Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Episode: s01e01 Rookies (Heated Rivalry), 2009 International Prospect Cup in Ottawa (Game Changers)

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of Man of the Hour

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-31 Words: 4,144 Chapters: 1/1

Even the Score

Summary

Ilya taps ashes off the end of his cig, ignoring Shane’s repeated glance between his fingers and his face. But he makes sure—because he is nothing if not a sucker for a little bit of attention—to rub his lips against each other before wetting them with his tongue, then placing the cigarette back in his mouth. Hopes that the curve of his mouth around it isn’t as offputting as Hollander seems intent to pretend it is. I got you, Hollander, he thinks. I get it, I get how it feels to realize you want something. To have it be undefinable until someone else spells it out for you.

Notes

as always, for my it-girl kris.

thank you to lately for edits. thanks to salad for the initial suggestion when i was like i want to write more of this... but didn't know where to go.

Frustration tastes a lot like rust; Ilya has chewed the inside of his cheek raw.

After their loss to Canada in the finals, the room is quiet. People keep looking over at him, as if Ilya was the only one who had been playing. As if it’s his fucking fault these guys weren’t up to par when, really, the truth of the matter is that Shane Hollander just is that fucking good. But hockey’s not a two-player sport, and Ilya can push all he wants. It won’t matter if there’s no one at least trying to keep up. Somehow, since their last clash at the 2008 finals, Hollander has closed the gap between them. The same gap that had let Ilya come out first pick in the draft. Maybe it wasn’t even that big a divide to begin with. Maybe it all came down to luck.

That thought sits in him uglier than the idea of losing to Hollander because Hollander’s better than him.

Coach whistles. “Okay, listen up. What you did out there today? That can never fucking happen again. That was an embarrassment. Sloppy doesn’t even fucking cover it. That was disgraceful.”

Ilya breathes in through his nose, facing his locker, and tears the rest of his padding off.

An embarrassment. Yeah. Fuck you, too, coach. He already knows this. He already fucking knows this. Felt it in every inch of his body when Shane Hollander shook his hand and said, see you in October, and Ilya’s brain read fucker at the corner of Hollander’s lips, where there was nothing but a smile. His sweaty hand had squeezed Ilya’s a second too long, and Ilya was reminded of how glossy his eyes got after half a shot of vodka; how, as Hollander claimed the gold medal, they were blown with satisfaction.

And as if it’s not enough that all of Ilya’s teammates are nursing their wounds by being little bitches about their loss, sitting tight-jawed and purse-lipped in their respective hotel rooms, Ilya is sure that right now, Hollander is partying it up with the rest of Team Canada. Not that he can imagine Hollander getting drunk for fun; their run-in at the draft was definitely an anomaly. Was, surely, strange and exciting to him. The same sort of strange-and-exciting encounter they’d had at the gym later that night.

He wonders what kind of bar Hollander would pick. If they’d even go to a bar at all. Maybe they’re out there, fucking—playing mini golf, or some shit. A teammate might half-pull out a bottle out from his bag and pour some liquor into whatever fruity soda they’re chugging. With a drink or two in him, Hollander might be better shot.

Ilya grinds his tongue against the back of his teeth. His temple throbs. Because Hollander had outscored Ilya, two-to-one. Two times better. The rift, at that moment, is humongous.

What the hell does gold last prospect final matter? All it says is: Shane Hollander’s got you beat now. He kicked your ass, Ilya. And now Canada’s golden boy is partying it up, living his new, perfect reality despite the fact that Ilya had pulled ahead during the draft, won their first gold medal game against each other.

Ilya thinks of Hollander again, fresh out of victory. His jet black hair so damp it sticks to his forehead, a stray strand or two flicking to the sides, eyelids glossed from sweat, upper lip, too, highlighted cupids bow above that pretty plush top lip, so dark-red against his tan skin.

He adjusts himself in underwear, staring up at the ceiling. It’s his last night in Ottawa before he has to get on a flight back to Moscow and survive another handful of months before his move to Boston. Barely nine. If he snuck out right now for a smoke, he could probably be back in his room before his roommate returned from wherever the hell he’d gone. Ilya’s not interested in listening to his coach try to foot him with the bill for smoking inside. You wanna go make American money in Boston? Then you can pay your fucking American bills, he loves saying.

Big American Money in Big Boston, or whatever. Ilya hadn’t even bothered to tell coach that Andrei had already snorted most of that nice American cash up through his nose. None of them really care, anymore; not with him about to take off across the ocean. Except for a couple of his teammates who imagine similar grand futures for themselves some years from now.

Ilya had one last shot to prove to them that they’re the ones missing out. That they need him more than he needs them, to get on his flight and wave them off, twice a winner. Hollander screwed that up for him.

“Fucking Hollander,” Ilya says into empty space while grabbing his jacket, shoving his cigarette pack into the pocket so hard it nearly crumples.

Fucking Hollander. Thinks of his lips again. Of his nice, straight brows, the scattered freckles, so many of them Ilya could probably count for an hour and not be done. He wonders if Hollander has freckles in other places. At the gym, when Hollander shifted on the floor, trying to hide his obvious hard-on, the one Ilya was kind enough not to point out, Ilya had caught sight of a birthmark on his inner thigh. Could he have more of those tucked away along his spine? Freckles at his waist, waiting to be mouthed at. Little marks to map: put your teeth here, Rozanov!

Because Hollander would call him Rozanov. Would not know what to do with a name like Ilya, and probably wouldn’t want that familiarity, anyway. Because this Ilya is sure of, beyond anything else, beyond knowing that Hollander is probably better at hockey than he is, as much as it kills him to admit it: if he’d kissed Hollander in that gym, he would’ve kissed him back.

How far would he have let Ilya take it? The thought makes his head reel. Cigarette, cigarette.

Cold air billows into the warmth of the hotel lobby as the doors slide open. Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya sees his team coach at the shoddy hotel bar, speaking to some older men that Ilya doesn’t recognize, but that are wearing nice suits.

He ducks out, already flicking his lighter while prying a cig out the pack in his pocket with his other hand. Manages to keep the cig pinched between his lips as he walks, a little hunched over. It lights. Ilya takes a breath, holds it. Lets the smoke out through his nose. It doesn't really do much for his rattling body. At this point, he feels like smoking is more a habit than it is a comfort—something to nudge his brain toward sleep so that he doesn’t have to stay awake in his own head. Especially now, after his day had gone about as awry as it could’ve.

Ilya cuts around the corner of the hotel and keeps walking. The rink where the finals took place isn’t too far away, close enough, at least, that Ilya can see the hunkered shape in the distance.

He didn’t expect so many people out. He expected a dead street and an empty road for him to smoke in peace. During the day, he’d barely had time to make sense of his surroundings before they were dragged off to practice, then game prep. Then finals. He thinks he spots a flash of white-and-red; are the Canadians also staying in the area? Out-of-towners, maybe. He’s fairly sure he’s seen some of the other teams mulling about inside the hotel in between practice. But again, this is Ottawa. This is wonderkid Hollander’s hometown.

Hollander, who is sitting on the sidewalk, wrapped in a Canada scarf, ears so cold they’re burnt red because the beanie doesn’t cover everything, and the hood on his jacket has fallen down. Hollander, who should be doing fuck all else except being right there.

Ilya feels like someone’s put a needle to his temple and popped him, wrung all the hot air out. Left him empty and desperate to fill the void. And this is his perfect fix. A lick of tape for the wound.

He stops, shadow cutting right across Hollander, who is leaning over his phone. Ilya takes another drag of his cigarette, raising his hand to rub his thumb over the edge of his brow, angling the cig away from his hair.

“You are done partying?” he asks, the real question singing the back of his tongue: what the hell are you doing here, and why are you making me look at you? How can I make you do it a little longer? “Where is your team, Hollander? Bedtime comes early for good Canadian boys, or?”

Hollander tips his chin up, eyes wide when he sees Ilya there. It’s not just his ears that have pinked from the cold. Every time Ilya sees him, his cheeks are red, too. Must be natural, because he doesn’t look drunk. A little glossy around the eyes, maybe, but definitely sober. Ilya tries to peek at his phone screen, but the only thing he can make out is a long text message from Hollander’s side. A girl, maybe. Someone to brag about his win to.

“Do you follow me around?” Hollander asks, eyes flitting between Ilya and the hotel behind him. He scrunches his nose when Ilya taps the ash off his cigarette. The little movement narrows Shane’s eyes, too, brows angling nicely. A flash of his top row of teeth. “First the draft, now here.”

“Oh yes, I have left my nice and warm hotel room to go out in terrible Canadian winter to see you, Hollander,” Ilya tells him. He gestures at the cigarette in his hand, his brows raised. “I am here to smoke cigarette. You are the one standing in front of my hotel.”

Hollander looks over his shoulder again. “Other teams are staying here, too. I’m just waiting for some people to grab stuff from inside before leaving.”

Ilya doesn’t see anyone else around. Why didn’t Hollander just wait inside? It’s so fucking cold out he’s reconsidering this whole thing. Didn’t even bring a scarf with him, the winter chill insistent on his bare throat, his face. “Your parents are not celebrating with you?”

“They’re letting us enjoy this one ourselves,” Hollander says. “They went home.”

“Ah.”

So they are capable of letting poor Hollander breathe. Ilya had almost started assuming they were a singular unit. He squints at Hollander, who is rubbing his bare, red-fingered hands together, grinding his thumb over the knuckles, up to his fingertips. Their breaths choke out in the cold air, and Hollander is mostly bundled up, except for his gloves.

And he catches Ilya staring, clearly, because he shoves the hand that’s not holding his phone into his pocket, protectively clasping the other.

“Can’t type with gloves on,” he explains.

Ilya shouldn’t be so excited about scraps. No one can type with gloves on, but suddenly he’s interested in Hollander’s fine hands and texting habits. It’s just part of the fascination. He doesn’t know anything about who Hollander is once he pops his skates off. Has been graced with two, brief glimpses of who he could be. How close is Hollander of home, the Hollander sardined into a group of friends, to the man who Ilya keeps stumbling into?

Ilya taps ashes off the end of his cig, ignoring Shane’s repeated glance between his fingers and his face. But he makes sure—because he is nothing if not a sucker for a little bit of attention—to rub his lips against each other before wetting them with his tongue, then placing the cigarette back in his mouth. Hopes that the curve of his mouth around it isn’t as offputting as Hollander seems intent to pretend it is. I got you, Hollander, he thinks. I get it, I get how it feels to realize you want something. To have it be undefinable until someone else spells it out for you.

“Texting your…” He waves his hand. “Girlfriend? I am sure she is very happy to have hockey player boyfriend who is winning gold for Canada.”

He says the word gold like it physically hurts.

Hollander purses his mouth, gripping his phone a little tighter. “No, uhm—no, we broke up. After the draft. This is just…”

Ilya nods. Swallows dryly. Tries to not let the excitement tied to his racing pulse go too crazy in him, spurring on every obscene thought. We broke up, whoops! We broke up after you eye-fucked me on that floor in the gym after the draft. Broke up after the draft, when we had that something-nothing moment. Surely there are other reasons to break up than Ilya Rozanov making eyes at you on the floor—which he had done, very intentionally, also expecting nothing out of it. Maybe Hollander is just really fucking terrible at eating pussy.

“Sex was that bad?” he asks, half-regretting it after. He kind of expects Hollander to get up and walk away, flip him off.

Instead Hollander’s head hangs low, and he shoves his phone into his pocket, finally. He rubs himself behind his ear, then pinches his earlobe between two fingers. When he does stand up, giving Ilya a much better look at his face, he doesn’t seem mad at all. His brows are still furrowed, but his eyes are like that evening at the draft: inquisitive. Calculating, almost. Like he’s trying to carve Ilya out and figure out what the hell is going on in there.

Ilya’s gotten less intense stares from women trying to get in his bed. All of his hard work trying not to think too hard about their meeting at the gym falls at his feet. Useless.

“You don’t know fucking shit,” Hollander tells him, which, true, Ilya does not. “And why do you care? You don’t even know me.”

Ilya shrugs, dropping his cigarette on the ground and grinding it into the damp pavement. “Just curious.”

“Right, well, it’s really none of your business.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “Is none of my business. Was none of your business also when you asked if I will live in Boston without family, yes? But you asked, and I answered, so.”

Shane blinks, eyes widening a bit, and then his shoulders sag. “That’s not the same thing as asking me if I broke up with my girlfriend because the sex was… bad.”

Ilya’s stubborn mind hooks on I broke up with and stays put.

“Well? Was it?” Ilya pushes.

Hollander is face-to-face with him, the passing cars’ headlights catching on his outline, washing out his features for fractions at a time, brown eyes gilded, freckles eaten by the brightness. He is pretty even now, and Ilya wants to kiss him like he wanted to kiss him when they sat on the floor and drank champagne, like when his foot nudged Hollander’s shoe in that small gym room mere months ago.

“I wouldn’t tell you, anyway,” Hollander says. “Shouldn’t you be with your team?”

“And do what? They are all pissy in their hotel rooms after loss. I am trying to enjoy my last evening in”—Ilya’s smile is lopsided—“beautiful Ottawa.”

Hollander tilts his head. “You sound pretty mad, too. Not the greatest loser, are you? Doesn’t shock me.”

“You would know what this is like, Hollander. Is still two-to-one, you know?” Ilya holds three fingers up, folds two of them in succession. “Prospect Cup two-thousand-eight, draft.”

“The draft isn’t a competition,” Hollander says, but through gritted teeth. So it counts.

“Draft,” Ilya repeats, holding his second finger down, then lowers the third. “And one to Mister Hollander, for this win.”

“Are you going to count every game like this? What are you, five?” Hollander asks, but he reaches for Ilya’s hand, stops midway to grasping it. Ilya wonders what he was going to do. Pry his finger back up? Even the score? “And it’s one for one, asshole. Again, the draft doesn’t count.”

“I think you are saying that only because you do not want to start MLH career losing to me already.” Ilya smiles.

“Like I said, we are even.”

But at each other’s throats. Hollander’s eyes are not flitting about anymore, while trying to avoid staring too hard. He has a lot of discipline, Ilya thinks. Or perhaps a whole lot of self-denial.

“You want to keep score?” he asks.

Shane blinks at him. “What?”

“Keep score for every game. See if we are even or if you are still loser at end of first season. I am thinking I will score fifty goal for Raiders, so they are happy with me. You score more, I will give you point for draft back, okay?” Ilya says, waving his fingers. “But when you see me win the Cup, it will not matter that much, anyway.”

“Wow,” Hollander says. “I don’t know whether to call you delusional or just be impressed at how unabashedly confident you are. You really think you will score fifty goals?”

“Yes,” Ilya replies, because he does. “I am going to score fifty goals. And then it will be three-to-one.”

Hollander’s laugh is short, eyes wide. Comes out of him almost unwillingly, it seems. Like he can’t quite believe it himself, that he is there, arguing with Ilya over keeping score in a game that no one else knows or cares about. Well, ‘no one cares about’ isn’t true. The media is as obsessed with the Rozanov-Hollander rivalry as they can get. But this? Ilya’s tucked-down fingers keeping score and Hollander’s shocked laugh? This is theirs. And Ilya doesn’t want to ever lose to Hollander again, but if it gets him a moment like this, if it puts them face-to-face in this increasingly bizarre series of accidental encounters, then he is willing to at least take his chances.

In the final minutes of the game, after their face-off, Ilya had been so close to completing a perfectly set-up assist. Normally, he would want to sink the winning goal himself, but Hollander had been right there, in his space, and Ilya’s teammate had a much better chance of scoring. Act like you’re about to whack it, anyway, Rozanov had thought, keeping his eyes on the goal as his body curved ever-so-slightly, right before he would lean into the pass properly, commit. Break the tie.

Ilya says, “You stopped my pass, before Canadadian last goal. How did you know?”

No one in this entire world but fucking Shane Hollander.

Hollander scratches the skin right below his jaw. He goes quiet. Says something that Ilya can’t make out.

“What?”

Hollander’s lip twitches. Then, in what is a glorious victory, admits, “I watched your plays online. Like, your videos. I saw you pull that exact same thing against Slovakia in oh-eight.”

Ilya almost tells him: it is already three wins for me. I got you. I won you.

Instead, he says, “I am surprised you could tell anyway. I guess this is why you are second in draft.”

“Whatever, asshole. As if you haven’t looked me up.”

“Sure,” Ilya says. “I have looked you up. Many nice photos of you online, did you know?”

“Okay, then, you get it,” Hollander replies, a bit stilted, like he expected Ilya to deny it. “I couldn’t escape you even if I wanted to, not when you’re playing for Boston, and I’m with Montreal. It’s just going to get worse from now on.”

“Worse,” Ilya repeats. “Not worse, I think. More exciting, yes? Everyone is watching us. Maybe we tell them about our bet.”

“There is no bet!”

Ilya clicks his tongue. “You want to.”

There it is again. That high he has been chasing: Shane Hollander’s elusive, pleased-to-be-pulled, teeth-forward smile, no shyness to it, eyes creasing sharp.

“I’m not making stupid bets with you, Rozanov,” he says. “But I’ll hear you out if you score more goals than me.”

Hear him out, for what? Ilya’s head reels. He’s six months in the past, turning up the resistance on a gym bike at ass o’clock at night, and Hollander is next to him, mimicking the action until they’re high on adrenaline, until they’ve worn their bodies into trembling messes, flushed and desirable. Side by side, heaving for air.

Ilya’s been waiting for the opportunity to have that one more time.

“Okay,” Ilya says and extends one of his hands, lifting the other one to tap his ear. “I will think about what to tell you after my win.”

Hollander looks down for a moment, unmoving. But he does it; he shakes Ilya’s fucking hand, and his skin is warm and nicely calloused. Fits just right. Maybe Ilya should consider imagining Hollander’s touch elsewhere on his body, but when he turns his gaze up from their hands, Hollander’s gaze is on his lips, then on his eyes. And he doesn’t shift away like Ilya expects him to, how Hollander always toes the line, catching up with himself mid-desire. Maybe this is his victory lap, this indulgence. Not sitting in the denial until tomorrow morning, when it will hit Hollander like a bad hangover.

Their hands are still clasped when Ilya says, “Maybe you should find your team.” He only lets go when Hollander replies, “Yeah, I probably should.”

Ilya nods. He rubs his thumb over his palm, over the groove, keeping the heat there before everything’s gone. Shouldn’t have left his gloves in the hotel room. Fucking idiot. By now, his roommate must be back. He considers staying outside, but as used as he is to the cold, that doesn’t make it any less intrusive on his bare skin.

“When do you move?” Hollander asks, then. “Like, officially. When do you leave for Boston?”

Not soon enough, Ilya thinks. Tells Hollander, “In three months.”

“That’s soon. Are you all packed?”

“Yes. Not much worth taking with,” Ilya says. “I can buy new things.”

“Right,” Hollander says, as if the thought never occurred to him. “Well. Good luck with everything. Probably won’t run into you until fall.”

“Probably,” Ilya agrees. “If you feel lonely, you can google for videos of me, again.”

Hollander’s lips press together, like he’s trying to hide a smile. “No risk of that, sorry. I try to only watch videos of guys I’m actually impressed by.”

“Does Canadian media know you are this mean, Hollander? Maybe next time I will let them know.”

“You go ahead and do that, and I’ll tell them how you keep following me around, they’d love that,” Hollander replies. “If you feel lonely, kiss your silver medal from me.”

“No worries, I will put it next to my gold medal. It will not feel sad at all.”

“Maybe I’ll do the same, then,” Hollander says. “Have a safe flight.”

“See you in October,” Ilya tells him.

Hollander nods. “Unless you come find me again, I suppose.”

They go quiet.

“Yes,” Ilya says, if only to have the last word. “I suppose.”

Neither one of them moves, until Ilya finally pulls his cigarette pack out again. It gives Hollander an excuse to get going. Ilya watches him leave, considers keeping his eyes on the street so that when he hears the rustling of Hollander turning to look over his shoulders, he’s not forced to meet Ilya’s eyes. Considers it, but doesn’t let him get away so easily. When their eyes lock, Hollander stops, some fifteen meters away, like they’re stuck again. Like he would stay a little longer if it wasn’t so fucking late, his team surely sending out a search partyright now, wondering where he’s gone off to. Ilya entertains the excuses Hollander might give them. None of them involve Ilya Rozanov—but wouldn’t that be something?

He stuffs the cigarette back into the pack and heads inside. His coach is still at the bar with the suits and does not notice Ilya when he makes his way back up to the hotel room. Somewhere out there, Hollander is surely having a much better night than he is.

But Ilya won part of it, at least. Took a bit of his time. And that’s something.

Maybe not enough to sustain him until the MLH season officially kicks off.

His roommate is already asleep, doesn’t even stir when Ilya creaks the door open and toes his shoes off, tossing his jacket over his suitcase, already packed. He takes a cold shower, grinds his thumb against his palm, up to the knuckles. Pictures Hollander’s hands on his hips, up his waist. How warm they’d be. He drags himself into bed, half-dressed and mostly-awake. Thinks of Hollander as if he is a routine.

When his night is sleepless, he knows it is his loss.