Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Hayden Pike, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Hayden Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post-Episode: s01e06 The Cottage (Heated Rivalry), Olympics, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Hockey, Male Friendship, Secret Relationship, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Oblivious Hayden Pike

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of Hockey and Drama

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-12 Completed: 2026-04-27 Words: 14,862 Chapters: 2/2

Ilya can't get a fucking break

Summary

Pyeongchang 2018 Olympics games are about to start and for the captain of the Russian hockey team, the pressure has never been higher. But the pressure from fans, still bitter over the debacle in 2014, can barely compare to that what Ilya feels inside, knowing this might be the last time he dons the white-blue-red jersey for the event, and hoping it will be worth it.
The last thing he has the time for is his best friend and for the next two weeks, competitor, Cliff Marleau, wanting to know everything about Ilya's and Shane's relationship. And Hayden Pike, who is, for whatever reason, always there.

OR

Team Canada meets Ilya at the Olympics. Some are curious. Some are confused. Some remain oblivious. (Or do they?)

Notes

I took creative liberties with both cannon and the timeline where needed.

Chapter 1: Best friends

The light above the seat was mocking Ilya. No smoking. As if there was a plane in this world were smoking was allowed. Annoying, taunting little fucker. This was a new plane; why the fuck do they make new planes with no smoking signs? No one smokes on fucking planes. There's probably no one alive who can remember smoking on planes. Except Scott Hunter, probably. As if the little back-lit symbol could serve any other purpose than remind the passengers of one more thing to be fucking nervous about. Fuck. Ilya could really use a cigarette just then. As if flying across half the planet wasn't hell enough, he had to undertake the endeavour while 6'3''. The seat, the whole concept of commercial flying was not made to accommodate a man of his size.

He tried to flag down a stewardess to get a drink — something to settle his stomach, upon which the combination of endless turbulence and air plane food had taken it's toll. He was denied by another flashing of the fasten-your-seatbelts sign. Ilya sighed. His seatbelt was still on from the previous burst of turbulence. He was about to put his headphones back on when the speakers about him crackled with static and a robotic rendition of the pilot's voice announced they were beginning their descent. Ilya had to open the blinds to check and see the lights below and not the endless ocean to believe it.

A young man in American Olympic sweatshirt was trying to get his attention across the aisle. Ilya sighed. Told the American he didn't speak English. Put his headphones back on.

The plane was full of last-minute Olympians or their families. Most of them American, but he'd also spotted and exchanged nods with a couple of European hockey players whose MLH teams wouldn't free them any earlier either. It was close to a miracle they interrupted the season for the Olympics at all, but that didn't change the fact that the majority of his team — arriving from KHL, northern Europe, or teams already eliminated from MLH playoffs — had already been on ice for the past week while Ilya and the other MLH players were given one day to adjust to the Olympic ice, rules and team. While dealing with jet lag and, in Ilya's case, the Russian fans.

Ilya pressed the volume button on his headphones. The music got louder. The angry chorus giving way to melodic Russian verse. Singing about home. He quickly hit the next song button. The melody changed. The thoughts remained.

In 2014, wearing the C on his Russian jersey was an honour. Four years later, it was a taunt. His country felt he'd already let them down once. The failure felt personal to them and the fans didn't hesitate to let him know. The MLH fans who hated him were nothing compared to the disappointed Russians. Russians loved hockey and were used to winning. They weren't hoping for a medal, they felt entitled to it. They blamed Ilya personally for taking it from them. Ilya couldn't check VK or any other social media for months without getting spammed with hate.

After four years, the Russian fans were willing to give him another chance. If he failed them again, there won't be any forgiveness. And if things go according to plan, there will never be another chance to make it up to them.

The impact of plane wheels hitting the runway was a welcome sensation. It couldn't come soon enough and Ilya was on his feet the moment the plane stopped moving. With a backpack slung over one shoulder, he made his way towards the exit. He tried to get lost in the crowd of the airport, but anonymity wasn't a luxury afforded to 6'3'' Russians in Korea.

Ilya passed through the passport check and the baggage claim with the crowd of incomers, a sea of American parkas enveloping him from all sides. The procession was endless. Not even Russian face and a death stare could speed up the process. At least it kept the conversation to a minimum.

Emerging from the crowd, he was met with a familiar face, a shit-eating grin splitting it in half.

'Rozyyyy!' Marleau, who himself looked like he was running on the last bit of his battery, enveloped him in a fucking hug. Ilya froze in place.

'Get your fucking hands of me. What the fuck?' Ilya tried to push him off when the initial shock of more physical contact that he's had in the past ten years with Marleau wore off. Marleau let go and Ilya slapped him over the head.

'Never do that again! Fuck!' Ilya shouted into his face, finger almost poking Marleau's eye, fighting and loosing to control the corners of his mouth. Marleau didn't blink. Slapped the finger away. Forced Ilya into a second hug.

'You will push my lunch out!' Ilya protested. Marleau didn't let go. Ilya stood there, arms at his sides. Only then he noticed the second man waiting for him. His knees buckled. Marleau, who was the only reason he didn't stumble, couldn't have missed it.

With his balance restored, Ilya took a step towards Shane, and wasn't gentle when he pushed away Marleau this time.

'You look happy to see me,' Shane smirked, mixing the words Ilya knew were sincere with a sarcastic tone.

'Are you sure you're in the right place, Hollander?' Ilya teased back, not fighting his own smile, looking around for a dramatic effect. He knew they were straddling the line between flirting and chirping, but something about being exhausted, nauseous and in the middle of an airport in Korea made reality feel less real. Plus, with the number of people and lack of privacy in the Olympic village, the line was the only thing getting straddled for the meantime. The blush Ilya felt rising into his cheeks… yeah, there was no explaining away that one if anyone was looking.

'Definitely not. I was told we're waiting for someone else actually.' Shane gave him a lazy smile. In Shane Hollander facial expressions, that was basically beaming.

'Yeah, I lied' Marleau pitched in. Unnecessarily. Proudly. Ilya slapped him over the head once more.

'Should I take your bag?' Shane ignored their shenanigans. Reached out for the duffel, forgotten at Ilya's feet. Fully serious again.

'Do I look like your girlfriend, Hollander?' Ilya tried to copy his expression.

'You look like a fucking corpse.' Shane grabbed his bag and Ilya couldn't complain. But they were in public, so he did.

'Mister nice guy, mister I-carry-my-rival's-bag so everyone knows I'm nice!' he teased Shane's back as he walked with Ilya's back towards the shuttle station.

'Try saying that to me on ice,' Shane shouted back without turning. 'When we beat you, Sochi will look like a fond memory in comparison.'

Marleau laughed, wrapping his arm around Ilya's shoulder. Ilya gave him a death glare that shut him up, but he didn't let go and Ilya was too tired to fight. In the ensuing silence, he got to quietly enjoy his view. It was an excellent view. With the Canadian jacket slung over one shoulder, the tight undershirt underneath wrapping around the muscles on Shane's back were a treat for Ilya's eyes. Ilya enjoyed watching the muscles on Shane's back move. It was a view he was intimately familiar with. Fuck. Ilya realised he was digging his fingers into the fabric on the inside of his pants pocket a little too hard.

Too long. It has been too long. Flying between Russia, Boston, now Korea. The schedule before, the already packed MLH schedule, compressed even further to allow for the Olympic break. It didn't leave much time for… anything.

And the first time he got to see Shane afterwards, it had to be in an airport. He could hardly imagine anything more public. People everywhere. People who were already starting to notice the three hockey players that were probably never photographed together off ice ever before. Well, they were photographed together now. Repeatedly.

Ilya wished they could get some privacy, but knew better than to hope for it. There was no privacy in an Olympic village. Thousands of athletes. Shared rooms. Every hotel in 50 mile radius sold out to journalists, families and fans. Ilya had checked. He had spent the last fifteen hours travelling and he spent fourteen of them checking. He considered buying a fucking building, in Korea. It didn't help his disdain for the event ahead. If he had to keep staring at Shane, at his fucking back, without getting to get his hands on it…

Marleau, still draped around his shoulders, shook him with a belly laugh that made them both vibrate.

'Oh boy, your Montreal girl is still working you up, huh?' Marleau shook Ilya's shoulders so hard he managed to get him to stop staring at Shane, if only because it re-awakened his barely settled stomach.

Ilya tried to elbow him into ribs. The effort was so half-hearted it was embarrassing. The plane food and lack of sleep had really done a number on him.

'I need a fucking beer,' he shouted into Marleau's ear, unnecessarily loud. Marleau flinched. 'For stomach.'

'If you're sick, there is a pharmacy around the corner,' Shane called to him. Helpful in the most boring way possible. Ilya flipped him off. Shane stopped walking. Turned around. Dropped Ilya's bag at Marleau's feet.

'You're it.'

Marleau looked at him. Looked at Ilya's bag. Stepped over the bag. Ilya had to pick it up. He was not expecting anyone to carry his bag when he got off the plane, but now that the option was offered and taken away, he was not thrilled. He tried to look around for a place to get a beer, but the airport was packed, all signs were in Korean, and Shane was hauling ass towards the exit, clearly trying to minimise the time they'd be seen together in public.

'So, tired of boring Canadians, huh?' Ilya turned to Marleau. He wouldn't admit it, but he'd definitely missed the idiot. Then a horrific thought occurred to him. 'What time is your bed time? Will Hollander ground you if I want to grab beer with you?'

Marleau laughed. Punched Ilya's shoulder. 'You'd be surprised. Playing for Canada, it's not so different from Boston, actually. The captain is just as big an asshole.'

That comment earned Marleau a shower of curses from both directions simultaneously.

'I'm the bigger asshole,' Ilya fake whined, because letting Shane win anything, be bigger anything, was unthinkable. And because it would make Shane laugh.

'Actually, yeah, I think we can agree here,' Shane let him have it. Ilya smirked. Didn't get to reply because they reached the shuttle station.

They lined up with the other athletes. Showed their credentials. The procession was fast and they were directed to a platform with a group of American athletes Ilya vaguely remembered from his flight. Ilya protested sharing a ride with Shane, because it was expected and because it was fun. 'No no no I cannot ride with Hollander! My swagger could not survive it!'

Shane gave him the middle finger. Ilya pretended to be horrified. Marleau dragged Ilya to a minibus where the three of them squeezed into the the back seats. The squeeze was tight, Marleau in the middle digging his elbow into Ilya's ribs, probably the same on the other side. A group of other athletes — figure skaters, if Ilya cared to guess — filled the seats in front of them. They offered polite greetings. Ilya raised his hand in acknowledgement before leaning his head against the cold window. He could hear Shane's voice, engaging them in a polite discussion about their flight and the upcoming competitions.

Ilya had almost let Shane's voice lull him to sleep when his phone buzzed against his thigh. He managed to retrieve it, which required significant concession both on his and Marleau's side, to allow his hand into the pocket wedged in between them. Marleau used the opportunity to retrieve his own phone and start scrolling his Instagram and Ilya was glad, especially when he noticed whose message woke him.

'U ok?' from Jane. That was it, the whole message. Ilya laughed.

'So eloquent.' Then, because Shane probably actually cared about his well-being, he added, 'Bumpy flight. Will be fine when I get my beer to set my stomach.'

'Drinking is terrible idea for an upset stomach.'

'One beer is not drinking. One beer is medicinal.'

No reply. Ilya was both disappointed and glad. He was not in mood to fight and not about something petty like this. He's been flying weekly for the past decade of his life. He had been sick plenty before. He knew what worked on his stomach.

'Eloquent? Where did you learn that word?' Shane changed the topic and it made Ilya smile.

'Not from you.'

'Obviously.'

'How eloquent. Again.'

'What do you want me to write? A poem or something?' Shane typed back. Ilya wished he could turn to him and see if he was smiling. Or maybe blushing. But there was Marleau, sitting in the middle, hunched forward over his phone, blocking his view. It was smart not to sit together. Ilya regretted being smart.

'Do I not deserve poems? Am I not beautiful? You are not romantic.' Ilya typed. He smiled, knowing Shane couldn't see.

There was a pause between the texts. Shane was obviously thinking. Was he actually composing a poem? That would really be something. Shane Hollander, mister serious, writing him a poem. It better be about his eyes. Does Shane think he has pretty eyes? He said something like that once. Maybe it will be dirty. Not that Shane could sext to save his life, but maybe he has secret talent for poetry? Ilya was hoping for something a little dirty.

His phone buzzed. He picked it up with excitement and there really was a poem in his texts. A short one.

'Roses are red. Violets are blue. We'll win the Olympics. No medal for you.'

Ilya laughed. Loud. Made Marleau raise his eyes from his phone and raise his eyebrows. Ilya raised his eyebrows back. What made him laugh was none of Marleau's business.

Ilya's phone buzzed again.

'Your turn.'

Right. He looked at Shane's pathetic poem. He didn't think, just copy the first half of Shane's poem and added the only thing he could think of.

'Roses are red. Violets are blue. I want to fuck you.'

It was Shane's turned to laugh. Marleau in the middle of them, who was pretending not to notice up until that point, loudly groaned. He, too, began furiously typing into his phone and Ilya's soon buzzed again.

A group chat. Cliff Marleau to Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander. One word. 'Perverts.'

'Are you reading my texts?' Ilya texted back. He could see Shane's name pop in and out of existence with the adjacent istyping. 'Fucking creep,' Ilya added.

'You're actually being perverts! I fucking knew it!'

'Fuck you.' From Ilya.

'We're not.' From Shane. Then the message got edited to I'm not.

Marleau laughed, loudly. Again.

Shane spoke to Marleau, in fucking French. Ilya hadn't realised before that was an option and he did not care for it one bit. He wanted to punch Marleau about it. Only the literal physical impossibility of the small space spared him.

'Oh so you're best friends now? Sharing secrets?' Ilya huffed, leaning forward to look at both of them for the first time since they boarded the shuttle. It was a wrong move. His stomach turned with a sharp turn in the road.

'Jealous, Rozanov?' Shane laughed. An honest laugh that could come out in the back seat of a bus when no one was looking. Ilya wanted to kiss him.

Marleau said something in French back to Shane, making Shane turn serious. Him, Ilya wanted to punch.

Instead, he turned away and pushed his face against the cold window again, trying to focus on anything but his stomach. The road reached a hill and the serpentine climb was testing the limits of what Ilya could handle. He didn't care anymore about the discussion in French happening next to him.

He watched the view from his window, as finally, the road began to straighten again and the mountains were subsiding from his view, hidden as more and more buildings started appearing but the side of the road. The foreignness of it, the difference between Korea and Russia, or even America, breathtaking for a moment. Moreover, he realised, welcome.

In Boston, everyone cared only about hockey. Ilya himself never really cared about sports outside of the hockey. Never watched the Olympics, or followed other sports besides hockey. He'd watched a little basketball, when he was really desperate for something to fill the room with noise, but his life had only ever had space for hockey. But here, things would be different. Hockey was only one of the sports people would be buzzing about. He was just one person, in the sea of thousands of other athletes. So was Shane. And although Ilya was a realist, he found himself, since the time he spent at Shane's cottage, a little more hopeful. And a little more brave. And brave usually went hand-in-hand with wicked for him.

But, as another curve of the rose reminded him, the wickedness would have to wait. At least till he regained the control of his stomach.

Ilya groaned. He was contemplating just asking the driver to stop, but someone must have beaten him to it because the bus was coming to a stop already. He didn't really register what was happening before the bus door was opening and he could feel the cold air from outside reach his face.

'Sorry guys, our teammate is car sick so they're going to walk the rest of the way,' he could hear Shane talking to the confused athletes they were sharing the ride with. It was strange to hear Shane call him a teammate, strange to hear him say what Ilya was thinking before he had the time to say it, and even stranger when he processed the words and realised he was getting kicked off the bus, probably. By his boyfriend. That was the kind of day Ilya was having, apparently.

Ilya managed to climb out, closely followed by Marleau. He braced against his knees and took a deep breath, enjoying how good the fresh air felt. The door of the bus closed and the vehicle started moving, without them, before he had a chance to ask what the fuck was happening. Only then he realised that Shane did not get off. And that his bag also stayed on board.

'Are you going to murder me? Is that some Canadian plot to win tournament?' Ilya turned to Marleau, confused and very much not in mood for whatever the fuck was happening.

'Why would we do that?' Marleau asked, annoyingly happy. 'Is Russia supposed to be good at hockey? Not what I remember from the last Olympics.'

Oh, Marleau had got mouthy during his little stint in Canada. Forgetting who he was talking to. Ilya would have to remind him, once he regained control of his stomach. Except, not even Ilya Rozanov could look threatening while bent over, dry heaving over his shoes.

Then Marleau started walking… somewhere. Ilya had no idea where they even where, or where they could possibly be going. So he followed. Seething. Ilya Rozanov did not sheepishly follow second-grade Canadian players. He kicked rocks on the path. It wasn't what he really wanted to be kicking.

They arrived… somewhere. The writing above the door was in Korean. For all Ilya understood, it could have been a fucking library. Marleau opened the door like he knew where he was, which was ridiculous. He arrived barely an hour before Ilya, flying in together with the Canadian team.

Ilya, in the absence of better options, followed Marleau inside. To his pleasant surprise, he found himself in a bar. Marleau was already trying to talk to the bartender with the help of a translator app on his phone. It was the same application Shane had urged him to put on his phone, that Ilya promised to do later and forgot.

Ilya watched Marleau get handed what had to be two beers although he was not familiar with the brand. He found a table and sat down. He was halfway through the bottle before he first set it down. He tried and failed to stifle the burp the beer produced.

'Rough travel, huh? Fuck, it won't be fun to destroy you when you look like this,' Marleau was poking at him, but Ilya didn't mind. He got his beer. The ground underneath his feet wasn't moving for once. The things were looking brighter already.

'What the fuck are you talking about? We're not in same group, we won't play together until at finals!' Ilya laughed and Marleau took no objection to being laughed at.

'I think you mean quarterfinals?' he replied, but Ilya shook his head.

'Russia is winning our group. Are you not winning your group? You have Hollander, who are you losing to, fucking Sweden?' Ilya slapped Marleau's shoulder.

Russia was winning their group. The only option. He was not losing a single match. No. Fucking. Way. Winning only, all the way to and including the finals. He knew Shane felt the same way about the Canadian team. Shane was wrong. Russia would win. They'd both win their group effortlessly. Play and beat the lower placed teams. Then meet in finals at the end. And Ilya will win. Simple.

'So, speaking of Hollander…' Marleau changed the topic. Ilya knew he was waiting to bring it up for a while. It didn't change how much he wanted to punch him for it.

'There is no speaking of Hollander,' Ilya said. Then, as if to an unrelated topic, which they both knew it was not, added, 'I need another drink.'

'Me too,' Marleau replied. He did not show any inclination of going to get it. So Ilya stood up. Grabbed the bottles to show the bartender. He put them on the bar and tried to communicate with his hands he wanted two more. The bartender smile and asked him in perfect English, 'Two more for you?'

Ilya could kill Marleau. He considered it. He considered sitting alone, drinking both beers himself. In the end, he decided to forget the beers and order vodka instead. He drank one shot immediately before ordering two more and bringing them to the table.

Marleau accepted his glass without questioning the fact that he must have been expecting beer. He raised it in salute and said, 'So, about you and —'

Ilya raised his hand to stop him. Downed his vodka in a single gulp. Made another trip to the bar, asking the bartender to make his next drink a double.

'So,' Marleau started again.

'Yeah, yeah.' Ilya knew the conversation was inevitable. Playing with the glass in his hand, he looked around himself, the place was mostly empty, but still… 'What you want to know?' Ilya asked, quietly, trying to communicate with his eyes what would happen to Marleau if he didn't follow suit.

Marleau laughed, defensively raising his hands. 'None of my business. I just wanted to say, nice pull.'

Ilya stared at him. 'That's what you said to —' he hesitated, '— what you said to Jane, yes?' Because clearly. Clearly. Something must have gone lost in translation. Because Marleau couldn't be saying he thought Ilya wasn't the catch here — however much Ilya actually thought the same himself.

'And you told no one,' Ilya asked, because he had to, when it became clear there was no response coming to his previous question.

'Fuck no.'

Ilya nodded. He needed to hear it.

'So, it's serious, right?'

'I thought you said no questions,' Ilya raised his eyebrows over the rim of his vodka glass.

'So that sounded like a yes…'

Ilya knew he was guessing. Didn't care. Realised, to his own surprised, he actually wanted to talk to Marleau. About Shane. Not that he would ever admit it.

He pushed his empty glass across the table. Marleau gave him an unbelieving smirk, which soon turned into a staring competition, and Ilya always won those. His prize was a fresh glass of vodka. Only after a sip, he answered Marleau's question, as casually as he could, shaking his shoulders as if it wasn't a big deal. As if it wasn't everything.

'Is serious. I'm in love.'

Marleau chuckled. He slapped Ilya's shoulder. 'Right on!'

'This changes nothing,' Ilya warned him. 'Is still a secret.'

'That must fucking suck.'

'Is hot,' Ilya lied.

'I can imagine,' Marleau laughed.

'Oh so you imagine? What you imagine? Who fucks who when you imagine?' Ilya wasn't sure why he was being a dick. Maybe it was the fifth shot of vodka on an empty stomach. Maybe he wanted to see Marleau crack and admit he was not actually all that okay with the information as he acted.

Marleau only laughed at him. His resolve didn't seem to be cracking in the least. 'Yeah I don't want to imagine that and I don't want to fucking know. I just meant, having someone who can match your… stamina.' Marleau didn't look like he wanted to say stamina. Insanity, maybe.

They sat in silence. Drank vodka. Ordered more.

'Jane is lucky. Very fucking lucky,' Marleau said out of nowhere. Ilya raised his eyebrows, but Marleau said what he had to say. So Ilya just nodded. And bought them another drink. It was how Russians said thank you. Marleau knew him long enough to understand.

Ilya was surprised to learn, as he was carrying the fresh glasses to the table, that he was very much drunk. It took him a moment to stumble back to their table and when he did, he found Marleau deep in thought.

'You know,' Marleau said, accepting the glass with a nod, 'I was so fucking excited for the games. I said to myself, this will be good for you, Cliff. Nice break from all the fucking drama around Roz —' he sighed. The vodka was having an effect on him too, although he was still at least two glasses behind Ilya. Maybe three. Ilya could hardly keep count of his own drinks at this point.

'Well here's to taking a break from your fucking drama,' he continues, taking a large gulp from his glass before bringing it towards Ilya's with a loud clink. 'Also, I lied before. I have so many questions. Like, how good is Jane in bed?'

Ilya laughed. And found himself giving out enough details to regret everything the next morning.

_______

Sometime during the evening, Ilya managed to answer a call from a distressed Russian player who was supposed to be one of his roommates. His luggage had, apparently, made it to the room, but the person dropping it off couldn't say how he got it or where its owner might be. Ilya, who had not thought about his bag since he took first sip of vodka that evening, was delighted to rediscover its existence. The player on the other end of the line must have felt the same way about Ilya. And Ilya must have been slurring his words enough that he was not asked about his whereabouts any more, just wished a good night.

'I do not know where my room is,' he turned to Marleau when he ended the call, only then realising the fact. Marleau laughed for a moment, then stopped quiet suddenly.

'Fuck. I have to call Hollander. Let's hope it's not his bedtime yet.' Marleau was suddenly very serious. Ilya wasn't sure why Shane would know where his room is, but then again, he had to figure it out since his bag had already made it there. So Ilya waited while Marleau went outside to make a call. Patiently. Somewhat patiently. Not patiently at all.

He joined him after maybe fifteen seconds with the excuse of going out for a smoke. Marleau just rolled his eyes when he saw him and hanged up before Ilya had chance to steal his phone.

'We should get you to bed,' Marleau sighed, looking at Ilya's trying to look cool and lean against the wall as he played with his lighter. Except Ilya misjudged his distance from the wall by good half meter and found himself splayed on his ass. Marleau didn't even attempt to prevent the fall.

'Do you know where my room is?' Ilya asked, getting up and trying to brush dirt of his pants. Marleau laughed.

'I don't even know where mine is,' he said, but once again, he simply took off, leaving Ilya to follow. So Ilya did. Making a mental note of another thing to hold against his friend. To punish when they got back to Boston.

'Where are we going?' Ilya cried after him, stumbling to follow. He cursed as he was forced to admit what little control remained over his body wasn't enough to work the cheap lighter he bought at the airport newsstand. He pushed it into his pocket, along with the box of cigarettes. When he tried to retrieve it couple minutes later, he realised he had lost it.

'Bed! We have practice tomorrow morning and you probably too!'

'You don't know where your bed is,' Ilya protested. He was not drunk enough to forget a conversation they just had.

Marleau laughed. Looked around, checking if there was anyone within earshot.

'Your boyfriend is picking us up.'

Ilya's heart did a weird thing. The weird thing was followed by an urge to fight Marleau, and what was said. Then a realisation, that the fight was unnecessary. The accusation wasn't an accusation. It was the truth. And the truth made Ilya's heart do the thing again.

And so, Ilya found himself, at the entrance to the Olympic village, drunk and grinning like an idiot. He registered — barely — Marleau at his side, reminding him to be cool. Then there was Shane, approaching them, looking sleepy and amused. Ilya took a step forward and found himself pulled back by the collar of his shirt. Good call. Too eager. Except he was eager. So fucking eager, so he did what he knew best. Focused his energy on being an asshole.

'Hollander!' he tried again. Marleau let go this time and Ilya properly, formally, greeted his boyfriend. Shook his hand. There. Very official. Not romantic at all.

Shane and Marleau were exchanging glances. Someone laughed. Not Shane. Ilya knew how Shane laughed.

'Do you know where my bed is?' Ilya asked and winked. He convinced himself that still counted as chirping. 'Or can I come to your bed?' that one was just Ilya being honest. Shane only laughed.

'Hollander, pleaseeee,' he pleaded and didn't care how pathetic he sounded. Marleau, in the background, was howling with laughter.

'You're sleeping on the ground,' Shane sighed, turned around, and lead the way. Ilya only registered the fact he was going to sleep in Shane's room. He didn't try not to stare at Shane's back as they walked. Maybe if he did, he would have heard Shane very explicitly mention roommates. And when they reached the room, he would not have been shocked to find himself face-to-face with equally disturbed Hayden Pike.

 

Chapter 2: Worst odds

Chapter Notes

At last, here we are. Thank you everyone who read this far, for sticking with me. I was struggling a little to find the time, but as a reward for everyone's patience, it is an extra long one.
Also, I had to change the rating (with the boys being finally in the same country, I could not keep them from getting their hands on each other), I wasn't sure what was the right one to pick so I went with better-safe-than-sorry, so just, be warned if that is something that could not be for you. I promise there is nothing graphic, but still.
Love, kisses, thank you for reading and any feedback you leave behind.

Ilya sauntered into the shared bedroom like a man who wasn't swaying around just a minute before. He looked around the sparsely furnished space with genuine curiosity, one that accompanied every peek into Shane's private space. His eyes landed on the Hollander jersey hanging from the dresser, flanked by two other boring Canadian jerseys. From the dresser, he moved on to the rest of the furniture, which seemed to be hastily rearranged. Bags and suitcases were piled in a heap by the door. Three nightstands were stacked next to the dresser to allow for the beds to be pushed together, making just enough room for a fourth mattress, laying on the floor next to them. Setup like this, the room seemed tiny. Cosy. But, unfortunately, fully occupied.

'So, which bed is yours, Hollander?' Ilya tried to be charming. He was trying not to forget there were two more people in the room with them, but mostly, he was just staring at Shane. Shane, who having taken off his jacket was now standing in front of him in his pyjamas, smiling.

To Ilya's amusement, the pyjamas in question were in the Canadian colours, patterned with tiny maple leaves — a fact he will have to make fun of later. And the buttons were not closed all the way to the top, which meant Ilya was definitely staring at the spot where the shirt began to open.

'Yours is on the floor,' Hayden replied instead of Shane, pushing himself in between the two. At least Marleau was out of Ilya's face, minding his own business, ruffling through the bags.

'Not what I asked, Pike. Maybe you sleep on floor, yes? So me and Hollander can… how you say… cuddle?'

Hayden burst out laughing. He must have assumed Ilya was joking, teasing Shane maybe, which Ilya guessed was a good thing, but it didn't really feel good at the moment.

'You're sure you meant to say cuddle, Rozanov? Maybe there's some other word you were looking for…?' Shane looked amused, giving him an out, but Ilya saw it for the flirting it was. He watched hungrily as Shane's lips moved to form his name. It was taking more and more effort to keep in mind they weren't alone. But Marleau didn't care and Pike was fucking stupid, so…

'There are people in the room, Hollander, control yourself! I don't think Pike wants to watch —' Ilya was only half joking, and only because of Pike.

'Alright, very funny. To your bed, Rozanov,' Pike tried to interrupt what he didn't understand was happening before his eyes. Ilya didn't care for him saying his name in that tone. He cared even less to being sent to a mattress on the floor, like a fucking dog.

So Ilya raised eyebrows on him, not trusting the words that would follow if he opened his mouth. Then turned to Shane. 'I need to brush teeth.'

He was stalling. He was stalling and hoping to get Shane alone, but couldn't think of an excuse. And he didn't think guard dog Pike would just willingly leave to take a shower and come like an hour later. Would that be too much to ask?

But mostly, finally in the same room as the man he loved, he didn't want the night to end yet.

'I can lend you some mouthwash,' Shane offered, turning around to locate his bag in the pile of unpacked luggage.

'I need toothbrush,' Ilya whined. He was surprised, more than anyone, by the pathetic sound that came out of his mouth, but he was very much not in control of it.

'Then you should have probably gone to your room.' Shane was cold. Ilya like him cold. Under different circumstances he would have savoured the challenge of getting him hot again. There were multiple approaches he knew that could do the trick, some more fun than others, but right now, he'd do anything to just push his body into Shane's, pressing until they'd hit a wall, and cover his neck with kisses until the coldness melted and not-here would turn into please and Ilya and more.

'So cold,' Ilya teased, shaking his head.

Shane took a step back. 'Fuck off!' The message was clear. Not here. Not with Pike, staring, unsure what he was witnessing and if he should jump in again.

But Ilya was playing. And Ilya liked to play. 'But you're so cold. I could warm your bed, yes? I run very hot.' Ilya felt like he was on the top of his game, even if the room in front of eyes was still swimming a little. He added a cheeky wink. He could read in the carefully neutral expression in Shane's face how much effort it was for him to stay that way.

The only thing ruining the mood was Pike, laughing in the background.

'Fuck, we should be recording this,' Hayden called between his laugh. Shane's head snapped to him immediately, checking that he wasn't.

'Don't even joke about that, Hayd.' His face was all serious. Fucking Hayden. Ilya was so close to making Shane break through his mask.

'Hey, Roz,' Marleau returned from the corner he was hiding in, and if it wasn't embarrassing enough to be scolded by his idiot best friend, he was condescendingly patting his shoulder now? 'Stop being desperate, man.'

'I am not desperate! I am joking here with my good friend Hollander here.' Ilya turned to Shane to confirm his story. 'Hey! Hey! Hollander, tell them I am not desperate! Tell them you think I'm cool!'

'You whine. A lot,' was all Shane had to say on the topic. The statement was not contradicted by the sound Ilya's mouth made.

'Haydeeeeen,' Ilya turned to Pike. He did not have a clue why. Fuck. He really was desperate. 'You will be my friend, yes? They are mean to me. I am drunk. Lost. Homeless, possibly. Aren't Canadians supposed to be nice?'

'Dream on, buddy,' Pike shut him down immediately.

Ilya sighed. Shut up. He was, he had to admit ho himself, exhausted. And it was very clear he was not getting anything from Shane tonight. Not even a liiiiitle kiss. So he let Marleau hand him some mouthwash and point him to the bathrooms. He took about two steps in the right direction. Then he changed his mind again.

'Hollander, borrow me your toothbrush!' One last desperate attempt from the doorway. But Ilya really did want to brush his teeth. With the travel, it's been probably full day since he last been in a proper bathroom. The least he could do is make sure his breath won't smell, just in case he might get a chance to get Shane alone.

'What? Fuck no,' Shane called back, just in tune with Hayden's 'Gross!'.

'Is just a toothbrush,' Ilya couldn't see why it would be such a big deal. So they'd share a toothbrush. In his experience, Shane was never particular about what he wrapped him mouth around, or where it was right before that.

But Ilya only said, 'Worse things were in my mouth.' The second part of the sentence, before you put your tongue in it, he only communicated through raised eyebrows. From the colour of Shane's cheeks, the message was received in full.

'Gross, gross, gross, fuck!' Pike was probably imagining something behind Ilya's words, making Ilya wonder what would his reaction be if he had the same image in his mind as Ilya had at that very moment. Because the image in Ilya's head was exquisite. The imagine in Ilya's head had Shane splayed on his bed, his gorgeous, flexible body mellowed with pleasure, letting Ilya push his legs over his shoulders with no resistance… Fuck, he could almost feel the weight of those strong legs hooked behind his neck… And Ilya would be needing cold shower if he let the thought go any further.

'You have practice in six hours, Rozanov! Bed!' Shane did not have mercy on his fantasies. Ilya was enjoying watching him squirm. 'Us too! We're on ice tomorrow morning too. Fuck! Beds!'

'Of course you know everyone's training schedule,' Hayden chuckled, but went to one of the beds. Shane followed him, aiming for the bed furthest from Ilya's lonely mattress. That, Ilya would not have.

'Marleau snores,' he complained, deducing who was left for the bed next to him. The complaint was untrue. Marleau knew it and laughed, but said nothing. Good friend.

'And I can't sleep next to Pike either.'

'I snore too, do you think?' Pike was looking at him in amused disbelief. Or maybe the disbelief was all that it was. Ilya was somewhat aware he was keeping them from sleep before a game day.

'I will ask your wife next time she comes over,' Ilya replied. 'But I can't, eh, see your face first thing in the morning. I will be very sick already. From vodka. I will vomit.'

'Fucking asshole,' Pike was definitely not amused now, if he even was before. 'You know Marleau vouched for you, asshole? I wanted to leave you outside. I still think we could drag your ass to the hallway and leave you there.'

'Marleau is nice. Not like you,' Ilya laughed.

'Fuck you.' Then he turned to Marleau. 'He's your friend, for whatever fucked up reason, deal with him! I didn't want him here, I'm sleeping as far from him as possible. And if he kills us while we sleep, I will fucking murder you!'

And with that, Shane was kicked out from his corner bed and Hayden climbed in, turning his back to the rest of the room.

'Real smooth, Roz,' Marleau didn't seem amused either, but he did claim the middle bed with his bag and left the room before Shane had a chance to aim for it himself. He really was a good friend.

That left Shane with only one bed remaining, and Ilya giddily pointed to it.

'I mean it,' Shane stared at him as he climbed in. 'Sleep. Now.'

Ilya considered, for a brief, stupid second, asking Shane about some clothes to sleep in. Then he realised how very much he did not want to do that, and stripped.

'Hey! No one wants to fucking see that!' Pike, whose presence had already been erased from Ilya's consciousness, shouted as Ilya stretched before climbing to bed. Ilya ignored him, sighing in relief as his back gave in to the motion. It was still not the same as before thirteen hours spent on a plane.

But Hayden had no idea how wrong he was in his observation, at least from what Ilya could see of Shane's face. Someone was most certainly enjoying the view.

'I said I run hot,' Ilya shrugged his shoulders before climbing onto his sad ground mattress. He tried to say something else to Pike, maybe remind him he saw undressed men in the locker rooms every day, but his consciousness left him before he could form a coherent though.

_______

Ilya was shaken, roughly, from his sleep when the room was still completely dark. He tried to ignore the shaking. The urgency of a heavy hand on his back. He snuggled deeper into the sheets, nuzzling his nose into the warmth in front of him. The smell of the sheets reminded him of Shane, the sharp spicy tones of his aftershave softened by the green tea in his shampoo. Ilya breathed in the aroma and murmured in contentment, Shane's name making it into the sound somehow.

'For fuck sake.' The shaking intensified. Ilya tried to protest, but his mouth was covered by a hand before he could say anything. That got his attention.

'Roz, fuck, get to your bed before anyone sees.' Ilya was slowly beginning to identify the voice as Marleau. Him being part of this dream was so wrong. Ilya tried to escape him, back into the warmth that smelled of Shane, but Marleau held him firmly back, the shaking moving from his shoulder to his face. Finally, Ilya opened his eyes. Seeing Marleau's face was not what he wanted. Nor the room around him.

Ilya looked over his shoulder, back to the bed. To the sleeping Shane, peacefully unaware of the commotion. He had no memory of climbing into Shane's bed, but he wanted nothing more then to lay back, press his face to the back of Shane's neck and stay there forever. He was considering it, fuck consequences, fuck everything. Fuck Hayden fucking Pike sleeping five metres from them. But Shane wouldn't want that. Wouldn't want this to be how his best friend found out.

So Ilya took Marley's hand and let him pull him out of the bed. And when Marleau left the room, and he was sure Pike was still asleep, he pressed a light kiss to the back of Shane's neck as he fixed his blanket and fell onto his own mattress again.

_______

The annoying sound of the alarm wasn't the worst thing about the morning, even though with his hangover, the buzzing was making Ilya's head pulsate like a cartoon bomb about to explode. The worst noise was, one hundred percent, the sound of Pike's voice. The fact that he was bothering Marleau and not Ilya bore no relief on his torture.

So Ilya got up. Collected his clothes, which were mercifully clean considering what they were put though, and tried to get out with as little attention to himself as possible. There was no point in torturing himself or Shane with hoping they might talk, and no reason to interrupt what was clearly turning into a team meeting — with main topic being drinking the night before a game. Oops. Ilya was glad he did not have a captain he would have to answer to, but he sure as hell was hoping he would somehow manage to sneak his state past the Russian coaches.

Ilya's goodbyes were ignored as the discussion was turning heated, but Pike must have noticed him leaving, because the last thing Ilya heard was his voice, addressing Shane, probably, 'What the fuck was that? Do all Boston players have crush on you now?'

Ilya, alone in the corridor, swore. He had no idea what other Boston players might be looking at Shane, but he would find out and he would not be merciful when he did. But for now, he had other, more pressing problems. Like figuring out where his room, his gear, or the meeting point for the practice was.

When he unlocked his phone, he was glad to see that he hadn't damaged it the night before and that there was some battery left. He had to call his roommates and get his gear quickly before anyone noticed he hadn't done it the day before. He could not imagine the scandal if he got kicked offed the team on the first day of the Olympics; but he had no doubt the coaches would do that if they could see him, stumbling out of the Canadians' lodgings, barely conscious hours before their first Olympic match.

He scrolled his contacts on the way to the lift, trying to remember who he was supposed to be sharing a room with. He remembered talking to one of the guys, but details were coming in waves. It only hit him to check the call history when the elevator doors opened. Ilya rushed in, eyes on his phone, looking for the number, almost colliding with a man already inside. He murmured something that was definitely not an apology, but the stranger was welcome to interpret it that way.

'Shit, Rozanov, wild night? I thought your team was staying in a different building?'

Maybe Pike's voice wasn't the worst thing in a morning. Scott fucking Hunter was definitely very high on the list. But Ilya forced a smile anyway.

'Sorry we didn't invite you. Was past your bedtime.' Ilya's heart wasn't in it, but Hunter chuckled anyway.

'What a shame we're playing at the same time today. I would love to see you try to skate like this.'

'You love to see me anyway. Is your boyfriend jealous yet? Tired of going to bed after the evening news?'

'Fiancé, actually.' Hunter didn't seem offended. He never did. Ilya appreciated a good sport, even if he was born before the word sport was invented, probably.

'Okay.' Ilya returned to his phone. He was about to dial the number from yesterday, when a message from Marleau took over the screen. He stared at the picture, realising too slowly what he was looking at to cover it immediately. But Hunter said nothing, so he probably wasn't looking at him. Ilya hoped he wasn't looking at him. Because for a second, there was a photo of Ilya and Shane, asleep and holding hands, visible on Ilya's phone.

Marleau must have taken it when he got back to the room after kicking Ilya out of Shane's bed. Ilya was on the floor, at least, but Shane was turned towards him, his face plainly visible in the picture, his arm hanging from the edge of his bed, the back of his hand leaning against Ilya's cheek, their fingers interlaced.

Ilya would save it to a password-protected folder. Then he would kill Marleau for taking it in the first place. And also Scott Hunter for seeing him leave the Canadians' rooms and maybe also seeing the picture Marleau should not have taken.

_______

The Russian head coach chose to believe Ilya was just jet lagged. He too was probably under immense pressure to bring home a medal, and unlike Ilya, he couldn't hide from the consequences of a failure in America. So benching his star player and captain was probably not that high on his priority list, if it could be avoided.

It wasn't probably to his credit, but Ilya had some practice skating hungover, and could manage. It didn't hurt that on a match day, the morning practice was light.

Still, he was the captain and that brought some expectations. So he took the light practice seriously. Gave one of his better speeches in the locker room beforehand and stayed on the ice late, committing the surface to his mind until it felt as familiar as the ice in Boston. Until he got kicked off by the next team that had practice that day.

It gave him just enough time to catch up on some sleep (in his own bed, this time) before the actual match.

Russia versus Slovakia. It should be easy, which made the match both less and more stressful. There was no forgiveness for loosing an easy match and no making up for missing the points. And very little time to fix morale of a team that hadn't had the opportunity to build anything solid and was running purely on momentum and individuals' skills.

The sparse Russian crowd cheered when Ilya made it on ice that evening and Ilya waved to them before he took up his spot in the centre circle. He vaguely recognised the name of the opposing captain as belonging to a player in eastern conference, but didn't think they'd faced off before. The captain wished Ilya a good game in surprisingly sound Russian, and Ilya replied with quick smile and even quicker hands, winning the face off for his team.

_______

The first period was uneventful, which was a not a good thing if you were the highest ranked team in the group, but a good thing if you were a still hangover player. The coaches, however, seemed focused only on the first thing, screaming in the locker room after 0-0 score. Then Ilya took over for them, just as loud but with his own message.

'Great warm up, gentlemen!' Ilya shouted, in Russian and from the first words the speech felt very different than when he did it in English. He was surprised he had to think more, returning to his native language. English wasn't easier, but it was a habit. A list of phrases that worked. Players he knew too well. Speaking to a room that barely knew, it felt like a barrier was standing between them, and the only thing he could think of to get through was screaming louder. But they were Russians. So louder worked.

'Second period, warm up over and we do some hockey, yes?! As much as it is fun to play with our meal, it is time to remind them, we are the PREDATORS! This is OUR group! We did not come here to just play, we are going to bulldoze out of this group! Right! Fucking! Now!'

His teammates answered him by wall of noise that made the room shake, and made him thankful his headache had mostly subsided before the game.

'Our future opponents are watching us! They want to see who they are going to play in the next round! Is this what we want to show them? Or do we want them to leave this game, shitting their pants, seeing what we can do on the ice?!'

'Yeah!' the room responded, players rising to their feet, gloved hands in the air.

'Who's going to make Americans shit their pants?!'

'RUSSIA!'

'Who's making Canadians shit their fucking pants tonight?!'

'RUSSIA!'

'Who's making the Swedes, Finns, Czechs and everyone else go to bed crying tonight?!'

'RUSSIA!'

'RUSSIA! RUSSIA!' Ilya joined their chant that time. 'Then let's! Fucking! GO!'

_______

If Ilya's own speech wasn't enough to make difference before the second period, the group of red Canadian jerseys appearing above the penalty box certainly did it. Realistically, he knew they were there to gauge the competition, maybe just to fill an empty evening. But Ilya didn't feel like a realist that night. He felt like a guy whose boyfriend just came to his game. It hit him somewhere between exiting the tunnel and reaching the face off circle that it was for the first time.

The changed energy pulsated through the rink from the moment the puck hit the ice, the Canadians in the rafters motivating the whole Russian team to show what they got. Or maybe it was Ilya's speech. He'd like to think so. But the reason didn't matter. For the next two periods, the Russians were determined to make good on their promises from the locker room and instil fear in their competitors.

The atmosphere on the bench matched the ice. Ilya got his helmet slapped whenever he skated back after each shift and he grinned as he returned the gesture. The team was enjoying the game, having fun. Even the coaches, although they were still screaming, were not turning red in the face, which was as calm as a Russian hockey coaches could get. After the third goal, still in the second period no less, the bench was buzzing with hope and joy the coaches were uselessly trying to squash, having seen before what too much confidence did to a team that was already barely holding their egos in check.

Ilya knew he was being too content, but for once, he chose not to care. The Canadians were observing every aspect of his team, not just the play. So let them see. His team was playing good and they knew it, and the Canadians should know it too. Some more importantly than others.

So Ilya let it go, at let himself join in the noise, at least for the night. He knew they'd have to reel it in soon, that their next games would not be this easy, but that was a problem for another day. Today, they needed a moral boost, and Ilya needed to show off in front of his boyfriend who was watching from the audience.

When Vronsky, Ilya's roommate and a fourth line centre, stole the puck in a cheeky play and was running for the opponent's goal, Ilya was the first one on his feet, screaming at the young player to go for it. The bench erupted with him as he avoided both defencemen and found himself facing the goalie alone.

The goalie put a stop to his attack, but the team welcomed the young player like a returning hero anyway. Ilya dragged him to sit besides him as the commercial break awarded them all a couple of moments of respite.

'My good man!' he slapped the kid's shoulder and Vronsky beamed with pride at being noticed by his captain.

'First time international, yes?' Ilya asked although he knew the answer, but the kid happily nodded. He seemed already high from the attention of the sparse crowd, and Ilya let him enjoy it.

'You saw the Canadians came to watch?' Vronsky asked, as if that was something Ilya could miss.

'They will leave tonight scared,' Ilya nodded. 'If we can keep it up for the third period,' he added, the captain's incentive. Automatic.

'Had fun last night? With the Canadians?' Vronsky was clearly taking a moment to work up the courage to ask, but he seemed determined to return the cheek. It made Ilya laugh. He seemed like a good kid.

'How do you know? But yes, it was fun. My right wing from Boston plays for Canada, you'd like him. Maybe next time you come with us, yes?'

Vronsky seemed honestly thrilled by the offer. Ilya hoped it might be enough for him not to mention the fact that he didn't make it to his room last night. But he hadn't mentioned it yet, so…

'So, uhm, any advice on how to beat them?'

'Who, Canadians?' Ilya laughed, but he liked the question. And he didn't need to think about it. 'We're better, so easy. Don't play shit and we win.'

'You really think so?' Vronsky was obviously not sure if Ilya was just pretending to be so confident.

'Their first line? Very good. Best in tournament, probably,' Ilya answered truthfully. He should try to give his teammates some actually useful information. Considering that most of the bench was listening to their conversation at that point anyway. 'Hollander line is scary, makes fancy play. With best wingmen in NHL, probably, their setup is very good. Makes team look good. But second line — not so good. Falls off fast after that.'

The team around Ilya was nodding as his observation was some deep secret and not the same thing the coaches had already went through. Maybe it did sound different coming from him, knowing the players personally.

'So we play good. All lines. We beat Canada. Easy. Will be good hockey too, goals for everyone.' Then Ilya winked. 'But mostly me.'

_______

The only thing that could possibly match the euphoria of a 6:1 win on a first night was a message waiting for Ilya when finally, after the celebration died down, he got to his phone. Especially when said message turned out to be a picture, not a text. Ilya checked twice he was alone in the tunnel before opening it. His breath caught in his throat at the obscene image filling his screen. Shane Hollander, his Canadian fleece unzipped just enough to show a collar of something that looked suspiciously like a Russian jersey underneath.

Ilya swore. The images floating around his head made it impossible to return to the locker room, even more head for the communal showers. They made him stare at an evacuation map on the opposite wall, trying to identify the rooms along the route, searching for.. someplace. They made him need to urgently check, right there right then, what Shane was wearing underneath the jersey. And make the answer be nothing.

There was one room on the map. Small. Corner. Probably nothing. Could be everything. Ilya found it, for real. A supply closet, with unlocked door, no windows, and thin layer of dust on the shelves. Unused. Perfect. He snapped a picture of the small number at the top of the door and slipped inside to wait. The messaging app told him his message was received and opened, but there was no reply. Which could mean nothing…

It didn't mean nothing when the door opened and Ilya found himself sharing the small space with a winded Shane Hollander.

'Terrible idea,' Shane scolded him, but his jacket was already hitting the floor, revealing what really was a Russian jersey. Ilya grabbed his shoulders and tried to spin him around, eager to see the name and number at the back. Shane laughed, but didn't budge.

'Sorry, it's just a generic one from the fan shop,' Shane said, but Ilya only stared at his man in his colours, too full of emotions to have space to feel disappointed. This image would keep him sated until he could put him in his own jersey. Which, having seen Shane in this one, had to happen. But now. Now. Shane was here. In white-and-blue jersey, which he kept hidden underneath his jacket as he sat and watched him play. Shane's dirty little secret. It was a little sad and very, very hot.

Ilya crashed him mouth against his boyfriend's, pushing him back against the door. He knew their time together would have to be short. He was going to make every second of it count.

'Fu-uck,' he whispered between kisses as he lifted Shane's jersey high enough for his fingers to brush against the naked skin underneath. Ilya didn't hesitate. He dropped to his knees, pushing his head under the hem of the jersey. Without protective gear, it was loose enough for Ilya to kiss a trail up from the top of Shane's trousers to his chest, disappearing underneath.

Shane was shaking under his touch, his hips rubbing against Ilya's stomach in short, desperate motions. Ilya put a stop to them, pressing Shane tightly between the door and himself that he couldn't move and had do surrender to Ilya's tempo.

'We don't… have much ti—' Shane tried to protest, tried to push Ilya lower, but Ilya had his mouth firmly on his stomach and wasn't done yet. He did however, as a compromise, dig his thumbs under the waist of Shane's trousers, which got Shane to stop complaining.

He still wasn't going to let his boyfriend rush him, even though it took all his effort to ignore the bulge pressing into his shoulder as he continued to nibble at the skin around Shane's belly button. He was savouring the increasing urgency with which Shane was trying to get him to pay attention to it. And Ilya really, really wanted to. Not tasting it was taking more effort than he would admit.

Without a warning, he brought him mouth lower, his lips tracing the shape of Shane's dick over the trousers.

'Fuck, Roz— fuck, Ilya, you-you can't. It will… someone will notice…' Shane tried to protest as a wet spot began forming under Ilya's mouth, but Ilya knew he liked it. No, loved it. When Ilya made the good boy image crack a little, letting some light in.

Still, Ilya very much did want those trousers out of the way. One fast motion, and his lips could return to their previous position, except now he was tasting Shane and not the blend of cotton and polyester. He moaned at the improvement as he continued dragging his tongue along the length. Shane's complaints were getting louder. So loud in fact, Ilya had no choice but drag one hand to Shane's face and press his thumb to his lips to keep them closed.

Shane sucked it in like he was starving without it, welcoming it to his mouth so eagerly it sent electricity down Ilya's spine.

The door behind Shane moved. Or tried to, as much as the person on the other side could move a door that had Shane Hollander's weight pressing on it from the other side.

Ilya froze, his head under the jersey, as if he could hide from the world and the consequences there. He could feel Shane shudder against him, but he wasn't moving either.

'Fuck, fuck, fuck,' he heard Shane's mumbled panic, felt him forming the words around his thumb.

The doorknob rattled again. Ilya pushed Shane harder against the door with his one free hand. Using his boyfriend as a barricade. Fucking classy. He didn't dare withdraw his other hand from Shane's mouth yet. Not before checking on him. Not before standing up to face his white-faced boyfriend and replacing the thumb with his lips.

'We're good.' He kissed a corner of Shane's lips. 'I'll cover for you.' He withdrew his thumb and pressed his tongue into the open space that remained. 'You trust me?' He pulled at Shane's bottom lip until he finally returned the kiss. 'I'll go first. Check outside. Text you when you're safe. Okay?' Ilya laid out the escape plan between kisses, and he could feel Shane relax a little, his stiffness melting under the touches.

Wordlessly, Ilya fell back to his knees. He pulled Shane's trousers back up, tucked the Russian jersey in and zipped up Shane's jacket, checking that nothing looked out of place. The jacket was long enough to cover the wet spot on the crotch of his trousers. The collar of the jersey remained hidden. The red of Shane's face, he could do nothing about. But he could at least try and straighten his hair — even though he couldn't help himself when he brushed his fingers through it and he kept brushing it for longer than needed.

But the door stopped rattling in the meantime. If the person on the other side thought it was stuck, maybe they went to get help — if Ilya and Shane were lucky. But Ilya was feeling lucky that day. And when he opened the door, he was proven right.

He almost, almost thought he might have imagined the presence. Almost ducked back in and pulled Shane's trousers back down. But he was nothing if not the expert on sneaking by that point.

'Go now,' he turned to Shane, and had to swallow a pang of disappointment as his boyfriend did just that.

_______

Ilya was a hypocrite. He told his teammates going to the USA-Germany game was stupid, that it would send the message that they considered them to be a competition and worth watching. Then he went anyway. It was all Marleau's fault. Because there was no way Ilya wasn't going after that photo he'd texted Ilya, of Shane, watching the game a nibbling on the strings of his hoodie. The seat numbers followed.

Was it more or less hypocritical if Ilya left his room without telling his roommates where he was going, leaving behind his team jacket? The question didn't matter. Not when, arriving into the arena, he found out his roommates, and a large portion of the Russian team, had apparently done the same.

Ilya wanted, so badly, to pretend not to see them. To go sit in an empty row behind the group of Canadians, where Marleau was already waving at him, a terrible attempt at looking surprised to see him that already had both Shane and Pike notice and laugh.

But all he could do was return the wave as Vronsky, being nice and helpful, probably, put his arm on Ilya's shoulders and pointed to where his own team was seated.

'So, I though, we weren't supposed to come?' Vronsky grinned as the guys shifted, opening a seat for Ilya right in the middle of the group.

'Yes. You were not. What I said? I said, the team going would look like they are worth watching,' Ilya growled at Vronsky. Then, to be a fair captain, he slapped every single one of them over the head.

'But you came, captain,' someone still had the courage to question him. It was less teasing then coming from Vronsky.

'Yes, Kuzmin, I came. One person. Not team. As I said.' Ilya really didn't like Kuzmin. The captain of the KHL reigning champions, Saint Petersburg, was very clear he believed he should have made the captain of the Olympic team. He probably deserved it too, just as much as Ilya.

But deep down, Ilya knew why he got it, and it wasn't just because, thanks to playing in NHL, he was the better known name. Him and Kuzmin, as far as he knew, were very different types of captains. Opposites, almost.

Where Ilya was known as a menace in his public life, Kuzmin was the perfect role model with his beautiful wife and five children accompanying him everywhere he went. He was also, supposedly, just the opposite of Ilya in the locker room — ruling his teammates with screaming, insults and a heavy hand. It was a very Russian way to go about captaincy, and Ilya had no trouble believing it worked on reigning in young players. Which there were almost none of in the national selection.

Ilya could only imagine how this locker room — one that, between its players, sported seven MLH cups, twelve KHL cups and countless World Championships and Olympic medals, and counted four current MLH and ten KHL captains — would react to that approach in their cabin. Ilya himself would probably be the first to draw blood.

Kuzmin voiced his disapproval, as he did every time when Ilya spoke, but had no actual comment to make. So they watched the game. A game Ilya could not give a single fuck about. It wasn't even a good game, although, just to piss off Ilya, probably, Scott Hunter did actually play pretty well.

_______

Ilya timed his leaving after the game just right. In the crowd heading for the exit, it wasn't too suspicious when he ended up right behind the group of Canadian hockey players. And no one could see his hand brush against the back of one of them. No one could see his fingers linger. Although probably everyone who'd look would notice the red spreading over the cheeks of said player.

'Enjoy the game, Rozanov?' Pike turned to him, not letting his presence go unnoticed. Of course he couldn't mind his own business.

'Eh, not really,' Ilya answered truthfully.

'Yeah, not the best performance,' Pike nodded, prolonging the conversation past what was necessary. Was he trying to be… friendly? Polite? It was strange. Ilya did not care for it.

'So, any more troubles finding your bed?'

'Miss me already, Pike?' He tried to be cheeky. Joking, with Pike, for Shane's sake. Even though he did not understand why he was having a conversation with this particular Canadian player. He wished he got a chance to talk to Shane instead, but the crowd was moving too fast, and they were out already, their paths about to split.

'Good luck in the tournament,' Shane finally turned to him, only to say his goodbyes before they even had a chance for a hello.

'You will not be so nice when we beat you,' Ilya replied, as he once did, and he could see Shane noticed.

'That's not happening.' He was grinning from ear to ear as he said it. Ilya wanted to eat that grin. He had to leave before he did something stupid.

'See you in final.' Then he turned to follow behind his team. He too was now grinning like an idiot. It did not help that he could hear Marleau behind him, saying, 'Control yourself, Hollander.' Or that his phone began buzzing with texts before he even caught up to his team, and they didn't stop during the whole evening.

_______

Ilya knew the tournament schedule by heart. And the training schedule. And not just his team. That's why he knew both team Russia and team Canada had their Friday empty. Well, almost, both teams did have a morning practice scheduled, Russia at eight, Canada at ten. But neither had a game that day, meaning their afternoons were wide open. Which was an opportunity. And Ilya had no idea what to do with it.

It wasn't like there was any privacy in the Olympic village. The anonymity wasn't enough. Not for the things he wanted to do.

It didn't help his phone wouldn't stop buzzing. A wrong Canadian player, again. Him and Marleau were friends, sure. He would even admit he liked the guy, if pressed. But. They really didn't need to hang out now. And why the fuck would Ilya care or want to know that Marleau was, for whatever reason, hanging out with Pike. Shopping for souvenirs for the kids. Did he expect Ilya to want to join? He could not understand why he'd want to do that, not even if Shane was with them. Which… he didn't mention?

Ilya sat up straight. He read the messages he'd been scrolling through again, more thoroughly. Marleau and Pike were leaving for the town. Shopping for presents. Should be gone for the next two hours, at least. And finally, Ilya understood the message hiding underneath the most boring texts he'd ever received. They were becoming his favourites very quickly.

'I'm going for a run,' he told his roommates. Not that he owed them an explanation, but they would have asked anyway. He quickly pulled on a pair of sweats and a hoodie and bolted for the exit.

He wasn't even lying in the end; he did run all the way to the Canadian rooms. Like a fucking idiot. He did not care. The lobby was busy enough that one more athlete returning from a run did not attract attention, but Ilya dragged his hoodie as low over his face as he could as he pressed his way to the lift. No looked in his direction, from the moment he boarded until he was knocking on the door of Shane's room.

It was clear he was not expected, but Shane dragged him in with the smile of a child on Christmas morning. Unlike the broom closet in the arena, this door had a lock. The sound of it sliding in place was obscene.

'I missed you so much,' Ilya whispered into Shane's neck. There was so much more he wanted to say, but Shane would have to read it in his kisses, because once he tasted the salty skin, he was not stopping.

'I've missed you too,' Shane mumbled, his hands already hooking into Ilya's hoodie, dragging it up over his shoulders. It was the only thing Ilya was even slightly willing to separate his lips from Shane's skin for, and it still took effort. The only consolation was that Shane's shirt followed shortly after.

Ilya took the moment it was over his face as an opportunity to push Shane backwards into a bed. He followed immediately after, pressing his body to Shane's naked chest.

'Not… my… bed…' Shane protested weakly, his hands pushing Ilya away while his mouth refused to let go of Ilya's lips. Ilya groaned in protest, but in one awkward move, he managed to pull them up without interrupting the kiss. They stumbled around, Shane taking control and pushing Ilya to the correct bed.

Even with his eyes closed, Ilya would have know it was the right bed immediately. It smelled like Shane. It smelled like home. The two have been the same thing for a while now.

As Shane straddled his thighs, finding a spot to sit so close, yet not close enough to where Ilya needed him to be, Ilya pulled his boyfriend's sweats as low as they would go and pushed his hand under the waistband. He tried to bring Shane down, digging his palm into the muscle of his ass, but Shane was taking his sweet time, kissing around his chest and stomach. Ilya had no doubt it was a payback for his tempo in the broom closet.

'Please, Shane.' Ilya found he was not above begging. He was resigned to it. He did not expect it to work.

'Ask nicer than that,' Shane demanded. Fuck. Seeing him in command was such a turn on, Ilya would turn into a puddle at his feet if asked.

'Please, Shane, I need you.' There was no dignity in it.

Shane moved, shifting his weight to the elbows at Ilya's side to bring his hips higher, hovering over Ilya's without touching.

'Not good enough,' Shane replied before biting Ilya's chest. It made Ilya gasp. It made him think up dozen of ways of flipping Shane over and taking control, all while his body remained motionless and his mouth continued to beg shamelessly.

'Please, my love.' Begging wasn't the right word anymore. This was whining. It was pathetic. 'You're killing me. I'm at your mercy. Please. Touch me. Please.' Ilya was rambling. His brain was turned to mush by how turned on and in love he was.

Out of all things he'd said to Shane before, it had to be the most desperate thing. It was far from sexy. Yet it seemed to have the same effect on Shane as his dirtiest promises, because Shane was now grinding their hips together, riding Ilya's lap in a way the layers of clothes between them wouldn't be enough to keep him going for long.

'I… need… you…now,' Ilya was trying to let the words out, even as they were swallowed in Shane's mouth by the wet sounds of kissing. But somehow, they made it through, because Shane's hand was between them, loosening the strings of his sweats and pushing inside. Ilya arched into the touch.

'Too… many… clothes,' Ilya mumbled and didn't wait for permission before flipping Shane over. Ilya had to put one foot on the ground to keep them from falling over. He dragged Shane's trousers down, underwear included, and threw them across the room. The trousers hit the wall. The sound did get the outraged reaction he was hoping for out of Shane, turning kisses into bites before Shane gave himself over to him, letting himself be pinned down as Ilya explored his now naked body.

Then there was knocking on the door. Son of a —.

'Hey Hollander! I can hear you in there you freak!'

Ilya cursed, biting down on Shane's stomach to keep himself from making a sound or cursing the intruder.

'Ah — not a good time, JJ!' Shane shouted back, swatting at Ilya's head for making him yelp. Ilya grabbed his arm, pinning him back down, just in case Shane would actually consider giving a shit about the world outside of the room. Outside of the bed, even.

'Get your ass out here, Hollander!' JJ wasn't backing down. Ilya wasn't letting go of Shane's wrists. An impasse.

'Someone better be dying, JJ!' Shane's tone was getting irritated, and he was taking it out on Ilya, whom he almost pushed off the bed as he tried to get up. He picked up his underwear, staring at it before putting it back on.

'Someone will be dying if you don't come down right now!'

'Can you fucking tell me what is going on already?!' Shane was visibly pissed off, but he did open the door, for maybe an inch, and the look JJ must have got made even Ilya shudder.

'Where are your clothes, Hollander? Wait, did I interrupt…?'

'You interrupted a nap. You have ten seconds to tell me why before I shut this door and never speak to you again.'

'Uuugh, that must have been some nap,' JJ laughed.

Shane was leaning against the door with his whole body, making Ilya wonder if JJ was actually trying to push his way in.

'Do you always throw your clothes around the room before a nap?'

Ilya looked over the room. Sure, there were their shirts and Shane's sweats lying on the floor. It wasn't even a huge mess.

'My roommates are pigs.' Shane did not hesitate and did not show any mercy as he threw Pike and Marleau under the bus. Ilya had to stifle a laughter.

'Yeah, sure. Whatever man, it's your business. Your busy-ness.' JJ sang the last word. Obviously thinking he was being funny. Ilya didn't find it funny, and neither did Shane, it seemed. 'So, uh, you know how Brown was being a dick in Montreal about Hunter? Well, he was running his mouth again. In the lobby. You know, the lobby of this building we share with the Americans?'

Ilya almost laughed. He was sure he wasn't hearing right, because there was no way he was leaving with blue balls because Scott fucking Hunter was about to get in an actual fight. The karma for all the taunts he'd addressed the man over the years was really getting back to him.

'Are you telling me Brown is about to fight Hunter in the lobby? Are we going to have to get you drug tested?' Shane didn't seem to believe it any more than Ilya did.

'Not Hunter, but his teammates, Carter and some of the younger guys mostly.'

Shane sighed.

'Do I care if Brown gets ass kicked?' he asked JJ. Ilya wanted to shout no.

'Sorry, captain, I think it is your job,' JJ sounded amused.

'Right,' Shane mumbled before shutting the door in JJ's face. For a moment, Ilya thought it might mean things were about to get good again. But Shane only sighed, again, before his body began shaking with breathless laughter.

'I swear to fucking god,' he mumbled as he collected his clothes. Ilya did the same, although it was the last thing he wanted to do.

_______

This time, Ilya wouldn't take chances with the lift down. Getting recognised coming out of the building once was quite enough, even if the chances of running into another player in the elevator were not that high. But Ilya didn't feel like risking it, so he chose the stairs. There, he'd have enough heads up if someone was coming, and he hoped there wouldn't be too many people taking the stairs anyway.

He made it to the lobby. He was almost out. The lobby was so busy with all the hockey player, he was sure no one would pay him attention.

But his luck hated him. Or maybe it was karma. Maybe the universe had decided that Scott Hunter deserved payback for years of Ilya's chirps and that's why, he was in his path, again, as he was sneaking out of the wrong hotel.

Ilya ignored him, but there was no doubt Scott had recognised him. It didn't help they'd be facing each other the next day.

_______

'You are still Russian, the last time I checked?' Hunter was smiling before the first face-off.

'And you are still playing?' Ilya asked back. The weak comeback would be less embarrassing if Scott didn't win the first puck.

_______

'When we embarrass you tonight,' Scott leaned to him again as they were catching their breaths, waiting for the referees to pry apart two players who'd got into a fight. The team USA was only one goal up, and it was work of luck more than anything.

'Will you be defecting to Canada? Since you practically live in their rooms already anyway?'

_______

'What do you want, Hunter?' Ilya barked at Scott, who was skating leisurely in front of penalty box where Ilya was banished for the next two minutes. It was the third period and for a captain of a team two-goals-down, Hunter seemed annoyingly giddy.

'Not very… Canadian behaviour, Rozanov. You should be really working on being nice if you're moving over.'

Just for that comment, Ilya scored another goal seconds after he was released from his punishment. And one more, into an empty net, two seconds before the end of the match. And yet, Hunter was still smiling when they met in the handshake line.

_______

Ilya had kept his promise, he thought as he was skating to the face off circle where Shane was already waiting for him. The Olympic finals. Here they were. Unreal. Yet it couldn't have ended differently.

'I just realised,' Shane spoke as Ilya came to a stop opposite him, 'the silver medal will really bring out your eyes.'

Ilya raised his eyebrows at him. He checked that the referee was out of earshot.

'Is that your fantasy, Hollander? Me, wearing your medal?'

'Trying to distract me with flirting?'

'Is it working?'

'It doesn't matter. Marleau and Pike have some bet going on about this match. They're getting so riled up about it, I think they could take you all on their own.'

'Thanks for the warning.'

'There's still time to run.'

'I'll see you after the game,' Ilya winked, because the referee was approaching, about to start the game.

_______

Ilya didn't fully understand the meaning of mixed feelings before, not like when he watched his boyfriend bow his head as an Olympic gold medal was placed around his neck. The image stayed with him through the bittersweet celebration in the locker room. It was before his eyes when he excused himself, wandering the corridor before he hit the shower. He wasn't the only one — many players had loved ones who couldn't make it all the way to Korea, and were all now showing the medals around their necks to the cameras of their phones. He could probably get away with the same, his teammates wouldn't care or look who was on his phone. But he didn't think the same thing would go unnoticed for Shane. Yet, he was the person he wanted to celebrate with. He could — and he definitely will — call Svetlana, but someone else was supposed to be the first.

So he kept walking. Imaging, what he would say, if he had the chance.

Then he rounded a corner, and Shane was there. Clearly thinking the same. Ilya's knees shook when he saw him. He was wearing his undershirt and the gold medal shone against the black fabric, which was completely wet, as was his hair, and clinging to his skin.

'Good celebration?' he asked and Shane ran to him instead of a reply. Ilya crushed him in a hug that was threatening to break both their ribs and he didn't care. He kept pressing and if he could, he wouldn't let go until they'd ribs would interlock and keep them like that forever.

'Someone is coming,' Shane whispered before breaking away. Maybe they'd already melded, because Ilya's chest did feel like breaking then. But he managed to plaster a smile on his face. Straightened out his shirt, even though there was a giant wet spot at the front. He even managed to keep his hands to himself and not strangle Hayden fucking Pike as he came into the view.

Pike stopped walking. Looked between Ilya and Shane, shaking his head in disbelief. Then, before Ilya could say anything, Pike spoke first.

'So do you guys want me to pretend you're being subtle or…? Just fucking kiss for fucks sake. Before the rest of the team gets here!'

And Ilya didn't care. Didn't care what Pike knew, or how. He wrapped his arms around Shane, almost lifting him of the ground as he crashed their lips together.

_______

Boston Raiders locker room. One week later.

'They should be landing around six,' Marleau was giving out instructions to Ilya, as if he hadn't already texted him everything the night before. 'That gives them two hours to drop their shit at the hotel before we hit the Mayhem.'

'Yes, Marleau, I fucking know. Also, I don't fucking care. It is your party. If I wanted to spend time with a bunch of boring Canadians, I would come to your parents' for dinner.'

Marleau laughed. He knew Ilya was full of shit. Especially since Shane was on the guest list.

'If Roz is not going, can I come?' Connors had been hoping to land an invitation since Marleau first mentioned he was throwing a party and his Olympic teammates were coming. 'I mean holy fuck, when do we ever get to party with the fucking Metros?'

'It's not just Metros, there's like, a bunch of guys coming,' Marleau laughed, but it was clear no one cared.

'Do you have a medal, Connors?' Ilya asked him, knowing full well he wasn't part of the American Olympic nomination. 'It is a medal celebration, yes? You need one to have something to celebrate!'

'Does bronze count?' a second voice joined the conversation. A German defenseman named Hansen. Who Ilya completely forgot existed, or that his country did indeed take the bronze. And to whom Marleau promptly extended the invitation.

'I still don't understand how you lost a bet to Pike and I have to suffer for it,' Ilya kept complaining to Marleau. Bitching him was very much their preferred kind of conversation.

'You know I won the bet, asshole' Marleau was shaking his head at Ilya's fake outrage.

'You won?' Ilya's eyebrows hit his hairline. 'Hanging out with Hayden Pike is reward for you?'

'It is. He will have to hang out with you, and he'll fucking like it. Punishment enough.'

'Eh, no. No no no. I will not let him like me,' Ilya promised.

'You will be nice.'

'I will sooner return medal. Hey, Connors, you want it? Is silver, but is the only one you'll ever touch, so…'

'For fuck's sake, Rozanov. Behave. Shut up. I did a fucking miracle here, getting half the team to agree to come. The good half.'

'Wait,' Hansen, who still didn't seem to fully grasp what he got himself invited to, turned to Marleau. 'Does that include, you know, Hollander?'

He whispered Shane's name as if it could summon him. There was admiration on his face that did not belong on a face of a Boston player.

'Fuck you both,' Ilya grumbled. As if he wasn't looking forward to this for the past week.

Chapter End Notes

If you made it all the way down here, my love to you.
There is still at least one more story planned for this series (Hayden has some things to explain and some things to suffer through)... Maybe two, if I get one more idea to behave and come together.
But.
I am also working on something different for this fandom. That might get finished before Hayden gets his time to shine. So, if you're up for something a little more out there, some crack fics or something a little darker, then a first story for a second series, Hockey and Melodrama, should be up in the following days, so keep an eye for it if that sounds good to you and you liked these stories so far.
Again, all my love, please let me know what you think.