rid of him when the circus died down, but you kept lighting it up.” 

The mob of kids behind Coach Julien dispersed as Ilya looked past his coach’s head, trying to conceal his disbelief. What was he going to tell Shane? He’d be heartbroken if- 

Oh, god, no. Please, no. 

He was looking right at Shane, who had been standing with the mob of kids, blocked from Ilya’s view by Coach Julien. 

And from the look on Shane’s face, he’d heard everything. 

Ilya moved as if through molasses, trying to extricate himself from the conversation with Coach Julien as a call went up for group pictures. Shane had turned away from him, walking to the door. Ilya tried to catch up, but there were teammates in his way, wives tugging at his arm, all calling him over to pose for the pictures. He was supposed to hold part of the spoked-B flag. Shane was supposed to be in the pictures too, but no one seemed to be stopping him. 

I can’t let him leave, Ilya thought, if he walks out that door I might never see him again.

He was about to start throwing elbows to get through the crowd when someone’s hand gripped his forearm. 

“Dude, you okay?” It was Marlow. Ilya realized he must have looked something like a trapped wild animal, breathing hard and overcome with dread. He tried to take deep breaths. 

“Yea, I just- I have to do something.” 

Marlow gave him a quizzical look. “Let’s just take some pictures, and then you can go. They’re gonna be so mad at you otherwise.” 

Let them be mad, he wanted to scream. Shane is leaving and he might never come back and he doesn’t know that he’s a good fucking hockey coach. And that I fucking love him. 

But he couldn’t scream that, so he posed for the pictures, holding the flag with a white-knuckle grip. 

By the time he tore out of the party, Shane was long gone. 

Chapter End Notes

To my knowledge, NHL teams don't do parties like this, but also I'm not in the NHL, so who knows? They definitely SHOULD have them, especially if there's drama.

Chapter 9: Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

His phone had buzzed for about half an hour, alternating between phone calls and texts. He’d put it on the kitchen counter, away from all the boxes he was filling in his living room. After he’d sent the email saying he quit, he didn’t think he ever wanted to look at it again. 

Luckily for Shane, the packing process had never been easier. He remembered when he first moved to Montreal, filling two U-Hauls with as much furniture as he could buy with his signing bonus. The Canadiens had talked with him about billeting with an older player for his first season, but he’d been too excited to start the rest of his life in his own place. 

After his injury, packing all that stuff back up to go to his parents’ house again had made him feel like he’d been too naive, too trusting in his future. He’d been so foolish to hope that it would work out the way he’d dreamed. 

When he moved to Boston, he remembered that last day in Montreal, the way the realtor’s face twisted in pity as he handed his keys back over. This time, he’d packed minimally, believing this chance was too good to be true. 

He’d believed it, but his heart was shattered now that he knew he’d been right all along. Had any of the coaches ever taken him seriously? Or had they merely laughed at him behind his back, watching him put hours and hours into every last game and practice? 

He hadn’t even really unpacked all the way in the first place, leaving things like extra pillows or unique kitchen appliances stuffed in boxes and tucked away. He figured if he never brought anyone over, it didn’t matter what was and wasn’t in his apartment. And he hadn’t brought anyone over, not even Ilya. 

Ilya. 

Maybe it was for the best he was leaving Boston. He didn’t know how much longer he would’ve lasted, having to see Ilya every day, letting Ilya fuck him on whatever surface was most convenient, watching Ilya momentarily forget the pressure on him that only built up more and more, without eventually breaking down and telling him everything. 

How every text he got from Ilya made his heart race. How when he woke up in the morning, he wished Ilya was there. How Ilya’s tenacity on the ice had inspired him to work harder, to match that intensity in everything he brought as a coach. 

How even now, knowing that Ilya didn’t see a relationship in their future- not the kind that Shane wanted with Ilya, at least- all Shane wanted was to bury his face in Ilya’s chest and let Ilya protect him from the world for a while. And yet, he couldn’t have that, not without adopting a delusion of impractical optimism, the same optimism that had made him think he could really be a history making NHL coach. He was so fucking embarrassed.

Shane considered calling his parents, but couldn’t stomach the thought of it just yet. They’d been so excited for him to get back into the hockey world. Maybe he’d just drop it all on them at once. Hey, Mom and Dad, it turns out hiring me was a PR move and no one actually thought I could be a coach. All the work I’ve put in this season has been completely meaningless. Also, I’m gay, and I’m pretty sure the only man I’ve ever truly wanted sees me just as a friend and a fun hookup. Hope you still have room in your house for me to move back in! 

He’d call them later. As he stacked his plates and threw out the condiments in his fridge, he was hit by a wave of fatigue. The overwhelming sorrow and exhaustion, the realization that it really was all over, made him sink to his knees before he finally stumbled to his bed. Everything else could wait until tomorrow. 

He must’ve slept a full twelve hours or more before he started packing again. This time, it was with a grim resignation and acceptance. Maybe he’d known in his heart that it would never work out here. 

He stuffed a sweatshirt into a box of bowls and cutlery before tossing the box into the growing stack. He then promptly watched in a sort of detached fascination as the box teetered and tipped over with an audible crash. 

Before he could check whether his bowls were broken, there was a knock at the door. 

“Hollander, please open the door.” 

He couldn’t face Ilya right now, or maybe not ever. He opened the door anyway. 

Ilya was sitting on the hallway floor, looking up at Shane in surprise. “I thought it would take longer. I was going to sit out here until you let me in.” 

Shane wiped his hand across his face. He was going to have to tell this man goodbye today. He stood aside so Ilya could pass by. 

“How do you know where I live?” 

Ilya was taking in the boxes around Shane’s apartment. “I just came from the office. I asked them if they would tell me your address.” 

“I didn’t think they were allowed to do that.” 

Ilya shrugged. As he turned back around, Shane realized he looked more tired than he’d ever seen him, aside from when he’d gotten the flu that one time. 

“They are sending you an offer.” 

“Ilya, I can’t-” 

“For eight hundred thousand dollars a year. If you stay.” 

Shane’s jaw dropped. That was more than any assistant coach made in the league. 

“Why?” 

“Because they are not stupid.” 

“Okay, um-”

Ilya was digging a piece of paper out of his pocket. Shane saw the paper shake in Ilya’s hands as he unfolded it and smoothed it out against his chest. He cleared his throat. “Our power play scored less than ten percent before you. Now, we score thirty-five percent. Best in the league. The third and fourth lines score twenty-five percent of our goals. They have less goals against because they are scoring so much. And-” he cleared his throat, wiping one hand on his jacket. “I have had my best season, scoring-” 

“Is this a stat sheet?” Shane eased the paper out of Ilya’s hands, telling himself not to just hold on to stop them from trembling. 

“Yes. I made it.” 

“You made a stat sheet?” 

“A presentation. For the general manager. About you. I, um, I gave it today. Put it together last night.” 

Shane was speechless. 

“They agree with me. They would do anything to keep you here. They said they will pay you more than any other team. And they can give you some extras too. Maybe you want to fly first class to visit your parents in Ottawa? Or maybe-” 

“Ilya,” Shane began, hoping his voice wouldn’t break, “money is great. But this is- would you go back? After that? Knowing it was all-” he covered his face.

Ilya’s hands slid up to his wrists, lightly massaging his arms on the way. “Julien is an asshole. He wants the glory for your work. And no, I would not-” he paused. “Can we sit?” 

Shane looked up at Ilya. His brow was pinched, the way it did when he was listening to Shane say something on the bench during a game. 

“Uh, yea.” He led Ilya to the couch, hoping he wouldn’t let go of his arm. He didn’t.

“Shane, I would not go back. If it was me. But I am not you. I would not-” he sniffed, wiping the corner of his eye. “I would not come back to hockey after getting hurt like you did. I would not want to be reminded. But you, you’re brave. You came back to the thing you love. You thought it was maybe a risk, and you came back.”

Shane could feel tears collecting in his eyes, and he tried to blink them away.

“Please be brave again. Please show that you were never a stupid media plan. That you are the best coach I have ever had.” He let go of Shane’s arm. “You made me a better player. When you played against me, and when you coached me. You made everyone better. Hollander, you will lead a team to the Stanley Cup. I know this. The managers know this. The only ones who do not know it are some idiots who are jealous.” 

Ilya turned toward the empty space in the wall where Shane had taken out the TV. His shoulders were hunched, like he wanted to curl in on himself. Shane wanted to run his fingers through his hair, or even put a hand on his shoulder, but something about Ilya’s posture made him think he didn’t want to be touched. 

Ilya sighed. “There is one more thing.” He sounded scared. “I promised I would tell you this. If I could talk to you again.” He took a breath. “I am not brave like you. But I am selfish. I know I am not… what you want, for your life. But I- I love you.”    

All of the breath left Shane’s body.

“I would have still gone to the general manager if I did not love you. I would still ask you to stay, because you are a good coach. But now you also know how I feel. I’m sorry.” His voice broke at the end. 

Shane felt paralyzed where he sat, even as a corner of his brain yelled at him, screaming say something!

His body caught up before his brain did, and he climbed on top of Ilya’s lap. Ilya’s face was open, his eyes wide with a vulnerability Shane had never seen before. And he said he wasn’t brave. 

Shane pushed Ilya back into the couch and kissed him slowly, his hands cupping Ilya’s face, thumbs stroking Ilya’s jaw like he was the most precious being in the world. To Shane, he was. He tasted salt as he deepened the kiss, and gently wiped the tears from Ilya’s eyes. He pressed his mouth to Ilya’s cheek, and leaned down to his ear. 

“You are exactly what I want.” He felt Ilya’s body collapse beneath him, letting go of the tension he must’ve been carrying with him all day. He hugged Ilya’s face to his chest and kissed the top of his head. “I love you too,” he whispered. From the way Ilya gripped his waist, Shane knew he heard it. 

He ran one hand over Ilya’s back, feeling the muscles relax beneath his palm.“I can’t believe you did all that for me.” 

“Stupid Bruins managers needed to hear it.” Ilya’s voice was muffled by Shane’s shirt. 

Shane laughed, fighting back tears once again. “You must’ve been pretty persuasive.” 

“Not me. It was the stat sheet. It was your record.” Shane shook his head, kissing Ilya on the forehead. 

Ilya leaned back to look at Shane, his face serious. “But are you sure? You want this?” 

Shane kissed Ilya again. “I want this so much. I want you.” 

Ilya still looked worried. “But you want to be… you do not want to hide.” 

Shane smiled, his heart ready to burst. “I have a plan. I thought about it, when we- I think we can make something work. We’ll have to hide a little, but maybe not as much as you think.” 

“How?” 

Shane slid down Ilya’s body, kissing his neck on the way. “I’ll tell you later.” 

“Mmmh, okay.”

He would take a look at that offer in a few hours.

Article: Rozanov and Hollander Run on Dunkin! 

When the Bruins are in town, you can bet you’ll find star center Ilya Rozanov and assistant coach Shane Hollander drinking coffee and talking hockey just around the corner from the TD Garden. 

Former rivals in their early career, the two found their paths crossing again when Shane Hollander signed on as a Bruins assistant coach. 

“I had to kind of shift my allegiances, and Montreal will always have a place in my heart,” says Hollander, “but I love Boston.” 

And Boston loves Hollander, with a 75% winning percentage and an impressive playoff run in the books since his arrival. Rozanov, the most notable performer of the season, credits the Bruins’ success to Hollander’s insight. “He has a good eye,” Rozanov says, “so I listen.” 

Off the ice, the two have even become friends. “Hollander lives in the North End now,” says Rozanov, “we see each other all the time.” 

“He can be very annoying,” Hollander adds with a smile, “but it’s great to see a fellow Bruin around. Sometimes I make him go over game film with me when I run into him. I have a desk set up in my apartment that he works at.” 

“Even on off days,” adds Rozanov. “I can never escape.” 

Hollander, who suffered a career-ending injury in his rookie NHL season, wants to remind fans that it’s important to have friendships and activities to do outside of work. “When hockey ended for me, I thought my whole world was over. Now I get a second chance, and this time I can make sure I make time for other things in my life too. I’m just glad that Rozanov and other members of the Bruins are on the same page. It’s cool to see the guys outside of hockey stuff, and do things like check out a restaurant or go to a movie.” 

Whether they’re stopping in for a Dunkin coffee or relaxing in the North End, we can tell that whatever Rozanov and Hollander are doing seems to be working. Who knows, the Stanley Cup could be coming their way soon!

Chapter End Notes

yes, I am implying that they both got a brand deal with dunkin by acting like the NHL’s most wholesome bromance. No, they are not watching game film on off days.

Thank you for joining me on this adventure beyond the canon! I’m sure I’m not done with this universe because I cannot leave well enough alone. @people who left comments, you are the wind beneath my wings and I am metaphorically kissing you on the mouth.