Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

Sharing Clothes

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Heated Rivalry Fics

Collections:

Heated Rivalry ➻ Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov / Shane Hollander

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-05 Words: 1,722 Chapters: 1/1

wear me like a secret

Summary

Ilya walked into the bedroom, stuttering to a stop in the doorway as he saw the rucked up bedding. He forced himself to move again, intent on making a beeline to the shower. Instead his eyes snagged on the neatly folded pile of clothes on the leather chair in the corner of the room. A brown jacket, a white tee-shirt, a pair of black jeans, even a pair of crew socks, stacked neatly, waiting.

As if he were being reeled in, Ilya approached the chair and watched from outside his own mind as he ran a finger over the clothes, as if testing their reality. He pulled the jacket from the bottom of the pile, lifting it to his nose and inhaling slowly as he crouched low. He squeezed his eyes shut again, swallowed past the lump in his throat, and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand.

Notes

“I should…” Shane stood, looking around wildly, anywhere but at Ilya. He tugged his joggers back up and reached for the t-shirt he’d stripped off moments earlier. “I should, uh… I should go.”

Ilya stared at him, his mind blank and his hand reaching out as Shane continued to back away, stumbling over his words.

“I should—”

“Go?” Ilya shook his head in disbelief.

“I should… Stay, I can’t,” Shane said, halfway out of the living room. “Team meeting in the morning, I forgot. So…”

“Okay,” Ilya said, his voice harsher than he meant it to be, his body frozen in place. “You forgot team meeting?”

“Thank you for the tuna melt.” Shane forced out in a voice that wasn’t quite his own, still not meeting Ilya’s eyes. “Um… uh… I’m sorry. This… I can’t.”

Ilya was shaking his head before Shane had even forced the words out. “Hollander.”

“I just… I can’t… uh, I can’t do this.” Ilya could hear the tremor in Shane’s voice, see the sheen of panic glazing his eyes, and reached out again, as if asking for Shane to take his hand.

“Hollander,” he said again, softer, his head still shaking, as if he could deny what was happening.

“I’m sorry,” Shane said with a firm shake of his head before turning and rushing out of the room. Ilya couldn’t tear his eyes away from the spot where he’d just been, his hand still hovering outstretched as if by not moving, he could call Shane back. He forced himself to blink and shook his head again slightly before letting his hand fall to his lap. 

He could hear Shane in the entryway, picking up his shoes, dropping one, shoving his feet into them with enough force the soles squeaked on the tile. Then the sound of the door opening. Closing. Ilya closed his eyes again, for a longer moment, squeezing them tight to block out the world. 

He heaved out a breath, then another, before opening his eyes. He tugged at the waistband of his pants, settling them back in place, then leaned forward and shoved his hands into his hair, scrubbing his scalp. He stacked the two plates still sitting on the coffee table, grabbed the half-empty ginger ale, and walked to the kitchen. If the plates clattered a little too loud in the sink, there was no one else to hear. Just as there was no one to watch him pour the remnants of the soda down the drain or throw the empty can into the recycling bin.

Ilya leaned on the counter, gripping the edge of the sink like he was hanging off the side of a mountain, letting his head hang for a moment. He needed to shower, needed to scrub off the last five minutes. He needed—

He cut off the thought and walked into the bedroom, stuttering to a stop in the doorway as he saw the rucked up bedding. He forced himself to move again, intent on making a beeline to the shower. Instead his eyes snagged on the neatly folded pile of clothes on the leather chair in the corner of the room. A brown jacket, a white tee-shirt, a pair of black jeans, even a pair of crew socks, stacked neatly, waiting. 

As if he were being reeled in, Ilya approached the chair and watched from outside his own mind as he ran a finger over the clothes, as if testing their reality. He pulled the jacket from the bottom of the pile, lifting it to his nose and inhaling slowly as he crouched low, unable to hold himself up any longer. He squeezed his eyes shut again, swallowed past the lump in his throat, and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand.

“Fuck.”

It wasn’t until Shane was in the elevator at the hotel that he realized he was still wearing Ilya’s clothes. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall. “Fuck.”

There was nothing for it; he couldn’t go back. He’d just have to hope that Hayden didn’t notice he’d changed. When the elevator arrived at the team floor, he stepped out and hurried to the door of their room, hoping he didn’t run into any of his other teammates. He heard a door open further down the hall right as his door unlatched, and shoved through like he was being chased.

“Hey,” Hayden said from his bed, looking up from his phone, his brow wrinkled in confusion. “You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just pushed it open too hard. I’m fine.”

“Okay…” Hayden said, studying Shane where he’d frozen just inside the doorway. “Take it your visit with your… friend… went well.”

“What?” Shane asked, sharper than he meant to.

“Dude, you’re wearing completely different clothes.”

Fuck. “Oh, yeah, I, uh… I spilled something on my stuff at lunch and my friend loaned me these…”

“Sure,” Hayden said with a smirk.

“No, really—”

“You can just tell me if you got laid, dude. There’s no reason to lie about it,” Hayden said, full-on grinning.

“Fuck off, I told you I wasn’t!”

“Okay, sure,” Hayden said, raising his eyebrows and smirking again.

“Just drop it, Hayd,” Shane said, then his voice cracked as he added, “please.”

Hayden said nothing to that, still studying him. Shane looked away, his eyes landing on his suitcase. “I, uh, I’m going to shower. Sticky from the… the spill.”

“Okay, sure.”

Shane refused to meet Hayden’s gaze again, going straight to the suitcase and pulling out another outfit. He slipped into the bathroom and locked the door. He turned the shower on and waited for the water to reach scalding temperatures before he stripped, folding the borrowed clothes and placing them on the counter, refusing to look in the mirror. He knew what he’d see if he looked at himself, and all he wanted was to forget. The past few hours, the past few months, all of it. 

He scrubbed at his skin like he could rid himself of the memories that way, though he knew it was useless. When he felt burnt and raw, he gave in and turned off the shower. It took everything in him not to rest his forehead against the wall and stand there indefinitely. That would just make Hayden ask more questions. So he went through the motions, drying himself and dressing on auto-pilot. When it was time to get out of the bathroom, he stared at the clothes on the counter, swallowing hard before picking them up. He stepped out of the bathroom and walked straight to his suitcase. He tucked the clothes under the rest of his dirty clothes, all neatly folded. He didn’t want to see them anymore.

—————

Shane was dreading the game, dreading the opening face-off, dreading every second he had to stay in Boston. He knew Hayden could tell something was wrong, but his best friend had actually dropped it after Shane had asked him to. He’d even seen Hayden shaking off others on the team who were picking up on his mood. As they entered the visiting team locker room, Shane tried to shake off the dark cloud, but every second reminded him of—

He clenched his jaw and strode toward the box with his jersey and gear already set up for him. He set his phone and wallet in the upper cubby and started to undo his tie when he saw the black duffle at the bottom of the box. It wasn’t his, and when he looked around, he didn’t see a duffle in anyone else’s locker. Hesitating a second, he bent down and unzipped it part of the way, flipping back the top so he could see inside. 

A brown jacket—his brown jacket—sat at the top, neatly folded, though not how he would’ve done it. Shane blinked several times, trying to understand what he was seeing. He lifted the corner of the jacket and saw the t-shirt and the pants he’d been wearing, too. He had to clench his jaw and swallow hard to force back the emotion trying to claw its way up his throat. He hurriedly zipped up the duffle again and tugged at his tie, ignoring the tremor in his fingers.

“I know I said I’d drop it,” Hayden said in a quiet voice from his left, “but are you sure you’re alright, Cap?”

“Yeah,” Shane said hurriedly. “Yeah, I’m fine.” 

—————

The game had gone terribly. An absolute disaster, in Shane’s mind, but it was over, and he was nearly home. It would be easier to forget when he was home. At least, that’s what he kept promising himself. He typed in the code for the front door and slipped inside, walking directly to the bedroom to put his luggage on the luggage rack. He unpacked with practiced efficiency—suits in the bag for the dry-cleaners, toiletry bag into the bathroom, dirty clothes into the hamper, book back on the bedside table, any jackets hung on hangers, travel bag zipped back up and stowed in the bottom of the closet. 

The black duffle he’d found in his locker gave him pause, but he finally set it in the corner behind the travel bag, neatly zipped and folded. 

He was about to go back out to the kitchen when he hesitated at the door. Before he could talk himself out of it, he walked back over to the hamper and shoved aside the clothes at the top until he found the black clothes. He lifted them out slowly, holding them tight between his hands. He couldn’t stop himself from lifting them to his face and taking a sharp breath of sandalwood and smoke. He closed his eyes tight, as if he could block out how pathetic he was, then refolded them before placing them at the back of the closet on top of the duffel bag. 

They were barely dirty, he reasoned with himself. And he didn’t know their care instructions. He didn’t want to ruin them before he could return them. Because he would return them as soon as Boston came to Montreal again. He could sneak into the visiting team’s locker room, too.

—————

Three months later, as Shane packed for the All Star Game, the small pile still lingered at the back of his closet.