Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

Canon Compliant, Post-Book 2: Heated Rivalry (Game Changers), Pre-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), set between HR and TLG, Drinking, more like vodka appreciation really, Social Media, Light Angst, Porn with Feelings, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, loverboy Ilya, Manhandling, Lap Sex, 5 Times

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-22 Words: 4,258 Chapters: 1/1

Aqua Vitae

Summary

Ilya doesn’t even know why he takes the bottle, maybe as some sort of weird memento of Shane bending for Ilya and the things Ilya likes, despite his diet and his no drinking during the season rule. And, of course, as a reminder of Shane’s moans echoing off of Ilya’s kitchen counters.

He’s not even thinking about what it looks like when he reaches for the bottle in the locker room after practice and chugs half its contents.

“Fuck, Roz,” Marleau says next to him. “Isn’t it a bit early for that?”

Or: Five times people think Ilya is drinking vodka straight from the bottle, and one time he actually does.

Notes

For aythia. I made her sad by writing Hanahaki, so she demanded a fluffy fic in return, based on a joke clip of hockey players pretending to drink booze to intimidate their opponents. Babe, you’ve been the most supportive fandom friend I could have asked for, and I hope you’ll enjoy this one fic that you didn’t have to hold my hand through writing it <3

I know very little about vodka, apologies. I’m mostly going with the TV show canon, but you can pry book!Ilya’s bear tattoo from my cold, dead hands.

Many many thanks to dancing_adrift for being the best hockey beta and to masja_17 for whipping this into readable shape.

1

Ilya is always a little sad when he finishes a bottle of good vodka. Despite all his money and resources, finding truly good vodka in North America is difficult. Americans make theirs with corn—fucking blasphemy. Thankfully, there are a few clubs and bars in Boston that started stocking the better stuff once he complained. Every summer when he went back to Russia, he used to buy his favorite brand from a small, local distillery that doesn’t ship internationally, and he made it stretch out over the entire season.

This summer, he didn’t go back to Russia. He was frugal with what he had left, trying to save it for special occasions, but now it’s January, and he’s on his last bottle. More precisely, his last glass.

He thinks he should be excused though. He fucking misses Shane.

They knew long distance would be tough. After a blissful summer at Shane’s cottage—after finally getting their shit together—Ilya is back in Boston, Shane is in Montreal, and the time they manage to spend together is agonizingly short.

Ilya spent Christmas with Shane and his parents—who had welcomed him with open arms and then thoroughly beat him at Yahtzee—but now he’s back in Boston, and he won’t play against Shane for another two weeks.

There won’t be any phone sex tonight either, because Shane is at JJ’s birthday party. So Ilya finishes the last of his good vodka and goes to bed.

He wakes up to a text from Shane, so at least his day starts on a positive note.

The empty vodka bottle is still sitting on the counter, and for some reason, Ilya is loath to get rid of it. Maybe because the last time Shane was here, when they’d played each other in November and Ilya had managed to eke out a tight victory in overtime, Shane had said, “I need a drink.”

Ilya had been so surprised, but also so thrilled, he’d pulled out his special stash. He knew Shane hadn’t been a fan in the past, and Ilya would never be willing to compromise with fucking cranberry juice, but this was the good stuff, the best, and Shane didn’t grimace when he drank it.

“This is actually not bad,” he’d said, thoughtfully, really giving Ilya’s vodka offering his full attention.

His heart bursting with love and gratitude for this wonderful, neurotic, kind, boring, funny, perfect man, Ilya had blown him right there on his kitchen floor. And then fucked him over the kitchen counter.

Standing at said counter now, Ilya’s getting hard at the memory, but he can’t do anything about it if he wants to make it to practice on time.

So instead, he rinses the bottle, again and again. And then fills it with water and puts it in his bag.

He doesn’t even know why he takes it, maybe as some sort of weird memento of Shane bending for Ilya and the things Ilya likes, despite his diet and his no drinking during the season rule. And, of course, as a reminder of Shane’s moans echoing off of Ilya’s kitchen counters.

He’s not even thinking about what it looks like when he reaches for the bottle in the locker room after practice and chugs half its contents.

“Fuck, Roz,” Marleau says next to him. “Isn’t it a bit early for that?”

Ilya stares at him, wanting to say, do you really think I’m day-drinking at practice? But Marleau just raises his hands defensively.

Ilya’s going to clear things up, but then his phone dings with a text from ‘Jane’, and that’s honestly more important.

Marleau grips Ilya’s shoulder with one of his big hands. “Two weeks until Montreal,” he says. “Stay strong, cap.”

Ilya doesn’t bother replying. Marleau is way too observant for his own good and figured out almost immediately that Ilya had someone special in Montreal—even back when Ilya hadn’t wanted to admit to himself how special Shane was to him. Letting Marleau believe Ilya has a woman in Montreal is just easy, though Ilya is resenting it more and more.

2

“Rozanov, a word.”

Ilya looks up from his weights to where his coach is waving him over from across the gym. Setting the bar on the rack, Ilya grabs his water and a towel and walks up to him.

“What is it?” Ilya asks.

“My office.”

A little worried, Ilya follows him down the hallway. This isn’t good. He hasn’t really done anything that warrants a private chewing out—Boston won three out of four games on their last roadtrip, and last night Ilya got two goals and an assist when they’d destroyed Buffalo at home—but Coach’s voice is serious.

“Sit,” Coach says once they’re in his office.

Ilya sits.

“So,” Coach says slowly. “Obviously, you’ve been playing very well this season. Aggressive, maybe a bit more time in the penalty box than I’d like, but you’re scoring and putting in the work, and the results speak for themselves. I believe if we keep it up, we’ll make the playoffs. And I’d say we have a real shot at winning the fucking Cup this year, too.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, “I think so too.” Because he does. He loves Shane, but he’s not going to let him win another cup over him. And the Admirals are hardly contenders—Scott is ancient now. It’s Ilya’s last season in Boston, and he’s going to make it count.

Coach nods. “Which is why I’m concerned.”

“About what?”

“Your drinking.”

Ilya stares at him. “Sorry?”

“Alcohol, Rozanov.”

Confused, Ilya shakes his head. “I don’t drink more than I did before.”

Coach’s eyebrows shoot up. “Care to explain that then?” he says, gesturing at Ilya’s hands.

It takes Ilya a moment, then he breaks out laughing.

“Oh, you think this is funny?”

“Yes.” Ilya grins and holds up his bottle. “Is just water. I use the bottle because I like it.”

“You drink your water from a vodka bottle because you like it,” Coach repeats, skeptical.

Ilya shrugs. “Reminds me of home. Plus, is called ‘bear’ vodka. So you know, it fits.” Ilya pats his chest where his shirt is covering his bear tattoo.

Coach looks relieved now. “Okay. That’s good. Weird, and not appropriate.” Coach sighs. “You know, I didn’t believe it, but I had to check.”

“Sure. You want to smell?”

“No.” Coach makes a face. “Though I should.”

Ilya shrugs and hands him the bottle. Coach sniffs, then inspects the label with the hand-drawn bear under the Cyrillic lettering.

“It does look a little like your tattoo,” he agrees. Then, shaking his head, he dismisses Ilya. “Alright, get the hell out of my office, Rozanov.”

The gym is empty by now, so Ilya heads to the locker room where his teammates are getting dressed.

“Listen up, assholes. Which one of you thought I was bringing vodka to practice?”

Absolute silence.

A few guys shuffle around.

“Seriously?” Ilya asks.

Feller shrugs. “I mean, it’s not like you can’t hold your liquor.”

Ilya snorts. “You are lucky flattery will get you everywhere.”

3

The bottle stays in his bag. He stops thinking about it as the reappropriated vodka bottle, and instead it’s just… his water bottle. It’s become a reminder of Shane, even though it’s entirely Russian and the antithesis to Shane’s ginger ale, but Ilya doesn’t care.

They’re warming up for their game against New Jersey, though Ilya is busy thinking about later. Shane’s not playing today, which means Ilya will go home and then spend the rest of the evening on the phone with his boyfriend. It distracts him so much, he almost misses a pass. Fuck, he needs to focus.

He takes a water break, and when he gets back, Brophy, one of New Jersey’s giant defensemen, is eying him cautiously. “You okay, Roz?”

Ilya likes Brophy. They played together at the last All-Stars, and he was both easygoing and a bit of a shithead, so they got along off the ice as well.

“I’m fine. Why?”

Brophy nods to the bench.

Ilya tilts his head in confusion.

“I’m not gonna take it easy on you unless you tell me there’s a reason to.”

Ilya still has no idea what the fuck Brophy is talking about, but he can tell he’s really concerned.

“No reason. But you are losing either way.”

Brophy rolls his eyes. “Okay, yeah, you’re fine.”

Ilya is. He’s so fine, he has a three-point game—two goals and an assist—and Boston whips New Jersey’s ass 4-2.

And later, when he goes home, he and Shane have phone sex. It’s as good a day as he gets without them being together in the same place.

4

They’re in Chicago. It’s been a fucking draining road trip so far, and it’s not looking great tonight.

Ilya is waiting for the fourth line to finish their second shift when he feels eyes on him. He turns to his left, to Chicago’s bench. One of their rookies and a veteran center are closest to Ilya, and they’re both staring at him.

“What?” Ilya shouts, then takes another swig from his water.

The rookie’s eyes widen. Svenson, the center, just snorts. “Man, this is a lot, even for you.”

Ilya raises his eyebrows.

“Like, could you be any more fucking Russian?”

Oh. Now Ilya gets it. And, well, Svenson is a dick, and Chicago is leading by one goal, so time for some psychological warfare.

Slowly and deliberately, Ilya raises the bottle again. Presses it to his lips. Drinks. Swallows. Again and again.

When he lowers the bottle, Svenson is shaking his head and mouthing what might be the word madman. The rookie is still staring. It’s mostly admiration, Ilya thinks, so he winks at him. The kid’s young enough that he probably had Ilya’s poster on his wall growing up.

When Ilya and Svenson both take the ice for their next face-off, Ilya skates to the circle with a slight wobble. Not enough to look drunk, just playful, but Svenson clearly draws the wrong conclusion. It makes him cocky. More importantly, it makes him lose the face-off, and he’s too slow to react as Ilya takes off toward Chicago’s net.

It’s 3-2 for Boston by the end of Ilya’s shift, and he raises his bottle in salute.

5

They’re in Los Angeles. It’s the end of another long roadtrip, and the only thing keeping Ilya going is the knowledge that, for once, Shane is in the same city.

“Roz,” Marleau says, dragging Ilya out of his daydream of a naked Shane in his arms as he takes off his gear, “I think you might have to cut that shit out.”

“What shit?”

“The bottle.”

“Why?”

Marleau holds up his phone.

It’s open to Twitter, with a zoomed-in screenshot from the game they just played, trouncing Anaheim, showing Ilya on the bench, drinking. The caption reads: Rozanov chugging vodka during the game like it’s water, absolute fucking legend.

The comments are a wild mix of celebratory, derisive, and—oddly sweet—horny and concerned.

Hat-trick baby!@raidingwiththeraiders

Only Roz can drink half a bottle of vodka and still score a hat trick.

anna@rozanovdefender81

That man never misses a chance to be the most Russian he can be, and I love that for us.

joleeeen@futuremrsrozanov

Omg, is that a bear on the bottle? Like his tattoo? Ugh, why is that hot?

danny_o@admiralsadmirer

What a fucking tool, drinking during a game isn’t cool, it’s just stupid.

hockeymom@hockeymom24

They’re supposed to be role models, not flaunting their alcoholism.

Taylor@taylorschmitti

Considering Rozanov’s party habits, I’m not surprised.

waitingforanothercup@BRsforlife

Okay but what’s wrong with our baby that he’s drinking during the game???

in my rozanov era@ponylovestheraiders

You don’t need the booze, Ilya, you just need to let me feed you pancakes and hug you and stroke your hair.

That hockey dude@thathockeydudepod

RIP Rozanov’s liver.

Thankfully, the top comment is from a person with a brain.

in our dynasty era@metrotraveling

Guys, there’s no way that’s alcohol, come on. Not even Rozanov would drink during a game.

“Rozanov,” Coach’s voice booms through the locker room.

Everyone falls silent.

“Press,” he says darkly. “And you’re going to explain that you are not an alcoholic.”

Ilya sighs. “Fine. Boring, but fine.”

Boring, of course, makes him think of Shane. Shane, who’s also in LA tonight because Montreal played the Emperors. This afternoon. Meaning Shane’s already done, and most likely in his hotel room, watching Ilya’s game and the subsequent interviews. Ilya smiles while he makes his way to the press line. He doesn’t bother putting on a shirt.

5 + 1

“You fucking asshole,” is what Shane says when he walks into the hotel room Ilya booked for them, halfway between where each of their teams is staying.

“Hello to you too, moya lyubov,” Ilya says, overly cheerful, from where he’s lounging in a big armchair. “How my game was? Thank you for asking, was great. I scored three goals. How was yours? I saw you won too. Only scored two goals, but you are only second best hockey player after all.”

“God, you’re insufferable.” Shane is making his way across the room, shedding clothes like a man on a mission. He’s wearing absolutely nothing by the time he reaches Ilya and, without slowing down, climbs into his lap and kisses him.

Ilya was ready with more teasing insults, but this is so much better. He sinks a hand into Shane’s hair and gets the other on his gorgeous ass. He drags his hand across the taut skin, firmly enough to feel the faint indentations of Shane’s stretch marks. Tiger stripes, they call them in English, and they certainly fit Shane and his angry kitten face.

God, Ilya loves him so much.

“I love you,” Shane says against Ilya’s mouth, as if he can read his mind. “I thought I was going to fucking die when I saw that interview, you romantic asshole.”

“I am getting some mixed signals, I think,” Ilya says. He changed into inconspicuous athletic wear before he snuck out of the team hotel, but he doesn’t know why he didn’t fully strip when he got here. He has his naked boyfriend in his lap, and he’s still wearing sweatpants and underwear. A fucking tragedy.

In response, Shane kisses him harder, his hands in Ilya’s hair while he’s grinding down on Ilya’s hard dick.

“I need,” Shane pants out.

“What?” Ilya grabs Shane’s chin, holds him in place just an inch from his face.

“I need you inside of me,” Shane says. “Clear enough for you?”

“Very clear.”

Ilya wraps a hand under Shane’s thigh and the other around his back and then he stands up.

“Oh fuck,” Shane says faintly, clinging to Ilya’s shoulders.

Ilya’s quads strain a little—it was a long game and Shane’s pure muscle—but he manages to get them on the bed. Shane scoots back on the mattress, gloriously naked and his hard dick already damp at the tip, while Ilya quickly sheds the rest of his clothes.

Shane stares, so unabashed and greedy, it makes Ilya hot all over. Even though it’s been over half a year, he’s still not used to Shane eyeing him quite so openly, so entirely unguarded.

At least the logistics are taken care of, a bottle of lube on the nightstand, and Shane nods at it. Ilya grabs it before following Shane down on the bed.

“Fuck, I missed you,” Shane groans out when Ilya kisses his way up Shane’s body until he reaches his mouth.

Ilya has missed him too—it’s been almost three weeks—but he’s busy kissing Shane breathless, so the words will have to wait. Then Shane pushes at his shoulder and Ilya is rolled over, Shane straddling his thighs.

“You’re taking too long,” Shane informs him and takes the lube from him.

“Oh, I get a show?” Ilya crosses his hands behind his head.

“You love it,” Shane says, dark eyes fixed on Ilya as he starts opening himself up.

Ilya grins, but he’s pretty sure his expression turns much more heated when Shane’s head falls back on a moan, and his body curves in a delicious arch.

“Fuck, Hollander.” Ilya reaches out, follows the ridges of his abdominals up to his chest. Shane leans forward to kiss him, and Ilya gets a glorious handful. His other hand finds its way around Shane’s ass.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Shane pants into Ilya’s mouth.

They’re kissing, but Shane’s also grinding down on Ilya’s dick, and Ilya is pushing up with his hips, so close to where he wants to bury himself in Shane’s body.

Then Shane shifts, wraps a hand around Ilya, and Ilya manages to get out, “What about—” but then Shane sinks down onto him, and Ilya is rendered speechless.

“No,” Shane says harshly. “Want to feel you.”

Shane has a thing about condoms and hotel rooms, fucking bare a luxury of being at home, but Ilya’s not complaining. Shane is hot and tight around him, and the knowledge that there’s nothing between them, that they’re as close as physically possible, makes Ilya feral.

Shane rides him hard and fast, both hands on Ilya’s shoulders, and he happily takes Shane’s weight, loves the strength of Shane’s fingers digging into his skin. They might leave bruises, but everyone on Ilya’s team knows he has an adventurous sex life. They just don’t know with whom.

For one crazy moment, Ilya wants them to know, wants everyone to know. It’s at least half the reason why he made the cryptic comments about the vodka bottle tonight with the press. He knows they can’t just come out, but he just wants all of Shane, all the time, everywhere.

He pulls Shane down into a bruising kiss so he doesn’t blurt out any of that. It makes Shane lose his rhythm, but he matches Ilya’s hunger in the kiss. So Ilya holds him tight and rolls them, folds Shane in half so he can keep kissing him while he fucks into him hard and deep.

Ilya’s rarely so glad that Shane does yoga as when he’s fucking him. Well, and when he gets to watch.

“Fuck, Ilya.”

Ilya just trails his mouth down Shane’s neck so he can hear the pretty, desperate noises he makes while Ilya grinds in deep, making sure to hit the spot that makes Shane close his eyes and arch his back, giving Ilya even more of his neck to kiss.

“Get—fuck, get back up here, need—”

With a groan, Ilya leans up, helpless against Shane begging in that fucking voice, breathless and demanding all at once. Ilya keeps fucking him, but he needs to see him come, needs to feel him fall apart.

“Want to see you, come on, sweetheart.”

Shane moans and gets a hand around himself. Ilya loves to watch, but right now he can’t tear his eyes away from Shane’s face, the flush on his cheeks, the way his freckles stand out so starkly against his skin, his dark eyes hazy with pleasure. The pleasure Ilya’s putting there.

He draws upon the last of his strength, fucks Shane as hard as he can and is rewarded with the absolutely beautiful sound of Shane moaning his name, with the breathtaking sight of Shane’s face as he comes.

Ilya buries his own groan against Shane’s throat as he comes too, long and hard, and then gracelessly collapses on top of him. Shane doesn’t like to be glued together with sweat and come, but he usually lets Ilya have this for a while.

Like right now, when Shane’s fingers slowly drag through Ilya’s hair, his blunt nails scritching deliciously against Ilya’s scalp.

But there’s a world waiting for them outside.

“You want to go back to your hotel?”

There’s a small pause, then Shane says, “No. Team check-out is at eight, but if we get up really early…”

“We will not get a lot of sleep,” Ilya says, although he wants nothing more than to fall asleep with Shane.

“Yeah, but we both have long flights tomorrow. We can sleep on the plane. So if you don’t mind setting the alarm for five thirty…”

“I don’t mind,” Ilya says and kisses Shane’s shoulder.

“Okay. But you still need to get off of me.”

“Yes, yes.”

Shane heads to the bathroom, but instead of running the shower, he comes back shortly after, throwing Ilya a wet cloth. While Ilya cleans himself up, Shane heads to the door.

“I got you a present,” Shane says and walks over to his bag. Ilya hadn’t even noticed where he’d dropped it.

“A present?” Ilya stretches out on the bed in anticipation. He’s pretty sure it’s a sex thing.

“It’s not the same,” Shane says, bent over and rooting around in his bag. It’s a very nice view. “But I talked to Petrov, you know, the Emperor’s new left-winger, and he recommended this Russian grocery store downtown and said for a hundred dollars you get the good stuff from under the counter. And for five hundred, you get the really good stuff.”

It’s not a sex thing. It’s better somehow.

Shane’s carrying a bottle of vodka back to the bed. It’s not Ilya’s bear vodka, but it’s still an excellent brand from Russia that he’s rarely seen outside of his country.

Ilya unscrews the top and inhales the sharp aroma. Then he takes a sip. It’s really good fucking vodka.

“Thank you, moya lyubov.”

He offers Shane the bottle.

Shane shakes his head. “You know I don’t drink during the season.”

“You should try though. You gave me a good present.”

“Okay,” Shane says and leans over and kisses Ilya softly, dragging his tongue along Ilya’s lips. Ilya opens his mouth, lets him in, lets him taste.

“Good?”

“Hm. I don’t think I’d drink it out of a glass.”

Ilya grins.

Shane slaps his chest. “I know you’re thinking about body shots, and the answer is no.”

“We’ll see,” Ilya says.

Shane just grumbles, but scoots closer and lies down with his head on Ilya’s chest.

Ilya takes another sip, savoring the taste.

“Half the team thinks you lied to the reporters,” Shane says quietly.

“Oh yes?”

Shane hums. “Yeah. They all think you’re crazy enough to play drunk. Our rookies actually looked scared to play you again.”

Ilya barks out a laugh. “They should be scared.”

“They are. It’s nice actually.”

“That your rookies are scared of me?”

“No, that you’re their idol. It’s kind of awkward if the new guys fanboy over me, so this year is a nice change.”

“I have fans on the Montreal Metros. How scandalous.”

“Hey,” Shane says, too tired to sound truly offended. “You always had a fan on the Metros.”

“Understandable,” Ilya says sagely. “I am best hockey player.”

“Ugh. I don’t know why I like you.”

“Sorry,” Ilya says, and they both know he’s not. “I was already romantic today, in front of entire world even, so there is no more.”

Shane’s arm tightens around him, and Ilya hugs him back and presses a kiss to the top of his head. He hadn’t meant to go to a more somber place, but thinking about being with Shane out loud, in front of the entire world, Ilya wants it. So badly. He tries not to, but he does.

“One day,” Shane says quietly. “We’re playing the long game, remember?”

“I remember. Now sleep, moya zhivaya voda.”

“Something water?” Shane asks, already more asleep than awake. He started learning Russian over the summer, but it’s slow going. Ilya appreciates it though. He knows Russian is difficult to learn.

“Is fancy name for vodka,” Ilya explains.

Shane snorts and then cuddles in closer. Ilya doesn’t tell him that it literally means water of life. He’s bared his soul enough for one day. Maybe later, when he can have all of Shane, everywhere, all the time, he’ll tell him that he sustains Ilya more than anything he could ever drink, more than even a victory on ice.

Until then, Ilya will keep his bottle with him, even if he has to hide it from the cameras. Just like their love.

He knows though. And he gets to drink from it. For now, that’s enough.

Bonus: 5 ½

“Ilya, great game,” the ESPN reporter opens. “A hat trick on the road, how does that feel?”

“Hat trick always feels good,” Ilya says. “It is for our fans, so is very nice at home, but is also very fun on the road.”

“Despite your performance tonight, there’s been some speculation about what you’ve been drinking during your breaks.”

Ilya raises the bottle. “This?”

“Yes. Would you care to comment?”

Ilya opens the bottle and very exaggeratedly—possibly a little sexily—drains it. He makes sure to tilt his head all the way back. When he’s done, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

He grins. “Is water, of course. The bottle is… nostalgia.”

“Water,” the reporter repeats, sounding relieved. “So then why this bottle?”

“Is from Russia. Best vodka I ever had. Also it is called ‘bear’ vodka.” Ilya taps his tattoo, maybe lingering a little as he drags his finger over his chest.

“But this bottle is also very special. I drink it in good company.” Ilya grins. “Good memory, you know, so is like a good luck charm.” He looks into the camera and winks.

He can’t wait to see Shane later.