Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry, Shane Hollander & Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Original Characters, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Sorren Miitka, Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry, Harris Drover

Additional Tags:

Card Games, UNO (Card Game), Durak (Card Game), Poker, Strip Poker, Rummy (Card Game), Ligretto (Card Game), 5+1 Things, Sore Loser Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander is Good at Cards, 2008 International Prospect Cup in Regina (Game Changers), Canon Compliant, POV Outsider, POV Multiple, Podfic Available

Language:

English

Collections:

ICE OUT HR 2026

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-02 Completed: 2026-04-17 Words: 9,946 Chapters: 6/6

something in the water

Summary

“I can always play poker,” Hollander says, far slower than he’d recited the stats. “What are you playing?”

“Durak,” Ilya says when the others just look expectantly at him.

After a beat, Hollander seems to muster up his courage. “Can I join?”

---

Or: Five times people learn the still waters of one Shane Hollander hide a veritable card shark, and one time Ilya gets to see a different side.

Notes

The hugest of thanks to DevilWithABirdDress for supporting ICE OUT HR 💛 This prompt was a joy to write, and I was clearly wrong to worry I would not hit the 1k minimum :D

My undying gratitude goes out to synteis for the beta, vex for cheerleading, the title, and help with the summary and plotting, and met for help with plot and cheerleading!

I have learned a lot about card games while writing this fic, and hope I managed to bring the lesser known games across in a comprehensible manner 😂
The fic is fully finished and edited and will be posting Thursday/Saturday/Monday for the next two weeks <3

If you would rather listen to this fic, you can find a podfic version here

Chapter 1: Durak (Prospect Cup 2008)

“Oooh, are you playing cards?”

There is a brief silence as the assembled Russian players parse the English. Then, Zhenya, one of Ilya’s As, leans back. He’s tall and broad, especially for someone on a World Juniors team, and his grin only adds to his imposing appearance. “You want defeat like on ice tomorrow?”

The speaker – an equally tall Canadian kid, already growing out of the teenage gangliness in a way that suggests he got drafted but didn’t make the jump to the professional league yet – smirks back. “You wish. Lemme just grab a few more guys to make it even.”

He’s already disappeared by the time Ilya’s brain has caught up to the rapid fire English. He shares a look with his teammates. It is maybe a bit unorthodox to play cards against your opponents the eve of the gold medal game. But, well. If the Canadians are so eager to practice losing to them, who is he to judge?

The mediocre Canadian – left d-man on the Canadian’s second pair, one of the As, name unimportant (Sean McGregor, early second round at the last draft) – returns within a few minutes, a bunch of the Canadian teens in tow. Ilya hasn’t really seen them off the ice, aside from at the cafeteria where guys mostly stick with their own teammates. They’re oddly small, this close and out of their pads, a few of them with hints of patchy stubble, beanies jammed onto their heads because the common areas are draughty.

And then Ilya spots the lone figure near the back of the group, dressed in the typical Canadian team gear, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweat pants and cheeks so smooth they’re probably not shaved. Reflexively, Ilya rubs the pads of his thumbs over the line of stubble on his chin, because he, at least, has some.

“Why you not sleep, Hollander?” Ilya drawls. “Is time for baby like you, yes?”

A ripple of laughter goes through Ilya’s teammates as colour shoots into Hollander’s face. His own teammates are poorly hiding their smiles, too; it’s no secret that Hollander is the youngest on his team. So is Ilya on his, but that’s neither here nor there.

“I’m literally a month older than you,” Hollander mutters.

Ilya is still translating that in his head when one of the Canadians – he’s pretty sure it’s one of Hollander’s lines mates, his right wing, tendency to hesitate too long and pass instead of shooting – jostles Hollander’s shoulder. “Got this guy memorised?”

Hollander’s flush deepens as he scowls at his teammate and then at the others, watching with undisguised interest. “He’ll go in my draft class. Of course I know his stats.”

The other guy raises an eyebrow. “Do you now?”

Hollander squares his shoulders and meets the other guy’s eyes. “Yeah. Rozanov, born June 15, 1991. Plays center, shoots right, 18 goals and 21 assists, six PIMs and 48 penalty minutes drawn so far this season with Torpedo Nishny Novgorod. Projected to go in the top three of the upcoming draft.” He crosses his arms. Ilya is maybe a little bit impressed. The English was rapid-fire, but hockey is kind of a universal language, and that was a very quick recital of Ilya’s stats.

Maybe, Hollander wasn’t lying when he’d said he was a fan a couple of days ago.

Hollander’s teammate raises his second-eyebrow. “He the only one you got, or –”

Hollander scoffs and nods at the guy in front of him. “Michael Nealson. Born March 28, 1990. Drafted 23rd overall by Philadelphia last year. You play center and right wing for the London Lancers, so far 14 goals, 17 assists, 14 PIMs. Last season, nine goals and fourteen assists in fifteen playoff games.” Hollander meets the guy’s gaze evenly. “Questions?”

Okay, Ilya is very much impressed. But this is a teammate. Someone who went first round, if pretty low… Ilya meets Sasha’s eyes for a moment, and then says, “Hollander. Him?” Sasha’s a year older than them, and he’s Ilya’s right winger on the second line back in Novgorod. He’s probably going to play another season in the KHL, so there’s no real reason for Hollander to know his regular season stats.

And Hollander recites Sasha’s stats. Fucking showoff.

Even Hollander’s teammates seem to agree, because one of the older guys shakes his head and mutters fucking weirdo, not quite quiet enough that it doesn’t carry. Hollander’s shoulders grow tight, and he suddenly seems to remember where he is.

If Ilya were better at English and in the habit of defending other people, he’d probably say something like, you wish you had Hollander’s ability and his projected draft position. Instead, he amuses himself with thoughts about how the guy – left-winger on the third line – probably won’t make his MLH debut this year, either.

“Anyway,” Hollander says, abruptly returning to his awkward hunch. “I thought – cards?”

There is a brief argument about what to play in stilted English and with lots of clarifications, because the Canadians suggest poker, which Ilya isn’t the biggest fan of – not that he doesn’t have a good poker face, he just… doesn’t really like most versions, and he can’t see these Canadian goodie two-shoes playing the strip variant.

Ilya isn’t the only one, and in the end, they end up with two groups: the Canadians and a few of Ilya’s teammates do settle on poker, while Ilya raises an eyebrow at Sasha and shuffles the Durak deck. Sasha shrugs, pokes Misha and Vova, and the four of them set up a few tables down from the mixed group playing poker.

Ilya is just dealing the first round when a shadow falls over their table, like in a movie. “Uhm,” someone says awkwardly. “Uh, sorry?”

Of course it’s Hollander.

“Run from team?” Ilya asks, far from smooth himself. At least it’s his third language, but it still makes his chest ache to be so tongue-tied, even with a very good reason.

Hollander smiles, gives a half-shrug and then shakes his head. “I can always play poker,” he says, far slower than he’d recited the stats. “What are you playing?”

“Durak,” Ilya says when the others just look expectantly at him. Fuck them, he knows that Misha’s English is far better from that pretentious hockey camp his dad sent him to last year.

After a beat, Hollander seems to muster up his courage. “Can I join?”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Would I ask?” Hollander’s eyes flash, but his temper dies down a moment later. “Yes.”

Ilya looks over at Misha, switching to Russian. “Can you explain the rules to him, if he’s so desperate to lose?”

Misha snorts. “Sure.”

Ilya nods at the free seat at the head of the table, putting Hollander between Misha and Vova. It’s maybe not the kindest position – Misha and Vova are bonded in that freakish way most d-man pairings are, and they don’t even play together outside of international tournaments – but it’s better than having Hollander next to Ilya. Too late does he realise that this puts Hollander straight into his field of view. Damn.

“Okay, Durak, yes? Is traditional Russian game,” Misha starts.

“Uh huh.” Hollander leans forward, full focus on Misha as Misha introduces attacking and defending and how trump cards work.

“Ah,” Hollander says at some point, “so – very similar to President, I’m getting?”

“President?” Misha raises an eyebrow.

Hollander shrugs, suddenly self-conscious. “Uh – a similar card game? I think?”

God, he’s so awkward.

Ilya shuffles more cards into the deck. With five players, they still could play with the base deck of thirty-six cards, but it’s probably better to have a little more leeway.

For the first game, Hollander is very quiet, brows furrowed as he tracks the plays around the table. Ilya tries sticking to English for his sake, but Hollander makes no attempt to engage, and so they slip into Russian again and again. Unsurprisingly, Hollander ends up as the durak.

“No worry.” Ilya smirks, making sure most of his teeth show. “You win, yes?”

“Haha,” Hollander says, his eyes flashing again. Then, he drops his gaze to focus on shuffling the cards like a good little durak. He deals efficiently, flips over the trump card – eight of diamonds – and looks at Misha. “Your turn.”

Misha grins.

Hollander defends that attack, draws back up to six, attacks Vova. Ilya throws in on that attack, until Vova has to collect all ten cards in front of him. Hollander and Ilya both draw back up to six, and it continues.

Ilya goes out first, putting his chin on his hand as he watches Hollander play. He’s still a little tentative, a little unsure, but he goes out as third.

This, probably, should have been their first warning. Unfortunately, none of them see it then.

The next game, Hollander goes out as third again, and the one after that, he wins.

“Congrats, Hollander,” Misha says. “You are now Russian for night.”

Hollander scoffs. “Can’t stomach being beaten by a foreigner?”

Ilya’s English is really at its limit here. Still, he takes a wild guess – it should be clear enough from context. Hopefully. “One time is no time.” He tilts his head at Hollander. “Yes?”

“Watch me,” Hollander says, and that is clear enough to everyone.

Unfortunately, Hollander isn’t kidding. He wins the next game, goes out second after that, and then wins the next five in a row. He’s not even grinning about it, just watching the game with a focus that gives Ilya a headache merely from looking. Or maybe that’s Ilya’s teeth aching with the need to chew on Hollander’s jaw.

Vova goes out as second to last, looks at Hollander, and then shakes his head. “This is more than my poor heart can take,” he says in Russian. No one laughs, because he isn’t wrong. Who gave Hollander the right to be this damned good at a card game that’s clearly unfamiliar to him? “I’m going to bed.”

He gets up, nods at Hollander, and says, “See you on ice tomorrow.”

Hollander tears his gaze away from Misha shuffling the cards. “Oh,” he says, glancing at the clock hanging at the side of the room. For a moment, Ilya is sure he’ll also get up and make his excuses. “Good night.” He does not move, gaze already back on Misha. He looks like he does on the ice, Ilya realises, entirely focused.

Hollander wins that game, too, and then the one after that, and then starts yawning halfway through the next. Asshole that he is, it somehow doesn’t even impact his game.

“I’m beat,” Hollander says, as he throws down his final card in front of Sasha, matter of fact. It doesn’t make sense, because he is the one who’s beaten them, except Hollander yawns again and gets up. Oh. Probably another stupid idiom. Stupid fucking language, English is. “Thanks for playing with me.” He rubs his neck, head ducked and suddenly awkward again.

“You play good,” Sasha allows, not even grudgingly. Hollander probably doesn’t realise how high a compliment that is.

Misha inclines his head. “Maybe next time you teach us a Canadian game.”

“So you’ll stand even less of a chance?” Hollander asks, which is a lot of English that late at night, so none of them dignify it with a response.

“You are crazy.” Ilya shakes his head. “But you win today, we win easy tomorrow.”

Hollander chuckles. His eyes are very dark in the shadows his brows cast under the overhead lighting, and his tongue is very pink when he licks his chapped lips. Reflexively, Ilya licks his own lips. He craves a cigarette, suddenly. “We’ll see.” Hollander stuffs his hands in his pockets and shrugs. For a moment, silence stretches as Hollander looks at them, still holding the remaining few cards. “Uh – see you on the ice tomorrow?”

“Good luck, Hollander.” Ilya smirks. “You will need it.”

Hollander chuckles again. “Good luck with that,” he says, to Ilya alone, and then turns around and disappears.

Chapter 2: UNO (Rookie Season)

Chapter Notes

Warning for some homophobic/misogynyst language in this chapter (there are some asshole hockey players).

I’m now one of those™️ writers… bc I’m posting this from the ER waiting on x-ray results after falling over with my bike yesterday 😅 but the chapter has been prepped, so no reason to delay!

It will delay replies to comments, though, bc I was in the middle of doing that when the pain suggested I should rather go to the doctor's 🙈

Anyway. Please enjoy this chapter!

“What are you playing?”

“Oh my god, he speaks,” Berkey crows. Jordan Berkes is one of their top defensemen and a bit of a jokester, so of course everyone laughs. It’s not mean-spirited. Still, Hollsy ducks his head and hitches his shoulders up, a flush darkening his cheeks.

There’s jokes about goalies and their nesting tendencies, but at that moment, Soren kind of wants to take Hollsy under his wing and tell him they’re just kidding. Mitty the mother-hen, indeed.

He spares both of them the indignity.

“Of course I speak.” Hollsy scowls at Berkey. It’s more intimidating on the ice, when his hair doesn’t fall into his forehead like a kid, making him seem even younger than his nineteen years. Christ; the kid’s only nineteen. Soren isn’t old by any means, but the rookies getting smaller every year certainly makes him feel like that. “You know that.”

Willy – Brendan Wilson, second-line left wing – snorts. “Kinda started to think you left that on the ice.” The guys chuckle. Even Soren can’t help but smile, because while Hollsy was pretty quiet for the first couple of weeks, by now he’s yelling on the ice and on the bench and in the locker room, whenever he forgets himself enough to let go of his good boy Canadian exterior. Soren only hopes that that will continue both on and off the ice, because the kid’s pretty funny when he’s not keeping himself locked down beyond belief. “Good to know it extends to team barbecues.”

“Ha ha,” Hollsy says, apparently finally clocking that they’re just joking. His face is furiously red now, making his freckles stand out even more starkly. “So, can I join?”

Stunned silence. Hollsy hasn’t been the most anti-social guy, but getting him to join a team outing or go out drinking is more chore than anything. Soren recovers first. “Yeah, we’re just playing UNO.”

A brief smile flashes over Hollsy’s face as he drags a chair to their table. “Normal rules?”

“Yeah.”

It’ll be good to pull him into the fold properly.

This was a mistake.

“This was a mistake,” Willy groans.

Hollsy frowns at him, and then pushes the +2 Willy had put on top of the +2 Steddy – Mark Stedlund – had played back to Willy again. “I told you – you can’t just add a +2 and pass it on. That’s not how it works!”

“Says who?” Willy grumbles, but dutifully picks up his +2 and draws two more cards, bringing his total hand-size to nine. Steddy is smirking just a little, because a couple turns ago, Hollsy had chastised him for the very same manoeuvre.

“Says the rulebook.” Hollsy plays a yellow 8, which means Sorren can get rid of his yellow 2. Gags’s – Richard Gagnon, the other half to Berkey’s D – skip card makes Jackie huff in annoyance, and Andrew Roy, second pair d-man, sighs.

“I hate you.” He draws a card and nods at Tay-Tay – Drew Taylor – to continue.

“It’s Montreal Metros-red time, baby,” Tay-Tay sing-songs as he places a Wild card down.

Steddy sighs, draws a card, and Willy, eyes gleaming, plays a Wild Draw Four.

“Uh uh.” Hollsy raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think you can play that.”

“What?” Willy cries, drawing the attention of a few of the other guys. Carson Gilbert, nicknamed Car, wanders over to see what it’s about.

“I said, I don’t think you can play that.”

“Of course I can!” Wilson points to the discard pile. “Steddy drew a card and didn’t play, and I had the Draw Four. What do you mean, I can’t play?”

Car chuckles behind Willy’s shoulder. “Nah, Hollsy’s right,” he says, and then wanders off again towards the refreshments table to Wilson’s betrayed cry of Car!

Hollsy gives an exasperated sigh. “It’s in the rules! You can’t just play a Wild Draw Four whenever, you can only play it when you don’t have any other cards in the right colour.”

“You’re just making that up!” Willy points at Hollsy, and he’s not looking too enthused. Maybe this is less team-bonding, and more team-bombing.

“I’m not! Car – Car, tell them I’m telling the truth!” Hollsy cranes his head for the older forward. He sounds like a whiny kid right then, but no one calls him out on it. They’re all too busy watching Willy get redder and redder as they snipe back and forth, until finally Car reappears – with a booklet in hand that turns out to be the rule book.

“Game’s up, Hollander,” Willy says darkly as he leafs through the booklet.

He goes quiet.

“See?” Hollander crosses his arms, a little too smug. “I was telling the truth.”

“Fucking hell.”

“So, show me your hand.”

“Fuck you.” Willy glowers and keeps his hand close to his chest, grabbing the Draw Four with the other. He’s still grumbling under his breath when Hollsy passes him his four penalty cards. “What –”

“Check the rules,” Hollsy tells him, and then plays his red skip. “UNO.”

Everyone clearly itches to give Hollsy a string of +2 cards, but the moment they try, he’s there with his uh uh, shaking his head disapprovingly. This was a mistake, because there’s a very real chance the kid ends up strangled by the end of tonight, and then what are they gonna do? Hope for another top two draft pick?

Willy still manages to save the game, playing a green +2 that makes Hollsy sigh, and play continues.

After a while, Jenna wanders over. She’s Thomas Koch’s daughter and five and adorable. She’s also clearly interested in what the adults are doing. Considering her dad is manning the grill with Grouch, Soren is fully prepared to snatch her up and bow out if she professes to wanting to play, because he doesn’t want to subject her to this Hollsy. For now, though, she seems content to watch.

Play comes back around. Steddy makes Wilson skip. Hollsy plays a green one. Soren plays a green three. Jenna gasps.

“What?”

“You didn’t say UNO!”

“Hm?” Hollsy says, making no move to take a penalty card.

Jenna points at him. “You gotta draw two! You’re on your last card and you didn’t say UNO! That’s not allowed.”

Hollsy smirks. “Well. If the next person plays before you’re called out, you get away with it.” Smugly, he holds up his singular card. “So, no, I don’t have to draw two.”

Jenna, clearly stunned, looks at Soren and then at Willy. He doesn’t know what it says about them that none of them even reach for the rule book; Hollsy could be bullshitting them, but at this point, they all know that it’s a waste of time.

“We’ll play a round of real UNO later,” Willy promises Jenna with a dark look at Hollsy, who sputters.

Before he can say anything, especially something not meant for the ears of a five year-old, Gags plays his next card, while Willy pulls Jenna into his lap. She leans back against him, watching with wide eyes. She doesn’t look at Hollsy.

Hollsy wins the round. Of course he does. Soren shakes his head and plays his next card – a blue three – when Hollsy makes a noise of protest next to him.

Soren draws back the card to his hand. “What?” he asks warily.

Hollsy is squinting at him. “What are you doing?”

“Playing? So we can determine who loses?”

With a scoff, Hollsy gives him a condescending look. “It’s about points,” he says, and looks at the rest of the table. Equally confused faces look back at him. Hollsy huffs. “Guys. Guys. This game really isn’t that complicated. I even asked if we were playing normal rules.”

“This,” Gags says, voice somewhere between exasperated and fond, “is the furthest thing from normal that I have ever seen, and I saw your dangle in the shootout the other day.”

Hollsy blushes again, caught between still being stuck on the proper rules and Gags’s praise. “It’s in the rule book!”

“Yeah, but apparently nobody plays by the rules, because they’re stupid.”

“They aren’t stupid! They’re the normal rules! I don’t know why you all made up something else, but –”

“Iiii think it’s time you got your dinner.” Piker swoops in like an angel in disguise, wrapping his arm around Hollsy’s shoulders to pull him away.

“But the rules –”

“Buddy, no one plays by those rules.”

“But –”

“Trust me. Cookie’s almost done with the burgers, and there’s a few nice ones that are probably for you, and you should grab them before they’re gone.”

“Ugh,” Hollsy says, and with one last look at the very quiet table, lets Piker pull him away towards the food.

Soren catches Piker’s eyes over Hollsy’s shoulder and mouths Thanks. Piker inclines his head. He’s only a year older than Hollsy, and up until tonight, Soren would have said that Hollsy’s twice as mature even though Piker and Jackie have twins. He won’t make that mistake again after tonight.

Everyone breathes a collective sigh of relief when Hollsy is firmly installed at a table on the other side of the covered veranda.

“What the – ” Roy mutters, catching himself at the last moment with a glance at Jenna.

Soren catches Jackie Pike’s eyes and grins.

“This was a nightmare,” Willy says with feeling.

“Eh,” Jackie says as she jerks her chin at Soren so he can actually play his blue three, “I actually thought it was quite educational.”

Gags snorts. “Yeah. Taught us to never, ever have a deck of UNO where Hollsy might join.”

A shudder goes through the guys as they imagine this happening thousands of feet up in the air.

“Yeah,” Soren agrees, “maybe, for all our sakes, let’s leave the UNO at home for the foreseeable future.”

Five years later, Gilbert Comeau joins the team. He’s a decent enough guy; a little brash in places, with some opinions he should be keeping more quiet in Soren’s opinion, and one very horrifying vice: UNO.

Coms pulls it out on the first longer flight of the season, waving the deck as he looks around once they’ve hit cruising altitude. “So, anyone wanna play?”

“Uh,” Piker says, looking at Soren.

Ordinarily, Sorren would intervene. He has in the past, but Coms has said one or two things that make Sorren rather disinclined to keep him from the experience. Let him learn what Hollsy is capable of; maybe, he’ll think twice about his snide comments about Asians and cocksuckers afterwards. Hollsy speaks up about the egregious things, but he’s still nice, still slow to defend himself against the racism.

Soren wishes he was a little more like Coms, in that regard.

“You couldn’t pay me,” Gags declares, kicking back with a book. If Willy was there, he’d probably have some more choice words, but unfortunately, Willy was one of the guys traded after their Cup last year. The ugly side of the sport: win a Cup, and suddenly everyone’s value shoots up beyond the cap.

“Too much of a pussy?” Coms raises an eyebrow.

Gags just snorts. “Nah. I just prefer a fun time.”

Coms looks around, but none of the veterans want to join him.

Soren, because he’s still responsible, clears his throat. “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” he says mildly.

Coms just scoffs, and wanders off to recruit the rookies and Hollsy. Well. If he’s so keen to make that experience himself…

They are all very, very glad when they finally land, Hollsy smug and victorious and Coms glowering like he was personally swept in the Cup Finals.

“Told you,” Soren says just as mildly as earlier.

Coms makes a sound like he’d spit on the ground if they weren’t on the plane still. “Fuck you.”

But, well. Hopefully he’s learned his lesson.

Chapter 3: Poker (JJ’s Friend’s Restaurant)

Chapter Notes

Hello! I present to you: Actual Card Shark!Shane :D

Where are we at? Well. Shortly after Tuna-Melt :D I love this scene a lot, and I hope you have fun with it, too!

JJ hasn’t been with the team since the beginning, but he’s been with them for enough: through Hollsy losing his mind over his busted knee a couple of seasons ago, kept barely calm by Piker; through Piker losing his mind during his wife’s complicated pregnancy, in turn kept vaguely sane by Hollsy; and, most importantly, through Coms’s withering defeat at Hollsy’s hands during UNO.

Which mainly means that he’s weighed his options, and with the current dual crises of Hollsy losing his mind over what’s totally not a break-up because Hollsy still thinks he can keep a secret from the room, and Piker losing his mind over his wife being pregnant again, letting Hollsy loose on unsuspecting celebs to obliterate them at poker is their best bet to still have a functioning captain at the end of the season.

Hell, at this point, JJ will even take Hollsy making it to Christmas, with the dark storm cloud that’s been following him.

So he makes the call from a quieter corner of Île Flottante, Francois’s beautiful restaurant. Gets his Capitaine on the phone, and somehow manages to convince him within a minute. JJ hangs up, Hollsy’s promise to be at Île Flottante soon still ringing in his ears. Wow. Who would have thought that the magic words appear to be the crew of the X-Squad movies?

Well, even Shane fucking Hollander cannot resist the lure of Rose Landry and Anne Heuser, it seems.

“Gonna go sit down.” Hollsy jerks his head towards the tables deeper into the restaurant, where it’s a little calmer. Not that it’s a raucous party, but it’s a crowd of people Hollsy doesn’t know.

JJ grins at his friend and claps his shoulder, and then turns back to the circle of people he’s talking to while Hollsy escapes to have a quiet moment or something.

When JJ goes looking for him an hour later, Hollsy is in one of the booths, elbows braced on the table as he talks animatedly… with none other than Rose Landry, who is gesturing expansively while Hollsy seems to hang on her every word. Which – woah.

JJ just watches him for a moment, warmth spreading through him at the soft smile on Hollsy’s face. For the first time in weeks, the metaphorical thunderstorm drowning their captain seems to have lifted, and it’s Rose fucking Landry’s doing. Is JJ a genius, or what?

“Le Capitaine!” he shouts, grinning widely, even though he feels almost bad for interrupting the moment. But hey – surely, Hollsy will be getting her number, right?

“JJ.” Hollsy leans against the bench, shoulders loose as he grins up at JJ. “You alright?”

“Always le Capitaine.” JJ shares a conspiratorial smile with Landry, who looks fondly amused. Go get it, Hollsy!

“That’s what I’m being paid for, isn’t it?”

JJ gasps, a hand clasped to his chest. “They’re paying you for that? My salary did not change when I got the A!”

Hollsy chuckles, shaking his head, but he goes along with the bit. “Guess you didn’t negotiate right.”

“Shane Hollander,” Landry says, “quite the cutthroat business man.”

“Don’t get him started on his real estate investments,” JJ cuts in before Hollsy can say anything, because the last thing they need is Hollsy chasing Landry away with his weird interest in collecting properties. Hollsy’s smile dims for a second, though it’s back in full-force when Landry chuckles.

“It’s a very attractive quality in a guy, looking out for his future.”

Hollsy ducks his head and blushes.

What a perfect segue, really. “If you want to spend money in some fun ways, you should come with me – we’re starting a round of poker.”

Predictably, that makes Hollsy perk up. Then, his eyes flicker to Landry and he sinks back into his seat.

Landry just grins. “Well, if you guys can stomach being beaten by a girl…”

“We’ll see about that,” Hollsy says, all fired up like he’s about to take to the face-off dot, and then he’s on his feet, almost impatient as he waits for Landry to follow him.

She laughs as she shakes her head and links her arm with Hollsy’s. “I don’t think they’ll be starting without us, considering Mr. Boiziau is still here.”

“JJ,” JJ tells her as he leads them over to the table where Grant Hughes, one of Rose’s co-stars, is already counting out chips, “Ms. Landry.”

Landry laughs again while Shane snorts a little in amusement. “Rose, then.”

They take their seats, JJ between Hollsy and Grant’s girlfriend Eliza, because there’s nothing better than a front-row seat to Hollsy cleaning other people out.

“This is my friend Hollsy,” JJ introduces Hollsy, because it’s a little bit funny and he’s pretty sure that most of these people have at least seen him – his ubiquitous ads really don’t give people much of a choice, after all.

“Shane, please,” Hollsy says, nods at the people, and then looks expectantly at JJ. “You’re dealing?”

With a grin, JJ grabs the cards to shuffle. “Settle in, guys.”

The thing about Hollsy is that no one expects him to be good at cards. He’s quiet and polite to strangers – his snarkiness is understated and all the more funny for it, in JJ’s opinion, though he’s pretty sure even some of the guys in the room haven’t clocked that – and media-trained to the point of being the epitome of mild-mannered.

He is also, given a handful of cards, absolutely fucking ruthless, on a level he otherwise reserves for on the ice. It’s honestly impressive, and just a little scary.

JJ loves it.

Tonight, Hollsy starts deceptively slow, either because it’s a round of new players – not that he’s ever had much pity previously, when he’d been playing with other MLHers – or because Rose has one hand on Hollsy’s thigh, Hollsy’s larger one covering hers.

JJ’s gaze keeps snagging on it, that casual intimacy. He’s been with the team for four seasons now, and he’s never seen Hollsy like that. Almost hadn’t believed he’d ever see it, if he’s honest. Hollsy is private, to the point where JJ had convinced himself that either Hollsy was just plain not into sex – some people are like that, apparently – or that he was gay.

Rose laughs at something Brit, the girlfriend of one of the other stars, says, and Hollsy’s gaze flickers over to her before he makes his next move. It’s not one of his best plays, but okay, even the mighty Shane Hollander can apparently be tamed by infatuation. Not gay, then – bisexual?

Rose takes the pot that round, smirking at Hollsy, and JJ can feel him lock in. Oh. Oh yeah, this will now be fun.

Which is exactly what happens. Hollsy watches JJ shuffle, deal, looks at his hand, and then turns into the calm, self-assured card shark that JJ’s gotten to know him as. Next to him, Rose smiles, then giggles, and then watches Shane as he ruthlessly demolishes the table, the pile in front of him growing larger and larger. There’s something mesmerising about watching him play cards like this, unruffled and sly and entirely focused.

JJ’s mostly straight, but even he can admit that that makes him a little weak in the knees.

“Well,” Hollsy says after he’s cleaned out Grant with a beautiful Full House. “I think it’s time I called it a night.”

“Finally taking pity on us?” Brit titters, which gets a chuckle from the rest. They still look a little shell-shocked, which is probably fair, because it’s taken Hollsy a terrifyingly small number of rounds to amass most of the table’s chips.

Hollsy’s mouth twitches upwards in a half smile. “I don’t take pity on my opponents.” He’s already looking at Rose again, which means he’s delightfully honest.

“Our Capitaine would probably even check his mother into the boards if she was in the way of the puck.”

Hollsy clicks his tongue. “My mother would either be too slow to keep up with me, or too fast for me to pin down, depending on whether she’s got my level of training in this universe.”

Everyone laughs again, while JJ shakes his head with a smile. They think Hollsy’s joking, but he’s probably entirely serious. So was JJ, after all.

“But anyway, I’m beat. Gotta go before I fall asleep in the cab home.”

Eliza meets JJ’s eyes, one eyebrow raised. JJ smirks. “Yeah, he’s even more terrifying when he’s fully rested.”

“Well, you deserve your winnings,” Grant says as Hollsy gets up, pressing a kiss to Roses’s cheek.

“I’ll text you,” he promises her, and then looks at JJ. “Be so kind – find a charity to put the winnings towards, yeah?”

“You got it, Capitaine.” JJ salutes while the rest of the table is fondly amused of Hollsy’s philanthropy, like he’s doing it out of the goodness of his heart rather than because he doesn’t really care about the money itself. He cares about winning, yes. The material goods? He wouldn’t even notice a difference if he put them in his savings.

And then Hollsy waves at them and disappears, leaving Rose Landry, who was very clearly into him all night, sitting at the table with them.

Hm. Maybe bisexual isn’t the answer here after all. But that’s an experience their Capitaine will have to make on his own.

Rose meets JJ’s eyes, smiling a little. “He’s very cute.”

“He is,” JJ agrees, because that is very much true. So is Rose Landry, though JJ doesn’t say that part out loud. He has more tact than that, and can only hope that Hollsy doesn’t break her heart too severely.

Chapter 4: Rummy (Ottawa, 2018)

Chapter Notes

I’m back! Apologies for the delay; I wanted to catch up to this fic with posting the corresponding podfic :D

Which means – if you’d rather listen to today’s chapter, you can do so here!

Posting will happen every three days from now on – so today, then chapter 5 on the 14th, and chapter 6 on the 17th!

Rose Landry, in person and without heavy make-up, is somehow even more beautiful than on screen. There’s a presence to her that makes her inviting on top of being pretty, and Svetlana suddenly understands with startling clarity why Ilyusha feels so territorial over his Shane even though Shane keeps reminding him he’s gay.

Rose Landry is gorgeous.

“Hi, I’m Rose.” She holds her hand out to Svetlana to shake, a nice and firm grip. Her hands are very soft. “Amazing timing, that we’re arriving at the same time.”

“Svetlana,” Svetlana introduces herself, though Rose must know since it’ll be just the two of them invited tonight. “I guess it was fate.”

Rose laughs, and it makes her even prettier.

Shane Hollander, meanwhile, is just as awkward in person here as he was the first time Svetlana had met him. Granted, that had been with her on Ilyusha’s arm while he and Hollander had pretended not to be anything more than friends, but still.

“Come in,” Hollander greets them stiffly, and steps out of the way to let them into the entryway of the house he and Ilyusha call their home here in Ottawa. At least in the off-season; during the season, it’s still only Ilyusha’s.

Svetlana meets Ilyusha’s eyes over his boyfriend’s shoulder. And he’s supposed to be good at cards?

Ilyusha inclines his head ever so slightly and smirks, and then disappears into the kitchen again.

Dinner is ready within half an hour – nutritionist approved, because Rose is trying to bulk up for an action role, as she explains with an eyeroll while Ilyusha adds another piece of salmon to her plate – and they settle into semi-comfortable small-talk.

“Ah, yes, how I have missed this,” Svetlana says as she takes a bite of the salmon. At least Ilyusha’s chef has branched out where the sauces are concerned from his time in Boston, but it’s still salmon with rice and broccoli.

Next to her, Rose laughs. “Honestly, this is so much better than what I often have to do for roles.” She gives Svetlana a wry smile that turns her face even more mesmerising. “At least this is food.”

“It’s healthy,” Hollander adds.

Svetlana and Ilyusha share a commiserating look. Hollander bristles, even with Ilyusha’s hand clear on his thigh, and then Ilyusha forcibly changes the topic to how boring Ottawa is, like it wasn’t his choice to settle here.

Hollander gets out a deck of cards once the table is clear, shuffling it with practised motions. “So. Anyone up for a game?”

Svetlana smiles, slow and dangerous as she slinks back over to the table. Rose’s eyes are on her, and it turns her movements even more fluid. She’s always enjoyed attention after all. “The question is whether you are up for it.”

In the kitchen, Ilyusha laughs, though he doesn’t say anything as he joins them at the table. Huh.

Hollander just smiles serenely. “I do enjoy a game of cards from time to time. Rummy?”

“Sure,” Svetlana says, and leans forward. “Cut?”

Hollander nods. “And two packs. No duplicate suits in sets, no mixed suits in runs. Minimum meld count?”

“Absolutely,” Svetlana agrees. “Forty?”

“And now in layman’s terms?” Rose prompts.

Right. “We’re playing with two decks,” Hollander explains, shuffling through the cards to reveal the two differently coloured backsides, “which means everyone will get ten cards to start. Have you played Rummy before?”

Rose shakes her head. Ilyusha doesn’t, but maybe he and Hollander do this in their free time. Svetlana bites her cheek against her amusement. As if. She cannot imagine those two doing anything other than fuck whenever they see each other.

“Okay. Your goal is to get rid of all the cards in your hand, either as a run – so cards of the same suit, played in order – or a set of three or four. Sets must be of the same rank but cannot duplicate suits, so you could play a diamond, heart, and pike five together, but not two diamond fives and a heart five. Your first meld has to sum to forty…”

Hollander illustrates his explanation with cards he picks out of the deck. He’s not the best teacher, jumping between topics and backtracking, but he gets the rules across and Rose listens attentively, so it probably works out.

And then they play.

And suddenly, Svetlana understands why Ilyusha had just smiled.

Hollander is quiet while they’re playing, smiling as Ilyusha makes jokes and irresponsible plays, and then goes out with his first meld.

Svetlana stares at her own hand, the atrocious number of points still there, and meets Hollander’s eyes.

“Still wondering if I’m up for it?”

Her nostrils flare as she subtracts her hand cards from her melded cards. “A fluke,” she tells him, writes down her total, and looks expectantly around the table until everyone has given their points.

Ilyusha shuffles, cuts – nothing to write home about – deals, and play resumes.

This time, Svetlana gets a lot of her hand melded before Hollander goes out with a hand rummy again.

“Is he cheating?” Rose stage-whispers to Ilyusha.

Ilyusha laughs as he counts his cards – minus sixty four, poor boy – and shakes his head. “You know him. Shane Hollander would never cheat.”

Rose snorts. “Yeah, well.”

“It’s a matter of practice,” Hollander tells her, humble as ever, but then his lips twitch and he adds, “and skill, of course.”

Rose rolls her eyes. “I see, you’re trying to keep me playing.”

Hollander grins, inclines his head, and cocks his head at Svetlana while she shuffles and deals.

This time, Svetlana manages to go out before Hollander has gotten a single card down, which feels excellent.

“And how long do you play this?” Rose asks a couple of rounds later, while Hollander has an abysmally large lead over the rest of them. Her voice says the only correct answer is, we’re done, which is a shame.

Playing against Hollander is fun: challenging and fast, requiring her to pay attention and actually consider her strategy. This is probably how Ilyusha feels on the ice, whenever he plays against Hollander, and it’s truly no wonder that he fell for him.

“Until someone reaches a thousand points,” Hollander says, already shuffling the cards again.

“Maybe we release Rose,” Ilyusha says, “I’ll show her house, and you two keep playing, yes?”

A couple of hours earlier, Svetlana would have bet that Hollander would be vehemently against spending time with her alone and letting Ilyusha spend time with only Rose. It just seemed like the type of person he would be. But now, she’s not surprised when Hollander merely hums in agreement and starts splitting the decks apart.

“See you later,” Svetlana agrees. “So, pretty boy – I heard you also have some hockey opinions?”

Hollander looks up at her, an actual toothy grin on his face. “A few,” he agrees.

As it turns out, talking hockey while playing does not in any way make his game play weaker, but it does make it even more fun.

“I’m stealing your man,” Svetlana announces later, when Ilyusha and Rose reappear, tipsy and grinning.

Ilyusha laughs in her face. “Rose Landry tried,” he says, pressing a kiss to Hollander’s temple. “Ask her how that went.”

Rose shakes her head. “Keep me out of this,” she says, but she’s looking fondly at them.

Hollander doesn’t say anything, too busy gazing adoringly at Ilyusha, which is kind of embarrassing for how well he’d trounced her in Rummy.

“What a shame,” Svetlana deadpans, and then refills her wineglass.

Chapter 5: Strip Poker (Ottawa, 2019)

Chapter Notes

No funny AN today bc I am very hungry 😂

You can also listen to today's chapter here

“And here, my dear audience,” Harris murmurs into the lapel microphone he has for moments like these, “we see a very rare sight indeed: two rival packs of hockey players, intermingling for a game of what appears to be strip poker.”

A cheer goes up in the room, loud enough that it’s picked up by Harris’s microphone. So far, no one seems to have noticed Harris in the doorway, so he gets the unadulterated view of Roz, his back to Harris, stripping off his shirt, while Dills and – yeah, that’s Hayden Pike, sitting next to Shane fucking Hollander – each strip off a sock.

Shane Hollander. Playing strip poker with the Ottawa Centaurs. When Bood had messaged him, You gotta see this man, bring your camera, ten minutes ago, Harris hadn’t been entirely sure what to expect. Now, watching Bood deal the next hand he understands why the text hadn’t elaborated: there’s no way Harris would have believed any of this without seeing it himself. Bless Bood for telling him to bring his camera; he’ll have to edit it some and clear it with the guys, especially the Metros, but there should be some nice footage to come out of this.

“Looks like they’re playing Texas Hold ‘Em,” Harris narrates from his vantage point. “This, dear viewers, is a time-honoured tradition for packs of feral and tamed hockey players alike, though we usually see it happen at get-togethers at a teammate’s house. Today, though, we have a special occasion – these two packs are confined to the same space for the time being, and we see them carefully get to know each other as – oh, looks like Dills has folded before it’s come to the flop. Hollander smiles, inclines his head; he’s still in the game, I’d say. So is Roz. That’s JJ Boiziau next to him, shaking his head as he folds, and Chooner next to him is also dropping out. So it’s Hollander, Pike, Roz, and Hazy still in the game as Bood draws the next card, and – ooh, I may be mistaken, but it looks like Hollander’s upped the ante!” Harris grins as the group cheers, Roz gesticulating at Hollander, two seats over.

He looks happier than Harris has seen him in months, maybe, relaxed even though the Metros had taken the win tonight – at least it had been a tight game, with a goal from Roz and another from Granlund’s line – and they’re all stuck here in the same hotel next to the arena because of a freezing rain that had set in during the game and had made leaving by the time the players had completed their post-game routines almost impossible.

“Oi, Harris!” Roz yells, dragging Harris from his thoughts. He waves Harris over, movements expansive like he’s drunk, except his gaze is stone-cold sober. Maybe that’s just Roz’s natural state once he’s down to just his sweatpants. “Come over, join!”

“I’m busy.” Harris nods down at his camera, though he does wander over. “Don’t worry, you’ll get veto powers over the final product,” he says, particular in the direction of the Metros players, “though I think it would be pretty cool to post this later.”

“Show us be good sports?” Roz grins.

Hollander snorts. “I thought you didn’t care about your reputation?”

“Ah, yes.” Roz gives him an angelic smile that puts Harris immediately on edge. “I do not, but Pike needs proof that he has sense of humour.”

“Fuck you, Rozanov,” Pike says on cue. Hollander rolls his eyes.

“I thought Roz and Hollander were the trouble children,” Chooner says drily, considerately pitching his voice so the microphone picks it up, “but Roz and Pike have been sniping at each other like siblings all game.”

The two men in question gasp theatrically and in sync, while Hollander smiles. He’s peering at his cards instead of the camera, but that’s probably to be expected; after all, he has a reputation of not being super comfortable around cameras. The fact alone that he hasn’t asked Harris to stop filming feels big already.

“Take that back, Chooner. Choonsy. Nicky.” Roz bats his eyelashes at Chooner, pouting a little. “Please, you cannot just say this; this is not fair, my poor heart cannot take this after I have already lost all my clothes.”

Hollander snorts and mutters something under his breath that is too low for Harris or his microphone to catch, though JJ next to Hollander cracks up. Damn. Hollander looks just a little pleased.

“I don’t like it any better,” Pike tells Roz.

Roz points at him. “Okay, this is bad. You cannot be agreeing with me.”

“Oh?” Pike fixes him, one eyebrow raised. God, this will be gold to have on film.

“One, you should be – be honoured to be compared to me. Will be only time this happens to you.”

Pike snorts, though there appears to be a smile fighting at the corner of his mouth.

“And two, we cannot be agreeing. No. This does not happen. Hell freezes over before.”

“I think this rain out there suggests hell also is frozen over,” Boiziau cuts in with his lilting English.

“You two are worse than Jade and Ruby,” Hollander says before the two terrors can go on. To Harris’s camera, he adds, “That’s Hayden’s oldest. They’re twins. They have just reached the age where they argue all the time.”

“They really do.” Pike sighs, while Chooner nods in commiseration.

“Once they learn the word no it gets bad; I can’t imagine how it must be with twins.”

“Worse,” Pike says drily.

“You deserve this.” Roz jabs his finger at Pike again. Harris suddenly understands why Pike is clear across the table from Roz, because having him any closer would probably be even more insufferable. He hadn’t even been aware those two had any kind of actual relationship, much less one that’s so familiar in its bickering. “But I still feel sorry, because your wife is amazing, and she does not.”

“Ilya’s met her as part of the Foundation,” Hollander adds in explanation, something odd in his gaze. Harris hadn’t even thought to question that, though it makes sense, he supposes. “Okay, are we just here to chit chat, or are we gonna play? And don’t say I’m boring, I’m playing strip poker, okay?”

Roz pouts again. “But you play strip poker all boring. Do not give any of us a show.” He leers.

Hollander rolls his eyes, though there’s a faint blush on his cheeks. It’ll probably be invisible in the footage later, if Harris even ends up using it at all, but it’s certainly interesting. “Not all of us are such exhibitionists.”

Pike groans. “Okay, I’m also in favour of continuing play.”

“Because you are losing,” Roz needles again.

“Roz, I hate to break it to you, but currently you are losing worst,” Chooner cuts in before Roz and Pike can get going again.

Roz buffs out his naked chest. “You have it wrong. I am making you all win because you can see my amazing body.”

Everyone laughs at that, Bood sighs, and then continues dealing. Harris settles in to watch them play, everyone except Hollander losing more and more articles of clothing. Not because Hollander is a prude, but because he’s just this scarily good.

“You know,” Dills says as he strips off his watch, the last remaining item aside from his boxer briefs, “I’m so fucking glad we’re not playing for money. You’d have cleaned us out.”

Hollander smiles a little and inclines his head, still fully dressed.

Boiziau grins. “Yes. Our Capitaine has absolutely murdered quite a few people. Now, the night he met Rose Landry –”

Hollander’s gaze flickers to Roz, who fixes him with an intent stare. Harris makes sure his camera does not catch that and instead focuses on Boiziau’s shit-eating grin.

“– he cleaned out an entire table of Hollywood stars! That is why –”

“JJ,” Hollander says lowly. Boiziau just smirks at him.

“As I was saying, that is why we called him Hollywood for weeks.” Boiziau giggles, dancing away from Hollander’s elbow of retribution.

“JJ,” Hollander hisses, while Roz slings a protective arm around Boiziau’s shoulders. “No, no, Hollander – Shane – Hollywood, you cannot keep this important information from me! I needed to know. You are my hero, Boizy, second favourite Metro. After Choo-Choo, the Metro Train, of course.”

“Dude, I have bad news,” Boiziau says, still tucked under the arm of his newest fan, it seems. “That’s not actually our mascot.”

Roz gasps. “Wait, Hollander has lied to me?”

“You came up with this all by yourself,” Hollander points out drily, and it devolves into more bickering from there.

At the end of game, Harris gets one more shot: the eight of them crowded around one side of the table, grinning; everyone except Hollander and Bood is down to their underwear. Bood was dealer, but Hollander lost exactly one hand all evening, which is scarily impressive and makes him duck his head a little now. Most of the guys are laughing, though Roz is winking at the camera with his fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxer briefs.

Beware of card sharks while playing strip poker with the enemy, Harris captions that picture, gets it approved by everyone there, and posts it.

At least fans will have a little treat after barely anyone managed to make it to the arena earlier because of the inclement weather.

Chapter 6: +1: Ligretto (Shane’s Childhood Home)

Chapter Notes

We’ve made it to the end! I am woefully behind with comments bc this week was bonkers (I last had my personal laptop on on Monday between friends and a work dinner), but I cherish every one of them, so thank you all 💛

I hope you’ll like this +1, which is a little different from previous instalments :D You can also listen to today’s chapter here

Nothing could have prepared Ilya for Ligretto night at the Hollanders’.

“You should come by, if you have a couple of hours,” Yuna had said that first time, at the end of the evening the Hollanders had spent at Shane’s cottage, “of course, we will understand if you’d rather use the time differently –”

“Mom!” Shane had cried, flushing furiously.

“What? I know you’re young men, and you did say –”

“Mom! Please!”

Yuna had finally taken pity on her son, huffing as she turned back to Ilya. “Anyway, we’d love to have you for game night, sometime.”

Ilya’s chest had flooded with something warm and bright, something he wasn’t used to anymore. “We will be there,” he’d promised, not even pausing to check with Shane.

And – Shane is competitive. Ilya has known this from the beginning, before he’d ever laid eyes on Shane. You don’t get to the status of generational talent without pure, hard determination and teeth.

Shane is also effortlessly, terrifyingly great at cards. Ilya has also known this from the beginning, since Shane had picked up Durak and demolished Ilya and his teammates.

So it’s no surprise when that first game night at the Hollanders’ cottage, two nights before Ilya is flying out again, is fast, cut-throat, and utterly ruthless.

It’s actually a little delightful, watching Shane compete against someone he’s evenly matched with; Ilya doesn’t often get that, because on the ice, it’s usually him doing the matching.

They repeat that whenever it works out – the one time Boston plays in Ottawa and Shane has the evening off, a couple times in the off-season, once or twice when all their schedules align – and Ilya gets better, but he’s still nowhere near the level of Shane and his parents.

And then Yuna gets an almost cube-like pack of cards out, takes out four decks with differently coloured backs, and passes them to each of them.

“Noo,” Shane whines, though his jaw clicks shut when Yuna gives him a look.

“It’s my birthday, and I want to play Ligretto,” she says, which quells all subsequent complaints.

And Ilya doesn’t know it yet, but she’s giving him the best gift of all.

“Ligretto stop!” Ilya shouts triumphantly as he slams down the yellow six, pumping his fist.

“No fucking way,” Shane grouses, looking from the stack of cards still in front of him to Ilya’s empty spot. “How –”

“Skill, baby,” Ilya crows. He grabs a few of the discard piles to start sorting, so he’ll know by how much he’s just trumped Shane.

Shane grumbles under his breath until Yuna clicks her tongue, likewise reaching for discards. “Don’t be a sore loser, Shane.” Her stack had consisted of two more cards at the end, while David seems to have four, and Shane had –

“Did you not place a single card?” Ilya asks in amazement.

Shane scowls. “What was I supposed to do?! I got fucked with a ten, right off the bat, and then you snagged it, and –”

“You are so bad at this,” Ilya says slowly, because the first round, he’d thought it was a fluke. “How are you so bad at this? You are hockey player, you should have amazing reflexes!”

“It’s just a stupid game!”

“Is simple,” Ilya counters, just to drive the point home.

In his defence, it really is a simple game. They each get a deck of forty cards, 1 through 10 in four colours, split into a stack of ten that has to be discarded into the middle of the table, three face-up cards, and a hand-held deck. To play a card, be it from your deck, your stack, or the three open cards, you have to find a pile in the correct colour with the preceding number – so to discard a yellow 4, you need a pile in yellow up to 3, while a 10 goes on the 9, and so on. If you can’t play any of the cards on your stack or the three spots next to it, you deal three from your own deck and try to play the top-most one.

Everyone plays at the same time, and if someone beats you to placing a card, you’ll have to wait or work towards the next chance. It’s a game where, to be good, you have to be fast and attentive and decisive – all of which are qualities a hockey player should absolutely have.

Somehow, Shane is abysmal at it.

“Fuck you and your simple.”

“Shane,” Yuna admonishes again, “Okay, I ended with fourteen points. Ilya?”

Ilya counts the cards in his stack. “Twenty-three,” he says simply. Every card in the middle of the table counts as one point plus; every card still in your stack as minus two. Easy. Simple.

“Minus eighteen,” Shane says sullenly.

“Amazing.” Ilya grins when Shane scowls at him. “You only played two cards?”

“Fuck off,” Shane grouses, and starts shuffling his deck aggressively while Yuna notes down David’s nine points.

“Ilya is solidly in the lead now with thirty-four points,” Yuna says, “followed by David with twenty-eight and me with twenty seven, and then Shane with minus thirty-four.”

“You realise you want plus ninety-nine points, yes?” Ilya asks helpfully, and then yelps when Shane kicks him. Since he looks like he’s about to murder Ilya, Ilya will take the kick.

“Don’t worry, Shane, you can always come back next round.”

“Haha,” Shane says as he counts out his stack of ten.

Shane does not come back the next round. Or the one after that.

Ilya doesn’t win every round – Yuna and David are both competitive as fuck, and he may get a bit mesmerised by how bad Shane is at the game – but he keeps his top spot, while Shane gets more and more upset.

“Don’t worry, baby.” Ilya pats Shane’s hand while Shane squares off the four cards he’d managed to discard against the seven still in his stack. “I love you even when you are bad at card games.”

“I’m not bad,” Shane says through gritted teeth, “this is just stupid.”

“Aww.” Ilya presses a kiss to Shane’s cheek, which makes his boyfriend mellow.

“Sorry. Just – I hate this game.”

“Unfortunately, I love it,” Yuna says unsympathetically, “and it’s good for you to be reminded that you can’t be the best at everything.”

“Thanks, mom.”

Ilya presses another kiss to Shane’s hand. “She is right. Is amazing game. And maybe you need to practice your reflexes?”

Shane snorts. “This hasn’t helped in the past twenty years where they made me play this game.”

“Not with this attitude,” Yuna says.

David looks on mildly, which is truly deceptive, because he’s only a measly four points behind Ilya, and whichever of them closes out next will probably take the round.

In the end, the round goes to David.

“With absolute numbers, you win,” Ilya tells Shane, which is probably not the consolation he should be offering him, but – well. There is a certain karma to having Shane finally get a taste of his own medicine.

Shane scowls. “Rematch?”

“Are you sure?” David asks.

“Yeah.”

The second match does not go any better for Shane, though this time, Ilya pulls off the win. “At least you’re in the plus this time?”

“Yeah, wow,” Shane snaps, “a whopping four points. I hate this.”

“I still love you,” Ilya says soothingly, leaning in to kiss Shane.

Shane abruptly turns his head away so Ilya’s lips rasp over the stubble on his cheek.

“Hey,” Ilya says, much softer than before. “Hey, solnyshko.”

“Don’t,” Shane says tightly. His whole body is one tight line, and – oh. Maybe they pushed a little too far.

Ilya scoots his chair closer while David excuses himself into the kitchen and Yuna packs up the cards, both of them very pointedly not paying attention to Shane and Ilya. “Hey, hey, come on, look at me.”

Shane just closes his eyes. “I’m fine, Ilya. I just – I hate this, but I can deal.”

“I know, but is not fair of me to drive it home so much. It is just one game, and you are so much better than me at –”

“I’m fine. I can stand to lose at a game, even if I hate it and – give me a couple of minutes and I’ll be just fine.”

Ilya still wants to kiss Shane, but he can follow his boyfriend’s wishes. So he brings Shane’s hand to his lips to press a kiss to it. “Okay. I will go into the kitchen and help Papa Hollander bring more drinks and cold ginger ale, and then you can trump us at Rummy, yes?”

Shane snorts, and when he raises his head, he’s smiling. “No, I think I’d like to let you bask a little longer in your sweet victory. And if you really want to, you can make it up to me later.”

Ilya grins, delighted at Shane’s sudden flirtation. Maybe he’s right, and he’ll be fine within a few minutes. “How can I say no to that?”

Shane’s smile widens, and he tilts his head up so Ilya can press a kiss to his lips and then go fetch the promised ginger ale.

Shane is hot when he wins, yes, but there is something about trouncing him for once that is very, very sweet indeed.

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[podfic] something in the water by xia pods (xianvar)