Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Irina Rozanova

Additional Tags:

Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, hockey brawls, a blowjob for good measure, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Protective Shane Hollander, two loving husbands who will kill anyone who hurts the other am i right, mentions of past witnessed abuse as well but very brief, Shane MF Hollander

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-01 Words: 5,132 Chapters: 1/1

out of your mouth

Summary

It's the first game between Ottawa and Montreal since Shane transferred. Montreal's new center is out for blood, and when he manages to get under Shane's skin, Hollander surprises them all.

Notes

Shane had never felt so nauseous at the sight of blue, red and white. And fuck it was everywhere. Every fan he saw outside, all around the arena on every wall. It really felt like it was fucking staring at him. He kept his head tucked low until he made it to the back hallways that he knew so well he could still move through them in his sleep. The only difference was his path - to the left, to the visitors locker room rather than the usual home. 

Ottawa versus Montreal. The newest, hottest rivalry in the NHL. All because of him. 

Well, him and his husband, who was currently off doing press somewhere. It wasn’t lost on Shane that he was doing that as a favor to him, to allow him to sneak in unbothered after the team meeting without being hounded by cameras and reporters. It had been bad enough earlier during warm ups, and it was already almost impossible to get out of his head the last few days, the thoughts spinning about facing off against the men he had played with for so many years. 

Ilya had helped. Mostly, he’d worked to keep him focused in practice and distracted at home, but when Shane needed to talk, he was there. He reminded him of how he’d been treated by them, how he’d been exiled by all but JJ and Hayden, who had both sent him good luck texts the week prior in good faith. 

“It will be cake walk,” Ilya had said. “You know every move they all make. Fuck, you were their captain. You probably taught them half the shit they know about reading the ice. We will prove to them just what they lost.” 

But Shane wasn’t worried about beating them. In that regard, he actually agreed with Ilya. It would be child’s play. Even with all the commotion and drama, they hadn’t been able to secure a center half as good as him. No one had wanted to follow in his footsteps and leave the fans disappointed it seemed. 

Jeremiah Boslow had been the unlucky winner, and from what Shane had heard of him, he was a piece of shit. 

Hayden hated his guts, and had called Shane the day the newcomer had been marked as captain, ready to quit right there. He’d said their coach was using it as a statement that they didn’t need Shane, that their line was strong. 

Against Ilya’s advice, Shane watched tape of Boslow to get a feel for him, to see how he led on the ice, how he played. Maybe he was just being cynical, or Ilya had hyped him up too much, but truly, he didn’t hold a candle to Shane’s skill. Or Ilya’s. But he was a professional hockey player nonetheless, and his specialty was getting under other’s skin. More so than Ilya used to, if the gossip was to be believed. 

And Boslow seemed to have a particular interest in Ilya, going so far as to taunt him on socials, bring his name up whenever he could in interviews. Questions aimed about how it felt to inherit the ‘Hollander dynasty’ somehow always made their way back to how Ilya had pulled Shane to his team because he ‘just couldn’t handle it all by himself.’ There was an obvious homophobic tone under every word he said that interviewers either didn’t catch, or didn’t care to. 

Needless to say, Shane was ready to annihilate him. 

The wheel of constant thought spun around in Shane’s head as he returned to the bustling locker room he’d dropped his stuff in earlier. It was half the size of the home one down the hall, and he was pretty sure it hadn’t been cleaned in at least a month. 

Wonderful.

He put his headphones in - new, bluetooth ones that Ilya had bought him as a pre-season gift, and shuffled his playlist as he got dressed. Base layer, lucky socks, cup. Shin guards, then skates, then pants. Pads, with shoulders first as always, then elbows. Jersey.

He was taping his game socks when Ilya finally returned, looking as beautiful as ever. Shane’s heart calmed a bit with him back in eyesight. Whatever the game looked like, at least he’d have him to come home to. 

“How was press?” Shane asked as a way of greeting.

"Boring as usual. All they wanted to talk about was you, and Boslow.” Ilya shrugged, immediately starting to suit up, as he was already behind schedule.

“What’d you say?”

“About you? I said you are an asset to team, you’ve been a great addition, you-”

“No, what’d you say about Boslow?” Shane cut off his gushing, even if it did make him blush.

“Oh nothing much. All I said was ‘who?’” Ilya grinned, letting out a laugh at the way Shane’s mouth hung open. He leaned over to kiss him quickly. “Close, you will catch a fly.”

“You’re insane. He’s going to go after you, hard,” Shane shook his head, pushing Ilya off him gently. It was still insane to him that they could do this. Be themselves in a locker room, joke around, even kiss. Sure, they tried to keep the PDA to a minimum out of respect for their teammates, but none of them really seemed to mind. So he didn’t panic when Ilya leaned back in. 

“Good, that’s how I like it,” he purred, getting just close enough to make Shane a bit dizzy before he sat back up. “Alright, listen the fuck up!”

Shane listened as best he could to Ilya’s speech. He knew that it was a mixture of the perfect script to get everyone hyped up and Ilya’s own words spoken from the heart. In all honesty, Shane didn’t really miss having to give those as captain. He was happy as an alternate and besides, Ilya had led this team to such great heights that he deserved that title as long as he wanted it. So he tried to match his teammates enthusiasm as they rallied behind Ilya, everyone grabbing their helmets and sticks before following him out onto the ice. 

Their intro was short and to the point - much more lackluster than the one the Voyagers had played for them, full of lights and smoke and bass. Curse of the visiting team, per usual. The centaurs chose to skate straight to their bench to wait out the fanfare, and Shane was grateful for the dimmed lights, hoping no cameras could see his bouncing knee as he gnawed on his mouthguard. 

Ilya was subtle in the way he pressed his leg against Shane’s, but it was pressure enough to calm the shaking. 

“Is just hockey. Breathe,” Ilya murmured, not even turning towards Shane. He knew about the cameras too, he just didn’t care as much. But he cared that Shane cared, so he kept it subtle for his sake. 

Shane couldn’t remember a pre game that felt faster, and before he processed anything, Ilya was on the ice and skating to the center, Boslow following to meet with the ref. When they were done with the formalities, Ilya put a hand out, offering a friendly handshake to him. 

The captain spit at his feet. 

Suddenly, Shane was very ready to be on the ice.

He was grateful to be the center, to be the one to win the first face off against the piece of shit. And within the first five minutes of play, he knew exactly what kind of game they were up against. 

It got ugly. Fast. Every time Shane turned his head, someone was getting slammed against the boards just a hint later than they should. The crease was chaos of elbows and sticks and insults flying. It took all his focus to just stay on his skates as he got cross checked over and over, sly hits to the ribs and sticks close enough to a slash to have the Ottawa crowd screaming.

And he wasn’t getting half of what Ilya was enduring. Naturally, he lived up to his Rozanov name and shoved and checked and quipped right back, shit eating grin behind his mouth guard like he lived for it. It took all of Shane’s focus to not flinch when his husband took a particularly bad hit. 

No call. Message received. They were on their own. 

Shane scored in the next shift, fire sparked low in him in a way that he hadn’t felt in a while, and Ilya giving him the assist only made it sweeter. And he thought the mixture of silence from the Montreal fans and the screams of the Ottawa ones was quite poetic when Ilya scored in the next minute with his signature trick shot. 

In the break between periods, the team was split between smugness at the score and the quiet realization that it would be a long game of nasty play. And they all knew that Ilya was trying - he was the only one allowed to talk to the refs as Captain, and he tried after each botched call to no avail.

“We’re gonna be lucky if they don’t slice cap up and carry him out of here in a bag. You talking shit out there or what?” Troy breathed hard, grabbing a water bottle from under the bench. 

“Earlier yes, but don’t need to now. Two to zero says enough,” Ilya shrugged. 

He thought Boslow might explode when he nearly scored his first of the night in the second period but was blocked by Wyatt, and Ilya immediately rushed up the ice, eyes on another point. And he would have had it too. But Boslow came up hard, and his hit was dirty. Dropped shoulder, straight through the neutral to clip Ilya in the ribs and send him spinning into the boards. Remarkably, he remained on his skates, but Shane could see he was winded by the blow. 

The ref called it with a bit of hesitation, knowing he couldn’t get away with ignoring something that blatant. Shane felt like he could breathe for a moment when he watched Boslow move to the box. Five minute major - five minutes he didn’t have to worry about Ilya getting his shit rocked in an irreversible way.

The feeling went away instantly with the next substitution - Comeau was on the ice. Shane hadn’t spoken to him since he’d officially left the Voyageurs, but he knew from JJ’s reluctant retellings that he had plenty to say about him. As did the rest of the team, apart from Hayden.

Shane had never skated so fast outside of a race, and it was half so he had a better chance to score and kill any chance Montreal had of coming back, and half to make sure he didn’t get annihilated. After a no-call cross check to his head that made him see stars, he wasn’t sure he was going to survive the last period of the game, especially when Troy scored right after Shane’s next goal, making it 4-0 in the first half of it. He’d never seen his former coach so mad, and when he saw him sub in a rookie he didn’t recognize who only had eyes on Ilya, it clicked for him. 

Of course they were going to go after Ilya. Coach Theriault had known Shane since he was drafted, and he knew exactly how much it took to rattle him. Unless someone he cared about was involved.

Sure enough, the rookie went right after the winger with cheap shots, including one that ended up with Ilya’s helmet getting slammed against the boards so hard he knew he’d have a bruise. Shane was grateful when the puck clipped Ilya’s blade and flew into the mesh, followed by a whistle. At least he knew no one was getting beat up while they skated back to the dots, though he wasn’t particularly fond of having to face off again with Boslow. 

His opponent skated up to the center, eyes narrowed and dark with rage at the embarrassment of losing so badly, and the failure of his carefully devised plan, he was sure. 

“He didn’t want to be center and face me this season? Happy to be a little winger, let his wife do all the dirty work for him, huh?” Boslow spat, and Shane could feel the heat of anger all the way to his fingertips.

“Watch it,” was all he said, forcing himself to make eye contact and not glance over to Ilya.

“Who taught him to be such a pussy? His mom maybe…Irina, wasn’t it? Didn’t think she would have had time to make much of an impression.” 

It took every ounce of control Shane had not to kill him right there. 

For him to dare to say her name, one he only knew because Ilya had been vulnerable and brave enough to tell that story. The whole arena burned red in his vision.

He bit down hard on his mouthguard, so hard that it dug into his gums, and the pain settled him just enough to keep quiet as the ref skated up, ready to drop the puck. 

“She’d be ashamed,” Boslow murmured. 

Shane didn’t even remember dropping his gloves. He could count all his fights on one hand, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t watched plenty in his time. Before Boslow could drop his stick, his helmet was ripped off and Shane was landing punch after punch, across his cheek, anywhere he could get one to land. 

He could vaguely hear Ilya behind him, and Troy, but they were too late. He didn’t stop until Boslow was down on the ice, and he barely felt the return punches that landed on his way down. Before Ilya could pull him off, Shane grabbed the front of that familiar jersey, hand fisted in the damn Montreal logo as he lifted him up just enough to get face to face. 

“Fuck you and everything you stand for, you pathetic piece of shit. You keep his name, and hers, out of your fucking mouth,” Shane hissed, and then he let himself be hauled up by his husband. He didn’t have to look at the ref to know he was out. So he ignored the boos, the cheers and the weight of his team’s eyes - Ilya’s most of all - as he skated directly to the gate, pushing it open and continuing on to the locker room. 

There was a small tv in the hallway, and he paused to watch the last two minutes play out, glad that he hadn’t really cost his team anything in reality. In fact, the chaos had given Ilya enough breathing room to manage a last minute goal, even when they were down a player. Montreal was never going to forget this.

Shane went back into the locker room before the final buzzer. His gear was off and in his bag before the rest of the team came in, and he was suddenly nervous to see them all. 

Which seemed warranted, considering the celebration died down quickly when everyone returned, eyes a bit wary as they looked at him. The silence was heavy, and he was expecting Ilya to break it, but Hazy spoke first. 

“I don’t know what that was about, but thank fuck you clocked him. I have never met someone so insufferable in my life,” he laughed. “I had no idea you could fight like that Holly.” 

“Me either,” Shane said truthfully, and immediately the tension was gone. Well - almost. Everyone else clapped him on the back, settling into their usual post game rhythm, but he could still feel the stares of the last two. 

He figured it would be easier to face Coach before Ilya, and once things had died down, he saw his leading nod that told him to follow. He pulled a fresh shirt on and headed out into the hall, to a quiet offshoot by the stairs.

“Coach, I’m sorry, I don’t know wh-”

“Stop,” Wiebe cut him off, holding up a hand. “What’d he say to you? Something I need to report for harassment? I know the director won’t do shit, but it still needs to be documented if it was said.”

“No sir. He… He was just shit talking Ilya,” Shane admitted, the words replaying through his head.

“You didn’t get yourself ejected for the first time in your career over shit talking. I know he said more than that. Tell me. Now.”

“I mean, he called me Ilya’s wife but that wasn’t what set me off. He brought Ilya’s mom into it. Said she’d be ashamed of him.” 

“Ah.” Shane could see the anger on his face. “So he really is as shitty as everyone says he is, huh?”

“Understatement. Still, I should have had better control over myself, and whatever punishment you see fit, I’ll accept.”

Weibe laughed at that, a restrained sound. 

“God, what the fuck are they doing over in Montreal? I’m not punishing you for shit Hollander. I know you, and I know you wouldn’t have done it if the game was on the line, which you ensured wasn’t the case. On this team, you defended your captain. In the grand scheme, you defended your husband. Exactly the type of guy I want in my jersey. Just, maybe wait till he gets a chance to drop his gloves next time, yeah?”

“Yes sir,” Shane said, and was surprised to find his throat tight. Weibe patted him twice on the shoulder and then moved past him, continuing down the hallway while Shane turned back to the locker room.

Everyone had cleared apart from Troy and Ilya, who was sitting dead center on one of the benches, changed into his sweats, obviously waiting. 

Troy took one look between the two of them and slung his bag over his shoulder, making his exit. It wasn’t until they were alone that the weight of the game settled into his body. And fuck was he sore. He couldn’t imagine how bad Ilya felt, but the grimace on his face when he stood up gave him a good idea. 

He still looked ethereal, and despite the tension his soul settled down as if to say, ah, there he is. Safe, and away from the hatred spewed at him, the clash of gear and rattling of the boards. 

Shane half expected him to reprimand him when he approached, but instead, Ilya kissed his forehead once and murmured “let’s go.”

He hadn’t said home, because neither of them were willing to drive all the way back to Ottawa that late if they didn’t have to, which meant it was the high rise hotel downtown for the night. They took an Uber, and Shane blamed that for the silence that filled the car, but his knee was bouncing again anyways. 

Even still, Ilya didn’t say a word the whole way up to the room - but his grip on Shane’s hand was tight, his thumb careful not to run over the newly formed scabs on his knuckles as he ran it back and forth.

They dropped their gear bags by the door, toed off their slides - Reebok, of course - and Shane let Ilya lead the way. They ended up in the bathroom - bigger now than they were used to in past seasons, since they had a king suite instead of two separate rooms. 

The silence remained, but Ilya let go to turn the shower on, then came back and reached for Shane’s hoodie, stripping it off of him gently. His undershirt followed, then his sweats, boxers, socks. He was fully naked when he took his turn, looking over every inch of skin on Ilya he revealed. His breath caught a bit at the span of red along his ribs, already warm. That bruise would be dark in a few days, and he was sure it hurt more than Ilya let on. More layers removed, more beginning bruises peppered across him. When he was just skin, Shane looked up at him, catching the swelling by his hairline from the called hit he’d taken, his helmet cutting in.

He wanted to punch Boslow again. Many times. 

Ilya reached for him, thumb ghosting over a sore spot blooming on his cheek. A bruise of his own, he was sure. They stepped into the shower, and as soon as the water hit them, Ilya pulled Shane to his chest.

“Are you okay?” Ilya spoke into his shoulder, kissing the skin there. 

“You’re asking me? You’re the one that got banged around out there,” Shane huffed, pulling back so he could see him. 

“Are you okay?” Ilya repeated, more serious now. 

“I’m fine. My hand is sore, and my face. But I’m fine.”

Ilya took that hand, frowning when he realized just the pressure of the water had opened the wounds back up. He kissed his palm and let it drop back down, keeping his eyes off the light pink drip of the blood mixed with water. Shane couldn’t stand it - he hauled him to him, kissing him hard. It hurt where he pressed up against his cheek, but it was a delicious kind of pain, and he wouldn’t dare back away from it. Ilya kissed him back with a desperation that made Shane dizzy and nervous at the same time. 

They’d both been hurt so many times. Hell, he’d ended up in the hospital. But something was different this time, and he couldn’t place it.

“What’s wrong,” Shane breathed, moving to hold him as the water sprayed off Ilya’s back - he was so broad that none of it reached Shane, and he appreciated the warmth of Ilya’s chest as he clung to it. 

Ilya didn’t answer. He only dropped to his knees. The mixture of the water returning and the grip of Ilya’s hands to brace on his thighs was overwhelming, and Shane had to push himself back to the corner so he didn’t fall. Ilya chased him with his mouth, and it only took moments before he was hard and ready. 

Shane had gotten better about holding his own over the years, but when Ilya wanted him undone, there was nothing he could do to stop it. His husband knew his entire body, every nerve ending and touch point, and his dick was no exception. He worked him over in deep pulls and tiny flicks, and when his spare hand came up to roll Shane’s balls, he was done for. 

Ilya took every last drop as he always loved to and stood up slowly, wincing a bit at the pull on his ribs. Shane kissed him, hard and breathless, only stopping when Ilya reached for the soap before he could return the favor.

They cleaned up quickly, Ilya letting Shane wash his hair so he didn’t have to reach up and strain. Shane spent extra time with his fingers in his curls, giving attention to each one. When they were done, they toweled off and moved to their bed, climbing under the covers in just their briefs.

Before Shane could move, Ilya was pulling him, hauling him up to his chest and had him wrapped up in a vice grip. Shane wasn’t complaining - the pressure felt nice, and the warmth of his husband’s breath in his hair was soothing. He soaked it in for a few minutes, just breathing with him, but the silence was deafening, and he couldn’t stand that he couldn’t see Ilya’s face, couldn’t try to decipher what was happening in that beautiful mind.

“Baby. What’s wrong?” 

Silence. Not even the flinch of a muscle. 

Shane had had enough. 

“Why the hell are you so pissed at me?” He pushed off, just strong enough to break Ilya’s hold and meet his gaze. And then he saw the gleam of tears, the red rim of his eyes just barely holding them in, and his whole tone shifted. 

“Ilya,” he breathed, reaching for him and cupping his cheek, willing him to say something. Anything. “Talk to me. Please.”

It was another few moments before Ilya took in a shaky breath and finally spoke.

“I have never seen you in fight.” 

Shane waited, but he said nothing else, even though he could see a million thoughts brewing, being held back.

“It was nothing,” Shane offered. 

“It was not nothing,” Ilya bit back, and the sharpness of his tone made Shane sit up a little straighter. 

“He was being a dick, I called him on it. I don’t understand what you’re so upset about.”

Ilya looked at him like he was insane. 

“Called him on it? Maybe I don’t understand the English. I thought that meant talk shit, cross check. Not punch someone in the fucking face, Hollander.”

The anger in his tone would have set Shane back on his heels if he was standing. Even laying next to him, he felt himself shift back. 

“Are you pissed I got ejected? I’m the alternate, not the captain, you all had it handled.”

“You think this is about the fucking game?” Ilya scoffed, running a hand over his eyes and wincing when he hit his bruise.

“Well you won’t fucking tell me what it’s really about, so I’m just guessing over here!” Shane admitted, exasperated. “Please, enlighten me.”

Ilya’s eyes sharpened before he spoke, each word punctuated and carefully chosen. 

“I have seen plenty of punches land on people I love. I do not need to see more that I can do nothing about.”

Oh. Oh. 

It was like someone hit rewind, and Shane could rewatch it from the outside. Shane, throwing punches fervently but receiving them all the same, not backing down but egging it on, refusing to be pulled back. From the angle above, no one would know which hits landed, how badly he was hurt. It was like he could feel Ilya’s hands on the back of his jersey again, tugging… begging.

“Ilya, I’m-”

“I wanted to kill him for putting hands on you, but I couldn’t, do you understand that? Too many people, too many cameras. And worse, you started it, so I cannot even help you without getting thrown out as third man in, and leaving our whole team out there to get fucked!”

Shane opened his mouth, but the flood gates had broken, and Ilya continued on.

“He was piece of shit to me the whole game. Thirty missed calls at least. But do I punch him? No. I smile, I shove back, I handle it like we’ve talked about. We knew this was going to happen Shane, being on same team, being out. What happened to the plan, huh? I do my job, I keep my cool, and still I have to watch my husband get punched in the face because he cannot do his.” 

“Ilya I’m sorry,” Shane said quickly, just so he could get it out and pray that Ilya heard it. 

Ilya blinked hard, tears still brewing as he pulled Shane closer, fingers gripping his jaw tight enough to keep him there, but gentle enough to mind his bruise. 

“You are mine to protect, you understand? Do not put me in position where I cannot. Ever again. Please. Please.”

“Okay-”

“Promise me.” It was a plea when it left Ilya’s lips, and it sunk in Shane’s stomach like a stone.

“I promise. I’m sorry baby, I wasn’t thinking.”

“Well think next time then,” Ilya huffed, and then he was kissing him again, hard. He took control, tongue working Shane over as he opened for him, welcoming him in, an apology and a confession all at once. By the time that Ilya settled, Shane’s lips were puffy and he was half hard, but that was the last thing on his mind. 

Instead he moved back onto Ilya’s chest, understanding now why he’d been held so tightly earlier and wanting it back, so much so that he reached behind him to pull Ilya’s arm around him in a silent request. 

Ilya listened, more than happy it seemed to have the weight of him there. He softened slowly, his breathing evening out and some of the edge wearing off as he started to pepper kisses in Shane’s hair, along his forehead. 

“I am sorry if that was harsh,” Ilya said eventually, dragging his fingertips up and down Shane’s back with a featherlight touch. “My eyes know you are safe, but the rest of me has to catch up I think.” 

“It’s okay. I understand. I felt that way all game watching Boslow beat the shit out of you.” Shane grimaced at the memory.

“He did not. I am faster than that piece of shit. I dodged,” Ilya quipped, but when he laughed at his own joke he winced again, as if proving his lie. 

“Piece of shit indeed,” Shane rolled his eyes, ducking down to kiss Ilya’s ribs before nuzzling back up to his neck. 

“What did he say to you, about Yuna?” 

“Huh?” Shane’s brows furrowed, and he looked up to make sure he understood. 

“I heard you,” Ilya explained. “When I was trying to pull you off. Keep her name out of your mouth. So unless you have secret girlfriend, I assume he was talking about Yuna, no?”

“Oh right, uh, yeah, yeah, he was just talking shit about her,” Shane deflected, grasping at the chance to soften the blow, to lay down a little white lie. 

Ilya’s eyes narrowed. 

“You have always been horrible liar. Spill.”

“It’s not important,” Shane murmured. 

“It was enough that you needed to punch him in the face. Seems important,” Ilya said casually, waiting. And Shane knew he would not let it go, no matter how much he tried to make him.

“Irina.” He wouldn’t be coerced to give more detail than that, and luckily Ilya didn’t ask. 

“Ah,” was all he said, but his finger stopped tracing on Shane’s back. “So he wasn’t shit talking about you. Just me, to get to you?" Ilya paused, then sighed. "I guess that would have worked on me too.” 

“Theriault knows me well, wouldn't be surprised if he gave him the idea,” Shane grumbled, resting his chin on Ilya’s chest and gazing up at him. “You’re mine to protect too you know.” 

Ilya smiled his softest smile. 

“I’m not used to that,” he whispered, so vulnerable that it made Shane’s throat tight. 

“Well you better get used to it, Rozanov. But no more punches. Promise. I love you.” 

“Good,” Ilya breathed. “I love you too. But you’ve got to scoot your ass over here, you’re killing my ribs.” 

He patted the bed on his right, all tension gone and settled as Shane climbed over him and curled up on his chest, away from the bruise Ilya had let him press on just to have him close.