Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Zane Boodram, Wyatt Hayes, Troy Barrett, Harris Drover, Luca Haas

Additional Tags:

centaurs find out, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, The Internet being the Internet, BAMF Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-28 Words: 7,970 Chapters: 1/1

Finisher of Holes (Allegedly)

Summary

Ilya Rozanov has been perfectly fine with keeping his relationship a secret. Mostly.

He is also perfectly fine when an American reporter accidentally tweets 'Shane Holender', which Russian Twitter promptly translates into something that roughly means the 'Finisher of Holes'.

He just did not expect to be outed by Google Translate.

Notes

I can't believe I'm writing fanfiction in 2026. Thank you Heated Rivalry... thank you for dragging me back into the pits of AO3 hell, making sure I know that I am nothing more than a ravenous fujoshi deep inside.

Anyway, me and my partner keep using this Hole Ender joke and I just had to write it because it needed to exist.

Also -- I'm sorry if the Russian doesn't translate well. I have used Google Translate just like all these suckers have in this fic.

Hoping y'all enjoy!

It starts, as most defining moments in Ilya’s bilingual life does, with a mistranslation. 

Though, to be fair, the reporter is American, so it’s really a typo, and a pretty shocking one for someone who’s apparently meant to be in the hockey sphere. 

Ilya doesn’t catch it at first. 

He’s in his hotel room, half-dressed and scrolling mindlessly on Twitter after a solid night against Detroit. They still lost but Ilya had scored two goals and an assist, so he can’t say it was completely wasted. There’s several clips online of his second goal, where Bood threw him a sneaky little pass between the legs of Detroit’s poor defender, followed by a clean wrist shot to end it all. 

Shane had played tonight too. Though, unlike the Centaurs, Montreal had won, 5-2, with a hat-trick from the man himself. From what Ilya could see, Shane looked unreal. Like a sprite on ice. An ice fairy. An extremely burly and herculean ice fairy.

He finishes watching the clip before he sees the reporter’s tweet. 

Great game from Shane Holender tonight.

Holender.

He snorts quietly. Amateurs.

Ilya scrolls past the post without much thought, too eager to find even more close up clips of his boyfriend defeating Scott Hunter in every way. 

It’s only later after he’s finished showering, and has texted Shane to let him know he’s ready for their nightly call, that he sees it.

A Russian Montreal fan account. 

Холендер – завершитель дыр.

Ilya stops. And reads it again. Then a third time.

Holender. Finisher of holes.

He lies down slowly on his bed, an uncontainable laugh curdling in the back of his throat. 

It’s technically not wrong. At least in hockey terms. Shane Hollander is definitely someone who closes the gap. 

But it’s terrible phrasing. Very dramatic. And extremely Russian. 

When he clicks on the comments, the fans are reacting exactly as he knew they would be. Deranged. 

>Holender finishes every hole.

>The destroyer of gaps and more. 

He can’t help the guffaw he lets out, slapping his thigh, a burst of amusement rocketing through him. Because of course this is how the internet repays Shane Hollander, Montreal’s boy wonder. Misspelled once by some amateur American reporter, and now reborn on Russian Twitter as the Destroyer of Holes. 

He watches the edit again. It’s so unfair how good Shane looks in slow motion, and Ilya shakes his head, smile widening as he watches the gap close between Shane and Carter Vaughan, puck slapped neatly into the goal.

The Montreal crowd is roaring in the back of the video, and Ilya wishes he could have been there to hear it himself, a 24 Hollander jersey slung over his shoulders. 

Before he can stop himself, Ilya takes a screenshot and sends it to Shane.

Ilya: You have new nickname

He sees the three dots appear almost instantly.

Shane: That sounds ominous

Shane: Also, I can’t translate a screenshot

Ilya: Did you see that idiot American reporter? 

Shane: oh yeah, Shane Holender?

Ilya: Russian Twitter is insane. Холендер – завершитель дыр

There’s a pause now, and Ilya’s grin widens. He feels giddy in a way that he can’t explain, adrenaline rushing through him, wishing he could see Shane’s reaction.

He presses the FaceTime button immediately.

Shane’s hair is wet, and his glasses make him look extremely gorgeous. Ilya wishes he could kiss him. 

There’s a slightly puzzled expression on his face that makes Ilya feel like a predator hunting down a hooked fish, bleeding through the snare. 

“What the fuck am I looking at…”

Ilya’s smile broadens. “Your name.”

Shane blinks. “That is not my name.”

“Reporter disagrees. Russian Twitter also disagrees.” 

Shane is quiet for a second. “Destroyer… of holes.” 

“It is not destroyer,” Ilya says mildly, trying to curb the grin from taking over his face. He’s not sure he’s being very convincing right now. “More closer to finisher.” 

Shane is staring at his screen again.

“Finisher of holes…”

There is silence. And then Shane stares at his camera again.

“Excuse… me?”

Ilya cannot help himself, and he laughs, phone almost dropping from his grip. He fucking loves his ever-polite Canadian boyfriend. 

“It is hockey terminology,” Ilya tries to be helpful, but he knows Shane is seeing through his shit-eating grin. 

“It is not.”

“It is,” Ilya tries again, but it looks like his chuckling is making Shane frown even more. “Finisher of gaps. You are aggressive.” 

“The reporter misspelled my name and now I’m being called Finisher of Holes,” Shane lets out an ungodly sigh, and Ilya watches him drag a hand down the side of his face. His wet hair flops gracefully to the side, and Ilya’s smile widens at the sight. “This is a nightmare.”

“It is creative.” 

Shane’s eyes narrow at Ilya’s words. “You are enjoying this.” 

Ilya blows a kiss through the phone. “Very much.”

Shane’s eyes narrow even further before he tries the phrase out again. “Finisher of holes.” He says it slowly this time, like he’s testing it on his tongue. There’s only a second of confusion before his expression shifts.

A bloom of colour seems to creep up Shane’s neck. Ilya’s eyes watch in rapt fascination.

“It is inaccurate,” Ilya says.

“Inaccurate, how?”

Ilya knows he’s lucky Shane is a million miles away because if he wasn’t, the next comment he’s about to make would definitely get him into trouble. In more ways than one.

“I am more of the Hole Ender, don’t you think?”

“Holy fuck.”

Shrugging, Ilya smiles slyly, watching Shane groan with a pained press to his voice. 

Loud, brash, rude. These are all words that are true about Ilya. But no one has ever called him a liar. 

*~*

Harris takes his job very seriously.

This is something the Centaurs have learned the hard way.

He does not just post highlight clips once a week. He tracks engagement on all platforms. He watches what’s trending, and hypothesises how he can get the Centaurs to trend in the same way. He scrolls through fan accounts in multiple languages. He keeps tabs on players outside the organisation because ‘brand awareness’ apparently includes knowing what your rivals are doing online.

He has spreadsheets to schedule when he’s posting the next clip, and how often he’s posted about a single teammate.

He also, unfortunately, has Twitter notifications turned on for several Russian hockey accounts.

Which is how, three days after the original typo, he ends up staring at a slow-motion edit of Shane Hollander with orchestral music and Cyrillic text dramatically layered across his face.

It’s a beautiful edit. Hollander looks like he’s on fire.

Harris does not speak Russian. But he does speak Google Translate.

Which is how, ten seconds later, he is in the Centaurs group chat.

CENTAURS GC

Harris: Okay. do not panic

Wyatt: terrible way to start a message

Bood: who died

Harris: No one

Harris: I think

Harris: Russian fans are unhinged

Troy: ok elaborate??

Harris: A reporter tweeted Montreal’s win and attributed it to Shane Holender

Wyatt: bad job on his part

Harris: yes, I don’t know how he has a job 

Harris: but anyway

Harris: Russian fans picked it up and have translated it literally…

Bood: … what does that mean

Harris drops the screenshot. It’s freeze-framed on Shane Hollander skating, black-and-white to make it even more dramatic. There’s Cyrillic text, but it’s the Google Translate underneath that is what’s damning.

Holender – The Hole Finisher

There is a full thirty seconds of silence in the chat before Harris’ phone explodes.

Wyatt: NO

Troy: that CANNOT BE CORRECT

Harris: I triple checked

Bood: HOLE FINISHER

Wyatt: HOLE FINISHER

Troy: Oh my fucking god

Bood: I need that on a jersey

Bood: HOLE FINISHER

Wyatt: Lisa banned me outside from laughing so hard. HOLE FINISHER

Troy: how did you even find this?

Harris: I do my job

Wyatt: Destroyer of holes

Wyatt: what does that even mean in hockey?

Troy: Probably like he’s zooming in between everyone, no holes are left?

Bood: I refuse to interpret it that way

And then because he seems to absolutely love the phrase.

Bood: HOLE FINISHER

Luca: … why does my phone have a million messages that say Hole Finisher…?

Wyatt: you have to just scroll up Luca, there is no logical explanation

Luca: what?

Troy: yep

Luca: oh my god

Luca: oh my god

Harris: there’s more

Wyatt: There’s MORE?

Harris: Some comments are telling Rozanov to “protect his zone”

Bood: FROM THE HOLE FINISHER

Troy: that is outrageous what the actual fuck. Lmfao

Wyatt: We are playing Hole Finisher next week

Bood: I’m chirping that immediately

Harris: Please do not use that on broadcast

Bood: no promises

There’s a pause in the chat, a slow lull after an intense burst of messages.

Wyatt: where is Roz anyway?

Bood: oh this is going to ruin him

Wyatt: He’s going to be so mad

Troy: or he’s going to kill someone

Bood: Hole Finisher

Bood: sorry I can’t stop saying it

Wyatt: i’m adding it to the meme folder

Harris: please don’t make content with it

Bood: No promises Harry :) :) 

*~*

Ilya only looks at his phone when he arrives at the rink. There’s a billion messages pinging in the Centaurs group chat, and he scrolls through slowly with a large grin on his face, entering the change room.

Troy’s the only one who’s here yet and he gives Ilya a nod.

Ilya is scrolling through Bood losing his mind in text form, and Harris threatening legal action over meme usage, when he lets out a loud laugh.

He should probably not be enjoying this as much as he does. 

Rozanov should protect his zone.

Ilya clicks on Shane’s messages and sends a quick screenshot of the hell that has broken loose in CENTAURS GC.

Ilya: Your nickname spreads

It takes less than a minute before Shane responds.

Shane: I’m blocking you

Ilya grins, switching back to the Centaurs chat. It’s still pinging. 

Bood: im saying it before face off

Wyatt: please do

Harris: I will personally fine you

Ilya finally types. 

Ilya: It is good nickname

The chat freezes. He can see multiple people typing something all at once.

Luca: You’re joking

Bood: WHAT

Wyatt: Since when do you compliment Montreal?

Ilya: I am complimenting typo

Bood: thats worse

Bood sends the screenshot again.

Bood: Hole Finisher

Ilya stares at it for a long moment before replying.

Ilya: Finisher.

Bood: OF HOLES.

Ilya: Yes

Wyatt: Roz, you are way too calm about this.

Ilya considers that. He is calm. He’s had days to think over this and he’s already laughed, albeit carefully, in Shane’s face. However, he is still very entertained.

He types slowly.

Ilya: It is hockey terminology.

Bood: No it is not

Luca: It kind of is.

Bood: I refuse.

Ilya locks his phone and slips it into his bag. That is enough for now. He stands, grabs his jacket, and heads toward the locker-room, a small smile curving across his face.

He does not see Troy watching him from across the room.

*~*

There’s the soft press of lips against his face, and Ilya smiles, eyes opening to the sight of Shane close beside him. They’re versing each other tonight, Centaurs v Voyageurs, and Shane had decided that instead of rooming with Hayden, he would instead stay with Ilya while in Ottawa. To be fair, Shane hasn’t stayed with Hayden when the Voyageurs have played in Ottawa for quite awhile now.

The light is warm, and it smoothens Shane’s features, black hair glistening under the warm glow. It never fails to get Ilya’s blood rushing, waking up to the sight of Shane curled up against him, warm, muscles drawn taut from years of working out as a professional athlete. 

He’s gorgeous.

“Good morning,” Ilya says softly, voice cracking from unuse. 

“Good morning,” Shane whispers back, hand tickling down the side of Ilya’s leg and slowly pressing into the curve of his thigh. He’s dangerously close to Ilya’s hardening cock. “Think we have time?” 

Ilya wishes he could say yes. Wishes he could stay and press Shane against the bed as hard as he had pressed the man against the kitchen counter last night. But they have unfortunately, slept in a bit too long. And all because they both had to stay up late to fully sanitise (deep clean) the counter once they were done.

As hot as the kitchen sex was, Ilya doesn’t feel like he wants a repeat in future if he needs to get a proper night’s sleep in him.

The clock is glowing 9:17, and Ilya wishes Wiebe had not scheduled a meeting before practice in the morning.

“I wish, moya lyubov,” Ilya groaned, wiping at his eyes. Shane is rubbing him over his underwear. “I fucking wish.” 

“I could be quick.”

“I know you could be,” Ilya takes the moment to flip them over, hands reaching to lock Shane’s arms above his head. 

Shane breathes out slowly, eyes widening in surprise and excitement. Ilya loves how receptive Shane always is. 

Peppering kisses down Shane’s neck, Ilya feels the other man moan softly. 

“I promise we will have fun tonight.” 

“Okay,” Shane grumbles, and Ilya’s lips quirk into a grin at the sight of the grumpy man in front of him. Ilya twirls a finger through the lock of hair that has fallen into Shane’s eyes. He’s endlessly gorgeous.

By the time Ilya makes it to the rink, he’s forgotten about most of the noise that had made its way over the internet this past week. The Centaurs group chat had returned back to normal, back to boring messages about practice and switching up lines. Staying in Ottawa also means that the boys had gotten to stay at home, alone with their partners and children, desperately grasping for as much time as they could have before they had to travel away again.

Shane had also driven down a few days ago, and they had been together for each second they had for themselves, visiting Yuna and David just once to keep the peace. 

His mind is still on Shane and the delightfully beautiful noises the other had been making against the kitchen island last night, when he pushes into the locker room.

“--Montreal’s going to wish they had more than just the Hole Ender after we’re done with them.” 

Ilya’s eyes flick towards Bood before he snorts. He doesn’t think they’re quite as good as Montreal yet, but he loves the confidence.

The room looks up as Ilya walks in.

“Oi, Roz,” Bood looks excited. “You gonna chirp Hollander at face off?”

“I always do,” he replies easily. Because it’s true.

“I wonder what he thinks of the name.”

“He’d hate it,” Luca says, ever the expert on Shane Hollander. “He’s a private person.”

“I’d hate it too,” Bood offers, surprisingly self-aware. But that doesn’t seem to stop him, “ah well, poor guy.”

The attention in the room becomes scattered when Wiebe walks in and starts speaking tactics, focusing on Montreal’s first line and how the Centaurs will need to counter it. The atmosphere in the room changes because now they’re focused on winning, and there’s nothing more that needs to be said.

The day goes by quickly, and Ilya turns the dial up on Captain Mode. They’re playing in their home rink against their Canadian rival. They need to bring the heat, and Ilya will make sure they do. If it’s against Shane, his beautiful, incredible, hockey-obsessed boyfriend, then so be it. 

He’s almost forgotten about the tweet and the nickname, too focused on leading his team, too focused on what he’s going to do to Shane by the time they reach home tonight, that he blinks when Bood instantly yells it out during warm-ups.

“Sup Hole Finisher.”

Ilya is already on the ice, past the halfway line when he hears it. He swirls instantly towards Bood, and Shane, who is staring at the other with a shocked look on his face.

“What did you call him?” It’s Pike who says this, skating up to centre ice. Shane is already there, close to Bood, eyes as wide as dinner plates.

Oops. Ilya forgot to mention that his team had been planning this all week.

“You guys didn’t see it?” Wyatt has made his way towards them, shoulders moving forward in a way that insinuates he’s got his teammate’s back if this ended up going south. “Your Russian fans love Hol–ender.” 

“Fuck off,” Shane says automatically, and he looks up straight at Ilya. 

Shockingly, Shane starts skating right at him. Ilya tries to keep all expression off his face. He’s not sure he’s very convincing.

“You enjoying this?” He mutters, eyes flashing dangerously. Ilya feels his pulse increase in tempo. 

God, he is so in trouble, but he isn’t a liar. “Yes.” 

“You are insufferable.”

Ilya shrugs. He isn’t a hundred percent sure what that word means, but he can take a guess. “What? It’s true. You love to finish.”

“What?” Shane’s voice is low, but it’s still audible. His back has stiffened considerably. There’s a rush of movement all around them, but Ilya knows they just look like they’re chirping each other. It’s basically a canon event each time they play each other. The whole world knows they love to jab. 

They just can’t hear exactly what jabs are being made.

Ilya skates closer to him now, and his voice drops lower, gravelly, before he runs away. “I can’t wait to end that hole and make you finish all over me tonight.” 

He doesn’t need to turn back to know that Shane is gawping at him.

A smirk crosses over Ilya’s face as he skates towards Luca, still stretching on the ice. Wyatt has also returned, and is stretching right next to him.

“You and Hollander are so dramatic. He looks like he’s about to kill someone.” 

Ilya shrugs, grinning. He finally turns back to look at Shane, who has skated off, a furious look on his face. Or at least, Ilya knows it looks furious to everyone else. 

He can see something else though. Something underneath the hard look in his eyes, a very obvious sense of heat that Ilya has seen a hundred times in the bedroom. 

Shane is horny.

Ilya tries not to think about that too much. But he can’t. 

Oh well, guess they’ll both have to play this game horny then. 

*~*

Ilya hadn’t been planning on chirping Shane with the Twitter comments. 

He already had via Facetime when they first dropped. And then when the group chat had blown up.

By the time Shane had made it to Ottawa, Ilya had almost forgotten about the whole thing entirely.

But then Bood had to go and rib Shane as soon as they had started warming up, and Ilya couldn’t help himself when he saw how shocked Shane had looked.

And so, as soon as the game started, Ilya skating to centre ice, leaning low, the loud cheer of fans excited to watch a face off between Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander, he couldn’t help but get another one in. 

“Do not get distracted.”

“Shut up,” Shane retorts, instantly. Ilya can see his cheeks redden.

“I know you’re thinking about later.”

And then they’re off. 

Ilya wins the face off, snapping the puck back to Dykstra before Shane can get a stick in the lane. He feels so free. Rushing forward, legs burning with a burst of speed, reading what Montreal is trying to do before they even get to do it.

There is nothing he loves more than playing against Shane.

Maybe except for being with Shane and, most probably, playing with him.

He’s only ever really gotten to do that once, and that day incited the most exhilarating feeling Ilya thinks he’s ever had on the ice. 

Shane ends up pivoting back towards him, tracking him down. The puck is flying between them. Shane’s shoulder presses against him, just enough for Ilya to know it’s intentional.

“Careful,” he says lightly.

Shane shoves him off with a little more force than necessary. “Shut up.”

The puck rims around the boards behind the Voyageurs’ net, and Shane rushes towards it. With a burst of speed, Ilya chases him down, closing the gap.

They collide again. This time, a little harder.

For a brief second, Ilya pins him against the board, one glove pressing against Shane’s hip as he reaches with the other for the puck.

“Distracted,” Ilya murmurs, licking his lips.

Shane’s breath catches. Just slightly, but Ilya notices. 

He shoves back, hard enough that the ref’s arm twitches but doesn’t go up.

“Play the game.”

“I am.”

Ilya releases Shane and grins, focused on the intense look Shane is sporting as he rushes away. Ilya pauses for a brief second, catching his breath.

Hockey is always foreplay for them.

*~*

The game ends with a loss. Though Ilya is not too beat up over it. It was a tight game. 2-1, and one of those goals was made by Ilya himself. 

By the time Ilya makes it back into the locker room, his phone is already lighting up. Harris has posted something that he’s tagged Ilya in. Bood is still saying Hole Finisher out loud to no one in particular, like he’s ready to frame the phrase and hang it in his kitchen. 

“I bet if I said it one more time, we would’ve won.” He sounds regretful, like he really thinks this is why they didn’t score more.

“Roz,” Wyatt says, tossing a towel at him. “Your boyfriend just got pulled for media.”

Ilya stills, although he’s pretty sure no one notices. He pretends to be busy untying his skates. “Oh?” He says mildly. They’ve called Shane this before, mostly because they think their rivalry is funny. It makes Ilya want to confirm it every single time but he stops himself before he unintentionally does. 

“Yeah,” Luca chimes in. “They asked about the meme.”

Ilya’s pulse ticks once in his throat. He does not look up.

The room is loud for a moment, everyone excited to hear what the media could possibly ask about the stupid meme. And then Harris’ voice cuts through it. 

“Oh my god.”

“What?” Bood asks, instantly alert. He’s grinning.

Harris doesn’t answer. He just turns his phone around.

Through the screen, Shane is flushed, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, eyes sharp in a way that makes Ilya’s stomach flip. He looks fucking gorgeous, cheeks still a bit rosy from the intense rush of their game. Ilya wants to run out to the foyer and kiss him.

“—Shane, have you seen the Russian nickname circulating? The ‘Hole Finisher’ thing?”

Shane pauses, because to be fair, it is an insanely inappropriate question.

Ilya breathes. It seems like the whole locker room has stopped moving.

Ilya watches as the faintest twitch bends the corner of his mouth. Shane shifts his weight slightly, one shoulder rolling back like he’s thinking about how to respond. Well, of course he is. How does one even respond to a question like that?

“I’ve seen it,” he says calmly.

“And what do you think?”

Another pause.

Shane glances down briefly, then back up at the reporters. There’s something there. Something that feels almost deliberate. He looks directly into the camera and Ilya feels his fingers clench. 

“I’ve never had any complaints.”

He says it evenly. Like it’s about hockey. Like golden boy Shane Hollander is not making some sort of lewd comment in front of the entire world. 

The clip ends.

It’s almost like a bomb goes off. The locker room explodes in noise. 

“What the fuck–”

“He did not just–”

“Oh he absolutely did,” Harris replies, already replaying the video.

Ilya does not realise he is smiling until Troy looks at him with a thoughtful expression. Ilya blinks, forcing his face neutral.

Bood looks between Harris’ phone and Ilya. “That was insane,” he says. “Who says that?”

“Confident man,” Ilya replies lightly, reaching for his water bottle. He’s trying to stay calm. Like Shane’s words have not lit a fire underneath him that is burning him whole. Like Ilya can be fine just hearing Shane be that confident and sexy and seductive and not be rushing towards him this instant. 

“Confident?” Wyatt snorts. “That was feral.”

Ilya takes a slow drink.

“I never thought he would say something like that,” Luca says shaking his head. His mouth has dropped open in shock. “Shane Hollander has never said anything like that before.”

“You would know.”

“Oh shut up.”

“It’s kinda sexy,” Harris says now, nodding his head, and Ilya frowns. “Where did that confidence come from?”

“I guess with a question like that, you have to take charge and own the narrative,” Troy shrugs, reaching over to turn up the volume on the phone, so they can all hear ‘I’ve never had any complaints’ come out in Shane’s even tone once more.

Wyatt exhales slowly. “Unhinged.”

“Nah,” Troy says, shaking his head, “that was kind of legendary.”

Ilya is still seated. He hasn’t moved an inch. One skate of his is still unlaced, water bottle resting loosely in his hand. He can feel his jaw tightening, hearing Shane’s words flitter though his head like a broken record player. 

There’s something burning in his stomach. Something he doesn’t usually let bother him unless he’s in his bedroom. 

Fuck. 

“Good on him. If I had that nickname I would absolutely lean into it. Merch. Limited edition. Hole Finisher hats,” Bood continues. 

“You are not allowed near branding decisions,” Harris mutters.

There’s more talking, but Ilya isn’t listening. He’s trying to ignore the fact that he’s incredibly turned on right now.

“... Roz?”

Fuck. Not good.

“You good?” Troy says, and Ilya’s eyes flick up to him. He blinks like he’s been pulled back into the room by a rope around his waist.

“Yes,” he responds instantly, and then he stands up, skates still on. “I need shower.”

*~*

The water is extremely cold and yet Ilya still feels like he’s burning up, a buzz under his skin that has him trembling.

He braces both palms against the tiled wall for a second, head bowing forward, Shane’s words running through his brain. 

I’ve never had any complaints.

That was not something Shane would say unless…

Unless he meant it.

Unless he was looking straight through the camera, past the reporters, past the fans, past the entire league, and aiming it directly at Ilya.

The thought makes heat pool low in Ilya’s stomach, heavy and waiting.

It is one thing for Ilya to bait. That is what he is known for. Leaning in at face off, murmuring filth under the screams of twenty thousand people.

It’s his love language for Shane. At least, that’s what he tells himself. 

But for Shane to do it publicly? Calmly? With that steady, almost bored tone he uses to Ilya when he is about to do something reckless in bed?

Ilya drags a hand down his face. Because he can’t help but stop the feeling in his chest, the one that is burning right under the hot want spreading all throughout his body.

Possessiveness. 

It’s something he’s felt for Shane for a very long time. He just hasn’t needed to feel it so strongly when he sees Shane as often as he does now.

But for some reason, all Ilya wants is to find the other, and.. 

And that’s all the feeling he needs before he’s turning the shower off, towelling down, and dragging his clothes on. 

When he passes by the locker room, the Centaurs are still arguing about whether ‘Hole Finisher’ would sell better in Voyageur colour patterns or whether Shane should branch out on his own. Bood is practicing saying the words in a Russian accent. 

No one notices when Ilya slips past the room and does not enter. Instead, he heads towards a side exit that leads to an older part of the rink. 

The hallway smells stale, like fresh air hasn’t circulated through it for a significant amount of time. It’s empty. But Ilya knows this area well enough. He’s gone this way a few times before, after games against the Voyageurs, when Shane feels obligated enough to hang out with his teammates after.

He always meets Ilya here before they go. 

There’s a corridor that Ilya passes through before he enters a small room used for physio that is technically restricted access.

There is no one here when he arrives. Except for, obviously, Shane – leaning against the wall exactly where Ilya expected him to be. There’s a faint scuff on his cheek from the boards, and Ilya isn’t sure if it’s from him, or from when Bood slammed into Shane in the third period. 

His hair is still damp at the ends.

Shane looks up when he hears Ilya step closer. There’s something in his eyes that makes Ilya’s stomach clench. 

“You took your time,” Shane says quietly.

Ilya steps closer. “You said something dangerous.”

Shane’s jaw tightens, but Ilya can see the mirth underneath it all. There’s a teasing nature to him that Ilya usually only sees at home.

“It was about hockey.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees serenely. “Of course.”

They are close enough now that Ilya can see the faint flush still sitting high on Shane’s cheekbones. It hasn’t fully faded from the adrenaline of the game. Or maybe it isn’t from the game at all.

“You enjoyed that,” Shane says, like he knows. Like he knows exactly how Ilya is feeling right now.

“I did,” Ilya whispers honestly, body so close to Shane, boxing him in against the wall. He can feel Shane’s breath on his lips, hot and not entirely steady. His pupils are blown completely, so wide that Ilya can even see it in this shitty fluorescent lighting.

Not even a second passes before Shane moves forward to kiss him. He grabs at the back of Ilya’s head and moans so wantonly, like he’s been waiting for this all evening. 

Ilya wants to die.

Shane never makes that sound anywhere but at home. 

He reacts on instinct, hand sliding to Shane’s waist, gripping tight, pulling him flush. The other hand braces against the wall beside Shane’s head, caging him in fully now. The kiss deepens immediately, Shane’s tongue hot and wet and sliding against his. 

It’s so fucking hot. Teeth and tongue and wet, and so, so good. 

Shane’s fingers tangle in Ilya’s hair, tugging painfully, pulling him forward like he can’t help himself. So ready. So eager for Ilya.

Ilya exhales sharply into his mouth.

“You don’t get to look at me like that on camera,” Ilya murmurs against his mouth, breath uneven.

Shane pulls back only enough to speak. “I wasn’t looking at you.”

“Liar,” Ilya presses hot kisses against the curve under Shane’s chin. “You were.”

Shane’s jaw tightens, and he breaks. “I knew you’d see it.”

There it is. It’s these words that make something dark and possessive coil even tighter in Ilya’s stomach.

Ilya presses forward again, harder this time. Their hips knock together in the small space and Shane’s breath stutters.

“You are reckless,” Ilya whispers, nipping at the soft skin under Shane’s neck.

“You started it.”

“And you finished.”

Shane’s hand slides down from Ilya’s hair to his neck, thumb pressing into the throbbing pulse there. He doesn’t break eye contact.

“I’ve never had any complaints,” he says quietly.

Ilya feels heat surge through him so violently he almost groans.

“You are trying to murder me.” 

Ilya leans in again, slower this time. Brushes his nose against Shane’s cheek. Lets his mouth hover just at the corner of his lips.

“You do not get to be sexy on national broadcast.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

Shane waits, because he knows Ilya can’t help give in to everything Shane Hollander wants.

Ilya exhales slowly.

“Because that is mine.”

Shane’s fingers tighten slightly at his neck, and he presses his hips deeper into Ilya. 

“That’s possessive.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t usually say it out loud.”

“I am learning.”

Shane’s eyes soften for a fraction of a second, just enough for Ilya to see it. Then he kisses him again.

The world seems to bend ever so slightly, like there’s no physio room, no ice rink, no anything. Like it’s just them. Like they’re at home in their personal space, as hot and heady as they always are.

Ilya’s pulse is pounding so loudly he barely registers it at first. It’s the faint scrape of rubber soles against concrete somewhere down the corridor.

A laugh. Familiar.

“I’m telling you, if we don’t trademark it—”

Which Ilya’s brain processes exactly half a second too late.

Because Shane deepens the kiss right then. Because of course he does. Because fate apparently has impeccable comedic timing.

Bood rounds the edge of the corridor mid-sentence, and out of the corner of Ilya’s eye, it looks like he stops so abruptly, Wyatt almost walks straight into his back.

Shane pulls back suddenly, a wet sloppy sound reverberating through the room. 

There is silence.

Just three grown men staring at their captain kissing the rival team’s star player against a concrete wall in the physio room.

Why the fuck are they even here, Ilya has the strange sense to think in this situation. He’s never seen them in this area of the building before.

Shane is moving so slowly, almost like if he moves slowly enough this could be interpreted as… as what? CPR?

Shane’s hand is still tangled in Ilya’s hair.

Ilya’s hand is still under Shane’s shirt.

They both seem to realise this at the same time, but Shane doesn’t move away. Like right now he’s making a decision, and he’s sticking with it. Exactly the same way he did when he spoke to the reporter half an hour ago.

Ilya’s heart beats rapidly.

Bood is blinking unnervingly. Ilya internally prays he isn’t having a medical episode.

Wyatt’s mouth is dropped open so wide, it looks almost painful. Troy stands just behind them, calm as ever, which somehow makes this worse. There are… no words. Just three very large men trying to process the fact that their captain is pressed up against a concrete wall with Shane Hollander’s hand still very visibly in his hair.

And Ilya, despite everything, cannot quite bring himself to feel ashamed.

He feels warm. He feels caught. He feels like he has been hit directly in the sternum by a slapshot and instead of collapsing he is standing taller.

Because Shane hasn’t stepped away.

Shane has now dropped his hand from Ilya’s hair, yes. Ilya has removed his hand from beneath Shane’s shirt, yes. But they are still standing close enough that the heat between them is still warm. Shane’s shoulder is still almost brushing his chest. His breathing is still uneven.

Bood clears his throat.

It is the loudest throat clear in the history of mankind.

“…Okay,” he says, which is not a sentence, but it seems to be the best he can do.

Wyatt slowly drags a hand down his face. “I—” He stops and tries again. “I think we might have taken a wrong turn.”

Troy glances around the corridor, so calm it seems almost alien. “No,” he says mildly. “This is the physio room. And we were looking for Roz.” He pauses for a moment. “Looks like we found him and,” he adds, because he cannot resist, “apparently also… this.”

Shane inhales slowly, straightening just slightly, though he’s not trying to run away. It’s the same shift Ilya saw before the interview. The same quiet decision to own whatever is happening right in front of them. Though, not even Ilya really knows what is happening in front of him.

Bood blinks again. “We were looking for you,” he says to Ilya, like that explains everything. “You left the locker room. In skates.”

Wyatt nods emphatically. “We assumed either concussion or kidnapping.”

“I am not kidnapped,” Ilya says evenly.

“No,” Bood mutters, shaking his head. “You were very clearly busy.”

The understatement of the century.

Ilya considers correcting him. Something dignified. Something along the lines of we were having a calm and composed discussion about our charity.

But Shane’s lips are still slightly swollen, and what is even the point? So instead he says, very serenely, “Yes.”

Wyatt makes a small choking noise.

Bood leans against the wall in a way that looks like he needs structural support. “I just want to clarify,” he says slowly, pointing vaguely between them, “that we are not hallucinating.”

“You are not hallucinating,” Ilya replies helpfully.

“Good,” Bood says faintly. “Because I was about to sit down.”

Shane runs his fingers through his hair. Ilya has the overwhelming urge to run his own fingers through Shane’s hair, which feels dangerously domestic after being caught mid make-out by three members of Ilya’s own team.

There’s silence for a moment before Wyatt asks. “How long?”

Ilya glances at Shane.

Shane glances back.

There’s a small conversation happening there that none of the others can see. A flicker of are we doing this? and yes, we are doing this and well, alright then.

Shane finally opens his mouth, and a heavy exhale is released. He looks scared but also determined. Ilya feels a rush of love for the other man flow through his stomach.

“Since our rookie season.”

Silence. 

Bood is blinking neurotically once again. He looks at Wyatt. Wyatt looks at Troy. 

Troy closes his eyes, and he looks like he is mentally replaying footage from the last several years.

“Rookie season,” Bood repeats faintly, like he is on the verge of collapse. “As in… year one.”

“Yes,” Shane says evenly, and it’s now that Ilya can hear the faint press of humour in his voice. Like somehow, the tables have turned in their favour. Like the others are the ones about to explode in embarrassment.

“You mean when you two were basically threatening to fight each other in interviews?”

“Yes.”

“When you played for Boston and broke Hollander’s stick during warm ups?” 

“Yes.”

“When you told media he skates like an irritated loon?” 

Ilya tilts his head, ignoring Shane’s scowl beside him. 

“That was accurate.”

Bood slowly slides down the wall until he is, in fact, sitting on the floor. “I need a minute.”

Wyatt presses both hands to his temples. “Rookie season,” he repeats, louder now, like the increase in volume might somehow change the amount of years that have passed. “That’s—that’s years. That’s an eternity in hockey years right there.”

Ilya shrugs, because what else is he meant to do. It’s all true. 

Bood looks up from the floor. “You have been doing this,” he gestures vaguely between them, “while we’ve been screaming at each other across centre ice? And then went home together?”

There is a pause. Ilya considers whether to answer this one differently.

Shane beats him to it.

“Yes.”

Bood makes a strangled sound that is somewhere between horror and amazement.

Wyatt then points at them like he’s just solved a murder mystery. “That’s why you never actually hit each other properly.”

Shane butts in then, shaking his head, and Ilya knows he’s about to say some shit before he even does. “That is untrue. He hits me very properly at home.”

“Why are you both like this?!” Bood barks out, looking dizzy. 

Ilya can’t help the fit of laughter that escapes him. 

Troy finally pushes off the wall and steps forward properly, folding his arms. “So,” he says evenly. “This is serious.”

Shane doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.” 

Ilya can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. He just loves assertive Shane. Especially when Shane is asserting that they’re together.

Wyatt exhales. “Well. That explains the interview.”

Bood squints at Shane, shaking his head like the weight of this knowledge is just too much. “You absolute menace.”

Shane looks faintly offended by the words. “What do you mean?!”

“You said ‘I’ve never had any complaints’ on live broadcast.”

“Well, it’s the truth,” Shane says like there’s nothing more that needs to be said. 

“It is,” Ilya confirms proudly. 

Wyatt then points dramatically at Ilya. “And after he said that, you lost your damn mind.”

“I did not lose my mind.”

“You left the locker room in skates.”

“I forgot.”

“You forgot you had blades attached to your feet because your boyfriend said something slutty on television.”

Ilya opens his mouth to say something, before he reconsiders and closes it. Instead, he nods. “Yeah. Okay, probably, I did lose my mind.”

There’s a pause.

Wyatt stares at him like that was the most emotionally honest sentence he’s ever heard come out of Ilya’s mouth.

“…You’re admitting that?”

“I am capable of growth,” Ilya replies gravely.

Troy snorts so loudly it echoes. Meanwhile, Bood is still on the floor. He hasn’t moved. 

“Since rookie season,” he repeats again, but softer now, like he’s trying to wrap his head around it from a different angle. “You were babies.”

“We were not babies,” Ilya says automatically. The muscles Shane had even back then. Definitely very manly and not baby-like in the slightest.

“You were nineteen,” Wyatt fires back.

“That is adult.”

Shane exhales slowly through his nose, but there’s that faint, infuriatingly pleased look in his eyes now. He’s enjoying this. He’s enjoying that they’re not the ones scrambling any more. He’s enjoying that Ilya isn’t backing down.

“Yes,” Shane says mildly. “We were nineteen.”

“Oh my god,” Wyatt says, and then he turns to face Troy with a suspicious look on his face, probably since Troy isn’t freaking out as much as he, apparently, should be. “Did you know?”

Troy shrugs. “I suspected.”

“You suspected?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone?”

“I did not have proof.”

“Proof?” Bood wheezes from the floor, slapping a hand against the ground. “You needed forensic evidence?”

“Roz does not do subtle,” Troy says evenly, shaking his head. “Except, apparently, when he does. So I couldn’t be sure.”

Ilya cannot help the small, smug smile that pulls at his mouth. Wyatt looks back at them.

“So every time we were watching you two nearly fight, we were actually witnessing foreplay.”

Shane clears his throat. “That is a…” he seems to struggle with an appropriate response, “an oversimplification,” he says finally.

“It is not,” Wyatt says immediately. And then he pauses, “is that what happened today?”

Ilya considers him. Considers the word foreplay.

Considers the fact that he is still standing approximately three inches away from Shane Hollander, who looks flushed, rumpled, and devastatingly satisfied in a way that probably confirms every suspicion without either of them having to say a single additional word.

“Yes,” he responds calmly. 

“Fuck me,” Bood sounds like he is dying, and makes a noise so sharp it sounds like a kettle finally reaching boiling point. 

Ilya feels warmth spread through his chest so steadily, because instead of running away, Shane stands there, shoulders straight, eyes clear, and does not retreat. Ilya reaches for his hand. 

“Oh my god, they’re holding hands.”

“Wyatt,” Troy says tiredly, “they were just devouring each other.”

“Yes, but this feels more intimate.”

Shane squeezes Ilya’s hand once.

Troy studies them both for a moment longer, then nods once. “Well,” he says simply, “congratulations.”

It’s this that makes Shane smile, and Ilya can’t help but stare at him. 

And for a brief second, Ilya feels something unclench inside his stomach that he hadn’t even realised was coiled so tight.

Wyatt exhales slowly. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. This is fine. This is normal. Everything is fine.”

Bood stares at them both. “You realise we’re going to chirp you about this for the rest of your life.”

“Yes,” Shane is still smiling beautifully. 

“And you two,” Bood’s voice is stern, “are never going to hear the end of the Hole Finisher thing.”

Ilya grins slowly, but it’s all teeth this time. “That one,” he says, voice low and amused, “I can handle.”

Wyatt groans. “Oh my god, he’s using his sexy voice. He’s going to lean into it.”

“Absolutely,” Troy mutters.

“So what are we calling this then?” Wyatt asks weakly. “Because I cannot keep saying Hole Finisher knowing what I now know.”

“You never could,” Shane mutters.

Bood perks up immediately. “No, no, we absolutely can. It’s historic now. It’s branding.”

“It is incorrect branding,” Ilya says mildly.

Troy raises a brow. “Incorrect?”

“Yes.”

Wyatt stares at him. “Incorrect how?”

There’s a pause. A very deliberate one.

Shane’s fingers are still loosely hooked in Ilya’s. He starts shaking his head before Ilya even opens his mouth.

“Don’t,” Shane hisses quietly.

But Ilya has never once, in his entire life, listened to that word.

“It is wrong,” Ilya repeats, almost thoughtfully. “The translation.”

Bood leans forward, confused. “Wrong how, Roz.”

Ilya shrugs, casual as anything. Like he isn’t about to drop a nuclear bomb on the men in front of them. Only God can help them now.

Shane exhales sharply through his nose. “Ilya—”

Ilya turns to him first, not the others, voice dropping. “You are not the one who ends holes.”

There is a full second where nobody breathes. And then Bood’s eyes widen so dramatically it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of his skull. 

“What the–”

“Oh my fucking–”

Wyatt sounds like he’s about to start crying right in front of them all. Troy just closes his eyes like he’s forced to accept the world has granted him this twisted fate.

Shane stares at him, shaking his head. There’s warning there. There’s also, strangely, heat. Ilya wants to kiss him again. “You are unbelievable,” Shane murmurs.

“I am honest,” Ilya replies serenely.

Wyatt points between them with trembling fingers. “So you’re saying…”

“Yes,” Ilya responds, not even needing the final words of the question.

“You… are the Hole Ender?” 

Ilya smiles. Angelic.

Bood makes a noise of despair. “Okay,” he says faintly. “Okay. That’s enough hockey for today.”

Shane drags a hand down his face, but he’s smiling now. Actually smiling. The kind that softens his eyes and makes him look nineteen again, staring across centre ice. He always had such a curious and determined expression on his face back then. Something that had made Ilya crumble immediately.

“You’re insufferable,” Shane puffs out, with a choked laugh. 

“You like it,” Ilya replies instantly, batting his eyelashes at his boyfriend.

“I tolerate it.”

“You love it.”

Shane squeezes Ilya’s hand again, softer this time. “You realise,” Shane says quietly, just for him, “that this will never die.”

“It already did not die,” Ilya replies with a shrug. He knew it the moment his teammates had walked into the room. “Now it is just accurate.”

Bood groans loudly. “I hate that I understand this.”

“You do not,” Ilya assures him, because Shane is his, and no one else could or would be able to understand the broad implication of what that truly means.

Shane leans closer, brushing his shoulder lightly against Ilya’s. “You are impossible,” he murmurs, voice fond.

“And yet,” Ilya says softly, “I’ve never had any complaints.”

Shane huffs out a quiet laugh despite himself. 

Around them, the room still smells unendingly stale. His teammates are still somewhere between scandalised and, Ilya hopes, delighted.

And it all started because one stupid American reporter couldn’t spell Hollander.

Ilya just stands there, hand in Shane’s, both of their pulses steady now instead of frantic.

The internet could keep Hole Finisher. Even the team could keep it. 

Let them chant it. Let them mispronounce it. 

Because in the end, the only words that mattered were the ones Shane had spoken calmly, without hesitation, into a camera and directed like a bullet, straight into Ilya’s chest.

And as far as Ilya is concerned, he’s never had any complaints either.