Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander

Additional Tags:

BAMF Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov Wedding, Angst and Humor, Attempt at Humor, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Angst, The tone goes up and down as abruptly as ao3 servers, Sappy, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Weddings

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-03 Words: 3,980 Chapters: 1/1

Marital Martial Mayhem

Summary

Shane never fighting was a known fact of the hockey world. So well-known that it was essentially a universal truth at this point. It was one of the first things new fans of hockey learned, right up there with, ‘The Chuktka brothers can’t read’, ‘Mrad Barchand is a rat, reincarnated’, and, ironically, ‘Ilya Rozanov tries to pick a fight with anything that moves’.”

A Hollanov wedding featuring:
- several judo takedowns
- a notable lack of chairs (steel or otherwise)
- an abrupt and bitter goodbye to yesterday
- a teary hello to tomorrow

Notes

Shane doesn't fight because he's a weak, gentle little boy? OUT!

Shane doesn't fight because doing a flying kick at someone's neck in hockey skates would forever change the trajectory of his life? IN!

Shane’s wedding was turning into a perfect day. Happy chatter filling the air, the smell of meat on the grill, all his friends and family around him, and the love of his life standing next to him. The late June sun was turning the whole scene golden and hazy. Shane almost pinches himself to check whether he’s dreaming before he looks over and catches a pair of hazel eyes staring at him, filled with love so sweet it makes his teeth ache.

Shane decides against pinching himself. If this is a dream and he’s actually lying broken out on a medical cot after taking another hit from Cliff, then he’ll take what he can and savour the fantasy. No, he’ll cradle this image close for as long as he can.

He closes his eyes for a moment, letting the happy, drowsy atmosphere envelop him, and takes some time to breathe and just be.

This was his wedding, Shane thinks giddily. He was married now to the love of his life. Against all the odds, he had swallowed his fear and his anxieties and professed his undying love to Ilya Rozanov while standing in front of an entire backyard full of professional NHL players. And the best part? They’d cheered! Each member of the Centaurs, the team that Shane was certain he would retire playing for, wholeheartedly supported him and his husband.

His husband, Ilya, he thinks besottedly. Who was absolutely perfect.  The best player in the league and the best man Shane knew. Strong, brave and gentle. The kindest man in the world...and an absolute menace.

The smallest chuckle is all the warning Shane has before Ilya's arm crashes into his side. By the time Shane opens his eyes again, he’s gone, tearing off across the lawn, cackling. Shane looks on in confusion. What on earth was Ilya playing at? Then he sees it. His phone. Held up high above Ilya’s head.

“You piece of shit-” Shane swears, running after him.

“Oho!” Coach Wiebe calls from where he’s sitting on the grass, “Trouble in paradise already?”

“Give that back!”

“I will, I will, after I am done first.” Ilya cackles. He unlocks it to navigate to Shane's messages.

“What are you doing?” Shane asks, horror pitching through his voice.

“Sharing happy news!” Ilya crows, “Will send picture to old friends, yes? All Montreal players who were too busy to come. Asked Hayden for contact, but he did not give because he is horrible man.”

"Hey!" Hayden says, muffled by a mouthful of barbecue.

Ilya raises his arm up, and Shane can hear the distinctive sound of a phone camera shutter. He puts on an extra burst of speed and catches Ilya as he rounds the corner of the house, checking him into the fence, which creaks ominously.

The phone clatters to the ground, and Shane snatches it up, hastily checking it for scratches. The screen is open to a drafted group chat with the ENTIRE current Voyagers’ roster and showcases a blurry photo. Ilya’s face takes up 80% of of the screen, his tongue out and his eyes wide and crazed. In the background, Shane is in hot pursuit, face screwed up with anger. Hayden is just off to the side, mouth open to give a cry of indignation, food spilling out of it.

Shane hastily deletes the image and the groupchat as well. God, he should’ve just blocked all the numbers when he had the chance. He glares up at Ilya’s shit-eating grin.

Ugh, Shane hates him.

“Nooooo,” Ilya cries when he sees Shane deleting the message, “Please, please, we should send. Montreal sees you having fun without them and will start crying, please Shane, I love making Montreal cry, will be excellent wedding gift for your husband.”

“No!” Shane snaps.

His fingers deftly maneuver to the contacts, intending to block them. But when he opens his messages to Gil, he pauses and remembers why he hadn’t been able to do it in the first place.

The thing is, Shane had never been the most avid texter. Barring his daily messages to “Lily,” he was never one to just chat about his day with his friends, and neither had any of the other Metros either. Why would they ever need to text? They saw each other every day. Any mundane day-to-day announcements had been sent to the mass group that Shane had long been ejected from.

Which meant that any of the individual text messages Shane had sent were...special...personal.

The top half of his message history with Gil is a photo taken at the other player’s wedding. Gil and Candice are standing in the center, deeply in love, sharing a kiss under an arch of flowers. All the Metros are standing in a row behind them, cheering the couple on.

God - Shane had been his best man. And the messages above it, Shane knew, were just as heartfelt. Gil had been so worried, after the disaster of his first marriage, that the second one would end just as badly, and Shane had been up till 3 the night before, with message after message to soothe his nerves.

Shane doesn’t scroll up to look at those texts, can’t bear to, especially when the most recent texts received simply read:

June 2nd 2021

10:48 pm

Comeau: Candy’s giving me shit for ‘running u out of the team’ or whatever, so thanks for that

Comeau: Guess ruining the season wasn’t enough, huh?

Comeau: Couldn’t stop at just fucking our professional lives. Had to destroy all our personal ones as well, didn’t you

Comeau: Fucking typical Hollzy always going all in on everyhitng

It was the same with the rest of the team. Well wishes to Couillard after his father’s funeral, celebrations with Mitty after the birth of his son, a million reassurances to a decade's worth of rookies who had once gazed up at him like he held all the answers and now, as seasoned players, hadn’t the courage to look Shane in the eye when he cleaned out his locker for the last time.

Of course, he hadn’t blocked them. How could he bring himself to?

Shane doesn’t get to wallow for too long. He sees Ilya’s hand reaching out from the corner of his eye and hastily snatches the phone back and out of reach.

“Stop it!” Shane snaps.

But Ilya and Shane wouldn’t have fallen in love if either of them knew how to take rejection as anything other than a challenge.

“What?” Ilya smiles, a familiar glint in his eye, “You do not want to share happy news? Why?”

“You know why -” Shane says.

Ilya shifts his weight just the slightest bit that Shane knows means he’s about to dash forward. Shane pivots, just barely dodging, and sprints back around the house to the yard.

He swerves around Troy, who’s holding a plate of food and distantly hears.

“What the-where’s the fire?” before a loud crash and “-OOF what the FUCK Rozanov??”

“Perhaps you learn to watch where you are going? Will make you better at handling puck”

“Fuck off! YOU ran into ME, asshole! Hey - get back here!”

Shane shoots a glance over his shoulder to see Ilya hot on his heels and dodges to the left just in time as Ilya launches himself forward.

He walks backwards to see Ilya plant forward into the ground and scramble up to continue the chase. Shane turns to run and comes face-to-face with the backyard fence.

“Where are you going?” Ilya taunts.

Shane spins back around and curses to himself. He’s been penned in, close to the corner of the fence. There’s nowhere to run; they both know it. Ilya stands straight and starts to stride over lazily.

“Hand over the phone, Hollander, you have nowhere to ruu-un” he says, sing-song and smug.

Shane shakes his head, “uh-uh, not happening”.

He desperately looks around for an opening. Could he jump the fence? Perhaps if he had done it with a running start.

A crowd had started to form as the wedding guests wandered over to see what the commotion was about.

“Whooo! Get him, Rozy!” Cliff cheered, almost in unison with J.J. and Hayden’s choruses of “Get the fuck outta there” and “Dude, run!”

Maybe Shane could toss his phone to one of them? Or over the fence?

And risk cracking it open and losing it? A quiet voice in his head suggests.

“Ummm, should we...really be egging them on?” Luca asks the other younger players cautiously.

Holmberg and Young are too invested in placing bets to pay him any attention.

“20 bucks that Hollzy wins this,” Holmberg says.

“Are you outta your mind? Cap’s practically got him pinned, there’s no way, my money’s on Rozonov.”

“Uhhhh, Guys?” Luca says desperately.

Yuna puts a hand on his shoulder, “They’ll be fine, Luca, they’re like this all the time.” Before calling out, “Shane, if you can’t go around him, just go through him!”

It takes a moment for the words to register, but when they do, the crowd laughs. So does Shane; he can’t help it, the suggestion is so absurd. Because aside from that one fluke tussel with Scott Hunter, Shane’s never fought anyone.

Shane never fighting was a known fact of the hockey world. So well-known that it was essentially a universal truth at this point. It was one of the first things new fans of hockey learned, right up there with, ‘The Chuktka brothers can’t read’, ‘Mrad Barchand is a rat, reincarnated’, and, ironically, ‘Ilya Rozanov tries to pick a fight with anything that moves’.”

“Mothers,” Coach Wiebe chuckles, “trust ‘em to always see the best in us.”

“Who would win?” LaPointe says in a mock announcer voice, “Hydrogen bomb versus cough-” cut off by Homberg and Young smacking him in the side. The three devolve into giggles.

Shane agrees. “Mom, in what world do you think I could beat Ilya in a fight?”

Yuna chuckles along good-naturedly before calling out, “Hmmm, I don’t know, maybe the one where you’re both on soft grass? In runners?”

Shane looks down and - huh - would you look at that. He looks back up at his mom, who shoots him a knowing look. Shane shifts his weight back and forth and rakes an assessing gaze over Ilya, whose head is thrown back, laughing. Handsome and physically imposing, yes, but also unfocused, off-balance, and uncoordinated on account of being just a tad too tipsy. He drops down low and puts the phone in his pocket.

“Holy shit, he’s actually considering it,” Holmberg calls, “Go Hollander! Get him!”

“Oh, you’re definitely losing that 20 bucks,” Young says before joining in with, “Your mom’s right, Hollander! You’re not on the ice, there’s no penalty for roughing, just go for it!”

“I’m with Homberg,” LaPointe crows, “My money’s on the coughing baby.”

And in unison, conducted by the two braincells the three collectively shared, they start to chant “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

“-What’s going on? Who’s fighting?” Troy asks, emerging from the house, t-shirt completely stained but holding a new plate of food.

“The newlyweds!” Harris calls, from where he’s holding up his phone. “God, I hope they let me post this, it’ll do numbers on Twitt- Let’s GO!!”

The crowd erupts in a frenzy as Shane charges forward, sinking his shoulder into the meat of Ilya’s chest. The two of them fall backwards a few steps, and Shane hears Ilya’s loud “-oof” in his ear.

Illya grabs Shane around the waist and lunges to grab the phone from his back pocket. Shane, expecting this, lets Ilya lean into him. Then, in a move that would certainly slice open his femoral artery had Ilya been wearing skates, sweeps Ilya’s feet out from under him. He catches a glimpse of wide-eyed surprise before stepping neatly back and letting all of his husband's considerable 6’3” of bulk go crashing into the dirt.

“WHAT’D I SAY, WHAT’D I SAY, in your FACE, Young! Hand it over!”

“Oh, fuck off! That’s not fair! He caught him off guard!” Young says indignantly.

“Is true!” Ilya laughs, getting over his shock, “Is true, you catch me off guard! This is not fair, I demand a rematch!”

And Shane, who had never known how to back down from a competition with Ilya, least of all one he was now sure he could win, smiles with all his teeth.

“Hah-a rematch? Bold words for a man still on his ass! I’ll give you a rematch, but if you wanna take a nap first, that’s fine by me.”

Ilya claws to his feet and lunges forward.

The commotion draws the remainder of the guests outside. It’s a handful of the older players and married couples who had been chatting on the living room sofas. They arrive just in time to get a front row view of Shane flipping Ilya over his head and back onto the ground.

“OH GOD!” Cassie Boodram exclaims, flinching back, “Jesus Christ! Should we try to stop them?”

“I don’t know...” Lisa Hayes answers, “Do you think they’ll still need to get a divorce if it gets bad? Do wedding licenses have, like, grace periods, or is it a no-take-backsies scenario?”

“I think it might be a no-take-backsies type of deal, sweetheart.” Wyatt Hayes says wryly, “Although with these two, I think this type of thing is exactly what they signed up for.”

Another cheer sounds from the peanut gallery as Shane yet again sends Ilya crashing to the ground. This time, Shane swings his legs around, clamping them tight around Ilya’s neck, whose hands scrabble uselessly at his thighs. It's both an effective hold and a move that would've definitely sliced Ilya's head clean off if Shane had been wearing skates.

Cassie squeals, watching the scene through the gaps in her fingers, hands covering her face.

“Huh,” Zane Boodram muses, significantly less concerned than his wife, “Is it just me or is Hollander kind of holding his own?”

“It’s just you,” Holmberg says, “the rest of us can see he’s clearly WINNING, LET’S GO HOLLANDER!!!”

“Shane can fight,” Scott Hunter agrees, nudging Boodram with his shoulder, “Trust me, that’s a man that knows how to throw a punch.”

Chouchinard laughs, “Listen, Hunter, just because he was able to rattle your old bones-”

“Oh, not you too-Nick, we're the same age!-”

“Scott's right,” Yuna interjects, looking down at her phone, and frantically scrolling, “Shane does know how to fight.”

“Does he?” everyone above the age of 25 in earshot asks.

“Fucking GET HIM!” Shout the three stooges.

“Stop encouraging them, they’re going kill each other!” Lucas Haas cries, also watching the scene through the gaps in his fingers.

“Yuna, I understand that he’s your son,” Bood starts, “But Shane? A fighter? C’mon, let’s be realistic. David, what do you think?”

“Yuna’s right!” David chuckles, looking over her shoulder down at her phone, “Shane’s an excellent fighter, we’ve got proof! Just give us a second...”

“AHA!” Yuna cries, brandishing her phone and showing it to the crowd.

They all lean in to squint at what turns out to be an old picture of teenage Shane. He’s dressed in an all-white one-piece suit, proudly holding up a silver medal to the camera. A black strip of fabric is tied around his waist.

“Shane did loads of extra-curriculars before he decided to go all-in on hockey. This is him in the Junior bracket at the provincial Judo competition from when he was 13.”

The news hits the crowd like a chemical weapon, leaving them breathless and gasping in shock.

“Shane’s got a black belt in Judo?!” Hayden exclaims, “Why’d he never tell any of us?”

Yuna’s eyes knit together, “Well, he did stop quite a while ago, the year this photo was taken, I think?”

David interjects, “No, there was that big competition he won when he was 16, don’t you-”

He’s cut off by a commotion from the crowd of onlookers.

Ilya, bruised and battered, had finally managed to wrestle the phone from Shane’s pocket and was now keeping an arm's length of distance away from Shane.

“Finally...Got it! How...” he gasps, tone bordering on hysterical, “how...on earth - what...the fuck?”

“Aww, what?” Shane asks, “moy lyubimyy, you gettin’ tired?”

He starts forward, and Ilya scampers backward holding the phone above his head. Shane stops. Ilya stops. Shane steps forward. Ilya steps back.

Shane shrugs, holding his hand up in mock surrender. Then, quick as a flash, pivots and launches himself in the air, spinning like a figure skater. His foot collides with the phone in a high kick. There’s a split second of triumph on his face that melts into horror as the phone sails into the metal fence at Mach 2 and promptly explodes into a million pieces.

The crowd goes crazy.

“WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT THE FUCK!” Someone, perhaps everyone, shouts.

“Mozel tov!” Chorus Wyatt and Lisa.

“THAT WAS JUDO?!”

“No, Shane also knows Taekwondo,” Yuna says proudly.

“Oh, this is going to do numbers on Twitter,” Troy says, next to where Harris is still filming.

“-AND THE COUGHING BABY WITH THE STEEL CHAIR!!”

“-Man, what I wouldn't give for a chair right now.” Coach Wiebe mutters, still sitting on the grass.

Yuna proudly shows photo after photo and video after video of a younger, scrawnier Shane doing increasingly elaborate kicks, tackles and takedowns.

The spectacle of Shane’s teenage antics draws the attention away from the man himself, quietly having a meltdown in the grass, now out of sight to the wedding guests due to the rapidly darkening night sky.

“No!” He cries, “No, no, no!”

“Is ok, is ok, we will buy new phone, is ok.” Ilya says, all the challenge gone in his tone, hands gentle around Shane's shoulders.

“No!” Shane says, tears prickling in his eyes, “no, it’s not okay! I-my texts! They’ll be gone!”

“So what? We start new chat history, is all okay, we make new memories, no need to worry”

“Not everything is about you Ilya!” Shane snaps, before bursting into tears.

“Moy lyubimyy, what is the problem? What is wrong?” Ilya asks, panicking. “Do not cry, please do not cry.”

“My team,” Shane gasps between sobs, “My team. My memories. I’ve lost them. They were all I had left of my team, and now they’re gone.”

He clutches the broken mess of plastic and wires, the shards of glass cut into the palm of his hands.

“Ah,” Ilya says bitterly, “your old team.”

Shane flinches back, throwing off Ilya’s comforting arm. “Don’t start. Ilya, don’t you fucking dare. I know you hate them, but they were my team, and that meant something to me!”

Shane had been perfect on the Montreal Voyageurs. He had been the model captain of the model team, winning cup after cup with ease. A lifetime chasing perfection. A whole decade spent in a family he'd crafted with blood, sweat, and tears and the only keepsake he had to show for it was lying in tattered pieces around him.

“I know, I understand-” Ilya starts.

“- Do you?!” Shane demands.

Ilya laughs, cold and hollow. “Hmmm, let us think...do I know what it is like to lose old friends of the team I captain because of man I choose to love? Has that happened to me? No, not possible. Could never happen to me.”

Oh no, Boston. Shane flushes with shame. “God, I forgot. Ilya, I’m so sorry I forgot-”

“-is okay-”

“-I can't believe I forgot! Not even married a day and I’m already acting like a selfish bitch-”

Ilya grabs Shane’s shoulders and holds him tight, snapping Shane out of his ramble, “Is okay, Hollander. I know it is hard for you.”

“I-I just-it’s easy to forget sometimes. You made it look so easy, cutting ties with Boston. You weren't-you aren't this mess that I am. How’d you do it?”

Ilya raises a brow. “Did it look easy? I assure you, was not so."

Shane grabs Ilya and holds him closer. Ilya lets out a wet chuckle against his neck. A long moment passes in silence.

"Look over there.” Ilya cradles Shane’s head and gently turns it so that he can take in the crowd now cooing over Yuna’s baby pictures of him.

Someone's had the good sense to turn on the porch lamp. The golden late afternoon sun was long gone now, replaced with the harsh white fluorescent light shining down on the guests.

“I found new team, new family, new people to love and love me in return. Look, Shane! Look at them all, gathered here for you. These are your team now.”

Shane whispers. “I can’t just replace the Voyagers, Ilya, they were my family.”

“And family always hurts to let go, yes? But Moy lyubimyy, family that takes, takes, takes and does not give is-," Ilya pauses, swallows, "-is not family. Is burden. And burden grows heavier every day you carry. Look-”

He points to Hayden and J. J.

“All is not lost. Hayden and J. J. are still family, yes? They want to give back; they are here. They are supporting you. Build supports. Cut burdens. You will be okay.”

Shane lets out a shaky breath, nods. "Okay."

Ilya grunts as he stands. He holds out a hand, offering to help Shane up as well. “Let’s go inside. Will patch your hand up to feel better, yes?”

“Good,” Ilya smirks, planting a quick kiss on Shane's cheek, “Would feel guilty punching wounded man during rematch.”