Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Missing Scene, Light Angst, Feelings, Valentine's Day, ficwip Discord's Hey Sweetheart Challenge 2026, POV Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Series:

Part 4 of Hollanov fics

Collections:

Hey Sweetheart 2026

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-14 Words: 2,240 Chapters: 1/1

The Art of Losing

Summary

Shane shook his head. “It’s… don’t worry about it. This is just… it doesn’t mean anything. It’s… you didn’t need to get flowers. We’re… that’s not what this is.”

“It does not mean anything,” Rozanov agreed. His hands were stretched out on the black granite of Shane’s counter. They were so large, so pale. Rozanov’s fingernails were square, trimmed short. Shane had felt them on all parts of himself, had had bruises made by those hands.

It didn’t feel like it didn’t mean anything.

Notes

So I was writing a steter fic for hey sweetheart but it kept getting bashy so I decided to do hollanov instead and oh no angst!

Hi, yes, I have pulled a line from Elizabeth's Bishop One Art for this story that's how angsty it is

This fic is actually a fraction of the usual angst of this ship I am just a lightweight when it comes to angst.

The days leading up to Montreal/Boston games were always a little nerve-wracking for Shane. What if Rozanov didn’t text him this time? He didn’t always; there were those horrible six months after the first time they’d hooked up in Shane’s apartment, the two years before that. Sometimes one or both of them would be on IR. Sometimes, even when they both were there, Shane wouldn’t get a text or a response to his text.

It shouldn’t have hurt, but it did. The nights they didn’t spend together when they were both in the same city shouldn’t have felt so much emptier than any other night, and yet.

So. It was pretty stressful, and even more so because it was Valentine’s Day. Morning practice had been a chorus of the team complaining about the expectations of their partners around the whole stupid day, about the price of roses and diamonds, and Needy’s girlfriend was mad he had a game that evening, like he’d had any control over it.

Shane had had a moment of temporary insanity where he’d wondered if Rozanov would be expecting Shane to get him something, and if Rozanov had gotten Shane something, and then he remembered that they were just fuckbuddies who went months without talking. So no worries, right?

All worries, actually.

What if Rozanov didn’t want to meet up on Valentine’s Day because it was, like, a day for actual couples? What if Rozanov thought Shane wanted to actually date him for real just because he wanted to get fucked on Valentine's Day?

(What if Rozanov looked up at him across the face-off circle and read it on Shane’s face; that Shane did want to actually date him for real, and that Shane did want him to show up with a giant bouquet and box of chocolates that Shane would complain weren’t in his diet and then eat anyway? What if Rozanov looked at him and saw how much more Shane wanted Rozanov than Rozanov wanted Shane?)

Luckily, it was a game day, and all Shane had to do was what he always did. Egg white omelet for breakfast with spinach and garlic and whole grain toast. Morning practice where Shane’s line did their traditional pre-game drills. Back to his place for a big lunch of rice, a chickpea salad, and a nap. Guzzle down a protein smoothie, head back to the rink for a warm-up workout, a bowl of whole wheat peanut noodles with tofu and cabbage, chatting with Hayden, J.J., and Sted for 22 minutes exactly, ten rounds of sun salutations, then to the locker room.

Rozanov texted while Shane was strapping on his pads.

As he always did, Shane decided to ignore the text tone, adjusting his pads, taping his socks, pulling on his shorts before finally giving in and standing up to grab the phone.

Lily: got any valentines 2day? 😜

Shane put down the phone, feeling his face flush for no reason.

“Boston Lily’s in town, huh?” Hayden asked, passing Shane on the way to his stall, fingers freshly taped.

“What?” Shane asked. “No.”

“Okay,” Hayden said, skeptically. “I’ve got a whole midnight feast planned for Jackie. Booked out the observatory, if you can believe it. It’s a total surprise.”

“Guess baby six is gonna be on the way soon,” Pretty chirped.

“Fuck you, I only have three children,” Hayden told him. “And we’re not going to have any more, thank you.”

“That’s what you said after Jade,” Shane said, dryly, thankful the attention was off him. He picked up the phone again and read the message like it might have changed.

He didn’t feel like doing this today.

Me: are you down for this evening or no? Stop dicking around and just fucking answer

Lily: You like me dicking around 😘

Not for the first time, Shane wondered if this was all some elaborate mindfuckery. That Rozanov had started this whole fucking thing just to screw with Shane, to fuck up his game. And not in the fun way.

He threw his phone back into his locker and grabbed his jersey, shrugging it over his head.

“All right, boys,” Shane said, and the team gathered around. “Sure, you all got chocolates and flowers, but you know what the real Valentines’ day present is?”

“Fucking Boston’s shit up?” Mitty suggested.

“Let’s deliver them the heads of the Bears,” Shane said, and the team cheered, knocking their helmets together as they began to make their way to the tunnel, Shane throwing one last look back to his phone before he took his place at the end of the line.

.

The Bears were already on the ice, of course, when the Voyageurs skated out, circling the rink to wave to the adoring crowd. Shane didn’t scan the ranks of Bears just beginning their stretches for the sight of Rozanov spreading his legs on the ice. He didn’t start his own stretching near enough to the center line that Rozanov could skate over and chat with him if he wanted to.

Rozanov didn’t. He bantered with his lineys and then had a whispering conversation with the Bears' goalie before heading to the bench with the rest of his team, laughing and waving at the crowd, which booed back at him.

The anthem, the announcements, then coach was tapping on Shane’s shoulder, and he was going over the boards, heading to the center of the rink to the cheering of the crowd, coming face to face with Rozanov for the first time in months.

Rozanov grinned at him, mouth guard dangling from one corner of his mouth. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said. “Missed me?”

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Shane said, surprised by the vehemence of it, surprised by how tired he suddenly was— of being jerked around, of not knowing where he stood, of wanting and not wanting to want.

Rozanov’s eyebrows went up in surprise, and he sucked in his mouth guard just as the ref dropped the puck. Shane grabbed the puck and shot it to Hayden, and, like that, the game was on.

.

Rozanov was quiet for the rest of the game— to Shane anyway. Shane overheard his barbed chirps to the other Voyageurs, his shouts of encouragement to his teammates, his arguments with the refs. But to Shane, he was quiet. He looked at Shane across the face off circle like he was a puzzle he was trying to solve, which didn’t make Shane feel better at all because it meant that something of what he’d been trying to hide all these fucking years had leaked out, that Rozanov had seen it like spilled blood on the ice and now he was trying to figure out what the damage was.

“You’re being quiet,” Needs said during the commercial break.

Shane shrugged, not looking over at the visitor’s bench. The Voyageurs were up. That was all that mattered.

He didn’t let it distract him; Shane was good at compartmentalizing, and for all of his anxiety when he wasn’t playing, his head was clear on the ice. He got a goal and assisted on a really sweet goal by Pretty in the first period. Connors scored for the Bears in the second, and Rozanov got a puck in the net at the end of the period, but it was thrown out for goalie interference. He got a minor for arguing with the ref, so they started the third with a power play, Needs joining Shane’s line and getting them a third goal to the Bears’ one. They held the score until the end of the period when Rozanov went hard and picked up another goal, but too little too late, and the buzzer sounded before he could even things up.

The Voyageurs emptied onto the ice to the sound of the crowd singing their goal song. The Bears limped off the ice, Rozanov giving them fist bumps as they slumped past him.

.

Shane didn’t go out that evening; everyone who had a girlfriend or wife was going home to them, and Shane wasn’t in the mood to hang out with the single crowd, who would all be pushing each other to hook up.

Instead, he let himself into his dark apartment, put away his winter things, and grabbed a kombucha from the fridge, dropping down onto a chair facing the windows. There was a heart lit up on the side of one of the skyscrapers, pink and red LED lights flickering along the side of one of the bridges.

Shane hadn’t checked his phone since before the game. He should, he knew. There’d be messages from his parents, from his friends congratulating him on the win, but he didn’t want to see that Rozanov had sent him a message asking him why he was being so bitchy. He didn’t want to see that Rozanov hadn’t replied at all.

The sound of the door buzzer startled him out of his tangle of thoughts; he jumped and spilled the kombucha on his hoodie. Had he ordered something? Was this some kind of Valentine’s delivery from a stalker fan?

Shane put the kombucha down, blotted at the spill with one sleeve, and hurried to peer through the peephole.

His heart lurched. Rozanov. Rozanov, with his coat collar flipped up and his toque pulled down low, one hand tucked behind his back like he was on parade rest. His skin was ghostly in the dim light, a slash of white between the dark coat and hat.

Without thinking about it, Shane unlocked the door and opened it. Rozanov stared at him. He stared at Rozanov. The cold winter air gusted in.

“Can I come in?” Rozanov suddenly asked, his voice rough and his accent thick.

Shane stepped aside wordlessly, and Rozanov squeezed past him into the narrow stairwell. Shane closed and locked the door and then looked at him. He hadn’t turned on the light and all he saw of Rozanov were shadows and fragments.

“You didn’t answer my text,” Rozanov said.

Shane bit back a reply.

“I didn’t mean to dick you around,” Rozanov said. He paused. “Well, I did. But not like that.”

Shane didn’t know how to answer that. It always seemed like Rozanov knew exactly what he was doing.

Rozanov produced a bouquet of roses.

“Seriously?” Shane blurted out.

“You know how hard it is to get?” Rozanov demanded. “So expensive! All the stores are out!”

“But why?” Shane asked.

Rozanov looked down at the flowers in his hand. “You don’t like them?”

Shane did. That was the problem. He liked them too much. He took the flowers from Rozanov’s hand and climbed the stairs, Rozanov following behind.

Rozanov shed his winter things at the door while Shane went to find a vase, something he only had because his mother had insisted he needed one. It was collecting dust on the top of the cabinets, and Shane had to fetch the stepstool to get it down, then wash it, and then fill the sink so he could trim the roses underwater, the way his mom always had.

Rozanov stood and watched, unusually silent, illuminated gently by the golden soft kitchen spotlights. They picked up the red in his hair and made him look soft and sweet. He was soft and sweet sometimes, when he kissed Shane, when he touched him. Shane hated how safe it made him feel.

“Can I get you something?” Shane asked. “I’ve got, uh? Water? Kombucha— but you don’t like that. I might still have some of that vodka left.”

“Hollander,” Rozanov said.

Shane looked up at him. Rozanov’s expression was sober.

“What?” Shane asked.

“I did not mean to dick you around,” Rozanov said, again.

Shane shook his head. “It’s… don’t worry about it. This is just… it doesn’t mean anything. It’s… you didn’t need to get flowers. We’re… that’s not what this is.”

“It does not mean anything,” Rozanov agreed. His hands were stretched out on the black granite of Shane’s counter. They were so large, so pale. Rozanov’s fingernails were square, trimmed short. Shane had felt them on all parts of himself, had had bruises made by those hands.

It didn’t feel like it didn’t mean anything.

“—but I did not have to be cruel,” Rozanov finished. He did not say he was sorry, but he had brought flowers. Shane’s apartment smelled sweet now. Floral. This was what Shane’s teammates did when they did something shitty. They brought flowers home to their girlfriends and wives. Shane wasn’t Rozanov’s girlfriend or wife. He was something less. His hand twitched like he might grab the vase and smash it against the ground in some kind of temper tantrum. He didn’t.

“You didn’t need to buy flowers,” he finally said.

“It’s Valentine's Day,” Rozanov reminded him. Shane looked up, and he was grinning and, despite himself, Shane grinned back.

“There you are, sweetheart,” Rozanov said, and cupped Shane’s face with his large palms. Shane hadn’t realized he was that close. His fingers slid through Shane’s hair, and his thumb stroked Shane’s cheekbone, and then they were kissing, sweet and deep in that way that confused the hell out of Shane and that he couldn’t get enough of. Rozanov said it didn’t mean anything, and then he touched Shane like it meant something, and Shane should stop it, he should stop it, and instead he grabbed Rozanov’s hips and pressed him hard against the counter.

Maybe he’d stop it next time.