Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Men's Hockey RPF

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Sidney Crosby & Shane Hollander

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Sidney Crosby, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Mentioned Alexander Ovechkin, mentioned evgeni malkin, Past Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin, Past Sidney Crosby/Alexander Ovechkin, Olympics, Milano Cortina 2026 Winter Olympics, Light Angst, Phone Calls & Telephones, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hockey

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-12 Words: 2,359 Chapters: 1/1

don’t let the russian break your heart

Summary

“You play Boston soon, right? You excited?”

“Y-yeah?” Shane stutters. “It’s always nice to play Boston, I guess. Rivals and all, y’know.”

Crosby nods. “Just be careful.”

Shane blinks, confused. “Of what?”

“I see the way he looks at you.”

“Who?”

“Rozanov.”

Shane stares, and Crosby stares back, unwavering.

“I don’t—”

“And I see the way you look at him, when you think no one is looking.”

--

Sidney Crosby, drunk and lonely, offers Shane Hollander some advice regarding a certain Russian hockey player.

Notes

my hockey brainworms are only getting stronger. i can't fight them anymore, so i've just decided to embrace it. so please enjoy drunk sidney crosby giving shane hollander some well-meaning but poor advice 👍

p.s. don't overthink the timeline of things (i didn't)

The silver hangs heavy around Shane’s neck, a beacon of failure front and center on his chest. He’s wanted to take it off a dozen times since the medalling ceremony, disappointment churning deep in his gut over not winning gold. The only reason he even still has it on is because of the text he’d gotten earlier.

Ilya
I am so proud of you.

Sneaking off away from his sulking teammates, Shane wanders the alleys of the village alone, trying to clear his head. The streets echo with the revels of the remaining athletes, all partying hard in celebration and making the most of their last few hours in Italy until the inevitable flights home.

Shane walks and walks, trying to find somewhere quiet to sit and maybe call Ilya, just wanting to hear his voice. He didn’t feel like drowning his sorrows away with his teammates, but he also didn’t feel like going back to his room just yet, knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he was on the plane.

Looking around, he spots a little taproom that still has its lights on and ducks in the doorway, taking a seat at the furthest corner of the bar, settling in against the worn wood stool to flag down the bartender.

“Hi, um—” he starts, trying and failing to read the handwritten chalk menu on the wall, floundering at all the unfamiliar Italian words. “Sorry, do you happen to have, um, ginger ale?”

The bartender shakes her head, and instead offers him a now-familiar green bottle of sparkling water from the fridge. Shane accepts it with a small smile and a mumbled, “Grazie.”

He’s barely taken a sip before he’s coughing, a firm hand to his shoulder startling him enough to make him choke. Someone slides into the seat next to him, patting him on the back while he clears his throat, and he looks up, watering eyes widening in shock.

“Oh, hi, Mr. Crosby,” Shane says, cheeks flushing.

“Hey, kid.”

Shane’s hands shake as he recaps his drink, suddenly completely flustered. When he’d gotten the call that he’d made the Canadian Olympic team, he hadn’t even believed it at first. Not only was he going to be playing with his fellow elite athletes, he was going to be playing with The Sidney Crosby, one of the greatest of all time. He’d been so nervous, hoping he could prove himself to the world and to one of his biggest heroes. And even though they fell one goal short of victory in the end, it was still an experience he’d never forget.

Crosby takes a sip from his glass of gin, grimacing as he swallows. “How’s it going, Hollander?”

Shane shrugs, glancing down at his silver medal. “Oh, y’know. Plotting revenge.”

Crosby laughs. “The Americans just got lucky, is all. You’ll get another chance in four years. Maybe you’ll even make captain next time.”

“You really think so?” Shane asks, ears going red at the unexpected compliment.

“Oh yeah. You’re a star, Hollander. You’ll bring home the gold for us again one day. I know it.” Crosby playfully bumps his shoulder. “You play Boston soon, right? You excited?”

“Y-yeah?” Shane stutters. “It’s always nice to play Boston, I guess. Rivals and all, y’know.”

Crosby nods, catching the bartender’s eye, holding one finger up. “Just be careful.”

Shane blinks, confused. “Of what?”

Chuckling to himself, Crosby takes a large swing from the newly-filled glass set in front of him. “I see the way he looks at you.”

“Who?”

“Rozanov.”

The name strikes Shane like an arrow, his blood going cold. He stares, and Crosby stares back, unwavering, as he takes another sip.

“I don’t—”

“And I see the way you look at him, when you think no one is looking.”

Shane swallows thickly, tongue stuck to the roof of his suddenly dry mouth. “Mr. Crosby…”

“Please, call me Sid. you make me feel old, calling me that.”

“Mr. Sidney, sir, you—” Shane’s voice cracks, throat tight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve got it all wrong—”

“Trust me, there’s no winning with them.”

“With who?”

“The Russians. You’ll never be happy.”

Shane’s hands ball up tight against his thighs, heart racing so fast it echoes in his ears. He can’t think fast enough to deny it, and just sits there like a startled deer staring at an oncoming car, the accusation blinding. He feels caught, like a mouse sitting across from a cat, too vulnerable and exposed and seen.

“They’ll promise you the world. A future together. Always talking about one day this, one day that.” Crosby takes another sip. “Then one day you’ll be all alone in your big, empty house, wondering what could’ve been, while you watch them flaunt their perfect little families to the world.”

“It’s not—” Shane blurts out, nervously looking around the quiet, empty bar. They were the only two there, other than the bartender, but he lowers his voice anyway, just in case she can overhear. “It’s not like that with us. We’re different.”

“Maybe that’s not how it is right now, but it will be. One day. He’ll drop you like you never meant anything.”

“No—”

“They have a duty, you know. To their family. Their country. They can’t be like…” Crosby gestures back and forth between them. “Us.”

“Mr. Crosby, sir.” Shane shakes his head, frowning. His stomach suddenly hurts, and his chest feels tight, and his mouth tastes burnt and bitter. “Ilya’s not like that.”

“Ilya,” Crosby mutters under his breath, shaking his head. “Sasha wasn’t like that. Zhenya too. Not at first.”

Shane searches Crosby’s face, only then seeing the pain etched into his frown, the sharp hurt in his eyes. The implications of the two names he’d softly spoken lay before them, so much said with so little. Two lost loves, two what-ifs, two bleak endings. Shane didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know Ovechkin or Malkin personally, only ever playing against them a few times a year, but he knew Ilya wasn’t like them. He knew, deep down, that Ilya wouldn’t hurt him like that.

“We have a plan,” Shane murmurs, quietly.

Crosby scoffs. “A plan.”

“We do!” Shane exclaims a little too loudly. It sounds whiny even to his own ears, and he bites his tongue, cutting himself off.

Was he really going to spill his guts right here, right now, to his childhood hero? At midnight, in some random little bar in Italy? Being found out like this was embarrassing enough, Crosby somehow so easily seeing straight through his biggest secret, breaking down the walls he’s tried so hard to keep up his whole life.

But on the other hand, something inside him snaps. Ilya wasn’t here to defend himself, to defend them, and the possessive part of Shane refuses to stop the words from spilling out.

“Ilya and I, we — we’re going to start this charity together, and end our whole, y’know, rivalry thing. Then Ilya’s going to sign with Ottawa, so we can be closer, and then one day, we’ll get married, and—”

“Married?” Crosby asks, choking on his drink. He sets the glass down with a gentle thud and looks at Shane, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “He can’t marry you.”

Shane blinks. “It’s legal in Canada, Mr. Crosby.”

Crosby sighs. “You really think the league will let you?”

“Let us what?”

Crosby rolls his eyes. “Get married.” He downs the rest of his drink, and the bartender slides him another before he can ask for one. “You think they’ll let you play after that?”

Shane hesitates. “Well, no—”

“No team would bother signing you. The fans would burn your jerseys and boo you at every game. The press will eat you alive. And Rozanov would never be able to go home again. Ever. Your lives will be a living hell.”

Shane shakes his head, eyes stinging. “Ilya doesn’t… He has no family left. He has no reason to go back. As for the league…” He takes a deep breath, cursing the pitiful way his voice wobbles. “That’s why we’re going to wait until after we retire. Then it won’t matter.”

“You have a lot of hockey left to play, Hollander. A decade, if not more. Will Rozanov really wait for you that long?”

“Yes.” Shane swallows down the doubt rising in his throat. “I know he’ll wait for me, because I’m willing to wait for him.”

“And that’s the problem.” Crosby points at Shane with the hand holding his glass. “I was willing to wait too. However long it took. But Sasha and Zhenya couldn’t wait. They wouldn’t do it. And now look at me.”

“Mr. Crosby, sir—”

“You’re nothing more than a toy for him to play with. You have no future together. The league will make sure of that. It may be fun now, but soon he’ll find a nice girl to marry—” Crosby pauses, noticing how Shane’s jaw clenches, and a humorless smile lifts the corner of his lips. “What’s her name?”

Shane looks down, his stomach twisting. “Svetlana.”

“See? What’d I tell you?”

“But—” Blinking away the blurriness starting to cloud his vision, Shane shakes his head. “He told me he wouldn’t marry her. He promised. You don’t know him like I do. We love each other.”

Crosby smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s full of pity and Shane can’t stand it.

Throwing back the rest of his drink, Crosby waves off the bartender’s offer of more, sliding over a few crisp euros from his pocket instead. Her eyes go wide at the amount, and she tries to hand the hundreds back, but he just shakes his head. “For me and him. Keep the change. Grazie.”

Shane follows Crosby wordlessly out of the bar, and they stand on the street corner, the night now dark and quiet, no more athletes lingering about, except for them.

“I’m sorry, kid,” Crosby sighs, zipping his jacket up to his chin. “Didn’t mean to ruin your night.”

“It’s okay.” Shane feigns a shrug, hating how small his voice sounds. He doesn’t know what else to say, so he says nothing and shoves his hands deep into his pockets.

Crosby claps him on the back. “You’re a great player, Hollander. Don’t let the Russian break your heart.”

Shane nods, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. He mumbles under his breath, “I won’t.”

———

Back at the Olympic Village, Shane sits frozen on his bed, staring at the floor, something weird lingering in his chest. His phone sits next to him, the stark bright screen the only thing illuminating the dark room. It’s late, and he’s tired, but he can’t sleep.

All of his old fears are rapidly resurfacing, clawing up and out of the dirt where he’d swallowed them down. He and Ilya had been through so much together, but they were good now. They were in a good place. He didn’t want to believe anything Crosby had said about Ilya.

And yet…

Ilya picks up on the first ring.

“Hi,” Shane says, no louder than a whisper.

“Shane,” Ilya says, and Shane can hear the smile in his voice. “Is late there, no? You can’t sleep?”

“No. Um.” Shane curls up against the wall, hugging his knees to his chest. “I just wanted to ask you something.”

Ilya hums, waiting. Shane takes a deep breath and holds it until his lungs burn.

“Do you still love me?”

Silence.

“What?”

Shane thumps his head back against the wall a few times, immediately regretting asking it. “Sorry. Never mind. I—”

“Of course I do,” Ilya says. He waits a second, then adds, “Even if you only won silver.”

Shane can’t help but laugh, despite the worry still gripping his heart. “Fuck off, that’s not what I meant.”

“Shane. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No—”

“Did something happen?”

“Stop, Ilya, no. I just…” Shane sighs, resting his head on his knee. “I need to hear you say it. Please.”

“Okay,” Ilya says softly. “Я тебя люблю.”

Shane closes his eyes, letting the words wash over him. I love you.

“And you’re not gonna leave me and marry Svetlana, right?” Shane bites at his bottom lip as he waits for Ilya’s answer, every second of silence agonizing.

Ilya lowers his voice. “Why are you thinking about Svetlana?”

“No reason,” Shane says too quickly.

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened!” Shane grips the phone tighter, heart racing. “Please just answer the question.”

“We have plan, right?” Ilya asks, and Shane nods his head, forgetting that Ilya can’t see him. “Charity, Ottawa, retire, get married. Is still what you want, yes?”

“Yes,” Shane murmurs. Yes. That’s all I want. And I hope that’s really what you want, too.

“Shane. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” I just needed to prove something to someone. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” Ilya says. “But you will be in Boston in a few weeks. Should be fun.”

Cheeks flushing, Shane smirks, already imagining the few hours he and Ilya will get to spend alone together. “I can’t wait.”

Ilya hums. “You should get lots of rest. Is not fun to beat guy just because he is too tired to play.”

“Oh, you think you’re gonna win, huh?” Shane asks around a growing smile, heart fluttering all stupid and smitten.

“Da. Obviously we will beat Montreal’s ass. Easy.”

“Not happening.” Shane looks down at his silver medal still hanging around his neck, newfound pride and determination overriding the disappointment. “I’m never gonna lose again.”

Ilya actually laughs out loud at that. “Okay, Mr. Silver.”

Shane gasps in faux-offense, smiling even wider. “Fuck you,” he says softly, with all the love in his heart.

“Soon,” Ilya says, and Shane just knows he’s smirking, all self-satisfied and cocky. Shane loves it. Loves him. Loves them.

Shane loves Ilya. And Ilya loves him, too. It really was that simple. He didn’t have to overthink it. He didn’t have to question it. It was the plain and simple truth. They had a plan. They were okay. They were more than okay. The future was theirs for the taking.