Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Anya | Ilya Rozanov's Dog

Additional Tags:

Depression, Angst, Fluff and Angst, childhood trauma briefly mentioned, teenage sex briefly mentioned, death of a parent briefly mentioned, allusions to blowjobs, Spoilers for Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Post-Canon, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Soft Hockey Boys, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Written before Heated Rivalry (TV)

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-07-02 Words: 1,192 Chapters: 1/1

hey there, baby, I could use just a little help

Summary

Days like today, Ilya's heart felt heavy. Like there was a dense paperweight or heavy stone pressing down on it. Deep in his gut, it felt like a tender bruise, so far inside that he couldn’t reach it, but its presence was powerful. It was the emotional equivalent of how his body felt after the playoffs, totally beaten down and sore everywhere. It was a deeply permeating sense of despair.

quick little Ilya depression fic, with comfort from his caring husband.

Notes

just had to process some feelings through ilya rozanov, as one does. title is from dancing in the dark by bruce springsteen.

Days like today, Ilya's heart felt heavy. Like there was a dense paperweight or heavy stone pressing down on it. Deep in his gut, it felt like a tender bruise, so far inside that he couldn’t reach it, but its presence was powerful. It was the emotional equivalent of how his body felt after the playoffs, totally beaten down and sore everywhere. It was a deeply permeating sense of despair. 

He wasn’t sure how to explain it to Shane, although he’d tried many times. He didn’t think he could even properly explain it in Russian, nevermind English. Sweet, practical Shane, he tried so hard to be helpful and understanding, and Ilya loved him even more for it. But he could see in Shane’s eyes, he didn’t really get it.

How could he explain that he felt inadequate in every way, when his life was — on paper — perfect? He couldn’t tell Shane that he felt impossible to love, because Shane loved him so completely, it would kill him to hear that. 

Ilya thought back to his childhood, to the young boy who did everything he could to just be okay, be fine, and not need anything. At school, he learned early how to make other kids laugh and charm his teachers and coaches, so no one would notice the sadness lurking under the surface.

Even before his mother… well. Even before then, he sometimes felt like he did more to take care of her than the other way around. He was happy to do it, too, he loved her more than anything. He could make her laugh with a silly joke, or smile by making a goal, and in those moments, he felt like the sun was shining on him, and he was golden. But then her eyes grew cold, she shooed him away while she napped for hours, and he retreated. He became numb.

After, when she was gone, being numb helped, it was his preferred way to exist. When his father would berate him for every mistake, belittle his hopes of playing in the NHL, laugh at him when he said he missed his mother. He could just put on his skates, turn it all off, become nothing, feel nothing but the strain on his muscles as he pushed harder and harder on the ice. 

As he got older, his humor became more arrogant, biting, mean — and he got away with it because he was good enough at hockey that it didn’t matter. No one cared that you were an asshole if you were breaking goal records, even at 15. 

When he realized girls were interested in him, that changed everything. Who had the time to feel sad, alone, or scared when his dick was in some girl’s mouth? He cycled through most of the girls in his grade, even some older girls who came to his games. Then, boys too, which was risky, but the thrill was worth it. It was perfect, it kept him numb, the tender bruise inside hidden so well he could pretend it wasn’t there. 

But then he met Shane fucking Hollander, who from the very start, ripped through his defenses like a machete through jungle brush, armed with only freckles, a killer slapshot, and the sweetest smile he had ever seen. All those years, Shane’s mere presence made the bruise ache a bit more, made it harder to push back down. 

Before they finally admitted their feelings, it was like a punch to the gut every time they fucked and went their separate ways as if none of it meant anything. Because from the beginning, it meant something to Ilya. He just knew he didn’t deserve someone as good and pure as Shane. The weight on his heart and the bruise in his gut told him every time: he could never love you. No one could. And for a long time, he believed it.

Even now, when they were married, and he did feel seen and understood and so fucking deeply loved by Shane, the bruise still ached deep in there. And Ilya hated it. He knew hating it didn’t help, but every time it reared its ugly head, he got so angry at himself. 

Galina had been telling him for years at this point that it was important to feel his feelings , whatever the hell that meant. She had explained it of course, but Ilya hated it. He didn’t want to feel his depression. He wanted it to be gone already. Cured. Eliminated.

He wanted to have fun, fuck his hot husband, play with his adorable dog, win hockey games, celebrate with his friends. And he wanted to do that without the looming specter of the unbearable weight of emptiness that threatened to devour him on days like this. But by now, after years of therapy and antidepressants, he knew that the more he pushed it down, the worse it would be when he couldn’t stave it off anymore. 

And even though he couldn’t tell Shane everything about how he felt, he could definitely tell Shane he was having a “sad day” as he called them. He could let Shane bring him food because he couldn’t decide what to eat; let Shane walk Anya alone because he couldn’t bring himself to put pants on; let Shane kiss his forehead or cheek every time he walked by. Then Shane would join him on the couch, where Ilya sat and journaled or cried or played a video game, reading a boring book about hockey and reminding Ilya to drink water or have a snack every once in a while.

And at the end of the day, with any luck, the crushing weight and the deep gut ache would be fading. Shane would snuggle up to him in bed and place adoring kisses all over Ilya’s body. Starting with gentle pecks to each of his closed eyes, moving to each cheekbone, along his jaw, up toward his ear, and then a long lingering kiss on Ilya’s mouth.

Shane would kiss down his chest, the kisses getting wetter, hotter. To Ilya’s nipples, where Shane would linger, alternating lapping and biting at the sensitive spots until Ilya whined for more. He’d move down, trailing sweet kisses and kitten licks along the path of hair leading to where Ilya was hard and aching for more. And he’d tenderly take Ilya in his mouth, holding eye contact while bringing him to the brink, and then over it, until Ilya was breathless and panting. 

Ilya would hold Shane close, letting the warmth of his body and his steady calming breaths soothe the ache, reminding Ilya that he was no longer that scared little boy who had to be okay and need nothing, who had to stay numb. And Ilya would sleep.

In the morning he would kiss Shane awake with a groggy “hi” and a small smile, and say, “thank you moya lyubov.”

And Shane would ask, “For what? I didn’t do anything.” 

“For taking care of me.”

In response, Shane would simply nuzzle his face into Ilya’s neck and whisper, “you deserve it.”

And maybe one day Ilya would believe him.