Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Troy Barrett, Cliff Marlow, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Shane Hollander, Carter Vaughn

Additional Tags:

POV Outsider, on Ilya Rozanov, and whether he has a TYPE, One Night Stands, Flirting, No beta we die like Hayden did inside when he found out who Shane's boyfriend is

Language:

English

Collections:

my fav gay hockey players, fanfics that i keep coming back to read, *Heated rivalry melts my heart*, TDH Game Changers / Heated Rivalry

Stats:

Published: 2025-11-28 Words: 1,118 Chapters: 1/1

if I had a type (then baby it would be you)

Summary

Four men wonder about what Rozanov’s type is. 

Notes

Just a short, unbetaed ficlet I couldn't get out of my head while listening to Enrique Iglesias "Tonight I'm Fucking You".

Enjoy!

if I had a type (then baby it would be you)

CLIFF MARLOW

Watching Ilya Rozanow pick up girls in a club is like watching moths swarm to a flame. Cliff knows eventually Ilya will pick one or two, but the rest will end up being burnt.

Like the girl who came on too strong, pretended to know shit about hockey – Cliff is too drunk to even remember who she insulted anymore, but it was some other hockey player on another team – and is now getting a disgusted stare from Ilya after his teammate just told her off.

"Fuck you, Rozanov," the girl spits.

Ilya gives the girl a slow once over. "No. Rude people are not my type."

The thing about moths, is that once Ilya has picked one, the rest are aimless. Cliff waits for that moment, charms a girl he's had his eyes on all night. No point starting before Roz is done.

Besides, Ilya's gone now, with some chick.

Briefly, Cliff wonders how Ilya chooses. What attracts him. Maybe he'll rib him about it tomorrow.

SCOTT HUNTER

Watching Ilya Rozanov work a dance floor is always an experience.

Scott's seen it before, at All Star weekends and countless formal parties. Rozanov adapts so easily to his surroundings, can be suave and seductive, but also forthright and bold. It's a running joke in the league that Rozanov can pick up anyone.

Even guys, Scott thinks privately, considering how Rozanov moved against men's bodies on Scott Hunter night. He's still not sure if Rozanov would actually be interested in going home with one, though.

Carter Vaughn leans against the bar beside him. "Roz is at it again, huh?"

"Yeah," Scott sighs. "That man is a machine."

Indeed, Rozanov is chatting up some dark-haired girl, but there's something off about the scene.

"He looks weirdly disinterested, though," Scott comments, and Carter crosses his arms.

"Maybe she's not his type. But what is Rozanov's type, anyway?"

"I thought anything with legs," Scott says jokingly, but feels bad immediately. It's the kind of speculating he doesn't want to indulge in, either way.

"Well, clearly not her."

Because Rozanov is looking down at his phone and striding towards the doors, leaving the pretty girl floundering on the dance floor.

His path takes him past the bar.

"Why in such a hurry, Roz?!" Carter calls out, and Rozanov shoots them a rogueish grin.

"Why do you think? Hope you are not rooming next to me," Rozanov throws out. Carter laughs, and Scott joins him. Most of the All Stars players are scattered over several floors, so it's not likely.

"Good for you, man." Carter gives him a thumbs up. "Have fun!"

"I will." Rozanov winks, and heads to the elevators.

So, clearly Rozanov has a type tonight, and it's not the girl on the dance floor. Scott shrugs it off, and another player sidles up to him. 

"Hey, have you seen Hollander? Wanted to congratulate him on putting in a good effort today."

Scott frowns, and Carter shakes his head. "You're out of luck, buddy. Hollander went to bed a while ago."

"About as exciting as a grandma, that one," the player jokes, and Scott forgets all thoughts about Rozanov and his type, joking around with his All Stars teammates.

TROY BARRETT

"Fuck you, Rozanov!"

"No thanks." Ilya scrunches his nose in distaste. "You are not my type, O'Connor." 

Then he puts in his mouthguard.

Troy is frozen for just a second, before he jolts into action, taking his place as Rozanov bends over for the face-off.

They're playing Montreal, and usually Hollander would be the one taking the face-off, but there was some awkwardness with the line shifts on the Voyageur's part.

If Rozanov hadn't explicitly told Troy he's bi, Troy never would have thought more about that throwaway comment. Right now, though, it spins in his mind. How Rozanov can be so secretive, and yet so careless, dropping hints like he wants to be found out.

Besides, Troy has a suspicion about Rozanov's type.

He bets good money it's a short Canadian player of half-Asian descent, who is currently jumping over the boards for his next shift, face set in determination.

Rozanov wasn't exactly subtle with his topic change that night while walking home from the Kingfisher. It's not like Troy's been actively trying to put two and two together, but right now the number four is blazing in neon right in front of his eyes.

In the form of the slight, soft smile Rozanov sends Hollander when there's a pause in the game, and the way Hollander stares back at Troy's liney.

When a scuffle breaks out, Rozanov is quick to mark Hollander, getting right into his personal space and holding onto him, but even from here it looks more like a hug than a fight. Troy hangs on to Pike – who isn't putting in much effort, to be honest – and sees in the corner of his eye how Rozanov bends close to Hollander's ear, whispering something.

Hollander blushes bright red, and Rozanov lets go with a laugh, the refs having broken up the original fight.

Yeah, Troy has an inkling of what Ilya Rozanov's type is.

SHANE HOLLANDER

Ilya’s pressing him against the wall in some shady stairwell in a hotel.

It’s silent and private, but never private enough. Still, it’s a vast improvement from the stiff charity gala they just attended, and Ilya’s doing his best to divest Shane of his suit right then and there.

“Ilya, fuck,” he sighs against hungry lips. “We need to get to the room.”

“Fuck that,” Ilya snarls, teeth grazing Shane’s jaw.

“Seriously, is this how you seduced people all those years?” Shane snarks, though he feels and sounds breathless. “Found some girl or boy who was your type and groped them in a stairwell?”

That makes Ilya back off, breathing heavily, eyes narrowed. “No, this is special. Only for you, Hollander.” His voice is dry and deadpan, his face mock-offended. “Besides, I never had a type before.”

“Oh?” Shane breathes, then swears when Ilya grinds his thigh against where Shane is hard and aching in his slacks.

“No,” Ilya confirms, and his face transforms, from lustful and hungry to something impossibly soft. “And now my type is you.”

And that’s enough for Shane to go weak in the knees.

“Oh.”

Luckily Ilya’s holding him up.

“Come on, moy lyubovnik,” Ilya teases, voice rough and low as he steps back. “I want to fuck you. If not stairwell, let’s go to my room.”

“So demanding,” Shane counters, but he takes the hand Ilya offers, even if they’ll let go as soon as there’s others around. 

He would follow Ilya anywhere.