Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Emotional Hurt/Comfort, set during episode 2, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Anxious Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Sad Ilya Rozanov, Trapped In Elevator, Good at hockey bad at feelings, POV Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, Vegas Awards Canon Divergence, Pining, Autistic Shane Hollander, Panic Attacks, Light Angst

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-14 Updated: 2026-04-06 Words: 9,304 Chapters: 3/4

Bright Lights, Fistfights

Summary

The chime sounded as the elevator arrived. Shane rolled his shoulders back and gave himself one final look in the mirrored surface. His reflection split in two as the doors opened in the center like a hungry mouth about to swallow him whole. Where Shane’s face had stared back at him a split second ago stood Rozanov.

A black hole opened itself in the center of Shane’s torso, dragging his organs, muscles, bones, nerve endings from the furthest points of his body inwards to collapse upon themselves. His brain was static on a muted television. Instructions failed to materialize; he had no plan for this.

Rozanov stared at him, unmoving except for an almost imperceptible hitch in his breath. Time slowed. It had a funny way of doing that around Rozanov.

Notes

Title taken from "Fistfight" by the Ballroom Thieves

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

The door to his hotel room swung closed on silent, well oiled hinges, punctuated by a soft click. Shane glanced to the left— a dead end hallway with an unglamorous emergency staircase leading the ten floors down to the ground— then the right, in the direction of a bank of elevators. To his relief, the hallway was deserted and silent in both directions. He needed the quiet. He needed to focus, to ground himself, to will himself through the next few hours. He could get through this. He would come out the other side of tonight, and the world would finally shift back onto its axis. His balance would no longer be thrown off by the unbearable gravity of Ilya Rozanov.

Shane inhaled, held the air in his lungs for four heartbeats, then exhaled. He glanced at his Rolex— he needed to go downstairs, get backstage. He’d stalled as long as he could, wringing out every spare minute like the last drops of water from a washcloth. There were none left; it was time to move. The only way out of this was through it. One step towards the elevator, then another one. Repeat. 

When the world was too loud and too much and Shane’s grasp on the edges of himself began to slip away, he talked to himself. Not out loud, of course, at least not in front of others— that would probably be the tipping point from “eccentric hockey genius” to “total fucking weirdo”. He’d found dozens, maybe hundreds of similar tipping points over the years, usually by bumping into them accidentally, and scrambling back in retreat, carefully noting their existence and location in order to avoid them next time. So, no, he didn’t talk to himself out loud. Usually. But he’d think the words, feel the shape of them in his throat, and hear them resonate, calm and authoritative in the base of his skull. Instructions, simple and clear, step by step. Don’t think, just follow. Follow, and you will stay safe, and no one will know how close you came to completely falling apart.

Left foot. Right foot. Look up. Breathe. Watch where you’re going. Check the time again.

Shane was never late. Being late, like so many things, made him anxious. Tonight he was as close as he ever came to being late, because tonight was the NHL Awards Ceremony, and because the universe had a sick sense of humor. Tonight, he was slated to present an award with none other than Rozanov. Shane reflected darkly on whatever league bigwig or producer came up with the idea. Clever. Look at the rivals, see how they hate each other for our amusement? Point and laugh, everyone.

It would only last a few minutes. Get onstage, say the stupid fucking lines, present the award. Leave. Two minutes. A shift. He could do that; he did that all the time. He’d done brutal stretches on the ice with fire in his lungs and no feeling in his legs. Rozanov had been present for plenty of those, too. Shane had survived every single one; he would survive this one. 

He arrived at the elevators. Push the button. He did. Look up. The metal surface and the bright overhead lighting gave his skin an ugly pallor, made worse by the pained expression on his face. Fix that. Relax. He forced another breath in and out, shook out his shoulders. He studied his face: Relax your jaw. Unfurrow your brow. 

The chime sounded as the elevator arrived. Shane rolled his shoulders back and gave himself one final look in the mirrored surface. His reflection split in two as the doors opened in the center like a hungry mouth about to swallow him whole. Where Shane’s face had stared back at him a split second ago stood Rozanov. 

A black hole opened itself in the center of Shane’s torso, dragging his organs, muscles, bones, nerve endings from the furthest points of his body inwards to collapse upon themselves. His brain was static on a muted television. Instructions failed to materialize; he had no plan for this. 

Rozanov stared at him, unmoving except for an almost imperceptible hitch in his breath. Time slowed. It had a funny way of doing that around Rozanov. 

He looked fucking incredible. His tuxedo was tailored perfectly, adorning the gorgeous body underneath. And his hair— fuck, the curls lay loose and gentle, framing his face and accentuating the angles of his jaw in a way that was almost unbearable. On another night, in some other universe, he would rush forward, slam Rozanov into the rear wall of the elevator, tangle those curls in his fist and— No, stop—  he couldn't keep staring; he had to look away. 

Forward. Move. Don’t be fucking weird. The instructions came back online, abruptly. 

Breathe. Be normal. He crossed the threshold. It would have been weirder not to get on, right? Definitely weirder, and deeply pathetic. Okay, so you hooked up with him a couple of times and now you can’t even spend ten seconds on an elevator with him? 

Don’t let him see. Breathe. Relax. Be fucking normal. He turned to face the door. It slid shut. The inside of the elevator was mirrored. Of course it fucking was. Rozanov’s reflection stood stony and unmoving to the right of his. They were two statues, unmoving, unspeaking. 

Ten floors down. Keep it together. Look forward, ignore him. Don’t look at him. Who were the last ten winners of the Conn Smythe? 

Even now, energy radiated off Rozanov— a magnetism so impossibly strong that Shane couldn’t ignore it. The elevator began its descent.

Nine. 

Eight. 

Breathe.

Se—

The world jolted, suddenly. Shane came crashing through the fragile wall between himself and the rest of the world with a sharp inhale. They weren’t moving. He heard a quiet sound from off to his right— a suppressed reflex from somewhere in Rozanov’s throat. Apparently the abrupt stop had surprised him, too. 

Of course. The elevator had stopped to let on another passenger. This was good, actually. Maybe it would be another player, someone he knew, or who knew him, and he’d be able to swap bland, safe small talk, pretend as if he were looking forward to the evening. Even a complete stranger would be a welcome buffer to the tension that hung in the air. 

Shane allowed himself a quick glance down at the floor as he waited for the door to open. The marble tiles reflected the overhead light, just bright enough to be uncomfortable. He looked back up. 

Breathe. Shift your weight. 

Do elevator doors normally take this long to open? Time was doing that annoying thing again, curving itself around Rozanov, adjusting itself to give him as much space as he wanted. 

Hand in your pocket. Be casual. Breathe. It's almost over.

If he timed it right, he wouldn’t even have to break his stride. One fluid movement, from the elevator, across the hotel, through hallways not travelled by ordinary guests, into the wings and then out across the stage. Read the words off the teleprompter, play up the joke for the audience, and retreat with his dignity intact. From there— well, Hollander certainly wouldn’t approach him, he’d made sure of that— and once he’d made his rounds at the afterparty, he’d find a club, find a girl, and get laid. Simple. With any luck, he wouldn’t even have to look directly at Hollander. 

Hollander, who was probably already pacing backstage. Probably glancing at one of his stupid Rolex watches every fifteen seconds, wearing an awful, boring tuxedo, looking like a kid dressed up in his father’s suit. How he always looked in anything other than gym clothes or hockey gear—  awkward and unsure of how to exist outside of a hockey arena. So stupid. If he ever managed to gain a fraction of the quiet, certain confidence he exuded on the ice, that alone would transform him into— No, Ilya reprimanded himself. Stop. He is nothing. You cannot care about him.

The elevator doors glided open and Ilya stepped inside. He punched the button for the ground floor and settled back against the rear wall as the elevator began to descend. Too quickly, it slowed again. Ilya sniffed in irritation. He was not interested in sharing the lift with anyone, especially now when it seemed as though the entire hotel had been booked by hockey people. With his luck, whoever it was would recognize him, and be foolish or drunk enough to start chattering away about some inane bullshit, and he would have to decide whether they were important enough for him to feign politeness. He let out a sigh of annoyance and straightened, preparing to be… well, not friendly, but not hostile, either. Cold civility would be the best he could manage right now. 

The doors opened and Ilya tensed before he could suppress the reflex. Oh, fuck. 

Shane Hollander stood frozen in the open doorway, staring at Ilya. For a split second, Ilya wondered if he would let the doors close again, unwilling to breathe the same air as Ilya for even a minute, but he blinked and stepped through the open door.  

The rest of the world disappeared as the doors slid shut. Hollander stood stiffly, a few feet to Ilya’s left, his eyes fixed firmly forward. Ilya’s eyes drifted to Hollander’s reflection in the mirrored surface of the elevator walls and confirmed that his earlier assumption had been correct. Rolex? Check. Terrible suit? Check. Boring, unstylish haircut? Check. 

Freckles? Check. 

No. He tore his gaze away from Hollander and bit the inside of his cheek, hard; punishment for the thought. That is behind us. It’s done. 

It had always been a terrible fucking idea, of course, but he’d had it under control. This thing with Hollander was just a bit of fun, a convenient way to scratch that particular itch, fragile trust borne out of mutually assured destruction. Until Hollander had invited him into his bedroom, laid himself out, gorgeous and bare and vulnerable like a sacrificial offering, and eagerly gave himself to Ilya. 

And Ilya had taken, made reckless by his desire, swept up completely in a flood of intoxicating passion and dragged under the surface. He'd been greedy for every brush of his skin against Hollander's, drunk on the moans and whimpers that he coaxed out of Hollander's mouth. He’d taken more, more, until what he’d thought had been pure lust mutated into something else. Something which lurked in the shadows of his mind, something that he didn’t recognize and certainly didn’t trust.

He’d realized his mistake immediately and made his escape. He’d said goodbye to Hollander for the last time. He couldn’t let this happen again, whatever this was. But then, after a few days, it had been easy to convince himself he'd misread the look in Hollander’s eyes when they parted. He’d just been blissed out after a good fuck. Ilya himself had had nothing to do with it, which is how it should be. That was the only way this thing could work. 

But then Hollander had to go and be fucking stupid in Sochi. Approaching Ilya in public, in Russia, showing concern for him as if they were anything other than strangers who sometimes got naked together. 

It was the harsh reality check Ilya had needed. Hollander had become a liability, and more than that, a distraction. Ilya had chosen his words to be cutting and harsh, the rebuke meant as much for himself as for Hollander. Ilya needed him to flinch, to retreat, to realize Ilya wasn't worth the risk, and would never give him what he was looking for. Ilya needed him to look back in a few months or years and realize that in that moment, Ilya had made the kindest decision for both of them. 

Maybe in some future, the two of them could share an elevator, a press conference, a stage, without so much as a second thought. Strangers. Safe. Nothing. 

Ilya risked another glance at Hollander's reflection. His face was a mask, but his arms hung unnaturally as if he'd forgotten how to relax them. Yes, maybe someday they would be able to exist in mutual indifference, but clearly that day wasn't today. 

The elevator stopped again. A curse almost escaped from between Ilya's lips, but he caught it and swallowed it back down. Hollander inhaled sharply, the breath hissing like precious oxygen through a hole in the hull of an aircraft, threatening to rip fully open and send the occupants hurtling to the unmerciful ground. 

Ilya pulled his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the time, unnecessarily. He'd checked the time when he left the Penthouse less than two minutes ago. It had only been two minutes, right? Regardless, the phone was an anchor, a lifeline to a world that existed outside of this fucking metal box. 

His eyes flicked up to the door. It remained closed. Strange… it certainly didn't take this long to open when Hollander had gotten on. He waited. Irritation cooled and congealed into unease as the doors refused to open. His eyes slowly moved to the display which showed that the elevator had stopped on the 7th floor. 

He counted silently. One, two, three, four… no. This was wrong. The doors should have opened by now. 

Hollander had appeared to come out of a reverie when the elevator had stopped. Now he stood, shifting his weight back and forth, looking at the doors expectantly, almost hopefully, Ilya thought. Hm. Yes. He would rather be in here with a pack of hungry wolves than alone with me.

The doors stayed shut. The elevator stayed still. Ilya was suddenly hit with the full force of the absurdity of the situation: he was stuck in an elevator with the man he'd pursued for two years, fucked and promptly discarded. He'd behaved badly, and punishment had followed, as it always did. This lesson, at least, he knew well. 

The doors weren't opening. The elevator sat motionless, floating in space.

Breathe.

His eyelids slid closed. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

A harsh bark of laughter shattered the near silence of the lift. Shane's eyes snapped open and fixed themselves on Rozanov like a pair of homing missiles. 

Rozanov laughed again, but there was no humor on his face. The sound echoed and died, and he nodded to himself as he looked down at the floor.

“I think,” he said, “we will be late for our cue.”

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for reading! I am not 100% sure where this one is going or how long it will be, so I guess we'll find out together. Feel free to yell at me in the comments to keep me focused on this one instead of my other two unpublished Heated Rivalry WIPs haha.

Chapter 2

“I think we will be late for our cue.” 

Six months of nothing, and he opens with a joke. Asshole.

Shane turned away from him and looked from the door to the button panel. The door was a still, solid expanse of mirrors. The effect was dizzying; mirrors on all four surfaces sending countless copies of himself and Rozanov ricocheting into infinity.

The panel. Find the door open button.

Shane crossed the small space, stepping between the front of the elevator and Rozanov. If he happened to bump into him a bit harder than he meant to, well… Rozanov would survive. His eyes scanned over the buttons, frowning as he reached the bottom of the panel. 

“There’s only floor buttons here,” he said slowly, to no one in particular. “No emergency buttons. That seems weird.” 

“This hotel is weird.” Ilya muttered, retreating into the corner and sliding his phone out of his pocket. Shane hesitated, then turned to glance at Rozanov. He was tapping away intently at his phone with a scowl. Shane watched him for a few seconds then brought his attention back to the button panel. 

He blinked. The buttons he’d been looking for were right there, at the bottom. Unlike the number buttons, which stood out in a neat contrasting black, the emergency buttons had a polished, mirrored surface, because of course they did. Of all the buttons to make less visible. Shane clenched his jaw and forced another inhale. Get your shit together, Hollander. You’re not dying. Breathe.

“Never mind about the buttons,” he said lamely. When he got no response from Ilya, he jabbed angrily at the Door Open button with his index finger. 

Nothing happened. Of course it didn’t. 

Shane turned his attention to the next button. It had a small, raised icon of a telephone on it. He pushed it, and waited— for what, he wasn’t exactly sure. A phone call of some kind, he assumed. Ringing, and a tinny voice on the other end of some speaker hidden in the ceiling? 

He waited. Again, nothing. 

“This hotel is weird,” Ilya muttered, an attempt at nonchalance that he desperately hoped Hollander would believe. This whole fucking night is weird. 

It was, too. He felt an uneasy twinge in his gut as he pulled out his phone. No cell reception, of course, but at least he still seemed to be connected to the internet. At the moment, he wasn’t sure how that would help him. He doubted the hotel’s concierge monitored their email account to check for reports of elevator malfunctions. What would he even say? Help me please, I am trapped in a metal coffin suspended seventy feet in the air with a man I fucked last year, and if he decides to start talking to me I will probably die. 

Hollander’s back was to him. He was murmuring something under his breath, repeatedly punching buttons on the panel with no effect. 

“How the fuck can this be legal?” he burst out, still facing away from Ilya. “A— a non-functional emergency button? This has to be some kind of lawsuit waiting to happen, I mean, what if someone had some kind of medical emergency in here and it got stuck?” 

“Mr. Lawyer,” the words escaped Ilya’s lips before he could catch them. At that, Hollander turned towards him with a fierce glare. Whatever anxiety he’d been feeling a moment ago was gone, temporarily replaced with something closer to fury. The change was strangely comforting to Ilya. He had withstood the full force of his brother’s contempt and his father’s wrath for over a decade; even the most intense anger Hollander could summon from within himself would be a glancing blow in comparison. He doubted he’d even feel it. 

“Everything is all one big joke to you, huh?” Hollander spat the words like venom.

“How would you prefer I act? Two biggest rivals in the MLH walk into an elevator, the joke writes itself.” He kept his voice even and forced his shoulders to remain relaxed. 

“Rivals.” Hollander scoffed and turned back to the elevator panel.

“That’s what we are.” 

“Fuck you.” Hollander punched the telephone button again, holding it in this time. Blood drained from the tip of his finger, leaving it pale and lifeless looking.

Ilya was saved from responding by a faint, angry buzzing.

“Hello?” Shane said almost frantically.

“Hi— yeah, building security here, what’s going on?”

“I— we’re stuck in the elevator,” Shane continued, running an agitated hand through his hair. Ilya had the fleeting thought that his hair looked much better pushed back off his forehead, before scolding himself again for indulging in the thought. 

“Okay… hang on one sec for me, okay?” came the unhurried response. A pause stretched out, and Ilya began to wonder if the person on the other end had decided to abandon their desk in order to personally investigate the status of every elevator in the building. Finally, the voice returned. “Alright, I think I see. Elevator 12 in the North wing is throwing up an error message. Hang on one second while I see who we can get to help you out.”

“Uh, sorry, but do you know how long that might take?” 

“Shouldn’t take long at all, sir. I’ll keep you updated as soon as I know more.” 

“Thanks” the word came out around Hollander’s clenched jaw. 

The buzzing stopped as the person on the other line disconnected the call. Tense silence fell over the elevator again. Hollander retreated to the other side of the elevator, moving as far away from Ilya as he possibly could. He adjusted his tie unnecessarily. 

“You should have told them who we were if you wanted them to move faster,” said Ilya.

“Fuck off,” snapped Hollander. He checked his watch.  

Ilya ignored him, pulled his phone back out of his pocket, and, because he’d never been able to resist pressing down on his own bruises to make sure they were real, said, “It won’t look good for them. Imagine the headlines tomorrow: ‘MLH Superstar and MVP Winner Ilya Rozanov Trapped in Hotel Elevator with Canadian man.” 

A muscle in Hollander’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t respond, and Ilya felt a twinge of disappointment. He’d been hoping to get a rise out of Hollander with the MVP chirp; both of them were technically nominated for the award, but Ilya was the clear favorite as captain of the championship-winning team

The buzzing started again. “Hey guys, I’m back, I’ve got some techs on the way up to floor seven. They’re going to try to open the doors manually.”

Shane let out an exhale. “Great, thank you.” 

A second voice floated through the speaker. “Mr. Hollander? My name is Christine Lorenzo, I’m the Events Manager here at Fountainebleu. Is that Mr. Rozanov in the elevator with you?”

At the sound of his name, Ilya’s face shot up from his phone. His eyes darted around the elevator.

“Wha- um, how did you know that?” The words were clumsy leaving Hollander’s mouth. 

“Security cameras, obviously,” answered Ilya dryly, “And yes. I am also here. As nice as your elevators are, I think I have spent enough time in this one.” 

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Rozanov, we’re working on it right now. We’ll have you both out of there as soon as possible.” 

“I think the people in charge of the awards will not be happy with us.” 

“They’re aware of the situation,” came Christine’s reply. “They said they’d figure something out.” 

Hollander snorted. “Oh, well thank goodness for that.” The sarcastic remark was so out of character for him that Ilya couldn’t help but smile. He quickly caught himself and forced his features back into a neutral mask. 

“It shouldn’t be much longer. We apologize for the inconvenience of the situation and assure you we’re doing everything we can to get you both out so you can continue on with your evenings.” 

“Thanks, I guess,” said Hollander. The call ended again. 

Ilya couldn’t help it. The absurdity of the situation had finally become too much. He burst out laughing. The noise bounced off the walls of the elevator. Hollander looked at him, shocked and affronted. 

“What the fuck is so funny?” 

I have spent months trying to forget you because I am terrified of the things I feel when I am with you, and now the universe has trapped us in a cage together.

But, of course, he couldn’t say that.

“Oh, just. Thinking that being trapped in an elevator is kind of sexy. All these mirrors.”

Hollander’s eyes whipped up to meet Ilya’s, an expression of alarm on his face. Ilya sighed and leaned back against the wall, ignoring Hollander.

Ilya continued, “It is a shame I am stuck in here with the second best hockey player in the league, in such a bad mood. Wasted opportunity.”

“I thought you said there were cameras,” Hollander said, his voice barely a whisper. 

“There are. But video only. They don’t record sound, so as long as you aren’t planning on sucking my dick right now, you can relax.” 

“God, would you shut the fuck up already?” Hollander whirled around and took a step closer to Ilya. “Seriously, can you just fucking stop?” 

Ilya felt his shoulders inch up. Whatever retort had been forming died on his lips as he looked properly at Hollander’s face for the first time tonight. He’d been wrong, earlier, when he’d dismissed Hollander’s iciness as pure anger. He was angry, but there was a strange undercurrent in his manner, like a prey animal that had been cornered by something intent on doing it harm. It hit him like a slap to the face: Hollander was afraid.

An instant, icy flood of guilt hit Ilya square in the chest so strongly it almost knocked the air out of his lungs. He had expected anger, possibly confusion, hurt, embarrassment. He’d even been prepared to feel the brunt of Hollander’s hatred, as unpleasant as the thought made him. But fear? Was it possible that he had become the kind of person who could hurt someone so easily he wouldn’t even realize the wound was fatal until it was too late?  

Hollander’s breath came rapid and shallow. His eyes were wet and bright in a way Ilya hadn’t seen before. As quickly as he had stepped closer to Ilya, he stepped back.

“Fuck,” he whispered, “Stop it. Breathe.” He turned away from Ilya and bowed his head in clear distress. He clenched and unclenched his fists, and Ilya heard him mutter something indecipherable under his breath. 

Oh god. Oh no. Not here, please not here not not not in front of him please… Breathe in, hold, breathe out— fuck, it’s not working fuck I can’t breathe fuck I’m going to die fuck fuck fuck fuck

“Hey— Hollander, Hollander.” A warm, heavy hand landed tentatively on the center of his back, just below his neck. It rested there for a minute, unmoving, as Rozanov spoke again in a low, steady voice. 

“You are okay, yes? We are safe in here, this is annoying but not dangerous, okay?” 

He hated that voice so fucking much, hated how his mind latched onto it like a lifeline, focusing on each gorgeous syllable. He struggled to slow his breathing with no success. 

“Hollander,” Rozanov’s voice carried a note of concern. “Deep breaths, can you manage this?” Shane was vaguely aware that Rozanov was modeling an exaggerated slow deep breath. 

Shane tried, and failed. Fuck this fuck this fuck I can’t do this

“You need to breathe.” 

Fuck off you fucking asshole I hate you I hate this I hate that you’re here I hate that you’re seeing this I hate that you’re being so fucking good about it why the fuck are you being so kind right now

Shane felt the world start to fall out from under his feet. He was failing, failing so badly. Everyone would know, would see him, crying on security cameras, ugly and pitiful and wrong and pathetic. No one, least of all Rozanov, would want anything to do with him now. He’d just be that fucking weird hockey kid with no friends again. 

“Hollander. Stop thinking and listen. Breathe in until I say stop.”

Shane froze. He’d been floundering, his own instructions completely useless and drowned out in the panic, but Rozanov’s voice, which had dropped into a lower register, cut through the chaos like a knife— calm, quiet, and unyielding. 

He forced air into his lungs; it was inelegant, shaky, and not enough, but it was something.

“Stop. Good. Again.” 

Shane obeyed. Rozanov’s voice was a light cutting through the fog; his hand on Shane’s back an anchor keeping him from drifting further out to sea. He sucked air into his lungs, pushed it back out, and repeated the cycle. Gradually, his breathing slowed. He became aware that his cheeks were wet. He had no idea how much time had passed; his body felt distant, weak, as if he were operating it remotely over a poor connection.

“Okay?” the hand on Shane’s back gave a gentle squeeze. 

Shane managed a nod 

“You are not going to pass out on me?” 

Shane screwed his eyes even tighter shut and shook his head once. 

“Okay, this is good. I am humble enough to admit I am not a very good doctor. Maybe we will sit down just in case.” 

Breathe In… 2… 3… 4… Hold… 2… 3… 4… Out… 2… 3… 4… Again…

Shane sat slumped against the wall of the elevator, eyes closed, counting, breathing. That was his job; Rozanov had told him to sit and breathe, like he was in charge or something. Shane fucking hated how much it helped. 

At some point during his breathing and counting, the speaker had buzzed back to life. Rozanov had responded before Shane had even processed the sound. Shane had felt a vague sense of irritation— at Rozanov for stepping so neatly in for him, at his own inability to hold his shit together for 10— 20?— however many fucking minutes it had been. 

“Apparently we are stuck between floors, it is a difficult spot. They can’t get the inside set of doors open. They are trying something with the power, I think, I do not know what exactly. It was a lot of words I don’t know.” Rozanov's voice was quiet, almost apologetic, as if he'd failed some test by not understanding the technical language of elevator maintenance and repair. As if it would have fucking helped anything, like Shane would have known how to solve the problem if only Rozanov could communicate it better. Shane just nodded, and let the thought pass. Even if he'd felt like reassuring Rozanov about anything, he was in no state to do anything more taxing than breathing and counting to four. 

Another few moments passed in silence. Shane forced his eyes open to look at Rozanov. He sat across the elevator from Shane, long legs open and slightly bent at the knee. It was a staggeringly familiar sight, Shane realized, as he was hit with a flash of memory from a hotel gym a few years earlier. Unlike then, though, this Rozanov had no laughter or triumph dancing in his eyes, only a solemn, unreadable expression. 

“What time is it?” It was a stupid question, since Shane could have easily checked his watch. Rozanov knew this, too, based on the smirk he quickly suppressed, but Shane had to say something, and this, at least, was a safe topic of conversation.

“Seven twenty-two. I was correct, we missed our cue by quite a lot.” 

“They’re going to kill us.” 

Rozanov shrugged. “This is not our fault.” 

“We should have been down there already.”

“Then our call times should have been earlier,” Ilya rubbed the side of his nose absentmindedly. “I did not know you were afraid of elevators,” 

Shane blinked as he processed the abrupt change of topic. “I’m not.” 

“Oh. Afraid of being late for pointless, stupid PR opportunities, then.” 

“Fuck off.” 

Rozanov picked an invisible piece of lint off one leg of his tuxedo and avoided Shane's gaze. 

“So then, what?” 

“Just forget it. It’s not a big deal.” 

“Sure,” said Rozanov, shrugging sarcastically, “You freaked out over nothing, makes sense.” 

“Why the fuck do you care?” snapped Shane. “You’ve been ignoring me for six months! You’re the one who said we’re not anything, so— okay, why do you give a shit?” 

Rozanov said nothing. 

The floodgates had opened; Shane couldn’t stop himself. “I mean, in the last twenty minutes you’ve ignored me, insulted me, flirted with me, and now you’re acting like you— what, like you give a shit about me? Is this all just a fucking game to you?” 

Rozanov shifted and sniffed, glancing down at the floor. Uncomfortable silence stretched between them, before he returned Shane’s gaze. 

“Not a game.”

“Then what?” Shane demanded.

Rozanov shifted uncomfortably. “What is it that you want to hear, Hollander?” he gestured between the two of them. “You know what this is and what it isn’t. It’s simple, we get together and fuck sometimes, that’s all it has ever been. That’s all it can ever be. If this is a problem—”

“It’s not a fucking problem.”

Rozanov frowned. “Really? It seemed like it was a problem in Sochi.” 

Shane threw his head back in exasperation. “Jesus Christ,” he said, “what, because I sent you one text? You’d just gotten your ass handed to you on home ice in front of the world! Sorry for checking in.” 

Rozanov’s mouth twisted unpleasantly as he shook his head. “Not just the text. You approached me in person. That was very stupid, Hollander. Dangerous.” 

“Dangerous?” Shane scoffed.

“Yes, dangerous,” Rozanov glared. “Russia is not North America; you do not understand it. I do.” 

“Fuck— fine, whatever you say, but—” Shane bit down on the words before he could speak them into existence. Fine, but we’ve been home since February. We’ve played each other twice since then. We could have seen each other. 

Doubt curled low in his gut. Maybe this was another one of those invisible boundaries he didn’t know about until it was too late. Maybe he’d accidentally tried to cross a threshold into some territory of Rozanov’s where he wasn’t wanted, and Rozanov had responded by slamming the door in his face. The thought stung, as it always did when Shane replayed the game tapes in his mind of failed social encounters, but the hurt here ran deeper than normal. 

He liked their arrangement; he thought he’d understood it. It had been simple. It had been fun. As reluctant as he was to admit it, he liked Rozanov. He enjoyed his company and the easy conversation, the banter which never felt mean-spirited no matter how animated it got. He hadn’t meant to change anything in Sochi— it had just been professional commiseration over a tough loss. Had he really overstepped so clumsily? Shane felt his cheeks begin to flush with a renewed sense of shame as the weight of things unsaid settled in the air.

The silence was broken as Rozanov’s head thudded back against the wall. 

“After the Olympics,” he began in a quiet, halting voice, “It was difficult for me. It was a disappointment to many people at home. I had to prove— I don’t know. I needed to show I could still win. It was… what is the word? Winning after losing?”

“Redemption,” murmured Shane. 

Rozanov nodded. “Redemption. So, I was determined. I had to work hard, focus. No distractions.”

Shane mulled over the words. “So, I’m a distraction?” he asked, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips.

“Sometimes, maybe.” Rozanov’s eyes fixed on him with a serious look. Shane met his gaze, his face becoming serious once more, too. 

“It makes sense,” Shane said, shrugging one shoulder. “You could have just said that, though. You have to know I would have understood, more than probably anyone else.” 

Rozanov said nothing. His eyes drifted to the floor.

“Rozanov,” Shane insisted, “You know I would understand. You know how serious I am about hockey.”

“I know this, yes.”

“Unless you weren’t planning on…” Shane swallowed. “I mean, unless you were done with… distractions. Like, permanently." 

Rozanov's response was a beat too long in coming. Shane felt something sharp twist in his stomach. So, that was it. 

He cleared his throat and stood, adjusting his suit. 

“It's cool,” he said in what he hoped was a casual voice. “I mean this whole thing was always a bad idea. Probably for the best to stop before we get caught, or something.” In his periphery he was aware of Rozanov rising slowly and giving a slow tug on his jacket, his eyes never leaving Shane. 

Hollander stood and straightened his jacket, trying to appear casual despite the red flush across his freckled cheeks and his steadfast avoidance of Ilya’s gaze. 

You don’t understand. You are the most dangerous kind of distraction. You are the kind of distraction that gets louder the more I try to ignore it. You haunt my thoughts and you are not going away. I am so distracted when I see you and know I can’t touch you. I am distracted by how much I want you and I am terrified that I will not survive this. 

They were words he could never say. Even if he could figure out how to express the sentiment in English, even if he could pretend it wouldn’t send Hollander running away in sheer terror, he could never, ever expose the soft, ugly, tender meat of his heart so fully and expect to survive. 

Instead, he watched Hollander, like one might watch a cornered, injured animal, and spoke softly. 

“Maybe distraction is okay, sometimes. No one can be focused only on hockey all the time, not even you. It is not healthy.” 

Hollander didn’t react immediately. He chewed his lip. 

“It’s seriously fine, Rozanov. I’m not some heartbroken teenager or something, I’ll survive just fine without your dick.” It was clearly an attempt at a joke, but the words fell flat. 

Ilya sighed, and took one small step closer to him. “This is what you want?”

“Sure.”

“Tell me, then. Tell me this thing between us is done.” Ilya murmured. Perhaps if he heard the words straight from Hollander’s mouth, he could begin to put the entire thing behind him.

The words didn’t come. Hollander turned to face him, uncertainty tinged with want clouding his expression. For a moment, neither spoke. 

“Hey guys, just warning you, we’re about to cycle the power to try to get the car moving again. You’re about to lose power for about 30 seconds, okay?”

Without further warning, the elevator was plunged into darkness.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

It took me a while to figure out where I wanted to go with this chapter and how to get there, and I ultimately realized I needed more than three chapters to wrap the story up in a satisfying way, so there will be more to come after this. Enjoy and thanks for reading :)

Ilya moved before he had time to think better of it. He closed the distance between them, reaching out into the darkness until he found Hollander’s chest. He pushed him backwards, gently but firmly, until he felt him thud into the elevator wall. He ran his hand up to cup around the back of Hollander’s neck and leaned in until his lips ghosted over Hollander’s jaw, just under his ear.

“Tell me,” he repeated in barely more than a whisper. “Tell me what you want.” He felt Hollander’s breath hitch.

“I want… I don’t know.” 

Ilya gently squeezed the back of Hollander’s neck and rubbed the pad of his thumb against the corner of Hollander’s jaw. Hollander’s head thudded against the wall as he tilted his chin up, exposing his neck to Ilya. Ilya rewarded him by nipping at Hollander’s neck, not enough to bruise, but enough to prompt a sharp inhale. He kissed the spot gently, reassuringly. 

“You know. Tell me.” 

“You. I want… you,” Hollander panted, almost slurring the words.  

Ilya stepped even closer, pinning Hollander between himself and the wall. He could feel the effect he had on Hollander; he was hard against Ilya's hip already. Fuck, he was so gone already. Probably they both were.

“Want me to do what?” pushed Ilya, scrambling to regain some control over himself. His right hand squeezed Hollander’s pec, then ran down his chest and abdomen to his waist, coming to rest on Hollander’s hip, holding him in place against himself. 

“Touch me, fuck me… please?” 

Well, that was that. The dam Ilya had built inside himself crumbled. Some small part of him sounded the alarm; the rest of him didn't fucking care right now. Not while Hollander was pressed against him, asking for Ilya as if he were praying for a miracle. 

Hollander’s breath was quick and strained. It was intoxicating; Ilya wanted to drown in it. He pressed another kiss to the corner of Hollander’s jaw, harder this time, and felt the rapid flutter of his pulse against his lips. He pulled back just enough to find Hollander’s mouth with his own. Hollander’s lips parted as he sighed a filthy, gorgeous sound into Ilya’s mouth, and Ilya’s brain lost control of his hands. They ran up and down the length of Hollander’s chest, wrapping around his neck, pulling at his waist, cupping his ass, pulling their bodies together in any way they could. He was rewarded for his effort with one gorgeous sound after another from low in Hollander’s throat. 

Hollander broke the kiss. “Rozanov, the lights,” he panted, sounding strangled and desperate. 

Fuck. Control yourself, Ilya. How long had it been? They’d said thirty seconds, right? The elevator was thankfully, mercifully, still fully dark and silent. 

“Yes I know,” he said, letting his hands fall away with immense effort. He took a step backwards and exhaled, trying to regain his composure.

“Okay,” he said evenly, “Later. After. I am in the penthouse suite. Come to my room, and tell me again what you need. Maybe I will give it to you.” He took another step backwards, regretting the loss of proximity. The only response was the sound of Hollander shuffling and straightening his clothes. 

Rozanov retreated into the darkness of the elevator, leaving a void in his wake. Shane focused on easy things; his breathing, straightening his suit and his hair, running a hand over his face, ignoring the arousal that coursed through his veins and pooled distractingly in his groin. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to distract himself by running through the awards being given out tonight, and the nominees for each. 

He heard the electricity return before he saw any evidence of it. A low hum vibrated through the air for several seconds, before the elevator buttons, overhead lights, and electronic display blinked to life in asynchronous jolts.

Shane didn’t dare look over to the other side of the elevator. He stood, practically frozen on the spot, unable to bring his eyes up. If he didn’t look at the man on the other side of the elevator, maybe he could pretend he hadn't just begged him for sex like the pathetic idiot he was. 

He looked. He couldn’t help it. His eyes moved up, as if controlled by some force outside of himself. Rozanov stood, reclined slightly against the rear wall of the cab, facing the door with a bored expression on his face, the picture of nonchalance. Shane studied him for a moment, and felt a small flutter of gratification to see the jump of Rozanov’s Adam’s apple, and the barest flush of pink across his cheeks. Shane took pleasure in knowing he was responsible. 

The floor fell out from under Shane. His muscles tensed instinctively, until he realized: The elevator had begun to move.

As abruptly as it had started, it stopped again. The doors slid smoothly open with a gentle chime, revealing a bored-looking technician and a luxurious hotel hallway stretching off into the distance. 

Rozanov moved before Shane could. He took two quick steps and exited the elevator, exhaling loudly as he did so. He turned towards the elevator mechanic with a grin on his face that Shane immediately recognized; it was the mask he wore during post-game interviews after a win. Cocky, brash, with an endless supply of chirps just waiting to be spoken into existence. 

“Thank you for fixing the elevator. This one was about to murder me with facts about dead Canadian hockey players. Or maybe I was about to murder him, just to get him to shut up. Either way, very unpleasant for me.” The mechanic looked confused and mildly alarmed, as if he was unsure whether Rozanov was joking or not. Rozanov took pity on him and winked, before turning his attention elsewhere.

Shane silently stepped out of the elevator. The air here on the seventh— or was it sixth— floor was different from what he’d been breathing in the elevator. This air moved through his lungs easier, it wasn’t thick and heavy like molasses, coating the inside of his throat and gluing his chest muscles to his ribs. Shane risked a glance in Rozanov’s direction. He’d pulled out his phone again and frowned at it, tapping away some notification before sliding it back into his pocket. He looked up and seemed to remember Shane was still there.

“Well? You think they still want us there, or no?” 

A reluctant smile pulled at the corners of Shane’s lips. “I think they’d like us to make an appearance, yeah.”

“We will be— what is it, fashionably late?” 

“Something like that.” 

“I think maybe I will take the stairs.” he turned on a heel and strode in the direction of the stairwell, the same one Shane had briefly considered when he left his hotel room. He didn’t look back.

Shane hesitated, glanced around and, seeing no other stairwells and unwilling to risk his luck in another elevator, followed after Rozanov. By the time he opened the door to the stairs, Rozanov had disappeared from sight. Shane began to descend and peered over the railing. He caught a glimpse of Rozanov, already a flight and a half below him, moving quickly with no apparent intention of waiting for Shane. That was fine; things had spiraled dangerously out of control just now, and he needed to sort everything out before he faced Rozanov again. 

Shane’s head was filled with turmoil as a thousand conflicting thoughts railed against each other. It was uncomfortable, confusing, unsettling. Shane felt off-balance. Before, at least, it had been easier— just an uncomplicated wrongness in every part of his body. It was awful, but it made sense. He’d known he felt like shit, he’d known he’d feel less like shit once the evening was over. 

Now… Rozanov had shaken his entire mind like a snowglobe, sending feelings he couldn’t put names to swirling around violently in a storm inside his mind. The bad feelings were still there, raw and painful, and the desire, the need, well, he could understand that too. Rozanov was who he was, after all, and Shane couldn’t help that his body responded the way it always did under his touch. That was just… biology. Or chemistry, or whatever. It was what bodies did. 

It was the other thing that he couldn’t explain. That pull that Rozanov seemed to have on him, not just on his body, but on his mind. The way he’d looked at Shane, the intensity in his gaze like a spotlight on his innermost thoughts as he called Shane a distraction. The way his voice, deep and rich and melodic, had grabbed firmly ahold of him in his panic, how he’d latched onto it just as desperately and let it drag him out of the storm. How he’d looked at Rozanov after he’d come back into himself, and instead of scorn or pity, he’d seen only a quiet, reflective look. The look of someone considering new information without any shred of judgement or disdain. Like information about Shane was worth cataloguing in his brain, rather than something to be discarded at the end of the night. 

The way that look had allowed him to release another measure of tension from his shoulders. The way he hadn’t even realized he’d needed to be seen in that way— by someone, anyone— but Ilya—

Ilya? What the fuck. No. Rozanov.

His body continued on autopilot down the stairs. He crossed a stairwell marked with the number 4. 

He wouldn’t go to Rozanov’s room tonight. He needed to think more, to untangle this mess of emotion into a neat strand of logic. Cause to effect, input to output, raw data to analysis to conclusion. There was always a way forward, if he looked long and hard enough. 

Round the stairwell. Third floor. Step down. Left foot. Right foot.  

Maybe, he thought, he could talk to Il- Rozanov. He’d managed to pull something out of him in the elevator, gotten him to concede the tiniest shred of vulnerability. Something had happened in the elevator; something dangerous and confusing. Maybe Rozanov had felt it too, maybe he was feeling as unsteady as Shane. Or, maybe he hadn’t, it was just Shane, and then at least he'd only have to worry about keeping himself from doing anything stupid.

Rules. That was what they needed, Shane realized with a jolt. It was so obvious. They just needed to state clearly and plainly the parameters of this thing. Easy. Simple, as Rozanov would say. 

Okay. Rule one: The logistics of their meetups. This was easy— they would arrange their meetings a day or so in advance, have sex, and part ways when it was done. 

Rule two: Distractions. Shane considered. Ilya had called him a distraction, which was fair enough. He understood the need to focus on hockey, to shut everything else out completely in order to get through one more game. Maybe  after a certain point in the season, they should pause all contact off the ice. Playoffs, certainly, but maybe sooner than that? A month before playoffs? Maybe it depended on the trajectory of their teams, the certainty with which they’d make playoffs, their seeding? Shane shook his head. They could figure out the details together— or, more likely, he would figure out the details while Roz laughed at his need for clarity. Whatever.

Rule three. Shane frowned uneasily; this one was harder to put into words. He thought of the way Rozanov had talked him down, had looked at him as if he’d seen something ugly and real inside of him, but had stepped closer instead of recoiling in disgust. It was too much, this uneasy sensation Shane had that he'd slipped, and now Rozanov knew more of him than he’d ever intended to let him see. How on earth could he even express this? It was a bad, dangerous thing, Shane knew, although he couldn’t put words to why. He couldn’t put words to the part of him that wished he could have more of it. What could he possibly say to keep himself safe? You are not allowed to know what lives inside me, and I am not allowed to know what lives inside you. When we are not fucking, we are nothing to each other a I don’t ask if you are okay. You don’t rescue me from my own nightmares.

He rounded the second floor. 

Rule three. You were right. We are strangers who fuck. We don’t talk. We don't text. We're not friends. Simple. 

It would have to do. If anyone could understand the weight behind the simple phrases, it would be Rozanov. 

Shane reached the bottom of the steps and stopped abruptly. Rozanov leaned against the wall next to the door, hands in his pockets, a smirk on his face. 

“Wow. I didn’t think you could get slower than you already were. All these weeks away from the playoffs didn't help your game, Hollander.” 

“I didn’t realize it was a competition, asshole,” he said, forcing away the grin that had formed against his will, “and if it was, you cheated.” 

Rozanov shrugged. “Isn’t everything we do a competition?” He straightened and reached into the inner pocket of his tuxedo jacket. He pulled out a black rectangle that Shane recognized was a room key. He offered it to Shane as casually as if it were a random scrap of paper. 

“For later.” 

Shane took it, feeling a rush of warmth across the back of his neck and his cheeks. He met Rozanov’s gaze and nodded once. Rozanov’s eyes lingered on his for the briefest second, drifted lower, before he turned smoothly and opened the door. Over his shoulder, he called, “Let’s give the people what they want.” 

They’d rearranged the order of the awards at the last minute, moved a “Best Saves and Scores of the Year” compilation earlier in the program, and apparently allowed the famously long-winded and possibly slightly drunk GM from Tampa give some off-the-cuff speech about the importance of teamwork and perseverance. Ilya was amused; they were so desperate for one more chance to get the cameras on his rivalry with Hollander that they were willing to improvise during a live awards show. It was almost flattering.

Hollander had followed him silently through the hotel; Ilya felt his gaze burning the back of his neck. A harried intern had intercepted them in the hallway and shepherded them impatiently towards the backstage area, chiding them for their lateness as if they’d personally been responsible for breaking the elevator. 

“Forget what we discussed earlier,” she was saying as makeup artists dabbed at their faces and fussed with their hair. “We changed the bit to acknowledge the change in program order. Follow the teleprompter and you’ll be fine.” 

Ilya’s stomach dropped. New lines. He’d been able to look over the original script, confirmed for himself that there were no unfamiliar words and that his tongue wouldn’t betray him in front of an audience. His English was significantly improved from when he’d first come to North America, but English was a bastard language, with words stolen from all corners of the globe and spelling and pronunciation rules that defied logic, phonics, and God himself. 

“Sorry,” Hollander spoke up awkwardly, “Um, do you have a copy of the new script, or anything? I just— I’d like to look it over, if I can. So I don’t trip over my lines or anything.”   

The intern let out an exasperated sigh, and flipped through the papers on her clipboard. She found a sheet of paper, pulled it out of the clip, and thrust it into Hollander’s hands. “I only have one, so you’ll have to share. And you’ve only got about thirty seconds.” 

Hollander nodded in appreciation. The intern stepped away to consult with a member of the stage crew. Ilya glanced sideways at Hollander, who was studying the lines with a look of concentration. He scoffed, rolled his eyes, and looked up. Finally, he turned to look at Ilya.

“You want to take a look?” he asked, holding it out to Ilya. “It’s even stupider than the original one.” He spoke lightly, as if he were unaware of what the gesture meant to Ilya, but Ilya knew better. His memory flicked back to a press conference at the All-Star game their rookie season. Some stupid reporter had asked a beast of a question, and Hollander had picked up on his discomfort immediately and stepped smoothly forward to field the question before anyone else had a chance to notice. He studied Hollander’s face for a brief moment. Hollander held his gaze but his face betrayed nothing. 

“Thanks.” Ilya took the paper and scanned the lines. Hollander was right; it was even stupider than the first one. But, he was relieved to see there were no unfamiliar words, nowhere for the English sounds to get tangled up in his accent. 

“You’re up. Go,” hissed the intern from behind them. She pressed an envelope in Hollander’s hand and shoved him towards the stage. Ilya hastily folded the sheet with the typed lines on it and shoved it into his pocket and followed Hollander onstage, a wide smile spreading across his face as he heard the polite applause from the audience. 

TELEPROMPTER

Shane: There’s been a lot said about Hollander and Rozanov.

Ilya: Rival players, captains of rival teams.

Shane: A lot of people have said that our rivalry extends off the ice. 

Ilya: They say we can’t stand to be in the same room.

Shane: Well tonight we had the opportunity to put that to the test.

Ilya: Opportunity is a strange choice of word, Hollander. I would have gone with “terrible bit of bad luck” 

Shane: Fair enough.

Ilya: For those of you who didn’t know, the two of us just spent the last 45 minutes trapped in an elevator in this hotel. 

[Hold for Audience Laughter]

Shane: Yeah, we’re the reason the show is running so late. Sorry, everyone.

Ilya: But as you can see, we are both still alive, no one has any new missing teeth or black eyes. 

Shane: That’s right. We survived. 

Ilya: Barely.

Shane: I’ll be taking the stairs everywhere for the rest of my life.

[Hold for Audience laughter] 

Ilya: But the point is, even rivals like us can appreciate the importance of professional courtesy and sportsmanlike conduct.

Shane: And the Lady Byng Trophy goes to… 

Chapter End Notes

Just for fun, please enjoy this note I left myself while writing this chapter:

"maybe add a tag for alexithymic shane hollander, unreliable narrator shane hollander, shane hollander is lost in the russian sauce, shane hollander needs a hug, a weighted blanket, and 100 years of therapy"

all the love for these silly boys <3