Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Yuna Hollander

Characters:

Yuna Hollander, Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, POV Outsider, ilya deserves better, fix-it by way of meddling mom, the Hollanders collectively adore Ilya, Episode: s01e01 Rookies (Heated Rivalry), Fix-It

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-08-21 Words: 3,553 Chapters: 1/1

Compensation

Summary

The elevator meeting between Yuna and Ilya goes a little differently.

Or, what if Ilya had realized much earlier that dating Shane would come with a ready-made set of adoptive parents.

Notes

Mainly, the idea behind this is that Ilya deserves so much better than his shitty family and being squeezed for money by way of emotional blackmail, and maybe it would have helped if he had someone who pointed that out to him in the early years.

Yuna Hollander has spent the better part of the last year disliking Ilya Rozanov.

It’s not something she has necessarily thought about much. Sure, she knows her dislike is irrational, that Rozanov hasn’t actually done anything to her or her family and what few comments he might have made at or about Shane are part of the sport she loves and have not crossed the line of normal chirping as far as she knows. Except, of course, he was drafted before Shane. Except the fact that sports reporters can’t seem to mention Shane without mentioning Rozanov right after. Except that every article about Shane’s accomplishments somehow becomes an article about Shane versus Rozanov.

Rationally she knows that the rivalry between Rozanov and Shane as it is being sold to hockey fans is entirely about selling tickets, selling jerseys, selling magazines and interviews and airtime. Because how often does the league get lucky enough to gain two generational talents at the same time who then also get drafted by two historically rival teams. It’s the perfect setup to add some drama and revitalize the sport in the eyes of the fans.

Still, even knowing that Rozanov has no part in creating the narrative of an epic rivalry, in her heart she hadn’t been able to help resent the way Shane has been made to share the spotlight he has fought so incredibly hard to even be allowed in.

As a mother, she is allowed to be irrational about anyone who takes away from the recognition her son works so hard for.

Still.

Standing in front of the hotel’s elevator, on her way to meet David in the lobby for dinner, there is something oddly awkward about the way Rozanov is staring back at her, not only like he didn’t expect to see her – and why would he have – but something almost flustered about the way he is leaning against the back wall of the elevator, seemingly frozen. Absently she thinks that this is the first time she’s never seen him look anything other than entirely self-assured. Cocky is the word she usually associates with this particular Russian.

Instead, seeing him now, he somehow looks younger. Not just young for a hockey player. Just young. A kid. No older than her own son. Just a kid, just like Shane.

It is with that realization in mind that she finds herself stepping forward. “Yuna Hollander,” she introduces herself, offering her hand for a proper greeting. Because they may have seen each other a several times at this point – at the draft and the celebration afterwards, during various press events and during the shoot earlier – but they have never quite been introduced.

In the harsh light of the elevator, Rozanov looks startled, watching her offer a hand in greeting. There is a brief delay before he moves, unexpectedly graceless as he hastily pushes off the back wall of the elevator to meet her somewhat halfway.

His hand is huge as it wraps around hers, larger even than Shane’s, his grip warm, firm, not too tight in the way of some men wanting to prove their superiority but not too soft in the way of some men who think women are too weak or not worth a real grip.

“Ilya Rozanov,” he returns the introduction, right back to looking strangely awkward, like he is uncertain whether it would be more insulting to assume she doesn’t know his name or to assume she does.

Just a kid, her mind interjects again.

But it is that moment of delay that also has her miss the soft whooshing of the elevator doors closing. As in, closing behind her. With her still very much inside the same elevator as Rozanov despite it going the wrong way. She turns quickly, aiming to step out once more or at least halt the ascent, but finds herself faced with the gleaming doors and the familiar swooping sensation of the elevator starting to rise.

Damn, she thinks, feeling somewhat caught out.

“I’ll just-,” she says, gesturing before she pushes the button for the lobby. Despite her recent realizations about Rozanov, she isn’t particularly excited about having to share the elevator with him to whatever floor he’s aiming for, but it would be unnecessarily rude to get off at an earlier floor now that she’s already on this one.

 “Of course,” he returns, his accent heavy.

Not just a kid, she thinks. But a kid halfway around the world from home, trying to find his footing in an unfamiliar country while speaking a language not his own.

Awkward silence settles between them only briefly. Yuna thankfully has more than enough practice making smalltalk with people she doesn’t necessarily have much interest in talking to. “The shoot went well,” she says, already grasping around in her head for any sort of follow-up to fill the silence.

Thankfully, Rozanov takes the thread of almost-conversation and nods immediately, looking a little startled but mainly relieved at having the silence broken. “Yes.” Another pause. Then, carefully, haltingly. “Photographer seemed happy.”

Yuna nods, ignoring his stilted use of English. “The executives as well,” she agrees. Then, she laughs a little. “Then again, they should be, considering the amount of money they’re going to make off this campaign.”

At that Rozanov smiles. It’s small and dry, but he looks honestly amused. It is also enough to light him up in a way that has Yuna suddenly understanding where he gets his reputation as a charmer from. It also serves to emphasize just how very different he is from her son, Rozanov’s effortless charm contrasting Shane’s quiet severity. It is somewhat vexing to consider, but Yuna knows that Rozanov will be having a much easier time than Shane when it comes to fitting in with other players and hockey culture in general, due to his looks as well as due to his temperament.

However, for the first time since the league started talking about Hollander-and-Rozanov, she also finds herself thinking of the similarities between them, their age, their talent, some of their demeanor, like the way they hold themselves, tall and broad-shouldered but something in the way Rozanov is curling his back and shoulders inwards familiar, as though trying to make himself less tall, less intimidating, at least around her. She has watched enough of Rozanov’s tapes to know he holds himself very differently on the ice.

She takes her chance to look at him, really look.

The expensive leather jacket over a simple muscle shirt. The gold chain gleaming around his neck. The carefully styled mess of blonde curls. It is clear that he is already careful about presenting an image, to look exactly as everyone expects him to. Still, to her he looks less like a superstar athlete and more like a kid trying to fit himself to the expectations of an industry largely made up of small men with large egos and little to actually bring to the table.

Just a kid far away from home, she reminds herself.

She decides to push aside whatever lingering misgivings she might have about him for the moment and lets herself smiles back. “At least the two of you are getting compensated handsomely for it. And the better the ads do, the more you’ll be making off CCM in return.” She can’t imagine Rozanov’s agent doing any differently than her in making sure that Shane gets a piece of every single dollar his participation will generate for CCM or any of his other sponsors. Admittedly, part of her, the part that always tends to think in comparisons and stats and numbers almost wants to ask what CCM paid Rozanov. It’s absolutely not her place, so she won’t, but the temptation is there.

However, it is her lingering attention on Rozanov, that has her notice his slightly confused reaction to her previous statement, just the slightest of head tilts as though trying to parse her words.

Ah, she forgot to keep her English maybe a little simpler than she might usually. “I’m sure they are paying you well for joining the campaign on such short notice.”

There is still something hesitant in the tilt of his head, before he nods slowly, eyes on her, focused and still slightly questioning, although she doesn’t know how to phrase it any more simply without resorting to ‘they gave you lots of money, right?’.

“Their first offer was insulting,” she finds herself adding, if only to fill the ensuing silence.

She watches his eyebrows rise on his forehead. “Insulting.”

She nods, “They expected Shane to sign on for almost nothing, acting like being in this campaign would be some sort of honor for him and the included compensation a kind gesture on CCM’s part.” She might be ranting a little, but she is still so very pissed at the audacity of that one exec acting as though Shane should be grateful for the chance of making CCM more money. The word ‘opportunity’ had been used way too many times during that initial ten minute conversation – and she doesn’t even want to think about how often she’s heard the word ‘diversity’ since Shane was drafted – before Yuna shut them down entirely. “Did they try that with your agent as well?” she asks Rozanov, if only to mask her embarrassment at ranting about her unresolved irritation to a teenager.

The elevator stops briefly at another floor. No one enters and neither of them moves.

The doors close again, the elevator continuing to rise.

Rozanov is frowning. There is confusion in his expression, as well as a certain amount of hesitation, maybe even embarrassment.

In a moment of unexpected clarity, Yuna realizes that his hesitation might be less about him not understanding what she said and more about what she has been saying. But surely his deal is similar to Shane’s, a decent signing bonus, all expenses covered for the shoot and future events, some hefty royalties depending on how well the ads do, more CCM gear than even Shane will be able to make use of, a clause for renegotiation in case CCM wants to extend running the ads beyond the initially agreed upon two years… Right?

“How much are they paying you?”

The words are out of her mouth before she makes the conscious decision to ask. It’s not a question she should be asking anyone, much less a teenager who owes her nothing, who has no connection to her, and who has absolutely no reason to trust her. Maybe it’s the lingering realization of his age or maybe the similarities between him and Shane still occupying her mind that has her treat him more as she would her own son than she admittedly should.

Several seconds pass, Rozanov looking somewhat uncomfortable, but there is also something sharp in his gaze. As is perfectly reasonable, considering that Yuna is beyond overstepping. She is already opening her mouth to take back her question and apologize, when Rozanov finally speaks.

The number he gives has her blinking.

That can’t be right.

“I’m sorry?” she asks, entirely taken aback. Because, surely she misheard.

Rozanov repeats the same number, something stubborn in his expression as she continues to stare at him.

But- That’s not just lower than Shane. That’s catastrophically lower. That’s less than CCM initially offered Shane. That’s barely more than 10% of what Shane finally signed on to the campaign for.

She absently notes the elevator dinging, doors opening but neither of them moving, despite the glowing button previously glowing on the panel identifying this as the floor Rozanov had been aiming for. The doors close again and the elevator begins to descend this time.

Yuna is still staring. Dear god, Rozanov is being robbed. Either by CCM or by his agent or by whoever else managed to weasel their way into the line of people with open palms but little use overall that regrettably come with a lucrative industry like hockey.

Neither of them speaks for a few moments, even as his eyes remain focused on her. Yuna can tell from the clench of Rozanov’s jaw that he is embarrassed, likely at the realization that he’s being taken. Absently Yuna wants to applaud him for ignoring his momentary embarrassment, in order to get insight on his own worth on the market from an outsider by watching her reaction. She has absolutely nothing to gain from overselling his value after all. Smart kid, she thinks.

Although, most of her brain is still circling around the number he just gave her.

Who the fuck is Rozanov’s agent to undersell him this badly?

Because setting a precedent like this is dangerous. Sure, contracts are supposed to remain undisclosed but people in the industry talk. Letting Rozanov sign anything that far below his value is going to make every single future negotiation all the harder as any brand will try to get a similar deal and use this one as leverage. Even more, luxury brands don’t sponsor athletes for cheap, more interested in maintaining their brand than saving money on a sponsorship. An athlete known for taking cheap contracts is never going to get any serious offers from the high-end sort of brands that can make up a major part of a top athlete’s overall income.

Yuna knows she should stop, knows it isn’t her place to butt in on Rozanov’s business, but this whole thing is so atrocious she can’t help herself. “Your agent advised you to sign for that?” Because someone is horrifically mismanaging Rozanov, to an almost ruinous degree.

Rozanov is back to looking neutral even though Yuna is sure the embarrassment of earlier still lingers beneath his mask. “It is good opportunity.”

That damn word again. “No,” she says, the protest almost automatic.

His eyebrows jump up. “No?”

“No,” she reiterates firmly, the word coming out sharper than she maybe intended.

Just a kid far away from home, she reminds herself.

“Ilya,” she says, because they can always go back to last names once the season starts and he actually starts playing for a rival team from Shane. For now, he is just a kid being taken by an industry that will gut him like fish if no one tells him where the lines are. He looks so startled at the use of his first name it almost makes her smile. “That isn’t a good contract.”

Instantly, his expression turns guarded, almost defensive, once more. “I am rookie.”

“So is Shane.”

“Different market,” he argues. “Different-,” he cuts himself off, clearly searching for a word and looking frustrated at not being able to find it in English. She can’t even imagine what it must be like, having to communicate in a foreign language while navigating unfamiliar, unspoken customs in a country not his own, trying to enter an industry that happily exploits anyone who doesn’t understand the rules, while being entirely on his own – as far as she can tell – instead surrounded by people mostly interested in making as much money off him as they can.

Did anyone even bother to properly translate whatever contract they had him sign for this atrocious deal? Good god, she hopes at least his contract with Boston was negotiated by someone reasonably competent and that he isn’t being screwed over on that end as well.

Because, suddenly, she can’t help but imagine Shane in his place. What would have happened if Shane had entered professional sports without unquestionably reliable support, much less in a different country while speaking a foreign language? What if he hadn’t had someone who was willing and aware enough to ask difficult questions or to tell self-important executives no accompanying him to every negotiation? The answer she comes up with isn’t pleasant and in that softest part of her heart – where her son resides and where he will forever remain her sweet baby boy no matter that he grew taller than her several years ago and outweighs her by nearly her entire weight nowadays, where she acknowledges to herself that he is far too sweet for a sport that consists in large parts of physical and verbal violence – she can’t help but soften towards this boy who is her son’s age, who is just as tall, just as built, just as in-demand, but entirely alone as far as she can tell.

“Not that different,” Yuna interjects gently. Because, no matter which word he is searching for, when it comes to their value to the league, Rozanov and Shane really aren’t that different. A fact that had been irking her just earlier today but which suddenly seems important to impress upon him.

But, going by the clench of his jaw, she might also have exceeded what Rozanov is willing to allow from a complete outsider.

Sure, Yuna almost wants to keep pressing, wants to know who negotiated a contract this bad for someone who could be worth about ten times that – as Shane’s contract proves. On the other hand, it’s absolutely none of her business and she doesn’t want to make Ilya – Rozanov, whatever – feel like she is insulting him or making fun of him or, god forbid, pitying him.

Although she can’t quite help herself in wanting to at least point him in the right direction for the future, pushed by today’s unexpected realizations and the hopeful thought that someone else might have been kind enough to do so for Shane if he had been in a similar situation. “I do not want to overstep, but it might be worth requesting your agent show you some comparable contracts in the future before advising you on what to sign.” There. That is the nicest possible way she can call Ilya’s agent either incompetent or a thief.

She stops herself from adding on the deluge of things he should also keep an eye out for – like licensing percentages and likeness rights and milestone bonuses and equipment royalties. It’s something she made sure Shane knew before he ever signed his first contract. Of course Shane can never do anything halfway, so he then also took a two-semester course in business and another in business law, so now the two of them can actually argue the finer points of any contracts she and his agent negotiate for him.

Rozanov is nodding slowly, eyes still on her. He doesn’t necessarily look grateful for her interjection but there also isn’t even a hint of accusation in his expression, like it doesn’t even occur to him she might have ulterior motives for helping him. Then again, she really has nothing to gain from convincing her son’s designated rival that he is worth more than the people around him have apparently been telling him.

Still, when the elevator dings again, she is glad to realize they have finally reached the lobby. To her amusement, Rozanov looks equally relieved, some of his posture loosening, quite likely at the thought of getting rid of her. Then again, Rozanov could have escaped her by getting off the elevator earlier when they reached whatever floor his room is on. He didn’t, so he must have considered what she had to say worth his time.

The doors slide open and Yuna steps forward, although she turns to linger between the doors for a moment.

“Ilya,” she says.

This time he doesn’t look quite so taken aback by her using his first name. “Yes?”

“There are some very good sport management firms in the US.” She doesn’t want to tell him point blank to fire his agent but if he at least finds himself a good manager they’ll likely rip his agent to pieces for screwing Ilya over this badly. “I still have some contacts there, so let me know if you ever need a recommendation.”

He blinks at her, somehow looking more startled at the offer than at anything else she has said to him so far.

“Why?” he asks, not quite suspiciously but also not too far from it either.

Because you’re a kid, Yuna thinks. Because somebody should be looking out for you. Because apparently you’re alone and it’s breaking my heart to imagine my own child in your place.

Instead, she says what she avoided declaring outright before, “Because your agent is either incompetent or robbing you. It bothers me on a professional level.” Because it does.

A moment of silence. Then, he bursts out laughing, his entire face lighting up in hilarity, likely at her blunt words.

She smiles back, finally stepping out from between the elevator doors.

“Thank you,” he says, just as the doors begin closing between them. But he somehow looks more settled than he had for their entire conversation, almost like these last few moments have answered some sort of essential question for him, although she cannot imagine which one.

Yuna stands there for several moments, watching the little number indicator above the doors climb.

“Everything okay?” David’s voice from behind her is a welcome distraction. She smiles at her husband as she finally turns away from the gleaming doors, pushing the strange encounter from her mind to maybe consider later.

“I think so,” she replies. Then, “Dinner? I’m really feeling like Indian tonight.”

He smiles back, always happy to anticipate anything she might want. “I thought so. I think I saw just the place earlier.”