Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, unnamed male character

Additional Tags:

Future Fic, Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, but don't worry the boys are fine, Soft Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of love-a-nov (hollanov one-shots)

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-25 Words: 2,341 Chapters: 1/1

love me, love me, say you'll protect me

Summary

They’re just outside the club when Shane’s legs suddenly feel like they're stuck in thick tar. He feels sluggish―slow and too heavy for his own body. And all of sudden, it’s all wrong.

He’s not drunk. He knows that now, unfortunately, which means Ilya is right: There was something in his drink.

Notes

Yes, the hockey boys have possessed me. I've escaped my own fanfic-reading abyss to write out one fic for them so far; there will very likely be more.

Enjoy!

Trigger warning: Shane does get roofied, but nothing more than that happens.

Shane is warm. The club is hot and humid―an unfortunate side effect of so many people crammed together in one space―but this is a different type of warm. It’s coming from inside of him. It feels odd. He’s not used to being warm from the inside. So much time on the ice has led him to feel at home in the cold. Warm isn’t necessarily a bad thing, though. It’s just new―something he isn’t used to since he doesn’t drink alcohol.

Here, in the off season and in a bar full of tourists who haven’t recognized either him or Ilya, he has. Drunk alcohol, that is. He thinks the clarification is probably necessary. His brain feels too fuzzy to make sense of everything, but that one thing he does know. Clarification is everything. Like when that man asked if he preferred cocktails or beer and Shane―feeling a bit adventurous and already a bit tipsy―had said something fruity: a dragontail. It was the only thing from the board behind the bartender that he could read. He had clarified that it wasn’t his go-to drink―that would be ginger ale―and when the man had come back with a drink for him, Shane had also clarified that he was married. The man―polite and offering Shane a free drink―had smiled, nodded, and slipped away shortly before Ilya reappeared from the bathroom.

Shane doesn’t know where he left that drink. It had been good, though he’d only managed to drink half of it before Ilya pulled him onto the sticky dance floor. His husband’s hands haven’t left his waist long enough for Shane to try and think about where he set it. Oh well. If he really wants another―he doesn’t think he does―Ilya will be sure to get it for him. His husband is nice like that. Fuck, he loves his husband.

“I love you too, lyubimyy.” Ilya is grinning at him when Shane blinks up at him. “You are drunk already?”

Shane shrugs and it feels sloppy. He half-tips into Ilya’s chest further yet and although Ilya steadies him without flinching, he also frowns. It’s a small thing―no more than a pinch of his lips―but Shane has spent years studying him. He knows when Ilya frowns.

“You are feeling alright?” Ilya presses a hand to Shane’s forehead. His fingers are cool and as they slip down to frame Shane’s jaw, Ilya’s frown deepens. “What have you drank?”

“Two beers,” Shane recites dutifully, “some of your thing-a-whatever, and half of the dragontail.”

“Dragontail?” Ilya echoes. “When did you have dragontail?”

“You were in the bathroom,” Shane says. He tries to lean further into Ilya and is unsuccessful. “This man bought it for me. Nice man. I told him about you.”

Ilya’s face hardens and distantly Shane thinks that’s a curious reaction. He’s too busy admiring the cut of Ilya’s cheekbones to think about it more than that. His husband’s cheekbones are much more interesting than the drink man. Shane doesn’t even know his name. Or his face. Should he remember the man’s face? He was so nice. Shane should probably remember at least his face so he can thank him later. 

“Who?” Ilya asks. His fingers press into Shane’s jaw but not painfully so. It’s calming, actually. Grounding and reassuring, and Ilya has to repeat himself a couple more times before Shane remembers to answer. “Who, Shane? Shane?”

“Don’t remember,” Shane says. “He left when I told him ‘bout you. I don’t think I thanked him.” Shane frowns and it feels like he’s trying to force his lips through mud. “I should thank him,” he mutters. The words are also difficult to form.

“No,” Ilya says sharply. “Do not thank him. He drugged you.”

Shane shakes his head and the world spins a bit, but he ignores it to say, “I’d know if he drugged me.”

“We are leaving.”

He takes hold of Shane’s hand firmly and even if Shane weren’t drunk―cause that’s all he is: drunk, not drugged―he’d be helpless to do anything other than stumble along after him.

Shane is about to make this argument when they’re stopped short. He all but crashes into Ilya’s back―strong, thick muscle that he really wants to touch―and when he looks up to see what the problem is, he finds a vaguely familiar man standing in Ilya’s way.

“Hey, man,” the man says, “I don’t think you should be going anywhere with him. He’s clearly out of it.”

“Fuck off,” Ilya snaps. He moves to continue out the door but a man puts a hand on Ilya’s chest that Shane somehow feels too. 

“I don’t think I will,” the man says. He peers around Ilya’s shoulder to look at Shane. “Hey, man, how about I call you a ride? Take you home safely?” His attention returns to Ilya before Shane responds. “He’s got a husband, man. Leave him alone.”

Shane is familiar with how fast Ilya can move, but it feels superhuman, how fast he moves now. In the time it takes Shane to blink, the man is stumbling back with a groan and Ilya is rearing back for what Shane thinks might not be his first punch.

“Whoa,” Shane breathes as he watches. His limbs feel a little tingly and don’t react when he tries to pull Ilya back. The second time he tries is when Ilya is about to physically pin the man to the floor and the commotion is bringing the attention of a nearby bouncer.

The bouncer is significantly more successful at pulling Ilya off of the man than Shane is. He is also successful at holding Shane back from reaching for his husband. Luckily for Shane, the bouncer isn't able to do both at once and Ilya is―for some reason―furious. He sees Shane get pushed back, and, in a move that leads to them being thrown out, twists the bouncer’s arm at a painful angle.

“Hey, back off!” Another bouncer joins the fray but Ilya doesn’t let go of Shane’s hand.

“He’s my husband!” he shouts at them. “That man drugged my husband.”

Shane wants to argue the ‘drugged’ part of his argument but doesn’t. Something about it seems to redirect the bouncers’ attention, and Shane’s mouth can’t form words anyway. It may help that Shane clings to Ilya’s entire arm when they move towards him. He doesn't know. He doesn’t stop doing it until he’s sure that the bouncers aren’t going to try and separate him from Ilya.

“Get out,” the second bouncer orders, pointing sharply to the door. “You’re not welcome anymore.”

“Don’t want to be anyway,” Ilya snaps back. “You let him get away with drugging people?” He points angrily toward the man groaning on the floor. “I want charges.”

“The only charges to be pressed are against you,” the bouncer says, “if you don’t get the fuck out of here.”

Ilya huffs but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he mutters something in Russian that Shane’s drunk brain can’t translate, and steers him out the door. They side-step the man on the floor and Ilya spits out an insult so harsh that Shane is glad he can’t understand it. He’s content to wrap himself around Ilya’s arm and tell him how pretty he is when he fights.

“Pretty,” is all that manages to escape, and Ilya doesn’t seem to hear it. Shane isn’t surprised. His lips and words still feel like they’re trapped in mud. 

They’re just outside the club when Shane’s legs suddenly decide to join his lips and words in the mud. He feels sluggish―slow and too heavy for his own body. And all of sudden, it’s all wrong.

He’s not drunk. He knows that now, unfortunately, which means Ilya is right: There was something in his drink.

His body feels wrong. He’s never experienced it like this―heavy and slow and a little bit fuzzy at all the edges―and Shane wants to tug on Ilya’s hand to stop him, but he’s not sure he succeeds. Ilya continues on ahead, hand still clutching Shane’s, oblivious to the panic that’s now making itself known in Shane’s chest. Because of course that part of him doesn’t feel sluggish or delayed. Of course his chest would still know how to tighten at a moment’s notice, triggered by nothing more than a thought that Shane can’t get rid of.

Somehow, Ilya seems to sense it. Shane’s breath catches loudly in his throat and Ilya turns as soon as they’re a block away from the club. The cool summer air isn’t enough to put an end to the heat thrumming through his veins; it’s hardly enough to shock him into taking a short breath.

“Shane?” Ilya doesn’t have to say more for Shane to know what he’s asking.

“He drugged me,” Shane says. 

“Yes.”

“It―What do I do?” He tightens his hold on Ilya’s hand when his husband makes a move to pull away. “Everything feels wrong, Ilya. It’s wrong.”

“I know,” Ilya soothes. He steps into Shane’s space and brushes cool fingers over Shane’s forehead, through his hair, and down to rest gently at his nape. “I know, moy lyubimyy. We will go back to hotel. You will be safe there. It is okay.”

“It feels wrong.”

“I know.” Ilya presses a kiss to his temple and runs his thumb along the back of Shane’s neck. “I promise you will be okay, though. Trust me?”

Shane nods. He trusts Ilya more than anyone else in this world. Even now―when his body feels foreign and everything is brighter and disorienting―he knows that he trusts Ilya. It was never really a question, he thinks.

He doesn’t know how long it takes to walk back to the hotel. All he knows is that Ilya’s hand is firm in his, and the line of Ilya’s body is pressed against his own. They’re side-by-side from the club until they enter their hotel room. Only once the door is locked behind them does Ilya move to stand in front of Shane instead. 

By then, Shane’s vision is moving oddly. His memory is even less functional.

He knows they make it to their room and he knows Ilya talks to him softly and without pause. He doesn’t know if it’s Russian or English, if it’s reassurances or just meaningless babble in an attempt to keep Shane grounded. In any case, he doesn’t know what’s being said. He does know Ilya helps him change. One of his old Raiders tees is soft against Shane’s skin and the jeans he had worn to the club are no longer in sight. Instead, he’s in his boxers under the covers, and Ilya is combing his fingers through Shane’s almost-too-long hair.

The memories are messy and jumbled. He thinks he remembers Ilya crying, but he also thinks he remembers Hayden knocking on their door. Hayden is in Montreal, though, and they’re in Pittsburgh for a long weekend, so that can’t be true. He’s hallucinating, apparently, but the realization doesn’t cross his mind until morning when he wakes up with a headache and blurry thoughts.

Ilya is sleeping soundly beside him. His knuckles are split and bruised, so clearly his memory of the club fight is real. That must mean, Shane realizes with grimace, that the man who had given him the drink had been the very one who tried to stop them from leaving together. He doesn’t know how Ilya knew―he can’t remember anything other than fighting a bouncer to get back to Ilya and the vision of Ilya’s shoulder flexing before he swung. There’s no point in asking. They won’t be going back and even if they did, Shane doesn’t think they can press charges against the man for drugging him when Shane was never hurt.

It isn’t worth worrying about, anyway.

There’s sun cutting across the room and Ilya is warm beside him. Shane hesitates to check the time. He knows Ilya won’t have set an alarm, and with nothing more than a guess on how last night could have gone, Shane knows it must be late.

11:32 AM blinks at him from the beside clock.

Shane sighs and rolls closer to Ilya. It’s not that late; not nearly as late as he was dreading. He may as well try to sleep off his headache. Unluckily for him, his movements wake Ilya.

“Shane?” Ilya hums, voice groggy with sleep. His accent is so thick that Shane’s surprised his next sentence isn’t in Russian. “How are you?”

His words slur together and Shane immediately knows that he spent the night awake. Even after a night as late out as theirs was, Ilya is never this tired. He sounds like he’s still half asleep.

“Good,” Shane says softly. “Head hurts, but good.”

“Sick?”

“No, I don’t feel sick.”

“Will,” Ilya warns. “Is normalna.” 

Shane doesn’t want to ask how he knows that.

“I’ll be okay,” he says instead. He brushes a finger over Ilya’s brow, hoping to lull him back to sleep. “Go back to sleep, baby. I’m okay now. You don’t need to take care of me anymore.”

“Do need,” Ilya says. He sounds even closer to sleep, so Shane continues his gentle massage from Ilya’s brow down to his cheekbones and jaw. “Will take care of you always.”

“I know.” Shane kisses his temple. “You can do that after you sleep some more, though, okay?”

Ilya doesn’t reply. He’s asleep before Shane finishes his sentence but that’s okay. They don’t have anything going on that can’t be cancelled or postponed. Ilya clearly needs the rest. Shane’s memories are vague and unreliable, but he thinks he remembers Ilya’s eyes on him until the early morning hours. And really, Shane doesn’t expect to ever remember exactly what happened during the hours that his body wasn’t truly his own. All he knows is that the memories of Ilya throughout the night are real. Beyond that, he’s not sure much else matters.