Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Scott Hunter

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

POV Outsider, Secret Relationship, Light Angst, Fluff and Humor, Coming Out, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov Relationship Timeline Reveal, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Drunken Confessions, Relationship Reveal, Internalized Homophobia, Episode: s01e01 Rookies (Heated Rivalry), canon compliant in my heart, One Shot, Attempt at Humor, Scott's drunk af too lmao, gays living in the crushing reality of professional hockey

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Scott Hunter is cursed (at least he's pretty sure)

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-18 Words: 4,259 Chapters: 1/1

I tried to hide the feeling (but it just won't go away)

Summary

"The league wants me to hate him. The fucking press wants me to hate him. My parents... I mean they do hate him." Shane stopped to take a few deep breaths, like he was trying to prepare himself for something.

"Hollander, you really don't have to tell me this-" Scott's frantic words were to no avail.

"I did hate him. Or like... at least I used to. I thought I did. Thought maybe that was why I couldn't stop looking at him, cause I hated him." He laughed once. A choppy, wet laugh that wasn't very funny at all. "I did hate him. But then he kissed me."

or:

Scott Hunter goes looking for his hotel room. He finds a drunk Shane Hollander, instead.

Notes

work title: Actor by Conan Gray <3

Scott really had to stop doing this to himself. 

The dull throbbing in his head had lingered on for half an hour now, a stale reminder of the countless shots he'd knocked back in the hours prior.

And those were your idea, you dumbass! He thought regretfully. Scott worked to loosen the bowtie that was suddenly feeling much too tight, uncoordinated fingers fumbling into the sleek fabric, an action that proved to be a far more difficult task when being done at the same time as walking. Kind of like patting your head and rubbing your stomach at the same time. 

He had to stop forgetting that he wasn't a teenager anymore and he really couldn't drink like he used to. Well, he wasn't even necessarily that old, but he had to admit that his prime partying days might be behind him. If you were to ask the league's newest resident asshole and superstar sex god Ilya Rozanov, however, you'd get the impression that Scott Hunter was born in the Paleolithic Era. Regardless of his senior status, Scott had dragged himself away from the dwindling afterparty and was now attempting to find his way back to his hotel room.

The MLH Awards had turned out to be a fine time. Scott always liked having an excuse to spend a few days in Vegas, and it was nice to hang out with some of his teammates during the offseason. Extreme emphasis on that some of his teammates. Still, a pretty good night. Vaughn and him were even able to get a bunch of this season's rookies to do a few shots with them. Although those kids, always so quick to please the veteran players, didn't need much convincing.

Not even Shane Hollander, the most uptight and high-strung player the league had to offer, was able to resist when Scott dragged him to the bar. Scott liked him. He was a good kid and a fun player to watch. He definitely deserved Rookie of the Year, or at least Scott was pretty sure that was the award he had won. Was it that? Shit, it really was time for bed.

Scott finally managed to undo his bowtie at the exact moment he reached the hotel elevator. He wasn't sure what floor he was on to begin with, and, to make matters worse, he was having trouble remembering exactly what his room number was.

"11... 32? 1032?" He mumbled to himself. "Fuck. Uhh... 1110? No, no it definitely ended in 32. I think." The elevator arrived with a loud ping that rung in Scott's ears. Oh well, he had his keycard. He'll just try the 10th and 11th floors. One of those had to be right, he was sure of it.

When the doors opened to the 10th floor and he stepped off the elevator, Scott knew right away that his room was not located on this level. He saw the closed entrance to a dark restaurant in front of him, all the lights turned off and chairs flipped onto the tables. He glanced around the rest of the quiet floor, seeing even more dark and locked-up storefronts. Scott figured he may as well look around, maybe scout out a breakfast menu for tomorrow morning, when a set of glass doors at the end of the hallway caught his eye.

As he took unsteady steps closer, he realized that it led to a small, open-air balcony.

Probably a bad idea when I'm drunk, huh? He couldn't help himself, though, and opened one of the doors with a shove. The air was warm and dry, hitting his face like a handful of desert sand, but still refreshing after an entire evening cooped up in a ballroom with professional hockey players. The entire balcony was really no bigger than a penalty box, a realization that made Scott huff out a tipsy laugh.

Something off to the side shifted.

Scott whipped his head around, wincing at the sudden movement, but still alert to whatever the hell was apparently joining him on this relatively small balcony. When his eyes adjusted, he saw a man sitting on the ground against the wall. He had on a rumpled white dress shirt and black pants, a suit jacket and tie lazily discarded on the floor next to him. An almost empty bottle of white wine sat to his right as he held his head in his hands, fingers curling into short black hair.

"Uh... hello?" Scott asked, still uneasy and head still throbbing. The man made a sniffling noise before finally looking up. "Hollander?" Scott exclaimed.

Sure enough, Shane fucking Hollander was sitting alone on a balcony, cheeks flushed and eyes watery. He looked dejected, like his whole world had crashed down around him. Scott almost didn't recognize him, he looked nothing like the bright kid who had lit up the room all night, inevitably catching everyone's attention even if he didn't mean to. He was a little awkward, sure, but everybody liked him. Well, maybe not Rozanov, but screw that guy. Why the hell was the Rookie of the Year (maybe) sitting alone on a small balcony and... crying?

"Oh shit, uh." Shane said, wiping at his face and sucking in a deep breath. 

"Hollander?" Scott tried again. "What are you doing up here?" There was a slightly panicked glint that danced over Shane's expression in the moment, although he made no attempt to stand up. He gathered his knees closer to his chest and held them securely.

"It's quiet." He finally supplied. "Want to, um, wanted to... be quiet." The slurring in his words was more than apparent, and his eyes were much glossier than when Scott had seen him last. Wait, when had Scott seen him last? He turned his attention back to the bottle resting at the kid's side.

"Did you drink more since I saw you last?" Scott gestured to the bottle. Shane looked down at it and furrowed his brows.

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, I guess so." He looked up at Scott with a shameful expression. 

"You drank that whole thing?" Shane nodded quickly. Damn, who was this kid? "Straight from the bottle?" He asked with a chuckle. Shane then shook his head.

"Aw, no I got a glass." He reached to his left side and clumsily picked up a wine glass, holding it straight up to Scott. 

"Yeah, that makes more sense for you." Scott murmured.

"I took it offa' some lady's cart. I wanted... I wanted more. I needed more so I could have less." He closed his eyes and leaned his back against the wall, like words were just too damn hard to deal with.

Scott was suddenly feeling like the sober one here.

"So you could have less what?" He questioned. Shane rolled his head around loosely before looking back at Scott.

"Less... thoughts." A small smile tugged at his lips, eventually cracking into a goofy grin. "I don't even like it, you know?"

"Drinking?" Scott guessed. Shane held his smile and nodded.

"Bingo!" He laughed. "I don't really like it. Tastes bad. Makes ya feel bad." Scott took a few steps and crossed the distance between them, sitting across from Shane and leaning his back against the gold railing. 

"Tell me about it." Scott agreed.

"Kinda like smoking. I hate smoking. Smells bad. But..." Shane's smile dropped in an instant, replaced by a sorrowful expression and sad eyes. His voice got small. "It tastes like him."

Scott froze.

Jesus, this kid was fucking plastered. Off his goddamn head. Three sheets to the wind. Did he even realize what he was saying? What the hell could he possibly mean by It tastes like him?

"What?" Scott forced out, voice rough and confused. Shane was completely unfazed, enveloped by the new topic of conversation.

"I told him he shouldn't smoke. He knows he shouldn't. So... fucking stubborn." Shane spit those last words, lips pressed into a thin frown. Scott felt like he was trying to catch up to a race that hadn't even started yet.

"What the hell are you taking about kid?" He asked. Shane, once again, couldn't be bothered to answer.

"He's so stubborn. So stubborn! Like he, like he just... like he's just the best. He has to be the best!" He was talking with his hands, now, gesturing angrily at Scott, who still blinked at the rookie in confusion.

"Look, Hollander, what-"

"I get to win something cool, and what does he do? He's... he just hides away! Like he can't look at me. But I... I wanted him to. I wanted..." Shane's anger began dying down, steadily replaced by something deeper and more hollow. "I wanted him to look at me. And I tried being... I tried talking and he was such an asshole." His voice wavered on the last word.

Scott rubbed his forehead and stared at Shane with bewilderment. He had no clue what the fuck the guy was rambling about, and it was starting to edge dangerously close to territory that Scott was pretty sure he wanted nothing to do with. Hollander was nice and all, but they weren't really friends, how was he supposed to navigate a heart-to-heart with a borderline stranger? Scott wanted to stand up and leave. He wanted to wish Shane good luck with... whatever and get the hell out of dodge. But Scott was a nice guy, damn it, and the kid just looked so miserable. He remembered what it felt like to be a rookie, to feel like the fate of hockey rested on his shoulders alone.

Also, this was Shane Hollander. The Prince of Canada, hockey's golden boy, was sitting alone on a Vegas balcony nursing a nearly empty bottle of wine. Scott had enough of his own problems, there was no way in hell that he was going to be blamed for letting the sweetest star in professional hockey drink himself to death.

"Kid, what's wrong?" When Shane made eye contact again, his eyes were back to misty, lips trembling.

"He was being mean. Or I, well... he's such an asshole but maybe I was mean, too. He seemed mad. I didn't mean to... make him upset. I was upset." He paused for a pathetic sniffle. "I think I was mean, maybe. He seemed sad. I shoulda' left him alone. I knew it was a bad idea." Shane laughed at that. "Whole fuckin' thing was a bad idea."

"What was a bad idea?" Scott tried. Shane adopted a shy smile and leaned in, like a kid sharing a secret at recess. 

"Me and him." He hissed. A freezing chill ran down Scott's spine as he realized the possible meaning behind those slurring words. Oh, he should not be doing this. He really should not be doing this.

"You and who?" Scott asked in spite of himself. Shane just shrugged like it was obvious.

"Rozanov." He said matter of factly. 

Scott's brain buffered. Actually stopped and buffered. He couldn't find the ability to move. To blink. Hell, he wasn't sure if he still knew how to breathe. One sentence flashed in his mind over and over again, bright and red like a buzzer:

"It tastes like him."

"Oh, fuck." Scott muttered at last. Was this real? Was any of this shit real? Was he really dead? Did he trip and fall on his way back to his room and crack his head open? Did he get alcohol poisoning? Any one of those alternate realities were starting to sound infinitely more appealing than having to imagine the possibility of Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov-

"I know he's an asshole. I know and... but like, that's not the worst part." Shane continued, completely oblivious to Scott's internal meltdown. "Everyone knows he's such an asshole. Everyone knows and... not even the worst part." He brought his hands to his face, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes and shaking his head. "Not even the worst part."

"What is the worst part?" Scott conjured up enough common sense to ask one question. Hollander glanced back up at him, eyelashes wet with unshed tears.

"I don't hate him." He said weakly. "I don't hate him. Whole world wants me to. And I just... I just can't." His voice cracked as his hands trembled, so he clasped them together tightly. "I've tried so hard to fucking hate him. I think..." He paused to suck in a shaky breath. "I think I hate myself more than him."

Scott wanted to say something, say anything that might offer some comfort to the crumbling rookie in front of him, but he couldn't shake the shock from his system. If Hollander was really saying what Scott feared he was, then the whole world of hockey was about to fucking implode.

"The league wants me to hate him. The fucking press wants me to hate him. My parents... I mean they do hate him." Shane stopped to take a few deep breaths, like he was trying to prepare himself for something.

"Hollander, you really don't have to tell me this-" Scott's frantic words were to no avail.

"I did hate him. Or like... at least I used to. I thought I did. Thought maybe that was why I couldn't stop looking at him, cause I hated him." He laughed once. A choppy, wet laugh that wasn't very funny at all. "I did hate him. But then he kissed me."

Scott was officially fucked. 

"And I haven't hated him since." Hollander reached up to hastily swipe at his eyes again, stopping heavy tears before they had a chance to fall. Scott just sat in a frozen silence, listening to Shane's ragged breaths and brainstorming what the hell he could possibly reply with.

He had so many questions. Shane Hollander was a nice, average boy who was really good at hockey. He was uptight, non-confrontational, and plainly humble. Ilya Rozanov was... Ilya Rozanov. He was the cockiest asshole in the league and pretty much addicted to stirring the pot. In what world does hockey's bad boy go out of his way to kiss the most innocent-looking rookie Scott's ever met? They were arch rivals, for fuck's sake, a fact that had been shoved down the league's throat from the very moment the two learned to skate.

"Ilya Rozanov... kissed you?" Scott asked carefully. Shane once again nodded like it was a stupid question.

"Well yeah, not just... I mean we... it was such a bad idea. I told him, I told him it was a really bad idea." Shane groaned in frustration. "It was 'sposed to be just like... like a one time deal. Wasn't ever meant to keep on going." Scott's world was melting right in front of him, and he watched helplessly as he was forced to imagine Shane fucking Hollander and Ilya goddamn Rozanov as an item. 

A gay item.

"So you guys like hook up and stuff?" He said. Shane apparently found this funny, as he began to chuckle under his breath. "What?" Scott asked.

"Don't be shy." Shane mumbled giddily. "Acting like you didn't know." Well, what the hell did that mean?

"You thought I knew?" Shane nodded. "Why do you think that?" Hollander was back to being unimpressed with Scott's lack of knowledge, rolling his eyes like it was obvious.

"The All-Star Game, duh." He said it slowly, like explaining something to a child.

"All-Star Game?" Scott thought back to the weekend with little success. Nothing stood out to him. Jesus, maybe he was getting old.

"Fucking Rozanov skated right by. He skated and said his room number. It was... well, it was right next door to you."

Oh. 

Oh.

Scott had heard that part of the rookies' exchange, and he could now clearly remember the awkward conversation with Shane that followed. He brushed it off at the time, trying not to think too much of it. Truthfully, he did think it was strange. Why tell your arch rival what room you were staying in? He almost began to entertain the idea that maybe there was something more than friendship at play there, but it was so ridiculous, so absolutely outlandish of a thought that he wrote it off immediately. Scott figured that it was just wishful thinking on his part, like maybe he was all too eager to imagine that someone else in the league could possibly be like him.

Apparently, he should have been careful what he fucking wished for.

"Yeah I remember, now." Scott croaked. Shane gave a satisfied look that said: See, told ya so!

"We were scared you were gonna hear. Or, well... he wasn't. I was, though. Scared." He paused and chewed on his bottom lip. "I'm still scared. I'm scared of how much I want him. I'm so scared about people finding out. I don't... I don't wanna make things bad."

"I mean," Scott tried. "Yeah, that's scary." Shane nodded, as if this was just another casual bar conversation about the weather or something.

"It's so scary, but... it's not scary with him. I'm never afraid in the moment, with him. He makes me... I don't know. He kisses me and it's like I can just... breathe." Shane gazed across the colorful Vegas skyline with watering eyes.

Scott wished he didn't understand, but god, he understood so much. He knew exactly what Hollander was talking about. That aching fear and dread that follows you around, settles itself into the pit of your stomach and roots in there. It's a different kind of sadness that only goes away when you're with someone else who gets it. Someone who feels that same loneliness, the same kind of constant longing for a life that they don't truly believe they'll ever get.

It wasn't often that Scott ever got a break from the fear.

Apparently, Hollander and Rozanov didn't, either.

"I'm sorry." It was all Scott had to say. "That's fucked." Shane laughed at that.

"Yeah. You're a smart guy, Scott Hunter." He grumbled.

"Not as bad as Rozanov says, huh?" Shane grinned and shook his head. "What a dick." Scott muttered. Something in the kid's eyes shifted, and a subtle softness filled his features.

"He's really not that bad. He likes to... pretend. Put on a show." It wasn't really what Scott was expecting to hear from Rozanov's famed arch nemesis, and oh my god... was Hollander blushing?

"I don't know, man. He's an asshole." Scott egged him on, but Shane just smiled softly.

"He's an asshole." He agreed slowly. "But he's nice with me." He said it so firmly, so full of confidence that it made Scott's breath catch in his throat. Jesus, was it possible that- no.

Absolutely not.

God forbid, were these idiot kids... in love?

Scott suddenly felt a little ill, and it wasn't just from the alcohol. The ideas swirling around in his still fucking throbbing head were going to give him an aneurysm. Not because he was disturbed or disgusted, of course not. Scott understood and accepted gay relationships better than probably anyone else in professional hockey (not that anyone would ever know that). What killed him was the circumstances.

The entire past MLH season had revolved around one thing and one thing only: Shane Hollander versus Ilya Rozanov. Everything involving those two was blown out of proportion and reported on to high heaven. Even if their respective teams hadn't played each other, post-game interviews were still peppered with questions about the other rookie. Hell, one time Scott had just finished getting his ass kicked by Tampa and the first thing the reporter asked was for his opinion on the upcoming Boston-Montreal game.

In under a year, the names Hollander and Rozanov had become synonymous with the game itself, so much so that you rarely heard either of their names alone; they were usually spoken in the same sentence, unwaveringly compared and contrasted until there was nothing left to dissect. Together, they were breathing new life into professional hockey, garnering interest in a way that the league had been waiting years for. Together, they were pushing the boundaries of what a player was capable was, of what hockey itself was capable of. Together, they were fueling an infamous, century-old team feud, finding themselves worshipped by their bloodthirsty fans as gods of the sport.

Together, they were both 20 years old and probably in love with each other.

Scott wished he had tried the 11th floor first.

"He's really not-" A complete fucking shithead? Scott stopped himself. He felt like Hollander was in a pretty fragile state at the moment, and he didn't want to make things worse by being too harsh. "He treats you well?" He landed on. 

"I mean, it's only been like... two times, I guess." Shane said softly, eyes darting between Scott and the bright skyline behind him. "But, he's nice. Makes me feel safe."

"So it's just... casual, then?" Scott asked. Another wave of sadness crashed over Shane's features as he nodded.

"Yes. Yes, it definitely, definitely is. That's all it should be. All it can be." His voice had lowered from the confidence he had spoken with earlier. 

"Can't be easy." Scott started. "Being in the league and being..." He let himself trail off. Shane adopted a weak, floppy smile.

"No, s'not. But hey, you're nice about it." Scott's heart started beating faster. The words were on the tip of his tongue, it would be so easy to just say it. To tell someone, finally. Spill his drunk guts just like Hollander.

I know how you feel. 

I understand exactly what it's like.

I've lived like that every day of my life.

He backed out, just like the pussy he always was.

"Well, you're a good kid, rook." It was the coward's way out, but it was all Scott had left in him.

"Will I ever stop thinking about him?" Hollander had pulled the question seemingly out of nowhere, and it gave Scott momentary whiplash.

"Uh." Was all he managed. Shane kept his dark eyes trained on the ground.

"Will I ever stop feeling like this?" His voice broke and he let out a single, small sob. 

For being a young, attractive professional athlete living in New York, Scott Hunter had an embarrassingly sparse resume when it came to romance. He had a valid reason, of course, but it never stopped him from feeling like a fucking buffoon when faced with conversations about relationships. He wished he had more to offer the rookie, he really did, but this situation was so fucked up that Scott could barely see straight. No pun intended.

Jesus, man, pull yourself together.

"If you think you really like him-" Hollander's head snapped up.

"I don't like him." He countered. It was entirely unconvincing.

"Right." Scott said slowly. "Well, if you think he's worth... not giving up on, then don't. Don't give up." For the first time in that whole evening, Shane was looking at Scott like he was actually listening to him. "You're still kids, whole lotta time left between now and forever." The two sat in silence for a couple minutes after that.

"You sure?" Hollander asked, sounding impossibly young and nothing like the hockey god he was on the ice. Scott hesitated.

"Pretty sure." He whispered back, fighting tears of his own. Shane just nodded firmly.

"Okay, Scott Hunter." He wiped at his face one last time, as if he could rub off all his problems onto his rolled-up sleeve. Scott braced his hands on the railing behind him and pulled himself up with a pained grown, blinking away the dizziness that thumped behind his eyes. He looked down at Hollander and extended his arm.

"Time for bed, kiddo." He grumbled. Shane obeyed, slinging his coat and tie over his shoulder before taking Scott's hand and slowly making his way to his feet. Scott started walking them both to the door when Shane stopped.

"Aw but the glass." He said mournfully. "Oh no, I stole that." He haphazardly bent down and scooped up the glass and wine bottle. "Wouldn't be nice to leave it." He slurred.

"There's the Hollander I know." Scott laughed, following him down the dimly lit hallway to the elevators. At this point in the night, it was really the blind leading the blind.

Shane's room was up on the 15th floor, so Scott went along with him to make sure he survived the trip. The kid fumbled around with the keycard for a few moments before finally unlocking the door and nearly falling into the room face-first.

"Sleep tight, Hollander." Scott flashed a grin and held out his hand. Shane shook it and nodded lightly, but there was something in his eyes that Scott hadn't seen from him all night: peace. The rookie sighed and smiled before letting his hand drop. The chances of him remembering any part of the last hour (or the entire night, for that matter) were slim, but Scott figured it was probably for the best. The Shane Hollander he knew would literally combust and die of embarrassment if he heard anything that he'd told Scott tonight. Such a lightweight.

"Yeah, you too, Scott Hunter." Hollander replied quietly. The door closed and the hallway was quiet once again. Scott turned around, trudging back to the elevators and impatiently pressing the button more times than what was strictly necessary. The twin doors slid open with a hiss and he stepped on.

"Oh, fuck." He groaned. "What fucking floor is my room on?"