Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter, Scott Hunter & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

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

Additional Tags:

Parody, Homophobia, Meta, Hate Crimes, Breaking and Entering, Shane Hollander and Scott Hunter's Fight in Episode: s01e03 Hunter, GTFOH, Shane Hollander is not a crying twink, Mention of Matthew Shepard, Anti-Homophobia, Scott Hunter Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-09 Words: 3,098 Chapters: 1/1

Scotty Doesn't Know (And Would Very Much Like to Be Excluded From This Narrative)

Summary

Following Shane and Scott's fight on the ice, Ilya completely loses his mind, and thinks it's a good idea to break into Scott's home and attempt to physically assault him for an, at worst, ambiguously homophobic comment (and, far more likely, a mere jab at their famous rivalry). Scott informs him that, not only does he not have any idea about Shane and Ilya (because he has a life, and is not a television viewer following their actions at all times, nor does he have an encyclopedic memory of every awkward encounter he's had over the last few years) but that his actions are downright illegal, not to mention insanely homophobic.

Or: the author is a gay man who has seen way too many fics with this disgustingly homophobic premise, and he is so very tired.

Notes

Note: this is a parody of what is increasingly becoming a trope in this fandom, of "wildly OOC Ilya committing homophobic hate crimes against Scott, which is somehow played as a Good and Protective thing". If that bothers you, I suggest you leave now. I am a gay man, I find homophobia disgusting, and it is not getting nicer from here.

It’s close to 3am by the time Scott manages to get home, fed, and ready for bed, so the knock at his door inspires more than just confusion, it actively annoys him. Can this awful day not end already?

Now, even beyond the time, the knock is unusual, because Scott’s apartment has a private elevator. His front door is basically decorative: if you can get through the elevator, you can get through the door, because they have the same key and code. Anyone who thinks it’s acceptable to bother him at three in the morning would presumably have access to said code, and should just be able to let themselves in and take what they need. Which means – ugh – they want to talk to him.

Scott slumps his way to the door, leg still sore from trying to skate fast enough to compensate for his shitty performance. It’s a lucky thing, too, because when he opens the door, his balance is so fucked that he has to lean on it a little, so he just misses the fist flying at his face.

Scott’s no martial artist, but he does live alone in New York City, and he did spend six years in foster care with kids who resented him for his fancy scholarship and expensive boarding school, so he knows how to fight. He has the man pinned and on the floor in just a few seconds, and it’s easy, because despite the punch, the man has clearly never fought in his life. He has city-boy written all over him. Scott makes sure to kick the door closed behind him, because it feels wrong to confront a mugger with the door open, and he doesn’t want the guy to run. That’s when he notices the incredibly distinct hair: curly, blond.

“Rozanov?” Scott asks.

“Get off me!” Ilya Rozanov says, wriggling wildly, plowing his red face into the carpeted floor like that’s going to do anything beside chafe.

“What the fuck are you doing in my home?” Scott asks, pleasant.

There is literally no justification for this, and Scott fully expects the day will end with Rozanov in jail for it, because the entrance to his home, as well as the elevator, are loaded with security cameras. But he might as well give the guy a chance to explain himself before he calls someone.

“You know what you did!” Rozanov says.

“I actually have no fucking idea, Rozanov, but please, keep digging,” Scott says.

“You threatened Shane!” Rozanov says.

Scott takes a moment to think about that. Right from the beginning. How many Shanes does he know? He knows Shane Hollander, he knows Shane the cameraman at his last photoshoot… and that’s all. Presumably, Rozanov is referring to Shane Hollander. But…

“I think you have the wrong guy,” Scott says. “Also, since when are you and Hollander friends? I thought you hated each other?”

Rozanov freezes underneath him. No more wriggling, no more desperate efforts to get free, just a ruddy-faced Russian man, unmoving on the carpet.

“I have made mistake,” Rozanov says.

“Yes, I think we’ve established that,” Scott says.

His patience is… thin, but something in him says to hear Rozanov out. Maybe because it is especially strange, for him to come to New York the day of a home game for Boston. Maybe because he’s known more than one player to crack under the pressure, and whilst he and Rozanov aren’t exactly friends, their chirps usually have a friendly enough edge that Scott is reluctant to send him straight to the cops. If Rozanov is having a psychotic break, he deserves to be helped, not harmed. Also, like all good foster kids, Scott fucking hates cops.

“Can I get up?” Rozanov asks.

“Not until you’ve explained yourself,” Scott says.

He does, however, ease into a straddle, covering Rozanov’s hips and chest but allowing him to turn around so he’s face up. Scott’s nice like that.

“Shane called me crying—“ Rozanov begins.

Scott snorts.

“Shane Hollander? Crying?” Scott asks. “Yeah fucking right. Shane Hollander isn’t some waif, he’s an angry, emotionally repressed man, and he definitely was not crying over the phone.”

“He did!” Rozanov insists. “He said you threatened him!”

“Again, I didn’t, but once again, I ask you: why the fuck are you talking to Shane Hollander?” Scott asks.

Rozanov is silent.

“Alright, Rozanov, since you don’t seem to understand the position you’re in, I’ll explain it to you,” Scott says. “You broke into my house and tried to assault me. Did you manage to knock out the security cameras on the way in?”

Rozanov’s eyes widen. That’s a no, then.

“So, you’ve committed two serious crimes, unprovoked,” Scott says. “The first is burglary, which is a felony. You entered my home, at night, with the intention to assault me. Would you like me to inform you of the sentence for that crime?”

Rozanov swallows deeply.

“See, I know this because you’re not the first person to break into my home like this, though you are the first hockey player. Congratulations on that, I guess. Let’s see… it’s aggravated, because you entered a dwelling, so it’s a class-C felony. There’s a mandatory minimum sentence of three and a half years in prison, and after that, you’ll probably be deported to Russia, banned from ever playing in the MLH. So I ask you again: unless you want me to call the police—” Scott says.

“Shane thought you knew!” Rozanov says.

“Knew what?” Scott asks.

“About me and him!” Rozanov says.

“About you and him what?” Scott asks.

Rozanov lets out a frustrated shout.

“Deep breaths,” Scott says calmly.

“How do you not know?” Rozanov asks.

“Well, I speak to each of you about five times a year, total. None of those encounters are particularly memorable to me. I have a life, and a job, and many, far more important things to be worrying about than two idiot rookies who aren’t even on my team. So maybe you wanna enlighten me?” Scott asks.

“We are lovers,” Rozanov says.

“Come again?” Scott asks.

“Shane and I, we are lovers, we thought you knew,” Rozanov says.

“Uh, how exactly was I supposed to know that?” Scott asks.

“All-Stars!” Rozanov says. “You heard me telling Shane my room number!”

“No, I definitely didn’t,” Scott says. “And even if I did, I would assume a thousand other things before lovers.”

“Like what?” Rozanov asks.

“Off the top of my head… drugs, either the recreational or the doping kind. Match-fixing, which I honestly think is a far more believable explanation for why you’re so violent right now, since in that case you’d already be a criminal—” Scott says

“Shane would never!” Rozanov interrupts.

“Oh, but you would?” Scott asks. “Ringing endorsement of yourself there, bud. Anyway, there’s also… well, you could have just wanted a quiet place to talk. It’s not like you’d be booking a meeting room at the hotel. Heck, you might have wanted a private venue for fisticuffs. All of those things are more logical than lovers. Do you have any other proof?”

“You called me his boy,” Rozanov says.

Now that one Scott does remember, if only because it was a mildly embarrassing encounter that he’s replayed in his head periodically since then.

“I’m from New York, that’s just how we talk,” Scott says. “I’ve called you Cliff’s boy too, are you dating Cliff?”

Rozanov is getting redder by the moment, and it finally seems to be sinking in that he fucked up. For a guy so careful, though, this is still distinctly out of character, so Scott is still not calling the cops. He’s beginning to think he’s not going to.

“What else?” Scott asks.

“We had sex in room next to you,” Rozanov says.

“Didn’t hear it, I sleep way earlier than you do,” Scott says. “Since, as you so often like to note, I am old. What else?”

Rozanov is silent.

“That’s it?” Scott asks. “Jesus Christ, kid, that’s nowhere near enough to go on! Also, even if I suspected anything, which, to be clear, I didn’t – I still think you’re lying, actually, but we’ll get back to that – I would still have absolutely no way of knowing for sure until you came over here and confirmed it. What the fuck?”

Rozanov is getting redder, and he also looks… frightened. Oh dear.

“Is this, like, some detailed excuse to go back to Russia?” Scott asks. “You beat me up, and then you have to go home? Because you could just leave, you know. You don’t have to try to assault me, or make up some relationship with Hollander!”

“Is not made up! And is not relationship! Only lovers!” Rozanov says.

Only lovers… is this a lost in translation thing? Wait, does lovers mean fuck buddies?

“I’m sorry, you thought I managed to magically deduce that you were fucking?” Scott asks. “How the actual fuck was I supposed to get that? At least with a relationship, there’d be something to see! Was I supposed to smell your cum on his breath?”

“I can call him!” Rozanov says. “I can prove it!”

“Hmm, cool,” Scott says. “That would only get us halfway there, though. What’s this about me threatening him?”

“You said he was starting to sound like me!” Rozanov says.

“Yes, because he skated over after winning to insult me,” Scott says. “It was a massive dick move. Chirping is for during the game, not after, and you definitely don’t skate over to someone who’s in pain and is miserable and has just lost to make fun of them! I’d never do that! Most players would never do that! He was being a dick on purpose, like you. And I gave him a chance to fuck off, but he didn’t. So, I brought you up, because I know you’re a sore spot. I just figured he was still annoyed about being drafted second. He’s the one who attacked me. I was minding my own business! It’s not my fault he’s a sore winner…”

“He doesn’t understand social norms!” Rozanov says. “He didn’t mean it!”

“Quit the infantilising bullshit, Rozanov, Hollander’s been playing hockey since he could toddle, and he’s 22 now. He knows chirping after the game isn’t okay, because he’s been told that. Explicitly. Probably about three hundred times, by this point. He definitely did mean it. And if his response to a lukewarm chirp back is to get physically violent and then try to orchestrate a hit on me, then he has much bigger issues than not understanding social norms,” Scott says.

“Please don’t send me back to Russia,” Rozanov says. “I am half-gay. I know you don’t believe, but is true. They will kill me.”

“Half— what?” Scott asks.

“I like both,” Rozanov says. “But… only one is okay, in Russia.”

And that might be designed just to hit Scott right in the heartstrings, but it’s working. He’s facing the powerful urge to get up and say no harm done—

“You know what is like! You and smoothie boy!” Rozanov shouts.

Bam. And the urge is gone.

“Sorry, what the fuck did you just say?” Scott asks.

“Your boyfriend, smoothie boy,” Rozanov says. “You are gay too, remember? Well, full gay, maybe half-gay, I don’t know—”

“How the fuck do you know about Kip?” Scott asks. “Are you fucking stalking me? I’ve met him like three times? He came to one of my games?”

Rozanov swallows.

“Don’t be mad,” Rozanov pleads.

“Oh, we’re way past mad,” Scott says. “I was never going to report you to the cops, I was going to call the MLH, but I am seriously considering it now.”

“I didn’t threaten him!” Rozanov says. “I came here first!”

“First?” Scott asks. “So you were planning on threatening him?”

Rozanov falls silent, again, too late.

“You thought I said something that, in the least charitable light possible, could maybe be construed as me having homophobic blackmail on your lover – blackmail I would have had for two years and done nothing about – and your instinctive response was to commit a hate crime? Against me and a guy who had nothing to do with any of it?”

“Is not hate crime!” Rozanov says.

“You came to my house to beat me up and threaten me into staying quiet about your relationship,” Scott says. “You came with the blackmail and you tried to punch me as you walked in. Meaning you could have just gone with the blackmail, but you chose to assault me as well. Ergo, you desperately wanted to bash me. What, your instinctive response to gay dudes is fuck or bash?”

“I panicked!” Rozanov says. “Shane was sad!”

“You stalked two people, committed second degree burglary, and attempted a hate crime because your fuck-buddy was upset? You were that desperate to hurt me physically for a comment you took as strange that you committed four felonies and risked deportation? For a comment that always had a perfectly innocent explanation? That I was chirping Shane about his supposedly hated rival?” Scott is shaking his head in disbelief. “And I thought I was pathetic, Jesus Christ.”

“Is different for me!” Rozanov says. “I am Russian! You do not understand—”

“Oh, I don’t understand?” Scott asks. “I was 12 years old when my parents died. I was a gay kid completely reliant on a religious scholarship to survive. During the fucking AIDS epidemic. I was 15 when Matthew Shepard was beaten to death for being gay, you ever heard of him? Sodomy was still a crime in fourteen states when I started my professional career! There were five teams in the Eastern Conference where it was a felony! I could have gone to jail for a fucking hook-up!”

Rozanov looks stunned – honestly, did the kid never look up the laws of this country before arriving – but Scott is on a roll now.

“I’ve spent my entire life playing a full-contact sport where even being suspected of being gay could have you beaten and bruised until you quit, if you aren’t outright forced out by management. And I live alone. I don’t have a family to protect me, I don’t have people to watch out for me, everyone and everything I know comes from hockey. You can’t pull this you don’t understand shit: the very fact that you feel so comfortable coming here and committing all these crimes is because you know how vulnerable I am, and how few people I have in my corner. And I’m still not walking around committing hate crimes! And until recently, neither were you!”

Rozanov doesn’t respond to Scott’s rant, choosing instead to close his eyes and let the tears flow. And Scott hates it, because he absolutely should be calling the cops, but… he feels some responsibility to this insanely stupid man beneath him.

Scott sighs, takes out his phone, and calls Hollander. He picks up within two rings. At 3am. The youth and their boundless energy never fail to annoy him, because Scott is running only on adrenaline and pain right now, and he is nearing empty.

“What the fuck do you want, Hunter?” Hollander says, full of rage as usual. “You wanna fucking go, huh?”

“Hollander!” Rozanov says.

“Rozanov?” Hollander asks. “Why do you have Hunter’s phone? Oh my God, don’t tell me you killed him!”

“He wishes,” Scott says.

“Hunter!” Hollander says.

“Care to explain why your boy Rozanov decided to break into my house and try to assault me?” Scott asks. “That’s a serious crime here, by the way. Probably in Canada too.”

Hollander is silent.

“I’m sorry,” Rozanov says. “He didn’t know.”

“I didn’t know what?” Scott asks. “Hollander, what is your relationship with Rozanov? To be clear, if it’s not the exact same answer he gave, I’m hanging up and calling the police.”

Hollander is silent.

“All you have to do is tell the truth, kid,” Scott says. “I don’t want to call the cops. I don’t want to ruin both of your careers—”

“Both?” Hollander asks, quiet.

“You’re an accessory, kid,” Scott says. “Every crime he committed, you can be charged for too.”

“We’re sleeping together,” Hollander says.

“Alright,” Scott says. “Now, I’m going to hang up. I’m going to ask Rozanov some quick security questions. I’ll call you back, and ask you the same. If your answers are the same… I can’t believe this, but I’ll let you both go. Only on the assumption that you’ve both gone fucking mad from dealing with this homophobic league, and you deserve one chance, after which you will never threaten or hurt a gay player again. Clear?”

“Crystal,” Hollander says.

Scott hangs up, makes doubly sure the receiver is no longer picking up, and carries on.

“When did you first hook up?” Scott asks Rozanov.

“Summer before rookie season,” Rozanov says. “CCM commercial. But first actual sex was rookie year.”

Scott tries to think of a harder question. What would two deeply competitive hockey bros get weird about? They’re both clearly dripping with internalised homophobia, so maybe they’re weird about positions?

“Who tops?” Scott asks.

“I do,” Rozanov says. “But is mostly… other things.”

“Right. And when’s the last time you hooked up?”

“Three weeks ago,” Rozanov says.

Scott calls Hollander and, whilst there’s a very dicey moment where he says rookie year instead of mentioning any CCM commercial, Scott is fairly satisfied that these two idiots are in fact in a relationship. Joy. At least he doesn’t have to call anyone else.

“Alright,” Scott tells Rozanov. “This is your one chance. If I see even the slightest hint of you pulling this homophobic crap on anyone ever again, I will personally ensure you go to an American jail. Coming here today wasn’t just a serious fucking crime, it was morally disgusting, and you should be fucking ashamed of yourself.”

And on that note, Scott lifts off Rozanov’s body and finally lets him up. Rozanov is almost at the door when he turns. Fucking idiot can’t resist coming back for his hat, it seems.

“So you have blackmail now, huh?” Rozanov says, downtrodden.

“What was that?” Scott asks.

“You can report crime whenever,” Rozanov says.

“Kid, I have cameras, footage, a clear look at your face…”

Rozanov nods glumly.

“Meaning, if I don’t report right now, then I basically can’t ever report it. There’s no rational justification for me to delay in reporting when I have all the evidence. You’re in the clear, though if you pull this shit again, against anyone, I will find a fucking way,” Scott says. “Now GTFOH.”