Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Deaf Character, Shane Hollander is Deaf, Alternate Universe

Language:

English

Collections:

Anonymous

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-27 Updated: 2026-07-12 Words: 6,728 Chapters: 3/?

Parity

Summary

Parity: the state or condition of being equal, equivalent, or evenly matched.

Despite his enormous talent, Shane doesn't get the same opportunities Ilya does, so he doesn't end up on one of the league's best teams. But even though they don't become the league's most famous rivals, Ilya and Shane still find themselves drawn to each other.

 
Notes on Deafness:
Shane and his family speak American Sign Language (as is common in Canada). In this story, ASL is treated like any other language—when people who are fluent are speaking it, it will read like any other language. Shane has been deaf since birth, and his English is not perfect (as is common for many Deaf individuals). Shane's worldview and some of the particulars of his experience are based on real-life Deaf individuals, but he is not meant to represent every Deaf person.

Notes on hockey:
I know this isn't exactly how the draft works. And there will probably be hockey mistakes in here too. I fear I must wave my magic wand and ask you to pretend it makes sense.

Chapter 1

December 2008 - Regina

Ilya was standing outside in the freezing Canadian winter, having finally managed to light his cigarette, when none other than Shane Hollander wandered around the corner, coming straight towards him.

He didn't know much about him personally, apart from his name, but he was plenty aware of his hockey game. He'd been at all the practices, watching the prospects—his competition—and Hollander was definitely at the top. Not only was he incredibly fast and accurate, but he seemed to have really good intuition when it came to the flow of the game. "High hockey IQ," they called it.

Whatever. Ilya was sure he could beat him. Hollander would probably be the number two draft pick, though.

Because Ilya would be number one.

He watched Hollander approach, immediately clocking the way he glanced at his cigarette. Ilya was sure he was going to say something about it, but instead he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper, offering it to him.

Ilya looked down at the paper, grateful that English was slightly easier to read than it was to listen to. He still wasn't great at it yet, but at least written words didn't come with the stupid accents everyone had that made spoken words harder to identify.

"Hey, I'm Shane Hollander," it read. "I just wanted to tell you that you're an awesome player to watch."

He read it over twice to make sure he got it, and when he looked back up Hollander was smiling shyly at him. This close, Ilya could see a light dusting of freckles over the bridge of his nose.

He took a drag of his cigarette then paused to blow the smoke in the opposite direction. "Okay."

He wasn't sure what kind of bullshit psychological tactic this was supposed to be, but if Hollander thought a little compliment paper was going to throw him off his game, he was sorely mistaken.

Even if he was cute with his stupid little freckles and flushed cheeks.

Hollander nodded at him, and then turned, putting his back to the arena wall as he stood with his hands in his pockets as if he were admiring the view of the frozen Canadian parking lot.

He must not get out much, Ilya decided.

After a few minutes, he turned towards him again and waved, and then headed back the way he'd come.

Ilya doubted he'd be as nice once his team lost to Russia.

Sure enough, after Russia beat Canada, and the teams lined up at the end of the game to shake each other's hands, Hollander only responded with a vague half-smile and a nod to Ilya's "see you at the draft."

June 2009 - Los Angeles

Despite his father's wishes, Ilya's goal had always been to make it to the NHL. So even though he spent the majority of his time either on the ice or in the gym, he still dedicated what time he could spare to improving his English. Of course, once he was on a team, living somewhere in America or Canada, he'd have more opportunities to practice the language.

He couldn't say that he was much better than he'd been six months ago, but he'd thought he at least knew enough to get by.

At least he'd thought his English was good enough to understand most of what was going on around him… until the draft.

The draft made no fucking sense at all. He had to have missed something.

He'd been first pick, of course. That much made sense. But then Hollander hadn't been called second. Or third. Or fourth.

Now he was sitting on the side of the room in his new Montreal Metros jersey, trying to figure out what the hell was going on because Hollander was in the audience with his parents, but his name hadn't been fucking called.

Detroit was up for seventh pick when they announced a trade. Ottawa was giving Detroit their second round pick so they could swap places in the first round. 

Then Ottawa called up Hollander.

In what fucking world did someone who was obviously the second-best player in the room get called for the seventh pick? It didn't make any sense.

He watched, completely confused, as Hollander took the stage, shaking hands and smiling softly as he was handed a new jersey.

Hollander, potentially his most dangerous rival in the room, was going to play for fucking Ottawa—a team that hadn't made it to the playoffs in recent memory.

He must've been broadcasting his confusion all over his face because Montreal's assistant manager suddenly leaned towards him, speaking quietly.

"Shame to see that talent go to waste. We might've taken him in the second round if we hadn't traded our second round pick to get you. Kid's got talent… teams are a little nervous about his issues, though. They're all going with safer bets."

Fucking English—nothing the man was saying made any sense to him. He nodded though, because he didn't want to admit that he had no clue what it all meant.

Later that evening, he let his eyes roam the room as he was standing there waiting for his father to finish telling his new boss how lazy he was. He caught sight of Hollander standing between his parents, eyes roaming the crowd while his mother spoke to what he presumed was a representative from Ottawa. 

Hollander's eyes found his suddenly, and the corner of his mouth tipped up.

"Right, Ilya?" his father said.

"Yes." He immediately nodded, focusing back on the conversation he'd been ignoring. It didn't even matter what his father had said, the only option he ever had was agreement.

By the time he looked again, Hollander was gone.

When Ilya was still too wired to sleep after the clock passed midnight that night, he decided to go down to the hotel's basement gym to tire himself out.

To his delight, Hollander was already on one of the stationary bikes when he got there, but no one else was in the room. He took the bike beside him, immediately starting at a pace just a little faster than Hollander's.

With a tiny smirk in his direction, Hollander increased his own pace, and the race began as they each pushed to see who was faster, and who could hold out longer.

Fuck, he loved a good competition.

Just before Ilya reached his limit, Hollander gave in, stopping his bike and stumbling to the wall where he sank down, stretching his legs in front of him.

Ilya only kept going for another few seconds, just to prove that he could, before stopping his own bike and going over to sit opposite him, their feet almost touching.

"What a fucking day, huh?" Hollander was gorgeous, sitting across from him all sweaty and out of breath.

Instead of replying, he waved his hand in some kind of gesture, then held up a single finger, shifting to dig into the pocket of his shorts.

Ilya watched curiously as he brought out a phone, and pushed the screen up to reveal a tiny keyboard. He typed for a second, and then held the phone out for him to see the screen.

"Im deaf," the text said. "What you say?"

Ilya blinked stupidly at the message for what was probably half a second, but it felt much longer in his head. He'd never heard of a hockey player being deaf.

He plucked the phone out of Hollander's hand and typed his own message in reply. "I said what a fucking day."

When Hollander saw the message he snorted then nodded at him, taking his phone back.

Ilya took a drink from the water bottle he'd brought with him, trying to decide what to do next. Before he could figure it out, he noticed Hollander watching him and realized that he hadn't brought his own water with him.

He held out his bottle, raising his eyebrows in invitation.

Hollander shook his head, waving off the bottle like he didn't need it. Like he wasn't sitting there pouring sweat after having just biked probably faster than he had in his entire life.

Stubbornly, he kept his arm stretched out, shaking the bottle in Hollander's direction until he relented and took it, tipping his head back to squirt some into his mouth.

He made sure their hands brushed when Hollander returned the bottle to him and Ilya watched his reaction, quietly satisfied to see what he was sure was a spark of interest in Hollander's eyes.

December 2009 - Ottawa

Ilya sat alone in his hotel room, watching the clock tick closer to midnight while his teammates continued their celebration down the hall. After tiring of the party earlier, he'd taken a casual lap around the hotel, checking out the gym as well as the seating area down near the lobby in case a certain Canadian happened to be staying in the same hotel as him this time around.

No luck. Either he wasn't staying in this hotel, or he was safely tucked away in his room somewhere.

Of course, he supposed it was also possible that Hollander's parents still had a home somewhere in Ottawa. Maybe they were staying there for his last World Junior Championships.

Almost against his will, Ilya had found himself fascinated with Hollander in the six months since the draft. He told himself that it had nothing to do with his freckles or his stupid little half-smile. It was just because he wanted to know what the fuck was going on with his career… if there was some real reason why so many teams had passed on someone who very clearly had talent. It couldn't just be the deaf thing—half the time during games it was too fucking loud to hear what anyone was saying anyway.

So he'd done some research. Even though Hollander had been born in Ottawa, most sports articles listed him as being from Toronto. He'd eventually found a human interest story detailing how the Hollander family had been living in Ottawa when their son was born, but when they'd realized he was deaf, they'd moved to Toronto because apparently the Deaf community was bigger there and his parents had wanted to be closer to more resources and some special school they wanted to send him to.

It was both confusing and disappointing how incomplete the coverage of Hollander was. It was as if no one had seen him play. The sports outlets tended to give him very minimal coverage, as if he was just one player among many hopefuls trying to make it to the NHL. As if he wasn't one of the best fucking players they'd seen in decades.

The only two community articles he'd found had been about nearly everything but hockey. The first had been the piece about the Hollander family moving cities to give their son more opportunities—the focus of that one had been about the importance of accessible language for young deaf children. And the other had been a short "Congratulations, Shane!" post from the school Hollander had attended, listing his participation at last year's World Junior Championship in the same way they might talk about a child going to a local spelling bee.

The general lack of excitement about Hollander's talent was almost enough to make Ilya wonder if he'd just imagined that he was several times better than any other player he'd faced on the ice. 

Though that doubt was put to rest when Russia finally faced Canada again in the Championship two days later. Shane was breathtaking.

And unlike last year, Canada beat them, winning the Championship back from Russia.

But this time Ilya had come prepared. 

He waited in the dim hallway between the two locker rooms, leaning casually against the wall with his feet crossed. 

When Hollander emerged from the Canadian locker room he tipped his head up in greeting and then reached into his pocket and offered him the note he'd written in his room the night before.

On a piece of hotel stationary he'd written, "Two best players in league should have each others numbers, yes?" Then he'd left his phone number scrawled beneath.

Hollander unfolded it immediately, scanned it, and then dug into his own pocket for his phone. He saved Ilya's number into his contacts and then texted him.

"Who I give my number to then?"

Once Ilya read the message he gasped dramatically, laying a hand over his heart and pretending to wilt back against the wall, gratified to see that it made Hollander smile.

He texted back, "how dare you. this is my villain origin story. I will be a terror now and it will be your fault."

Hollander texted back. "I see you play. Already a terror."

Ilya smiled. He had a feeling that he was going to enjoy texting Hollander.

Chapter 2

As soon as he opened the passenger door, his mom closed her laptop, set it in the back seat, then turned toward him and signed, "Everything okay? You took longer than I expected."

He was usually pretty quick after games. She'd always tell him that she'd barely had the time to read through her emails before he'd show up showered and ready to go. 

"Fine," he answered, hoping he wasn't blushing. "One of the players wanted to exchange numbers so we had a little chat."

"Really? Which player?"

"Rozanov." He knew she'd know immediately who he was talking about. She'd been with him in the stands last year when he'd been studying his game. She was the one who'd encouraged him to find him and say hi and had helped him make sure the note made sense.

Not to mention the fact that he'd been drafted to her favorite team.

Though he'd never told her how good-looking he thought the Russian player was.

Or how much those thoughts had made him question why he'd never noticed a girl that way.

"That's nice. What did he say?"

"He thinks we should keep in touch because we're the two best players in the league." Of course, Shane was about 95% sure that he'd meant the youth championship league because there was no way to know yet how either of them would stack up against experienced NHL players.

His mom smiled and Shane couldn't tell if she was amused because she agreed with Rozanov, or because she thought it was a joke.

"He's not wrong. But you're better than he is."

Shane rolled his eyes. Even after years of playing, he didn't know if his mom genuinely believed that her son was the Best Player Ever, or if she just felt like she had to be aggressively encouraging all the time for some reason. 

It wasn't like he'd ever needed the encouragement. He played hockey because he loved it. He loved playing, and he loved watching good players.

"Whatever," he answered. "Let's go."

As they pulled out of the arena parking lot, his mom nudged his shoulder and he turned to look at her again.

"You excited to come back and live here in August?"

Shane shrugged. "Yeah." He was excited to start playing for the NHL, sure, but he didn't particularly care one way or the other which city he was in. He supposed he was glad that he'd been picked by a team that was close enough that his parents could visit sometimes—it was definitely better than being somewhere in the Western Conference or something.

"Just wait. When your rookie contract is up in three years other teams will be begging for you. We'll be able to get you out of Ottawa and into a team that actually has a chance at making the playoffs. Maybe even Montreal."

"What happened to team loyalty?"

"Loyalty is important. I just don't want you stuck with a team that's holding you back."

He sighed and turned to stare out the window. He felt lucky to be chosen by Ottawa even knowing that it was highly unlikely they'd ever win a cup. He knew what some of the other teams were saying about him. They thought he was good, but not so good that they wanted to take a chance on him. He was glad that Ottawa had taken him in the first round—at least now he'd probably get to play. He'd known that if he didn't get picked in round one, he'd end up being a second-round pick for some elite team that would never let him on the ice.

Unless the people in Ottawa turned out to be complete assholes, he had no intention of jumping ship as soon as his contract was up. He fully intended to show them all that he was the kind of player they'd regret passing up the chance to work with.

And once they did decide they were ready to take a chance on him, he was going to enjoy turning them all down.

Right after he'd flipped his bedside light off in the hotel that night, his phone lit up with a message.

"you still on your way to toronto? is long drive, yes?"

"no, we stopped hour away from arena to sleep. will drive more tomorrow."

"ah. I'm in hotel next to arena with team. we fly back tomorrow."

"I will arrive Toronto before you arrive Russia."

"yes. then six more months! can't wait to start in montreal."

Shane paused, trying to decide how he wanted to answer. He wasn't sure that he felt quite the same level of enthusiasm about moving to a new city, but he was excited to start playing professionally. Before he could figure out how to express that, his phone lit up with a new message.

"sorry, my english isn't good yet. texting you will make me better, i think."

As soon as he read the message he chuckled, eyebrows lifting in surprise. "I think your English better than mine. I can't help you any!"

"really? what is your first language? japanese? for your mama?"

"no. sign language. hard to learn speaking language when can't hear. grow up with sign. I learn english in school."

"wow. so soon maybe I will be teaching you english."

Shane smiled, his chest warming at the thought of he and Rozanov texting that long. He hadn't been sure what to think when they'd exchanged numbers. He figured they'd at least keep in touch until they started playing, but he kinda liked the idea that they might actually become friends and keep talking even after.

"good with me." 

July 2010 - Toronto

He was getting ready for bed the night before his first CCM shoot when Rozanov texted.

So far they'd been keeping in touch since exchanging numbers. Rozanov really seemed to like having someone to chirp at who was just a text away. 

"you staying at hotel tonight for shoot tomorrow?"

"No, live in Toronto. Im home."

"what?? still?? you moving to ottawa before season starts or what?"

"Of course. But rookie camp next month. Plenty of time."

He remembered from a previous conversation they'd had one night that Rozanov had already moved to Montreal in order to get himself settled. Though he supposed it made sense—he was coming from a whole other country. Shane was already familiar enough with the Ottawa area that he didn't feel like he needed a lot of time to settle in.

"this your first ad? you nervous?"

"No, did campaign for Phonak. Not nervous, just skate around while they film."

"what the fuck is a phonak?!?"

"Hearing aid company."

"so close ups of your ears? do you wear them? i didn't see any before"

"I have, but don't always wear. Only need for loud noises. Big enough behind ears without closeup."

"sounds boring"

Rozanov got to see the hearing aids in person when he showed up the next morning to film, though he didn't mention them. Shane hadn't wanted to bring them because he sure as hell never skated with them on, but his mom thought he should get used to wearing them whenever he left the house since he was a 'Phonak Ambassador' now. Not that anyone else would notice. He was pretty sure the only place his Phonak ad would be seen was in audiologists' waiting rooms.

He entered the locker room and started changing from his street clothes into the gear they wanted him in for the photo shoot. He saw Rozanov enter out of the corner of his eye, and he thought he might've said something, but he didn't know what until his phone buzzed in his pocket.

"you will look very pretty today in makeup they will use"

Shane rolled his eyes, turning off his hearing aids and stuffing them into his case before texting, "They make you wear makeup too."

He tossed his case into the locker along with his shoes and then his phone buzzed again. Twice.

"yes but you will be pretty in makeup. i am just regular sexy." and "how will you talk to photo people today? text?"

"Interpreter. My mom called one for today."

"oh good. i thought you give phone number to everyone you meet. good to know i am special 😘"

Shane gave Rozanov a flat look, hoping he wasn't blushing. He locked his phone and tucked it into a pocket before following him out of the locker room.

The shoot went about how Shane had expected. They skated around, and they posed for photos both separately, and together. For the ones they did together, they did a couple cheesy ones with them standing back-to-back. Apparently the theme was going to be something about hockey being 'the language everyone speaks.'

As they walked back towards the showers after the shoot was over, Shane's phone buzzed again.

"haa! ad is for hockey gear for people who are bad at english. i love it."

Shane looked over and made a face at him before grabbing his towel to hit the showers.

Showering at the same time was a huge mistake, Shane realized too late. As much as he tried to keep his eyes to himself, they were inevitably drawn to Rozanov's broad shoulders, muscular chest and… fuck, he forced his eyes closed, tilting his head up to rinse the shampoo out of his hair.

Then he glanced over again without meaning to, and found the Russian looking back at him, his eyes roaming Shane's body shamelessly. When their eyes met, he gave him a little smile, lifting his eyebrows in… invitation?

It couldn't be.

Shane shut the water off and grabbed his towel, heading straight back to the lockers to get dressed.

He was sitting there pulling on his socks when Rozanov wandered over, a towel wrapped low around his waist. He must've stopped by his locker because he had his phone in his hand. He typed something that buzzed through to Shane's phone.

"let me show you my hotel room. i promise a good view."

Shane looked up from his phone, then got momentarily distracted by a single drop of water that was making its way down Rozanov's abs.

He felt his face heating and looked back down at his phone. 

"When?"

"now. we are done here anyway."

He swallowed then typed, "Hotel and room number? Meet you there."

When his phone buzzed he saw the name of the hotel—it was the one right across the street—and the room number.

He sent a text to his mom, letting her know that the shoot was over and that he was going to grab lunch with Rozanov, and then set his phone down to finish getting dressed.

Rozanov was gone by the time he was done, so he left his car in the arena lot and walked across the street, wondering the whole time if he was really going to do this.

By the time he got to the hotel, he'd convinced himself that he could go in and they could talk about this… whatever it was… happening between them.

He texted that he was at the door and Rozanov immediately opened it.

Almost before he knew what was happening, their mouths were crashing together and Shane was suddenly, overwhelmingly into it in a way he'd never been into anything before.

Soon, he'd lost his shirt and Rozanov had lost his and all he wanted to do was get his mouth on him. He put his hands on the zipper that was standing between him and what he wanted, and looked up at Rozanov with a question in his eyes.

Rozanov grabbed his phone out of his pocket and texted something then showed him the screen instead of sending it. 

"have you ever? with a guy?"

Shane shook his head then pointed at Rozanov's chest, lifting his eyebrows.

Rozanov nodded.

So he had experience with guys. Good to know, Shane supposed. He put his hands back on the zipper and looked up, waiting for Rozanov to nod.

As soon as he did, Shane sank to his knees.

He was really getting into it when he felt tugging on his arms. He released Rozanov and stood, wondering if he'd been doing something wrong, only to see him typing away on his phone.

He held it up. "too good. will come too soon. lets get on bed."

Rozanov kicked off his pants and underwear that had been around his ankles, then tugged meaningfully at Shane's pants before going to lay back on the bed.

Shane grabbed his shirt off the floor then removed his pants, taking a second to fold them both and lay them on the dresser so they wouldn't get too wrinkled. When he looked up, Rozanov was smiling and gesturing for his underwear to be removed too.

They'd already seen each other naked in the showers, so Shane went ahead and slid his underwear off, laying them next to the other clothes before climbing onto the bed. He laid his hand on Rozanov's thigh, moving it up slowly while looking at his face to see if it was still okay.

Rozanov quickly nodded, and as Shane leaned in to take him into his mouth again, he felt a hand on the back of his head, and that was all the encouragement he needed.

By the time he left that afternoon, both of them had come and Shane was more convinced than ever that he was absolutely more into guys than he'd ever been into girls.

Or maybe he was just into Rozanov.

Once he got home he showered again, then went to the kitchen to get something to eat.

His mom was there pouring herself a glass of tea. "I thought you had lunch with Rozanov?"

Shane shrugged, hoping his blush would be taken for embarrassment about wanting more food and not about being caught having skipped lunch to get off with a fellow hockey player. 

"Still hungry."

His mom only smiled and shook her head, so he figured it was fine.

Chapter 3

September 2010 - Ottawa 

Shane was sitting on his couch in his new apartment in Ottawa watching SportCenter like he did nearly every morning, when Rozanov's face came on the screen. He looked sweaty… like he'd been skating hard and had just come off the ice.

He looked really good.

So good, in fact, that it took Shane a minute to realize that while he'd been staring at his face, he'd neglected to read the captions along the bottom of the screen. He finally paid attention and saw what must have been the answer to a question someone had asked.

"I will score fifty goals by end of February."

Shane smirked. Rozanov never failed to entertain. It didn't hurt that he was the kind of player who could back up his bragging with actual results. For a second, he wished that he'd been selected for a team that was a little more likely to make it to the playoffs. If he had, he might've given Rozanov a run for his money. Even though the Centaurs had him playing as a first-line winger, he'd never see the puck enough to keep up in any kind of scoring race.

Still, he was pretty happy with Ottawa so far. The coach was a little on the older side, but he was nice. And the guys hadn't acted like learning a couple basic signals to communicate with him on the ice was a huge burden, either. Plus, they'd all been pretty good about learning to look at him instead of his interpreter whenever they had team meetings.

Rozanov texted him later that day.

"you see what i said on sportscenter???"

"Yes. almost shock those reporters dead."

"😂 they will be more shocked when it really happens"

"in couple months, no one will be shocked"

It wasn't even a compliment—it was just the truth. There was no reason to downplay Rozanov's skill. He was still an amazing player to watch, and he'd landed himself on a team that knew how to use him, and had the roster to back him up.

And even though Ottawa and Montreal were technically rivals, it wasn't as if Ottawa could really compete. They had a good group of guys, sure, but they just hadn't been able to attract the kind of talent to the team that they needed to win against the better teams in the league. Unfortunately, winning attracted the best players, which led to more winning. Ottawa and been on a losing spiral for a while now, which wasn't exactly attractive to top talent.

Obviously, Shane knew that he couldn't turn the team around by himself. Still, he figured that if he stuck with it and consistently played well, maybe a really good player or two would give them a shot. Eventually, they'd build an amazing team, one player at a time.

A couple weeks later, Ottawa and Boston were finally about to have their first face-off of the season. His parents had driven out from Toronto for the game, and had decided to take him out to lunch before he had to get to the arena.

"Shane, why aren't you wearing your hearing aids?"

At least she'd waited until they had the food to start in on him. He took a bite of his salmon, signing with one hand. "I'm going straight to the arena. I don't wear them when I play."

"But you could wear them to the arena. Just take them off when you get dressed."

"No one is going to see me or care one way or the other. Phonak isn't going to send spies to see if I'm wearing them."

"It's not just about Phonak, it's about being a good example. Young hockey fans should see you wearing them. Maybe you'll encourage them to wear theirs too."

Shane sighed and took another bite of his food. He loved his mother, and he knew she meant well, but he'd never been able to explain to her how annoying hearing aids could be. Yes, they helped him hear loud noises, but he generally used his eyes to detect important changes in his environment. Hearing aids were uncomfortable after a while—and in places that actually were loud, they were overstimulating as fuck.

Of course, his hearing mother couldn't understand why he wouldn't want to hear everything he possibly could.

Thankfully, his dad broke in with a question about the team and suddenly they were discussing hockey and the upcoming game. 

Ilya leaned into his stretch, noting the difference in the crowd as he glanced around the arena. Montreal always had a packed house, but tonight Ottawa was only maybe half-full. 

He'd been watching their games this season, and he desperately hoped that he'd get to face Hollander on the ice tonight. He knew that the Centaurs had him on first line, but they were also notoriously bad at keeping up with him, and there was only so much a single player could do to win a game.

Coach Theriault had made it clear to the team that he'd be giving his first line less play time tonight so the others could get some experience against what everyone knew would be an easy team to beat.

Though that strategy abruptly changed when Hollander stole the puck right after the first face-off and immediately made a goal six seconds into the game. The Metros' backup goalie was good—a veteran player with plenty of saves under his belt—but Hollander's goal had shot by so fast that he hadn't even had time to react.

"Fuck…" Ilya muttered to himself.

The coach sent the first line out, and Ilya took the next face-off. Even before the puck dropped he could feel the added pressure. It was like the Youth Championship games all over again—he knew that Hollander was waiting right outside the circle, ready to capitalize on the slightest mistake.

He loved the feeling.

Hollander kept the pressure on every time he was on the ice—tying up the defense, blocking shooting lanes—if he'd had teammates that matched his skill level, the Centaurs might've actually won the game.

Halfway through, Hollander appeared between Ilya and his target, intercepting a pass and scoring another goal in seconds.

The game that everyone thought would be a piece of cake—just a practice skate, really—ended in Montreal's favor with a score of 4-2. In the locker room the guys were grumpy, despite the win.

"Fucking Hollander, man," somebody muttered.

Meanwhile, Ilya whipped out his phone to text him.

"good game. you made us sweat."

There was a reply waiting for him by the time he was out of the shower. "thanks. but still lost."

"want to meet up tonight? our bus leaves tomorrow 10am"

Hollander had mentioned earlier that his parents were coming to the game and taking him out to eat before, but he had no idea if they'd want to see their son after as well. His question was answered when the next text came in.

"yeah, parents tired. go back to hotel to sleep. meet at mine?"

"Rozanov, you coming out with us?" 

Ilya was too busy agreeing to Hollander's plan to even see who'd asked. "Not tonight."

"send me your address."

He heard a whistle. "Oooh, someone's getting laid tonight. Good job, rookie!"

He winked on his way out the door. He'd been paired with Hayden Pike for the trip, so when he saw him out in the hallway he told him not to wait up, and then headed out to the lot to catch an Uber.

When he'd first moved to Montreal over the summer, he'd been tempted to ask Hollander to come see his place. He'd even imagined different ways he could ask, usually revolving around asking him for an introduction to Canada, or helping him with the culture shock… But instead he'd spent the summer sending photos of strange things he'd found in the supermarket, usually accompanied by "what the hell is this stuff?"

Even after Hollander had moved to Ottawa, putting them just two hours apart, he'd been careful not to suggest meeting up in person, no matter how tempting it had been. Ilya was on the cusp of greatness. He was about to become a rich and famous hockey player. He'd have women lined up for the chance to go out with him. The last thing he needed was to get in too deep with one cute Canadian boy.

No matter how incredibly hot their hookup had been.

He told himself that it was fine just this once, though. Or maybe just when they played each other—that would only happen a handful of times a year anyway. It would be nice to have a regular person to hook up with… if Hollander was looking for the same thing.

Hollander lived in an apartment building so boring that Ilya would've walked right past it without a second thought if he hadn't been looking for this particular address. He rode the nondescript elevator up to the second floor, coming to a plain door decorated with a small metal plate that read "202" on it. The only thing that set it apart from any other door was a small sign instructing people to ring the doorbell instead of knocking.

He pushed the little button out of curiosity, hearing a soft chime echo from somewhere within the apartment.

When Hollander opened the door a moment later, Ilya couldn't help but ask. "How…?" He pointed to his ear in confusion, but before he could fish his phone out of his pocket, Hollander grabbed his jacket and pulled him inside. He pointed Ilya towards the apartment interior then leaned out and pushed the doorbell again.

Ilya heard the chime, immediately noticing that a couple little boxes that were attached to the walls lit up with a strobe light.

Huh. That was… kind of amazing, actually.

He dug his phone out of his pocket. "what is sign for boring?"

Hollander must have left his phone somewhere in the apartment because he gestured for Ilya to show him his screen. When he read it he rolled his eyes and made a little twisting motion of one finger by his nose.

Ilya pointed to the apartment at large, circling his finger to encompass everything he could see, then copied the gesture Hollander had made.

Hollander shook his head and turned to shut the door. As soon as he turned back, Ilya pressed him against it.

They started kissing… devouring each other. Suddenly Hollander's skin was a drug and Ilya was hopelessly addicted.

Then they started losing their clothes, Hollander adorably stopping to fold his own and set them aside like he did back in the hotel in Toronto. Before he lost his pants, Ilya snatched his phone and typed out a quick message.

"want to fuck?"

2010 - 2011 Rookie Year

For someone who didn't have experience with guys, Hollander was a quick fucking learner.

With Hollander's full, enthusiastic agreement, he and Ilya became "friends who also fucked." Any time Montreal played Ottawa, they met up. Any time they both participated in an event or did a photo shoot, they met up. They never spent the night together, and they never went out. Between meetups they still texted, but Ilya was careful not to message him too often.

Hollander was already addictive enough as it was. He had to keep them in the "just fucking" zone in order to protect himself.

Thankfully, they were both chosen for the All-Stars in January, so they got to meet up and fuck in Nashville. Then, there was an 'Everybody Plays' charity event in Dallas in March—that turned out to be fun.

Ottawa didn't make the playoffs, but they saw each other again at the NHL awards. Ilya won Rookie of the Year, prompting Hollander to come up to him in a room full of players and congratulate him, shaking his hand and nodding solemnly as if he were a virtual stranger.

Ilya found it adorable. Almost as adorable as the angry look on Hollander's face when Ilya leaned in to kiss him on the hotel rooftop later that night.

"ANYONE CAN SEE" he texted in all caps.

Ilya made a show of looking around at the very empty rooftop before looking back at Hollander and raising his eyebrows.

It was a great sendoff, and Hollander's adorable little angry face stayed locked in his memory during the long summer in Russia. He laid in bed at night sometimes, imagining Hollander directing his angry gaze at his family whenever they were assholes. Just picturing it made him smile.

Texting over the summer mostly consisted of trading workout regimens and bragging about who was running the most miles or lifting the most weights. As tempting as it was, Ilya didn't dare text anything sexual. It was unlikely that someone would ask to search his phone, especially being part of a police family, but he didn't feel like taking the chance.

The pattern continued over the next couple seasons.

Ilya still hooked up with others from time to time, but he always made it a point to see Hollander when they were in the same city.

He still tried not to text too much between hook ups because it still felt like there were lines that would be too easy to cross with Hollander.