Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Major Character Death

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Hollander Family

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hollander Family - Character, Rose Landry

Additional Tags:

Whump, Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-16 Words: 764 Chapters: 1/1

Toast

Summary

HOCKEY STAR DEAD

The rest of the room disappears as soon as his eyes flick across the words.

Notes

I tripped and fell into Heated Rivalry and when I fall in love. I like to make characters suffer. Currently taking requests for HR fic (not necessarily angsty lol) at my tumblr

This was written and is set fairly closely after Ep4, I don't know spoilers and have not read the books.
I was just torturing myself with angsty songs and so this is, very loosely inspired by Hotel Ceiling - Push Baby

HOCKEY STAR DEAD

The rest of the room disappears as soon as Shane's eyes flick across the words. Not just the words, but the picture above it; a hazy paparazzi photo of an absolute mangle of a car wreck, and of a hand just visible between two of the first responders. A hand that has held him, caressed him, fucked him into oblivion. A hand he can still see dancing before him.

I was going to make one for me, I can make two.

“Did you see this?” Shane's father offers, passing him the paper with his new nightmare flashed across its cover. “Terrible news. They're saying a drunk driver ran him off the road in Moscow. Or maybe it's a government conspiracy of some sort, but they always say that with the Ruskis.”

Shane nods, mouth dry.

Is it... safe?

“Mm, such a shame.” His mother slices into the poached egg that sits atop her toast. It splits open and bleeds, and the scrape of knife on fork makes Shane's teeth hurt. “So much potential cut short. How sad for his family.”

Fuck his family. Shane wonders if there's even anyone to claim the body. Svetlana, maybe?

“Did you know him well, kiddo?” his father asks, a crease of concern growing between his brows. “You alright?”

Shane was hoping it wouldn't be that obvious. He swallows, and tries to deflect with a shrug, but his voice still comes out too rough and too shaky.

“We played together, that's all,” he manages. “There but for the grace of God and stuff, I guess.”

Not his most articulate, but he feels like he's swallowing glass right now, so it's the best he can do. He pushes the scrambled eggs around on his plate. They're light and fluffy and perfect, and they remind him of Ilya's hair the morning after he washes it, and he wants to throw up.

Rose takes his spare hand then, and gently intertwines her fingers with his own. In spite of everything, Shane is grateful for that; it's grounding, and she's kinder than he deserves. The fact that she's even here, after this morning's bumbling confession, is something of a miracle. The fact that she even somewhat embraces it, covers for it – it's beyond words.

“Maybe we should say something,” Rose suggests, “to honour him.”

“Of course,” Shane's mother agrees. She pulls out her phone, prepared to take notes on the beats he wants to hit. “Go on, love. It doesn't have to be perfect for now, just speak from the heart.”

I love him.

That's what his heart wants to say. But his mouth won't form the words, even though it's his mother, and she loves him, and even though Ilya's dead, and it hardly matters now.

I loved him. And he's dead.

“He... was a presence,” Shane offers. “On and off the ice. Very passionate. Always showing up for his team, for his family. I have great respect for him. Great respect.”

Balls of steel.

I can't do this.

Shane's father nods, and lifts his glass in a toast. “To a worthy opponent.”

“Hear hear.”

“Hear hear.”

One day, the fact that Shane raises a toast to Ilya Rozanov with carrot, ginger, and tumeric juice will make him laugh. Tonight, half drowned in Ilya's favourite vodka, the thought will make him howl and scream and want to smash every single one of his own goddamned windows – even though he's too chicken to ever actually do it.

In this moment, though, it makes him turn to the nearest waitress.

“Excuse me,” he says. “Could I trouble you for some cheese? For my toast.”

She smiles. He smiles, reflexively. And off she goes to fetch some.

His parents glance at each other, but they don't object. They watch him sprinkle cheese and a spot of hot sauce on top of his toast and eggs and it smells weird and it feels somehow even weirder and he can see Rozanov's stupid smirk right in front of his eyes. You are rebel, he would say, with a guttural roll of the r Shane could never get over. Cheese. So wild.

His heart aches, and he longs for those familiar fingers to run through his hair.

“The statement,” he remembers. “We should put something in there about suicide. Maybe a donation link? It's how his mother died, but don't say that. It- It's just important to him.”

“Of course,” his mother promises softly. “I'll put something together.”

Shane takes a bite, and it burns going down. Maybe it always will.

But it tastes good.