Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

Post-Book 2: Heated Rivalry (Game Changers), Post-Episode: s01e06 The Cottage (Heated Rivalry), Ottawa Centaurs Are a Bad Team, Frustration, Ilya Rozanov Settling in Ottawa, Supportive Shane Hollander, Hockey

Language:

English

Series:

Part 13 of [challenge] Heated Rivalry Febuwhump 2026

Collections:

febuwhump 2026

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-13 Words: 1,391 Chapters: 1/1

the same thing over and over again

Summary

Ilya settles into the realty of playing in Ottawa: losing. And losing. And losing. And again.

Notes

For Day 13: “Again.”

This is not a time loop fic! because there is another prompt that's exactly that

Ilya knows playing in Ottawa won’t be easy. Expects it to be a challenge, really, which is part of the reasons he ends up latching onto the idea; he’s won everything there is in Boston – a Cup, the Conn Smythe, the Art Ross (twice) – and short of winning the Cup a second time, there isn’t that much left.

And that isn’t too likely; not with the way management gutted the team after their win; not now that they traded Cliff away right at the trade deadline.

That is another reason he leaves. Ilya is loyal, but what is there left to be loyal to in Boston? Cliff was one of the last ones left of their Cup winning core, and Ilya has always put the people before the logo. That doesn’t mean he ignores the logo; the Raiders have been nice enough to him over the years, and so he gives them a heads-up, and while they don’t understand, they trade his extension rights to Ottawa. There’s a sweet handful of draft picks, both guaranteed and conditional, in it for them, considering Ottawa has been scraping the bottom of the league for years now.

So Ilya knows playing in Ottawa won’t be easy, and he’s ready for a challenge. What he’s not ready for is the apathy.

The org itself is nice enough: he meets Gen, the photographer who takes his picture for the team website, and Harris, the social media manager, when he swings by to sign his contract extension; they’re both people he knows he’ll like. The GM is genial man who has a woefully bad instinct for strategy, if you ask Ilya, but nobody’s asking him; Coach Ryan Hughes is the third coach in five years, which is a terrible rate, and doesn’t look to be breaking the streak, though he’s okay from the brief conversation they have; the assistant coaches are smiling and involved but not very memorable.

Everyone is nice, but Ilya can tell from the moment he arrives for training camp that nobody actually expects his presence to make a difference. Camp isn’t mandatory for the vets, but in Boston, the whole team showed up for day one regardless, to get a feel for who might gel with whom, to remind the rookies and hopefuls who they’re aspiring to play with.

In Ottawa, Zane Boodram is the only one to show up. He’s Alternate Captain, but not even the other A – Gregor Rubaur – shows. That’s probably the first moment Ilya realises that the next couple of years will not be a walk in the park.

---

The season starts with a whimper.

They lose their home opener to Chicago in overtime, win the next in Toronto – it’s always beautiful to shut up Kent and Barret, and even more so to do it with the ridiculous centaur on his chest – lose again in Boston.

It’s bittersweet, playing against his former team; the reception is far better than Ilya expected considering he voluntarily went elsewhere, but he feels just a step to the left playing against guys he used to know, even if the core had been fragmented before he left.

They actually string three wins together, the last one an overtime victory against Montreal off of a goal by Ilya himself, which leads to some excellent sex once they make it back to Ilya’s, and Ilya lets it lull him into a false sense of superiority.

And then the losses start for real.

“We need to bring more offence,” Ilya tells one reporter, because it’s not a lie. To another, “Well, Lamper is only human, yes? If there is no defence, that is very hard for a goalie.”

The next game, “Yes, we need to limit scoring chances,” because really, what area of play don’t they need to improve?

The game after that, he’s not even surprised when Callum, the player communications lead, taps him once more for post-game media.

“Again?” Ilya makes a displeased grimace, because they’re in Las Vegas, and the least they can allow him to do is drown his sorrows for the night.

“Again.” Callum has the grace to look apologetic, because it is silly. Ilya doesn’t even have a letter. But he does show up, to the game as much as to the post-game interviews, because he may have moved here in part to be closer to Shane – and look how that is working out, their schedules still only lining up once in a blue moon – but he’s still here to do a job. And that job is to drag this team to a win, come hell or high water.

Right now it seems more likely that either of those will happen than the team hitting its grove.

Shane’s Metros are off to a slow start, too, and it shows in both their moods, makes them snappish and irritable with each other in the scant few hours they steal and snag and pry out of their regular season schedules.

Some days, Ilya wonders if it was worth it. Giving up a solid if changed team in Boston for this, a challenge that he doesn’t even know how to tackle. A challenge that sees him doing the same thing over and over again with the same results – train, go out there, leave it all on the ice, lose, come back to being the only one who cares, like everyone else went in fully expecting to lose.

“Is why we lose,” Ilya murmurs into Shane’s skin one evening at Ilya’s; the Metros have a three-day stretch without games and a full day off with strict orders to get their heads back into the game after five consecutive losses. They don’t usually talk about their teams because they’re still rivals, and the last thing they want to do is actually collude, but Ilya doesn’t know who else to talk to. “Everyone goes in thinking, we will lose, so of course we lose.”

Shane hums and drags his fingers through Ilya’s curls, scritching over Ilya’s scalp every once in a while. “Maybe what they need is a strong Captain.”

Ilya hums, too, though more because Shane’s ministrations are sorely needed rather than because he agrees. “They have two As! And Boods – he tries, but Rubes… nada. Nothing. If I were Captain –” He breaks off, unsure how to continue. If he was Captain, would he do anything differently than he’s doing right now? He deflates again.

“You’ve been there for two months,” Shane reminds him softly. “You are incredible, but you’re not a miracle worker. And your goaltending needs more depth; Lampinen needs a proper starter because he’s a good backup, but not cut out for this many starts in a row.”

Ilya presses a kiss to Shane’s pec. “You are giving the enemy tips now, yes?”

Shane snorts. “Last I checked, you weren’t the one making roster decisions.”

“If I were, I would trade for you.”

Shane snorts again, decidedly less happy now. “You’d even have the cap space. If there was any chance Montreal would let me go…” Shane trails off, but that’s not the big part.

The big part – the part that Ilya’s brain snags on and won’t let go – is that Shane has clearly thought about it. It’s not even close to the trade deadline, where talk of the cap space of each team permeates the locker rooms. There’s no reason for him to know that the team could afford Shane’s contract right now, or with minimal manoeuvring.

Not that Montreal would let him go. And certainly not to a division rival who just acquired Ilya.

“I think we will get new goalie, soon. Hayes’s agent is looking.”

“He’d be a good addition,” Shane agrees. “And until then… keep playing the way you have. Your teammates will have to wake up.”

“I never thought I would do this again. Was easier when we were rookies.”

Shane snorts. “Eternally hopefully… but also surrounded with the right support. Give it time, Ilya.”

“I will.” Ilya sighs and rolls over. “But now… I think this is enough boring talk to recover, yes?”

“You’re incorrigible,” Shane says, which is a word that Ilya learned from yesterday’s New Yorker, and so he smiles.

Maybe, it’s not so terrible to do things again and again when it includes Shane, in his bed, pulling Ilya down on top of himself.