Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Harris Drover

Additional Tags:

married hollanov, Fluff and Humor, Social Media, Shane Hollander Wears Ilya Rozanov's Hockey Jersey, Ilya “My husband” Rozanov, Shane Hollander Walks Ilya Rozanov Like A Dog, Misguided PR Campaigns, Chatting & Messaging

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of This Is Why We Have Media Training

Collections:

No thoughts just gay hockey, The best pairings to bask in

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-06 Words: 2,698 Chapters: 1/1

Damage Control

Summary

The top tweet read: Rozanov did not win that game. Hollander won it from the bench with VIBES and a JERSEY two sizes too big.

The side-by-side said it all: Ilya looking derailed by Shane casually adjusting his sleeve.

Another chimed in: THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU MARRY YOUR CAPTAIN.

Ilya gets distracted mid-match because his husband wears his jersey.

Harris makes a PR decision. The internet makes it worse.

Featuring: one cursed jersey bet, one tired PR manager, and a fanbase that has decided Shane Hollander controls his husband with eye contact alone.

Translated into Chinese

Notes

This is a loose follow-up to Media Availability with Harris attempting damage control, but it’s totally readable on its own (just some references!)

• Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: 【授权翻译】危机公关 by hyacinthiassms1895

Harris sat at the head of the table in the media room, glaring at his laptop. On screen, Ilya was frozen mid-interview. The subtitles below him were stuck on “Shane Hollander” for the third time in one sentence. 

Across from him, Janice, the social media coordinator, was scrolling through her tablet. “Okay,” she said, not looking up. “Engagement is through the roof. Which is fantastic. We love viral attention. However - ” She spun the tablet around. A graph showed a terrifying spike, followed by a steep cliff. “ - no one is clicking on game recaps. Ticket promo posts are performing like a lead balloon. Merch is selling, but only one specific item.” She took a deep breath. “It’s the mash-up jersey. Hollander’s number, Rozanov’s name.”

From down the table, a comms person piped up. “The interview was four minutes long. He mentioned his husband eleven times. He also forgot the question halfway through.”

Harris remembered that part. The reporter had asked about neutral-zone strategy. Ilya had said, “Look at Shane. Even his stress is cute.” And then he’d just… kept elaborating.

Another staffer leaned back, arms crossed. “The fans are calling it the Rozanov-Hollander Cinematic Universe.”

Harris liked Ilya, he really did. Ilya was a generational talent. That was usually manageable. This, however, was not.

“So,” Harris said. “The problem is that our audience cares less about a winning hockey team and more about the real-time romance novel that is our star centre’s personal life.”

“Yes,” the coordinator said. 

“Okay. New plan.”

The team leaned in. 

“We redirect,” Harris announced. “We remind people this is a hockey team. We post highlights focused on goals, saves, big hits.”

Someone nodded vigorously. “We can lead with the New Jersey win.”

“Yes,” Harris said, feeling a flicker of momentum. “We compile the best team plays. We’ll put Rozanov’s goals at the end - he trends, we’re not idiots - but we frame it as a triumph of collective effort. Then we roll out clips for every player.”

“This will work,” the comms person said.

“It has to,” Harris replied. “There is no possible universe where this makes the situation more ridiculous.”

The team sprang into action, dividing tasks about clips and captions. 

As Harris left the room, he actually felt hopeful.

He had no idea what was coming.

~

Shane had known he was in trouble the moment Ilya's grin hit him in the locker room. This was a I-have-won-and-you-will-remember-it-forever kind of grin. 

Which was exactly how he had found himself walking through a parking garage wearing Ilya's jersey.

His knee still twinged under the brace, a dull reminder of why he’d been benched tonight, but that wasn’t the main source of his discomfort. It was the jersey itself. It hung a little differently and bore a name on the back that was decidedly not his own.

Ilya, meanwhile, was having what appeared to be the best night of his life. He was basically using Shane as a walking crutch.

“Did not think you would look this good in it,” Ilya said, amused.

Shane sighed. “I look exactly the same.”

“Wrong,” Ilya said. “You look like mine.”

“We’re married,” Shane pointed out as he fumbled for his keys. “That’s kind of a given.”

“Still,” Ilya pressed. “Jersey is better. You were cheering with your arms. Was whole performance.”

“I was sitting down.”

“In my jersey,” Ilya said, as if this was the most romantic sentence ever spoken. “Like very supportive… what is English word… WAG.”

“Do not call me that.”

“Is my new favorite word.”

They reached the elevator. Shane jabbed the button. Ilya just leaned in, resting his chin on Shane’s shoulder.

“Cannot wait to get it off you,” Ilya murmured. “Or we could leave it on.”

The elevator doors slid open, saving Shane from the disaster of having to confirm that statement out loud.

The reprieve was short-lived. The moment they stepped into their apartment, Shane’s phone began vibrating in his pocket. 

The Ottawa Centaurs team group chat had descended into mayhem.

Wyatt:

I’ve watched the clip three times. My brain is broken.

Luca:

Shane, are you okay?? You looked very serious on the bench

Evan:

Roz played like a dog trying to impress its owner. I’ve never seen anything like it.

Wyatt:

Weaponized husband energy. It’s a new coaching strategy.

Luca:

I think it was very motivating!

Evan:

Hollander I am begging you to explain the bench presence.

Bood:

Why was Roz looking at you between shifts like you were holding a steak?

Shane stopped dead in the middle of the living room. 

“Is that team?” Ilya asked. 

“Yes, and I don’t understand any of it,” Shane said, his eyes scanning the rapidly scrolling messages.

Another cluster of texts popped up.

Evan:

He was literally LOSING because he kept glancing at the bench!

Troy:

Bro, you shifted in your seat and he whiffed a wide-open shot. Correlation = causation.

Bood:

Then you did the Look™ and he scored a hat trick.

Luca:

And then he kissed you so fast after the final buzzer. Like he was claiming a prize

“Ilya,” Shane said. “Why is the entire team suggesting you forgot how to play hockey because of… me?”

Shane scrolled further. At the bottom of the chat sat an ominous link. Shane clicked on it. The caption read: 

Motivation comes in many forms. A look. A word. Your husband in your jersey. 🥰 #Centaurs #Hockey #RelationshipGoals

“Ilya,” Shane said. “Why am I trending as a ‘hockey wife motivational tool’?”

Ilya shrugged. “Are very motivating, moya lyubov. Is not my fault internet has eyes.”

Shane tapped the link, already knowing in his bones it was a terrible idea. 

It was a highlight compilation. The music was dramatic, the editing slick, the title bold about Ilya’s performance. It was everything Harris and his team could have wanted.

The first clip played.

Ilya missed a shot.

The next clip was another miss. The puck slid wide.

The camera zoomed out on the bench.

Shane. In the jersey.

He watched in a kind of frozen horror as the edit slowed, zooming in just enough to show him leaning forward, the fabric of the jersey pulling across his shoulders as he adjusted his position. A damning caption flashed on-screen.

DISTRACTED.

“I was just sitting,” Shane said, a wave of mortification climbing his neck.

Ilya leaned over, his shoulder pressing into Shane’s. “Were sitting very attractively. Like powerful Greek God.”

“Ilya, be serious.”

“I am being most serious.”

The montage continued with miss after clumsy miss, each one punctuated by a shot of Shane on the bench. Cheering. Clapping once. Standing up for half a second before sitting back down. Every minor movement was highlighted. Every shift of his muscles under the fabric was presented as evidence.

Then, the music cut abruptly.

The Look.

Shane knew it instantly. It was the stern one. The you-are-better-than-this stare he usually reserved for reviewing his own game tapes. Apparently, he’d aimed it directly at his husband.

On screen, Ilya glanced toward the bench. His entire demeanor shifted, sharpening like a blade being unsheathed.

The second half of the video exploded into goals, clean plays, and impossible passes. 

“Oh my god,” Shane said, the pieces clicking together.

The final clip showed the win, the horn blaring. Ilya was already skating straight for the bench, helmet half off, his grin wild and then, the kiss. 

The video ended. Shane lowered the phone.

“You were missing shots because you were staring at me,” he said tightly. 

Ilya was radiant. “Activated my caveman instincts.”

“I was trying to be a supportive spouse!”

“Wore my jersey.”

“That was because of a stupid bet!”

“And honored it beautifully,” Ilya said. “Look at results.” He gestured grandly to the phone.

Shane shifted on the couch, trying to find a position that felt less like he was starring in a documentary about his own life. The movement made the jersey pull taut across his back.

“Careful,” Ilya murmured. “If you move like that again, there will be another compilation.”

“There should not be any compilations!” Shane said, even as his thumb navigated back to his phone. “Why would there possibly be another - ”

He opened Twitter. It was a mistake of historic proportions.

The video was everywhere. Cropped into reaction GIFs. Reposted with heart-eye emojis. Slowed down for forensic analysis.

The top tweet had already racked up a number of likes that felt legally dubious.

Rozanov did not win that game. Hollander won it from the bench with VIBES and a JERSEY two sizes too big.

Under it was a clip of Shane leaning forward on the bench. Someone had drawn a mocking red circle around his bicep.

the way hollander SAT DOWN and roz immediately missed a shot like his WIFI CUT OUT

The clip cut between Ilya’s glance toward the bench and the subsequent missed shot, then back to Shane, clapping once with an focused expression.

No Shane Visible: -2 Goals

Shane Cheering: Neutral

Shane Disappointed: +4 Goals

CONCLUSION: STARE HARDER

This was accompanied by a side-by-side: Ilya on the ice, looking distinctly like a man whose train of thought had just derailed, and Shane on the bench, casually adjusting his jersey sleeve.

Shane swallowed. “Okay, you do look… unfocused.”

“Because you were there,” Ilya said, beaming with pride. “You are distraction.”

Another tweet flashed before him:

Ilya Rozanov when Shane Hollander is minding his business on the bench: ❌

Ilya Rozanov when Shane Hollander looks vaguely disappointed: ✅

“They think I control you,” Shane said, sinking deeper into the couch cushions.

Ilya leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head. “Do you?”

“No!” Shane insisted.

There was a pause.

“…I mean,” Shane added reluctantly, “not intentionally.”

Beneath the text was a perfectly timed screenshot duo: Shane on the bench, wearing an expression of stern focus, and Ilya on the ice, eyes laser-sharp, jaw set like he'd just been challenged by the universe.

A reluctant truth escaped Shane. "I was... disappointed in your play. For a minute there."

Ilya turned to him instantly. "Yes. That is look."

"That is not a good thing!"

"Is my favorite thing."

Shane let his phone thump onto his lap. "They think you nearly blew the game because I... flexed."

Ilya's grin was unrepentant. "You did flex."

"I adjusted my sleeve! It was itchy!"

"In my jersey," Ilya said, as if this explained everything. Because to him, it did.

"I am experiencing career-related humiliation."

"You are trending globally. We are power couple."

With a sigh of defeat, Shane picked his phone back up.

He read aloud. "Someone says - " he squinted at the screen, " 'Place your bets now: how many times does Rozanov say “my husband” in the next post-game interview?'"

Ilya laughed. "What is low estimate?"

"Someone replied 'the over slash under is ten.'"

"Ten?" Ilya scoffed. "Ten is warm-up."

Another tweet slid into view.

POST-GAME INTERVIEW BINGO CARD

✔ ‘My husband’

✔ ‘My Shane’

✔ Unrelated compliment

✔ No answer to question

FREE SPACE: Smiling like an idiot

Shane scrolled faster.

HARRIS IF YOU’RE READING THIS I’M SO SORRY BUT ALSO THANK YOU

A poll popped up, the results a gut punch.

HOW UNHINGED WILL ROZ BE?

– Normal, hockey-related answers (0%)

– Mentions husband once, subtly (2%)

– Cannot stop talking about Shane (34%)

– Says ‘my husband’ in every single sentence (64%)

Shane stared. "Sixty-four percent. They think there's a nearly two-thirds chance you'll be... feral."

Ilya nodded, approving. "Democracy is best. People have spoken."

Another post appeared, this one formatted like a breaking news alert.

🚨BREAKING🚨

SHANE HOLLANDER CONFIRMED MOST EFFECTIVE MOTIVATIONAL TOOL IN THE NHL

A reply chimed in beneath it.

This is what happens when you marry your captain 🤷🏻‍♀️

Another tweet popped up, already pinned by three accounts.

Post-Game Interview Drinking Game

Take a sip every time Ilya says ‘my husband’

DO NOT PLAY THIS YOU WILL DIE 💀

Shane paled. “That’s irresponsible.”

Ilya laughed. “They underestimate me.”

"Harris is going to have a stroke," Shane said slowly. "He might just pass away quietly at his desk."

Ilya shrugged. "A noble way to go. For love."

That was it. Shane dropped his phone onto his thigh like a hot coal and leaned back. "I need to do something responsible."

Ilya tilted his head. "Are going to wear jersey again, to inspire me?"

"No."

"Are going to practice look in mirror? Make it stronger?"

"No."

"Are going to kiss me for good luck right before interview, so I am more… motivated?"

"No." Shane sat up abruptly. "I'm emailing Harris."

Ilya watched, fascinated, as Shane opened his email.

From: Shane Hollander

Subject: We need to talk

Harris,

I think something has gone very wrong with the… narrative. I’m sorry.

Please call me when you can. We can figure this out.

Ilya watched, intrigued. "Can I email him too?"

"You should not. You are the cause of his misery."

But Ilya was already pulling out his phone.

From: Ilya Rozanov

Subject: good vibes only

love wins 🐶

 - Hollander’s Husband

Shane stared at him. "You just made it worse. You sent him a dog emoji. He's going to think we're mocking him."

Ilya was unbothered. "Impossible. Is friendly dog. Is smiling."

~

Harris had officially retired from the business of making plans. On his laptop screen, analytics glowed back at him. The numbers were soaring. 

“So,” Martin ventured. “The highlight reel… technically worked.”

Harris let out a brittle laugh. “Did it.”

“Yes,” Janice confirmed. “It trended in twelve countries. Our reach has multiplied by a factor I’m not comfortable saying out loud.”

“And?”

“And,” she continued, tapping her screen as if hoping to change the data by force, “the primary takeaway is that Hollander’s bicep is a strategic game-changer. The secondary takeaway is that Rozanov is, and I quote, ‘a himbo in love.’ Interest in the team’s power play formation has dropped by roughly eighty percent.”

Another staffer chimed in, sounding resigned. “There are fan accounts dedicated to analyzing Shane’s bench demeanor.”

“They’re calling his facial expression ‘The Look,’” added a third voice. “It has its own hashtag.”

Harris didn’t know why he was surprised. He had naively believed that showcasing Ilya’s incredible talent would make people talk about skill. Instead, the entire internet had collectively decided that a world-class athlete was merely a handsome puppet, and the real mastermind was his husband’s disappointed-but-loving side-eye.

He checked his email, a habit born of masochism.

Two new messages sat at the top. The first one made his stomach drop.

From: Shane Hollander

Subject: We need to talk

That phrase was a ghost from the past. He’d sent an email with that same subject line to Shane weeks ago. Now the words were boomeranging back to him, and they felt like an epitaph.

Before he could click, another email popped into view.

From: Ilya Rozanov

Subject: good vibes only

This time, Harris clicked without hesitation. There was no point in delaying the inevitable.

love wins 🐶

 - Hollander’s Husband

Harris stared at the pixelated dog for a full ten seconds. 

“We cannot let Rozanov do another interview,” the comms person said, a note of panic threading their voice. “If he says ‘my husband’ one more time, the league might start fining us for creating a public disturbance.”

“It’s too late for that,” the coordinator said, scrolling. “Fans are already making signs for the next home game. One just says, ‘WAG ENERGY’ with a heart.”

Harris lifted his head. A strange clarity was washing over him, the kind that comes only when you have hit rock bottom and decided to start digging. “Okay.”

Everyone looked at him, wary.

“Okay,” he repeated, sitting up straight. “We schedule another media training session.”

“With… Rozanov?” someone asked.

“Yes. Specifically, singularly, with Ilya Rozanov.”

Janice grimaced. “Didn’t we already do that? Twice?”

“We did,” Harris confirmed. “Yet here we are.”

There was a collective nod around the table. 

“I’ll handle Hollander,” Harris added. “And I will personally handle Rozanov.”

A visible shudder of sympathy went through the room.

“Schedule the session,” he said, standing. “Mandatory attendance. No exceptions.”

His team dispersed, moving with the sluggish energy of the defeated.

No strategy had ever survived contact with Ilya Rozanov being disgustingly in love.

And that, Harris thought as he grabbed his jacket, was the real opponent. 

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