Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

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, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

POV Outsider, Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Homophobia, Biphobia, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is a Menace, apologies to the real montreal, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers)

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of Hollanov from the Outside

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-12 Words: 3,809 Chapters: 1/1

The Destruction of Montreal

Summary

“Ilya, you’re playing the Voyageurs next, in Montreal. How are you feeling about that?” An ESPN mic is held to his face.

Rozanov grins. “Really good. About time. I know we have been winning a lot, but is always the most fun to beat Montreal.”

“The situation’s kind of changed though, hasn’t it?”

“Is true.” Rozanov looks almost thoughtful. “It used to be the most fun to beat them because they had the best player on their team. Now…” Rozanov trails off. He chances a look to the side, as if to check if someone’s there or not. “Now is going to be fun because they are very stupid.” Rozanov’s face is very hard. Serious. Angry. Scary.

Or: Signing with the Montreal Voyageurs should have been the best day in Jordan Bicker’s career. If only it weren’t for Ilya Rozanov…

Notes

Apologies to the real Montreal team and city, but I had to work through my anger here lol (I have read that Montreal would never treat Shane like that, especially not the fans, and I’m very happy about that, but this is based on the book, so anger it is.) Since this is based on book canon and we don’t have show canon for this yet, I’m going with book names, i.e. Montreal Voyageurs.

I’m aware that Jordan Bicker is not the perfect ally, but I tried to channel a guy who’s trying his best, even if he doesn’t always get it. I think that’s still the reality with lots of people, certainly a lot of what I’ve encountered in my life, people who misstep but still try.

Many thanks to ilikaicalie and masja_17 for tidying up my first draft and all my love and thanks to dancing_adrift for all her incredible hockey betaing, all remaining mistakes are my attempts to streamline her incredible knowledge into this fic.

Signing with the Montreal Voyageurs should have been the best day in Jordan Bicker’s career. He was an unremarkable third-round draft pick for Chicago, forever playing on their second line behind their veteran center while the team never got past the first round of the playoffs—if they made them at all.

When Jordan was traded to Nashville, things were looking up. He finally started getting top-line minutes and worked hard to improve his play, but it still wasn’t enough to get Nashville further than round one into the playoffs. He was consistently leading his team in points, a big fish in a little pond, but he wanted more.

This summer, Jordan was finally an unrestricted free agent. Nashville wanted to re-sign him, but Jordan was holding out hope to find a place on a team with a real chance at the Cup.

His stats were very good, even though he never reached the heights of Shane Hollander, of course. Even Rozanov, who played for fucking Ottawa now, was still putting up better numbers than Jordan. Then again, he was number-one-draft-pick Ilya Rozanov. Why he’d left Boston still mystified Jordan—and everyone else in the league.

Then Rozanov and Hollander got outed by a fucking FanMail video, of all things, and Hollander stumbled in the playoffs, against Rozanov, and Jordan’s still reeling from all of that when his agent calls and tells him the Voyageurs may be looking for a new center.

“They’re not re-signing Hollander?” Jordan asks, disbelieving.

Bob snorts. “Hollander’s contract is up this year, and I heard negotiations were still ongoing. But of course they’re letting him go now, he lost them the fucking Cup.”

“He won them three,” Jordan instantly defends, because when he was in high school, he had a poster of Shane Hollander on his wall.

He’s only three years younger than Hollander, but he’s always looked up to him. Hollander was already a legend in his rookie season, and he’s actually nice too. Jordan might have to reevaluate that last part though, because Rozanov’s definitely not nice, and the fact that Hollander is dating him…

“Yeah, well, he lost them this one,” Bob says. “And considering it was Rozanov… you can’t trust a guy like that on your team.”

“You think he let him win?” Jordan has heard more than one person say that, but he can’t believe it. Not Shane Hollander.

“Doesn’t really matter,” Bob says. “What matters is that it looks like he did. So, buddy, you wanna move to Canada?”

A few weeks later, it’s free agency and Bob is calling Jordan back, this time with an official offer from Montreal.

“It’s big shoes to fill,” Jordan says. “And the fallout of this whole thing is a mess.”

“True,” Bob admits. Jordan can practically see him stroke his thick beard in thought. “But it’s a dynasty team. If you want a shot at the Cup, this is it.”

They’re a dynasty team because of Hollander, Jordan thinks but doesn’t say. It’s not fair. The team’s great. He just knows that Hollander carried more than his fair share.

But Jordan wants more than what he can get with Nashville, and he deserves the chance to advance his career. It still feels wrong to go to Montreal now, after all this, but he really needs a fucking change, and he’s unlikely to get a better opportunity.

“Alright. What are they offering?”

“That’s the spirit.” He hears Bob clap his hands through the phone. “Let me read you the email…”

Jordan was right; the fallout is messy. Pike and JJ are clearly still friends with Hollander, but most of the team feels betrayed. Or they’re just straight up homophobic.

Jordan grew up with it—it was always part of the game—but a couple of years ago, his brother came out to him. Jordan still remembers his little brother being terrified but defiant when he told Jordan he was gay. Nathan thought Jordan would have a problem with it because of hockey.

Jordan had floundered, had probably said a bunch of really dumb and insensitive shit, but in the end, he managed to hug his brother and tell him it didn’t matter to him who he brought home for Christmas.

Nathan did bring a boyfriend home last year, and Nathan also sent Jordan some links about the LGBTQ community, about discrimination and slurs, and people trying to change it. Scott Hunter had already started the conversation, but Nathan’s effort was much more thorough. Jordan felt like a crappy brother that he hadn’t paid more attention before, but Nathan had told him that it was never too late to change. So Jordan tries his best. He reposts LGBTQ content on his socials. He donates to fundraisers. He doesn’t use slurs anymore and told the people on his old teams he didn’t want to hear them either.

“Why, you one of them now?” His last goalie had asked incredulously.

“No, but my brother is,” Jordan had said. “And if you insult my brother, we have a problem.”

Obviously, change hadn’t happened overnight, but some of the guys tried to make an effort. It wasn’t much, but Nathan told him that change had to start somewhere and that he was proud of Jordan.

Jordan hasn’t said anything in Montreal yet. He’s new, he’s only an alternate captain, and the whole thing with Hollander and Rozanov just turns this into a cinder box.

The mood in the locker room isn’t great, even without him commenting on it. Still, Jordan works well with his new line, and training is mostly good. The coach is a hard-ass, but nothing Jordan’s not used to.

Well, the news that Hollander signed with Ottawa and actually married Rozanov kind of shakes it all up all over again.

“Married?” Gagnon, one of the wingers, is standing speechless on the ice.

Pike just shrugs. “Yeah. It was a beautiful ceremony.”

“You know, I can wrap my mind around Rozanov being bi because that man would fuck anyone he could, but him getting married? To Hollander of all people?” Gagnon shakes his head. “Insanity.”

“I thought so too, but it makes sense,” JJ says. “They’re the best, n’est-ce pas? So they’re together. And Rozanov’s an asshole, yes, but he’s also a decent guy.”

Pike looks incredibly regretful when he nods. “Yeah. He’s okay. You know, sometimes. With Shane. And, like dogs and children.”

Comeau skates over with a scowl. “Hollander is a fucking traitor, and I don’t care if he slapped a marriage license on it or not; he cost us the fucking Cup. Now can we focus on the game?”

Everyone agrees and training resumes, but the tension remains. Jordan really hopes it will get better.

It does. As long as no one brings up Hollander or Rozanov, things are fine. They get through the pre-season pretty well. The team is much better than any team Jordan’s ever been on, and he’s cautiously optimistic that they have a real shot at the playoffs.

And then they play Ottawa for the first time. In Ottawa.

There are a lot of speeches in the locker room, by the coach and players, that this is a game like any other, that they’re the better team, that it’s fucking Ottawa, and that they’ll beat them, like always.

When Jordan gets in position to take the first face-off, Rozanov grins at him.

They haven’t played each other a lot, having always been in different conferences, and their teams never met in the playoffs. And even though Jordan knows Rozanov is impressive, he always forgets how much until he’s directly in front of him again.

“You seem like a decent guy, and you are new here,” Rozanov says in his deep voice, still with his Russian accent. “So I am going to say sorry for what is about to happen.”

Jordan is so thrown by that unexpected chirp—was that even a chirp?—he loses the face-off.

A minute later, Rozanov scores a goal on Barrett’s assist, and Jordan has a feeling he knows what Rozanov meant.

Unfortunately, Jordan’s right.

Rozanov, it seems, is on a personal mission to destroy Montreal. Hollander doesn’t really let any emotions slip, but his game is focused and razor-sharp as always. Jordan manages to score a goal on a break-away to tie it at one, but then Rozanov scores again shortly after. In the second period, Comeau gets a major and Rozanov and Hollander go out on the power play together. Jordan has never seen anything like it.

Jordan watches from the bench as they speed across the ice, passing the puck without looking, like they’ve lo-jacked each other. They’re skating circles around Montreal’s defense, easy as taking out a couple of kids. Rozanov shoots a perfect pass, and Hollander shoots a perfect goal with an incredible wrist shot at an angle that should not be physically possible.

Adding insult to injury, in the third period, both Barrett and Haas score a goal each, and Jordan’s single goal from the first period does not matter.

His team is in disbelief. Crushed. Their coach is yelling, but there’s nothing they can do. They can’t risk another penalty, but even without another power play Ottawa is unstoppable. Especially Rozanov, who argues with his coach loud enough at the end of the third period that Jordan can hear him demand another shift even though he’s had more than enough time on the ice tonight, and their lead is absolutely safe. There’s no reason for Rozanov to risk himself out there.

It becomes clear why he wanted it when he brutally fights through Montreal’s defense to score a goal twenty seconds before the game ends.

Hat trick. Rozanov wanted a fucking hat trick against Montreal.

When Ottawa celebrates, Hollander just rolls his eyes, very fondly, and Rozanov grins in the direction of the Montreal bench.

1 - 6 Ottawa. Message received.

“Next time,” Comeau grumbles, “they’re coming to us.”

“Rozanov thrives in away games,” Gagnon says, somewhat grimly.

“Then I’m just gonna have to beat his ass so hard he doesn’t get up,” Comeau says, and there’s murder in his eyes.

Jordan isn’t a pessimist. He’s got confidence and drive and a desire to win. But he’s always been a pragmatic guy. And somehow, he doesn’t think taking out Rozanov would be a solution, not when he watches the frenetic joy and adoration the entire Ottawa team has for their captain. And not when they still have Shane Hollander playing.

Before their next match-up, Coach plays a press clip. It’s Ilya Rozanov, shirtless and sweaty after a game, doing press.

“Ilya, you’re playing the Voyageurs next, in Montreal. How are you feeling about that?” An ESPN mic is held to his face.

Rozanov grins. “Really good. About time. I know we have been winning a lot, but is always the most fun to beat Montreal.”

The entire locker room shouts insults at the screen.

“Always?” the reporter asks.

Rozanov nods. “Always.”

“The situation’s kind of changed though, hasn’t it?”

“Is true.” Rozanov looks almost thoughtful. “It used to be the most fun to beat them because they had the best player on their team. Now…” Rozanov trails off. He chances a look to the side, as if to check if someone’s there or not. “Now is going to be fun because they are very stupid.” Rozanov’s face is very hard. Serious. Angry. Scary.

“Stupid?” the incredibly brave reporter repeats.

“They are very stupid, to let their best player go.” He stops. Glances over to the side again. His face schools into something more neutral.

The mics pick up some noise, someone loudly yelling Shane, before Hollander appears on screen. He’s showered and wearing a hoodie.

He seems a little apprehensive. They won their game, but he can probably infer that everyone is going to ask about their next one. And that they already asked Rozanov about it.

Hollander shoots Rozanov a look, so brief it’s blink and you miss it, but Jordan’s eyes are glued to the screen. For a moment, Rozanov looks a little sheepish, then they both turn to the reporters.

“Great game, Shane,” someone says. “How do you feel about your chances tomorrow?”

“Pretty good,” Hollander says non-commitally. “The team is in great shape, everyone is on top of their game, so honestly, I think right now we have a shot at beating anyone.”

It’s a classic Hollander press answer. Always humble himself but praising the team, and never trash-talking the opponent. It’s the total opposite of Rozanov.

Rozanov, who’s watching Hollander with an expression much softer than before. It’s kind of weird to see it on his face.

“How do you feel about facing your old team in Montreal?” the brave ESPN reporter asks, and Rozanov’s expression immediately hardens.

Hollander doesn’t hesitate. He’s been expecting this question and, of course, he has a perfect Hollander answer.

“It’s always hard to face your old team. I played in Montreal for so long, lived there for so long, so yeah, it’s going to be different than playing any other team.” There’s tense silence in the room, everyone waiting for Hollander to say more, address exactly why and how he left the team.

Eventually, he shrugs and gives them his charming boyish smile. “And you know, my mom is the biggest Montreal fan, so that’s hard on the family. Thanks, guys.”

With that, Hollander leaves.

Rozanov shakes his head, eyes dark. “Is lie. She is not the biggest Montreal fan anymore. So now I can beat the Voyageurs without making her sad.” He’s smirking, and his ‘beat the Voyageurs’ sounds more like ‘kill the Voyageurs’.

“Ilya, how do you feel about facing Shane’s old team?” the ESPN reporter asks, and Jordan’s level of respect for her goes up to a whole different level. He hopes he never has to face this woman after a difficult game.

Rozanov tilts his head, considering. “You know,” he finally says. “Hollander is probably best player of this generation. Well, second best,” he adds with a wink, and the press laughs.

Jordan’s pretty sure Rozanov actually means it though, that Hollander is the best. Jordan certainly thinks so.

“He is also very nice, very polite, and very Canadian. I am not.” Rozanov’s grin is feral. “Which is why I will tell you that Montreal is getting everything that is coming to them. I will destroy them. Every single game, I will humiliate them. Especially at home, because it is what they deserve, the team, the club, the fans, all of them. Entire city of Montreal.” Rozanov’s eyes are burning with anger, and he’s staring directly into the camera. “And as long as I am playing hockey, they will never win another fucking Cup again.”

The locker room erupts in angry shouting.

Jordan just leans back against his cubby. He knew that signing with Montreal was a risk. He should have listened to his gut.

The next day, Rozanov makes good on his promise.

The Montreal fans are the loudest in the league, and today, the entire stadium is pandemonium.

Rozanov just revels in the energy, soaking it up like a chaotic evil sponge. He takes the opening face-off, and he gets the first goal two minutes in.

After that, the game turns dirtier than anything Jordan has ever seen. The only reason there’s no power play is that both Montreal and Ottawa get a penalty at the same time. And then there’s always someone for either team in the box. Jordan tries to score, but Ottawa’s defense is like a fucking wall and they make his teeth rattle more than once checking him into the boards.

Rozanov gets another goal even though Comeau follows through on his threat and goes after Rozanov with everything he has. Rozanov gives back as good as he gets and he’s tall and a physical player, but Comeau has two inches and probably forty pounds on him. In the beginning of the second period, when the score is 2-0 for Ottawa, Comeau lays a huge hit on Rozanov that has the crowd cheering.

It’s probably the fifth time Comeau has smashed Rozanov into the boards, but unlike the other four times, Rozanov doesn’t get up.

Chaos breaks out on the ice, gloves dropped everywhere, and nearly every single player is off the benches and getting into a fight. Jordan can’t keep track of it, but then he sees Hollander jump the boards, skating through the mayhem and skidding to a stop at Rozanov’s side. Right, injured player on the ice. Ottawa’s giant defenseman Dykstra is beating on Comeau, who lost his helmet, and the refs do not have the situation under control at all. So Jordan clears the space around Rozanov, hauling players away by their jerseys to make space for the medics to get to him. Ottawa players start forming a protective line between him and the few guys still brawling, and there’s more blood on the ice than Jordan has ever seen in a single game.

The medics carry Rozanov away on a stretcher, Hollander by his side. Thankfully, Rozanov’s awake now, cursing in Russian. Hollander answers, also in Russian, but Jordan doesn’t have time to think about that.

The arena is almost silent, only broken by the loud, defiant cheers from the few Ottawa fans in the stands. The Montreal fans can barely muster more than a tepid applaus. It’s fucking unsportsmanlike considering a player was just carried out on a stretcher, but there’s probably not a more hated person in Montreal than Ilya Rozanov. It started when he was playing for their old rival Boston and it got much, much worse when he corrupted and stole their golden boy Shane Hollander. Who might be a close second now, but no one quite riles a crowd up like Ilya Rozanov. The interview he gave yesterday was only fuel for the fire.

A few of Jordan’s teammates are still riled up and cursing at the Ottawa players who look ready to start fighting again immediately. But they have a game to finish. Jordan’s only the alternate captain; he still does his best to get his teammates back into playing shape.

And now, Jordan thinks, feeling a little bad about it, without Rozanov, they might really have a shot at winning.

Once things have calmed down after what feels like an eternity, with both Comeau and Dykstra getting game misconducts, Jordan takes the next face-off. Hollander skates over, taking position opposite the circle from him

“You seem like a nice guy,” Hollander says in a grim and eerie echo of Rozanov. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

Jordan’s been thinking the same.

Hollander wins the face-off.

If Jordan had thought he’d seen Hollander play well before, he had no idea. Hollander is like a man possessed. He scores once and has an assist on a goal by Haas before the second period is over. Hayes turns from a great goalie into a fantastic one and despite Jordan’s five shots on goal, not a single one goes in.

In the locker room, the mood is shit.

Pike looks like he’s ready to get into a fight with his own team and JJ actually snaps at Comeau, which leads to a whole argument about Hollander.

“Enough,” Jordan eventually yells. It’s loud enough that everyone falls silent.

“Fuck. I can’t believe Hollander’s gone, and he’s still the most important guy in the locker room. You guys are so busy fixating on that, you can’t get your heads on straight. We play well against any other team, but as soon as you see Ottawa out there, it’s like a bull with a red rag. We’re here to play fucking hockey, to win fucking games. If you’re still pissy about Hollander and Rozanov, work that out in your own fucking time. Whine to your wife or go to fucking therapy, I don’t fucking care, but out there, it’s about the fucking game.”

There’s silence, then Gagnon whoops. “Fuck yeah.”

The rest of the team joins in, and for the first time, Jordan feels he’s getting a handle on co-captaining this team.

Not that it helps.

The third period starts, and Rozanov is sitting on the bench, gear off and holding an ice-pack to his shoulder.

Hollander is again lined up for the face-off.

“For what it’s worth,” Jordan says and means it. “I’m here to play the game.”

Hollander nods. “So am I.”

And then they do.

Jordan doesn’t know if anyone’s ever played a more beautiful period than Shane Hollander does in those final twenty minutes. He avoids any confrontation, any fight, plays cleanly for the puck, and scores a perfect goal and gives another assist to Barrett.

Every controlled move of his stick, every clean check, every intercepted pass, every shot from an impossible angle is a fuck you in the face of Montreal’s aggression. When he scores his final goal for a hat trick in an incredible slap shot from the blue line, he points his stick to where Rozanov’s sitting. Rozanov grins at Hollander widely and then blows him a kiss.

It’s probably the most PDA Jordan has ever seen from them during a game.

Hayes remains impossible to beat, and Boodram sneaks in another goal off a pass by Dillon, just before the game ends, as if every guy who ever plays on a line with Rozanov needs to personally avenge their captain.

There’s absolute silence when the final horn blares to the score of 0-8.

Rozanov loudly roars their victory over the cheers of his teammates as they carry him out on the ice for their celebration.

The only one not joining them is Hollander. He stands a little apart, watching his old team with a complicated expression on his face. Eventually, Rozanov skates over to him. Jordan can’t hear what they’re saying, but whatever it is, it makes Hollander relax. Rozanov reaches for him, but stops his hand just before it touches Hollander’s jaw, rests it on his shoulder instead. For a moment, Hollander leans into it and says something that makes Rozanov smile, then they both skate over to the rest of the team. They whoop and form a celebratory huddle around Hollander as he joins them. Hollander’s smiling now, cheering with them, but Jordan thinks there’s still something bittersweet about the moment.

In the end, it doesn’t matter though, what Hollander feels about Montreal now. He scored three goals anyway and had two assists. Played one of the best games of his entire career, one that will end up in the record books for sure.

And Rozanov’s angry enough for both of them, with his entire team behind him to the point of insanity, that Jordan doesn’t doubt his words from the interview. Montreal is never beating Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander again.