Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Wyatt Hayes, Luca Haas, Zane Boodram

Additional Tags:

Canon Universe, Comedy, Humor, Crack, Fluff, Coming Out, Relationship Reveal, Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Drunk Ilya Rozanov, Happy Ending

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-24 Words: 2,049 Chapters: 1/1

one drunken night

Summary

After getting a late-night call that his boyfriend Ilya has been arrested, Shane rushes to bail him out—only for their relationship to be accidentally revealed in spectacularly public fashion. What begins as a disaster turns into an unplanned coming-out that neither of them can take back.

Notes

i know Shane would have a meltdown if they had actually come out this way. don't take this too seriously, it's just humor.

Shane Hollander knew something was wrong when his phone started vibrating across the kitchen counter like it was trying to escape the country.

He was halfway through chopping an onion in his Montreal condo, still in his Metros practice gear, when the first text came in.

Unknown Number: Is this Shane Hollander?

Shane stared at it. He had learned over the years that unknown numbers meant one of three things: marketing spam, a reporter fishing, or Ilya.

He wiped his hands on a dish towel and typed back.

Shane: Depends. Who’s asking?

The phone rang immediately.

He blinked at the Ottawa area code.

“Oh no,” he whispered, because the only reason anyone from Ottawa would be calling him was—

“Hello?” Shane answered cautiously.

“Mr. Hollander?” said a very tired-sounding man.

“Yes?”

“This is Constable Dupuis with the Ottawa Police Service.”

Shane closed his eyes. “Okay.”

There was a brief pause. “We have an individual here who requested that you be contacted.”

Shane felt his blood pressure spike. “Is he alive?”

Another pause. “Yes.”

“Is he bleeding?”

“No.”

“Is he naked?”

“…No.”

Shane exhaled. “Okay. That’s good.”

“However, he is insisting that you are his—” the constable cleared his throat “—boyfriend.”

Shane dropped the knife. It clattered against the cutting board, onion forgotten.

“He’s… what?”

“He stated, and I quote, ‘Call my boyfriend. He is very handsome. He will come. He always comes.’”

Shane pressed his fingers to his temples. “Is his name Ilya Rozanov?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah,” Shane said faintly. “That tracks.”

Two hours later, Shane was in his car, speeding toward Ottawa in the middle of the night like a man who had made poor life choices.

Technically, it was an off day. Technically, he did not have to drive two hours to bail his boyfriend out of jail.

But this was Ilya.

Also, if there was even a one percent chance that a police officer had written down the word “boyfriend” in an official document, Shane needed to get there immediately before it ended up on Twitter.

He tried calling Ilya.

It went to voicemail.

He tried again.

Voicemail.

Then a text popped up from Ilya.

Ilya: Babiesssssss

Shane gripped the steering wheel.

Shane: Why are you in jail?

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Ilya: Is philosophical question

Shane: Not tonight it’s not.

Another text.

Ilya: I love you so much. You are like. So symmetrical.

Shane couldn’t help it. He laughed.

And then he swore under his breath.

“God. I’m going to kill him.”

The Ottawa Centaurs had just won against Toronto. It had been a loud, messy, emotional game, and according to every hockey journalist in Canada, it was the beginning of a “new era” for the franchise.

According to Ilya Rozanov, it was the beginning of tequila.

When Shane finally reached the station, he found Ilya seated in a plastic chair, tie undone, hair wild, grinning at nothing.

He was still wearing his suit from the post-game interviews.

He looked like a drunk billionaire who had lost a bet.

“Ilya,” Shane hissed.

Ilya’s head snapped up.

He squinted.

Then his entire face lit up.

“SHAAAAANE.”

The entire waiting area turned to stare.

Shane closed his eyes briefly. “Please don’t yell.”

Ilya stood up immediately and almost fell over.

Shane caught him out of pure muscle memory.

“You came,” Ilya said, gazing at him like Shane had just rescued him from a dragon.

“Yes, I came,” Shane muttered. “Because you got arrested.”

“It was misunderstanding,” Ilya said earnestly. “Very small misunderstanding. I only borrowed horse.”

Shane froze. “You what?”

The constable from earlier walked over.

“Mr. Hollander?”

“Yes.”

“Your… partner attempted to enter the mounted patrol stable behind the station.”

Shane blinked. “Why?”

Ilya looked offended. “Horse was lonely.”

“It was 1:30 in the morning,” the constable said flatly. “And he attempted to ride it.”

Shane stared at Ilya.

“You tried to steal a police horse?”

“I did not steal,” Ilya protested. “I was going to return it. I just wanted picture.”

“Of you riding a police horse.”

“Yes. For Instagram.”

Shane turned to the constable. “How much is bail?”

While paperwork was being filled out, Ilya leaned heavily against Shane’s shoulder.

“You smell nice,” he murmured.

“I smell like onions.”

“Sexy onions.”

Shane tried not to smile.

“Why were you even near the police station?” Shane asked quietly.

“Centaurs party was close,” Ilya said. “We were celebrating. We are champions.”

“You won one game.”

“We are champions of tonight.”

Shane nodded. “Fair.”

The constable cleared his throat. “Mr. Hollander, I need your signature here.”

As Shane signed, Ilya peeked at the form.

“You wrote boyfriend,” Ilya said happily.

Shane’s pen froze.

The constable looked between them. “He insisted.”

“I insisted,” Ilya confirmed proudly. “Because is truth.”

Shane felt his stomach flip.

“Can we go?” Shane asked quickly.

He almost made it out of there quietly.

Almost.

The moment the doors opened to the outside parking lot, a deafening cheer erupted.

Shane flinched.

A group of large, suited, extremely drunk hockey players were clustered around a limousine.

The Ottawa Centaurs.

“Oh no,” Shane whispered.

“ILYAAAA!” Wyatt yelled.

The entire team surged forward.

Ilya grinned. “My people.”

A defenseman Shane vaguely recognized squinted at him.

“Wait.”

The man blinked. Blinked again.

“SHANE HOLLANDER?”

Shane briefly considered running back inside and asking to be arrested instead.

“Hey,” Shane said weakly.

There was a beat of silence.

Then absolute chaos.

“No WAY.”

“Bro.”

“BRO.”

“You said you had a boyfriend but we thought you meant like. A boyfriend boyfriend.”

“That is what I meant,” Ilya said proudly.

One of the rookies, probably Haas, clutched his chest dramatically. “This is the greatest scandal of my life.”

“It is not scandal,” Ilya said, deeply offended. “It is romance.”

Shane pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You told them?” he hissed.

“I was inspired,” Ilya said.

Bood staggered forward, eyes wide. “You drove from Montreal?”

“Yes.”

“For him?”

“Yes.”

Bood wiped away a fake tear. “That’s beautiful.”

Another player squinted suspiciously. “Wait. Are you guys like. Actually together?”

Shane opened his mouth.

Ilya wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“Yes,” Ilya announced. “He is love of my life.”

Someone screamed.

Actually screamed.

“SHUT UP.”

“NO.”

“THIS IS BETTER THAN THE WIN.”

Shane stared at them in horror. “You guys are drunk.”

“Yes,” they all agreed enthusiastically.

One of them leaned toward Shane conspiratorially. “We thought he was lying. He talks about you all the time.”

Shane’s ears burned.

“I do not lie,” Ilya said, swaying.

“You said he makes you protein pancakes shaped like hearts.”

“He does.”

Every head turned slowly toward Shane.

Shane coughed. “It was Valentine’s Day.”

Haas looked like he was witnessing a religious miracle. “Oh my god.”

Bood pointed at them. “Kiss.”

Shane choked. “Absolutely not.”

“KISS.”

The chant caught on immediately.

“KISS! KISS! KISS!”

Shane glared at Ilya. “This is your fault.”

Ilya beamed. “Yes.”

The team was bouncing now.

“KISS! KISS! KISS!”

“Guys,” Shane said. “We are in a police station parking lot.”

The constable from earlier stepped outside to see what the noise was.

He blinked at the chanting hockey team.

“…Is everything resolved?”

“KISS!” the Centaurs screamed in unison.

The constable slowly went back inside.

Shane sighed.

He turned to Ilya.

“If we do this, they stop?”

“Yes,” Ilya said solemnly. “They are simple creatures.”

“Hey!” Wyatt yelled.

Shane rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

He grabbed Ilya by the lapels and kissed him.

It was supposed to be quick.

It was not quick.

Because Ilya made a soft, happy sound and pulled him closer.

And then someone wolf-whistled.

And then someone actually fainted dramatically onto the limousine hood.

Shane pulled back, breathless.

The Centaurs exploded.

“THIS IS THE BEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE.”

“WE WON AND WE GOT A LOVE CONFESSION.”

“PUT IT ON THE GROUP CHAT.”

“No!” Shane said instantly.

Too late.

Several phones were already out.

Ilya waved regally. “Hello internet.”

Shane stared at the sky.

“Well,” he said. “Guess we’re coming out tonight.”

Getting Ilya into the car required negotiation.

“I want to go back to party,” Ilya insisted.

“You tried to liberate a police horse,” Shane replied. “The party is over.”

“I was hero.”

“You were trespassing.”

Ilya buckled in and sighed dramatically.

“You drove from Montreal.”

“Yes.”

“For me.”

“Yes.”

“You love me.”

Shane glanced at him. “Yes.”

Ilya smiled, soft and unguarded in a way that cut through the drunken bravado.

“Good,” he said quietly.

They drove for a while in comfortable silence.

Then Shane’s phone started vibrating violently in the cup holder.

He did not look.

He absolutely did not look.

Ilya leaned over dangerously. “Are we trending?”

“We are not checking.”

A beat.

“I bet hashtag is Shanelya.”

Shane hated that he was probably right.

Halfway to Montreal, Shane’s phone rang again.

He groaned when he saw the caller ID.

“Dad.”

He answered on speaker. “Hi.”

There was a pause.

“Well,” his father said evenly, “that was subtle.”

Shane closed his eyes. “It wasn’t planned.”

“I gathered that from the police parking lot.”

In the passenger seat, Ilya brightened. “Hello, Mr. Hollander!”

There was a faint snort from the other end.

“Ilya.”

“Sir, I apologize for horse incident.”

“You tried to steal a horse?”

“It was borrowing.”

Shane dropped his head onto the steering wheel at a red light.

His father sighed, clearly fighting laughter. “Are you both okay?”

“Yes,” Shane said.

“Good. Your mother is thrilled.”

“Thrilled?” Shane repeated.

“She’s been waiting years to publicly approve of this.”

Ilya looked smug. “I am beloved.”

“Yes, yes you are,” Shane’s father said dryly. “Next time, maybe come out without involving law enforcement?”

“No promises,” Ilya said.

Shane ended the call before it could get worse.

“Well,” he muttered. “At least my family isn’t shocked.”

“Your mother will frame screenshot,” Ilya said confidently.

“She absolutely will.”

By the time they reached Montreal, #Shanelya was trending.

Shane knew this because his phone would not stop vibrating even after he muted everything.

They stumbled into his condo around 3:45 a.m.

Ilya immediately kicked off his shoes and flopped onto the couch.

“I am moving here,” he announced.

“You live in Ottawa.”

“I commute.”

“That’s not how cities work.”

Ilya blinked slowly. “Details.”

Shane sat beside him.

“You realize,” he said carefully, “that tomorrow is going to be… insane.”

“Yes.”

“Press.”

“Yes.”

“League officials.”

“Yes.”

“Your coach.”

Ilya grimaced slightly. “He will yell.”

“Yes.”

“But,” Ilya said, turning toward him with surprising clarity, “I am tired of hiding.”

Shane’s heart squeezed. “Me too,” he admitted.

Ilya reached for his hand.

“We are good, yes?” he asked softly.

“We’re good.”

“We are happy.”

“Very.”

Ilya smiled, eyes warm and steady now.

“Then let them lose minds.”

Shane laughed quietly. “Okay.”

The next morning was, indeed, chaos.

Shane woke to seventeen missed calls from his agent and one from his coach.

Ilya woke face down on the carpet.

“Why is floor aggressive?” he mumbled.

“You fell off the couch.”

“Rude.”

Shane handed him water and aspirin.

“You’re doing press today,” Shane said.

Ilya squinted at him. “I am?”

“You are now openly dating the captain of the Montreal Metros. So yes.”

Ilya considered this.

“Will they ask about horse?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I have prepared statement.”

Shane was afraid to ask.

By noon, every sports network in Canada was running clips of the kiss.

The Centaurs’ group chat was apparently a disaster.

Shane knew this because Ilya kept reading messages out loud between groans of hangover agony.

“Coach says he will officiate our wedding,” Ilya said.

“Absolutely not.”

“Haas says he wants to be flower girl.”

“Also no.”

“Oh. Wyatt says I am idiot but also says congrats.”

Shane smiled. “See? Not a scandal.”

Ilya looked at him, expression soft.

“No,” he agreed. “Not scandal.”

He reached over and tugged Shane down for another kiss.

This one was slow and sweet and quiet.

No chanting.

No police.

No horses.

Just them.

When they pulled apart, Ilya grinned mischievously.

“Still think I should get horse,” he said.

Shane groaned and buried his face in Ilya’s shoulder.

“If you ever touch a police animal again, I’m letting them keep you.”

Ilya laughed, bright and unrepentant.

“You would come get me.”

Shane sighed.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I would.”

And honestly?

He always would.