Rating:

Explicit

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 & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Scott Hunter (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Light Dom/sub, Anal Sex, Praise Kink

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-08 Words: 3,293 Chapters: 1/1

angry little kitten

Summary

Ilya watches Shane drop the gloves on live television and thinks he looks like an angry kitten. It’s a terrible idea to tell him that.

He does it anyway … along with presenting evidence.

Shane’s going to kill him. Or maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll put on the stupid cat ears, just this once, just for tonight, and let Ilya see him the way nobody else gets to: unguarded, trusting, and finally willing to stop fighting for a few stolen hours.

(They can’t keep doing this. They will anyway.)

Ilya is sprawled across his hotel bed in Chicago when it happens. The Bears aren’t playing tonight, and he’s alone with a beer and ESPN, which is showing a Montreal game. He tells himself he’s watching because Montreal is a division rival. He tells himself he wants to see how they’re playing, if they’ve tightened up their defense.

He’s not watching because Shane Hollander is on the ice.

Except he absolutely is.

The game is close — Montreal up by one against the Admirals — and there’s a whistle. The camera zooms in on Shane and some Admirals player jawing at each other near center ice. Ilya sits up straighter.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Shane says or that’s what it looks like he’s saying. The broadcast doesn’t pick up the audio, just shows Shane’s mouth moving, his expression sharp and mean.

The Admirals player — Ilya squints at the jersey — Scott Hunter, responds with something that makes Shane’s jaw clench.

“Oh no,” Ilya says to his empty hotel room.

Hunter says something else. Shane’s gloves hit the ice.

“Fuck,” Ilya breathes.

It’s not a long fight. Shane grabs Hunter’s jersey and throws a punch that glances off his helmet. Hunter gets him in a headlock. They grapple, spinning in that awkward hockey-fight dance until the refs pull them apart. Shane’s hair is a mess, his face flushed red, and he’s still shouting something at Hunter as he’s escorted to the penalty box.

The announcers are laughing. “Hollander’s got some fire tonight,” one of them says. “Don’t often see him drop the gloves.”

“Wonder what was said out there,” the other replies.

Ilya wonders the same thing. He rewinds the DVR, watches it again. Watches Shane’s mouth form words he can’t hear. Watches the way Shane’s face twists with anger, all sharp edges and bared teeth.

He looks like an angry little kitten.

The thought comes unbidden, and Ilya huffs out a laugh. Shane would kill him if he said that out loud. But it’s true — Shane with his hair wild and his face all scrunched up, fighting a guy five inches taller than him. Scrappy and small and furious.

Ilya’s still thinking about it the next day on the plane to Boston. Still thinking about it during practice. Shane hasn’t texted him since the fight, which isn’t unusual — they’re both busy, both playing constantly — but Ilya keeps checking his phone anyway.

Finally, three days later, a text arrives.

Jane: That Hunter thing was stupid. Media won’t shut up about it.

Ilya grins at his phone. 

Lily: Didn’t look stupid. Looked like angry kitten.

The response takes five minutes. 

Jane: Fuck off.

Little angry kitten, Ilya sends back. Very fierce.

Jane: I hate you.

Lily: No you don’t.

No response to that. Ilya smirks.

---

Two weeks pass. The Bears play six games — three wins, two losses, one overtime that goes their way in a shootout where Ilya scores the winning goal. Shane’s team is doing well too, sitting second in their division. They text occasionally, the messages sparse and careful, nothing that would raise suspicion if anyone ever saw them.

Good game tonight, Shane texts after Ilya scores a hat trick against Philadelphia.

Thanks. You too, Ilya responds. Montreal beat Ottawa 4-2, and Shane had two assists.

That’s all they can manage. Quick, surface-level messages that don’t betray anything. Ilya hates it sometimes, this distance they have to maintain. But it’s necessary. It’s safe.

Then Montreal comes to Boston.

The game is brutal. Physical. Montreal plays them hard, and Boston gives it right back. Ilya takes a hit from Boiziau that makes his teeth rattle. Shane gets high-sticked in the second period, and Ilya sees red for a moment before he catches himself. Can’t react. Can’t show anyone what Shane means to him.

Boston wins 3-2. Ilya gets an assist on the game-winner with four minutes left. As they shake hands at center ice afterward, Shane’s grip is firm, his expression neutral. But his eyes meet Ilya’s for just a second, and there’s something there. A question, maybe.

Ilya gives the tiniest nod.

---

Shane shows up at Ilya’s condo at eleven-thirty. He’s wearing jeans and a dark hoodie, a baseball cap pulled low. He looks tired, the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes from a hard-fought loss.

“Hey,” he says when Ilya opens the door.

“Hey.” Ilya steps aside to let him in.

They stand in the entryway for a moment, just looking at each other. Then Shane says, “That was a good game.”

“Was close.”

“Yeah.” Shane pulls off his cap, runs a hand through his hair. “Your assist was nice.”

“Thanks. Your goal in first period was good too.”

This is what they do. This careful dance, these polite compliments. Like they’re strangers making small talk instead of two people who’ve been fucking each other for years.

Ilya’s tired of it.

“You want ginger ale?” he asks.

“Sure.”

They move to the kitchen. Ilya pulls a can from the fridge, hands it to Shane. Their fingers brush, and Shane’s breath hitches just slightly. Ilya notices. He always notices.

“How’s your face?” Ilya asks, gesturing at the faint bruise on Shane’s cheekbone from the high stick.

“Fine. How’s your shoulder?”

“Fine.”

Another silence. Shane takes a long pull from his soda, then sets it on the counter. “So are we just going to-”

“I have something for you,” Ilya interrupts.

Shane’s eyebrows rise. “What?”

Ilya grins. He’s been planning this for weeks, ever since the Hunter fight. Ever since the image of Shane as an angry little kitten lodged itself in his brain and wouldn’t leave. “Wait here.”

He goes to his bedroom, retrieves the small bag he’s hidden in his closet. When he returns, Shane is leaning against the counter, looking suspicious.

“What is that?” Shane asks.

“Present.”

“Ilya-”

“Open it.”

Shane takes the bag reluctantly, peers inside. His face goes through several expressions in rapid succession: confusion, disbelief, annoyance. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Put it on.”

“No.” Shane pulls out the headband — black fabric, two pointed cat ears attached. “Absolutely not.”

“Yes.” Ilya’s grin widens. “You are little kitten. I want to see.”

“I’m not a fucking kitten,” Shane says, but his cheeks are flushing. That’s how Ilya knows he’s won.

“You are. Saw you fight Hunter. Very fierce, very angry. Like kitten.”

“That’s—I’m not-” Shane’s sputtering now, which is adorable. “I’m a grown man. I’m not putting on cat ears.”

Ilya steps closer. He’s several inches taller than Shane, and he uses that now, crowding into Shane’s space. “I think you will,” he says softly.

Shane’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you want to.” Ilya plucks the headband from Shane’s fingers. “Because you want to be good for me.”

The words land exactly as Ilya intended. He sees the moment Shane’s resistance crumbles, the way his pupils dilate, the way his breath quickens.

“I don’t-” Shane tries, but his voice is weak.

“Yes, you do.” Ilya brings the headband up slowly, giving Shane every opportunity to pull away. He doesn’t. “You want to let go. You want me to take care of you.”

Shane closes his eyes. “This is stupid.”

“Maybe.” Ilya slides the headband onto Shane’s head, adjusting it carefully so the ears sit just right. “But you look very cute.”

Shane’s eyes snap open. “I am not cute.”

“Yes, you are.” Ilya steps back to admire his work. The cat ears are slightly too big, comically perched on Shane’s head, but the effect is perfect. Especially with the flush spreading down Shane’s neck, the way he’s trying so hard to look annoyed but can’t quite manage it. “My little kitten.”

“Fuck you,” Shane mutters, but there’s no heat in it.

“Later.” Ilya takes Shane’s hand, laces their fingers together. “First I want to play with you.”

Shane’s breath catches. “Ilya-”

“Come.” Ilya tugs him toward the bedroom.

Shane follows, and that’s the thing about them — the thing Ilya loves. Shane spends so much of his life fighting, pushing, refusing to back down. On the ice, in the media, in every interaction with every person who underestimates him because of his size. He’s constantly proving himself, constantly defending.

But here, with Ilya? He doesn’t have to.

Here, he can let go.

They reach the bedroom, and Ilya turns to face him. Shane is still wearing the cat ears, and he looks embarrassed about it, one hand reaching up like he might take them off.

“No,” Ilya says sharply. “Leave them.”

Shane’s hand drops.

“Good kitten,” Ilya murmurs, and watches Shane shiver.

---

They’ve done this before. Many times, in many variations. But tonight feels different somehow. Maybe it’s been too long since they’ve seen each other. Maybe it’s the tension of the game still thrumming through them. Maybe it’s just that Ilya’s missed him — missed this — more than he wants to admit.

“Take off your clothes,” Ilya says.

Shane obeys without argument, pulling off his hoodie and shirt, toeing off his shoes, shoving down his jeans and boxer briefs until he’s standing naked except for the ridiculous cat ear headband.

He looks incredible. All lean muscle and pale skin, bruises from the game blooming on his ribs and thighs. The headband should look silly — it does look silly — but somehow it makes everything hotter. This sharp, fierce hockey player reduced to Ilya’s little kitten.

“On the bed,” Ilya says.

Shane moves to the bed, sits on the edge. He’s hard already, his cock resting against his stomach, and Ilya can see how much effort it’s taking for him to stay still, to wait for instruction.

Ilya doesn’t make him wait long. He undresses quickly, efficiently, then joins Shane on the bed. “Lie back.”

Shane does, his head hitting the pillow, the cat ears slightly askew now. Ilya straddles his hips, pins his wrists above his head.

“How many games has it been?” Ilya asks. “Since we saw each other?”

“Seven weeks,” Shane says. His voice is rough. “Fifty-two days.”

“Too long.”

“Yeah.”

Ilya leans down, kisses him hard. Shane opens for him immediately, desperate and hungry, trying to arch up into the contact. But Ilya holds him down, keeps control, kisses him until Shane is whimpering into his mouth.

When Ilya pulls back, Shane’s lips are red and swollen. “Please,” Shane breathes.

“Please what?”

“You know what.”

“Say it.”

Shane’s jaw clenches. This is always the hard part for him, asking for what he wants. Being vulnerable. But Ilya waits, patient, because he knows Shane will get there.

“Touch me,” Shane finally says. “Please. I need—I need you.”

“Good kitten.” Ilya rewards him with a slow roll of his hips, grinding their cocks together. Shane gasps. “See? Is not so hard to ask.”

“It is for me,” Shane says, and there’s something raw in his voice that makes Ilya’s chest tighten.

“I know.” Ilya releases Shane’s wrists, slides his hands down Shane’s arms, his chest, his stomach. “But you’re safe with me. You know this, yes?”

Shane nods. His eyes are blown wide, slightly glassy.

“Tell me,” Ilya says.

“I’m safe with you.”

“And I won’t hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me.”

“And you can tell me to stop anytime.”

“I know.” Shane reaches up, cups Ilya’s face. “I trust you. You know I do.”

Ilya does know. It’s a gift, that trust. One he never takes for granted.

He kisses Shane again, softer this time. Then he reaches for the nightstand, for the supplies they’ll need. Shane watches him with dark eyes, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Roll over,” Ilya says.

Shane flips onto his stomach, and Ilya takes a moment to just look at him. The long line of his back, the curve of his ass, the cat ears still perched on his head. It’s ridiculous and hot and perfect.

Ilya runs his hands down Shane’s spine, over his ass, between his legs. Shane spreads wider, a wordless invitation.

“So eager,” Ilya murmurs. “My needy little kitten.”

Shane makes a sound that’s half-moan, half-protest. Ilya smirks, slicks up his fingers, presses one inside. Shane pushes back into it immediately.

“Patience,” Ilya chides, but he gives Shane another finger anyway. Works him open slowly, thoroughly, until Shane is panting into the pillow and begging incoherently.

“Please, please, Rozanov, come on-”

“What do you need?” Ilya asks, even though he knows.

“You. Inside me. Now.”

Ilya considers making him wait longer, but he’s not that cruel. And besides, he wants this too. Wants Shane wrapped around him, wants to feel him fall apart.

He pulls his fingers out, positions himself, pushes in slowly. Shane groans, long and low, and Ilya has to pause for a second to collect himself. It’s been too long. Shane feels incredible, hot and tight and perfect.

“Okay?” Ilya asks.

“Yeah. God, yes. Move.”

Ilya starts slow, careful, but Shane pushes back against him impatiently. “Harder,” Shane demands, and Ilya’s never been good at denying him anything.

He grips Shane’s hips, picks up the pace. Shane braces himself against the headboard, meeting Ilya thrust for thrust. The cat ears bounce with each movement, slightly crooked now, and the sight makes Ilya laugh even as heat coils tight in his stomach.

“What?” Shane gasps.

“The ears,” Ilya manages. “Still there.”

“Oh my god, I forgot-” Shane reaches up like he’s going to pull them off, but Ilya catches his wrist.

“No. Keep them. Want my kitten to look pretty.”

Shane groans. “You’re the worst.”

“You love it.”

Shane doesn’t argue, which is as good as agreement. Ilya releases his wrist, uses both hands to pull Shane back onto his cock harder, deeper. Shane cries out, and Ilya can feel him trembling.

“Touch yourself,” Ilya says.

Shane gets a hand around his cock, stroking in time with Ilya’s thrusts. His breath is coming in short gasps now, his whole body tight with tension.

“That’s it,” Ilya murmurs. “Good kitten. So good for me.”

“Rozanov—I’m-”

“I know. Can feel you. Go ahead, let go.”

Shane comes with a shout, spilling over his hand, his whole body clenching around Ilya. It’s enough to send Ilya over the edge too, and he buries himself deep, grinding through his orgasm as Shane shudders beneath him.

For a long moment, neither of them moves. Then Ilya carefully pulls out, collapsing onto the bed beside Shane. Shane immediately curls into him, tucking his face against Ilya’s neck.

The cat ears are completely askew now, one of them folded over. Ilya reaches up, gently removes the headband, sets it on the nightstand.

“That was …“ Shane trails off.

“Good?”

“Really good.” Shane’s quiet for a second, then, “I can’t believe you bought cat ears.”

“Worth it.”

“Hmm.” Shane’s hand traces idle patterns on Ilya’s chest. “This is the best I’ve felt in weeks.”

Something warm blooms in Ilya’s chest. “Me too.”

“We should do this more often.”

“We should,” Ilya agrees, even though they both know they can’t. Too risky. Too complicated. They steal these moments when they can, but it’s never enough.

Shane seems to be thinking the same thing, because his voice goes quiet when he says, “I wish-”

“I know,” Ilya interrupts gently. He doesn’t want to hear it, whatever Shane was going to say. Doesn’t want to talk about all the things they can’t have. “I know.”

They lie there in silence, Shane’s breath evening out as exhaustion takes over. Ilya thinks he’s fallen asleep until Shane murmurs, “You really think I looked like a kitten? Fighting Hunter?”

Ilya huffs a laugh. “Yes. Small and fierce. Very cute.”

“I’m not cute,” Shane protests sleepily.

“Yes, you are.” Ilya kisses the top of his head. “My cute little kitten.”

Shane’s response is a mumble that might be another protest or might be acceptance. Ilya doesn’t push. He just holds Shane closer, memorizing the weight of him, the warmth. Storing it up for the next time they’re apart.

Because there will be a next time. There always is.

For now, though, this is enough. Shane in his arms, safe and sated and his. Even if it’s only for tonight.

Even if no one else can ever know.

---

In the morning, Shane wakes up first. Ilya feels him stir, feels him press a kiss to Ilya’s shoulder before carefully extracting himself from the bed.

“Where are you going?” Ilya asks without opening his eyes.

“Early flight.” Shane’s voice is soft. “Gotta get back to the hotel.”

“Stay.”

“I can’t. You know I can’t.”

Ilya opens his eyes, finds Shane already half-dressed, pulling on his jeans. The cat ears are still on the nightstand, looking ridiculous in the morning light.

“When will I see you again?” Ilya asks.

Shane pauses, thinks. “We play you guys again in February. But …“ He trails off, and Ilya knows what he’s thinking. February is over a month away.

“Text me,” Ilya says.

“I will.” Shane finishes dressing, comes back to the bed. He leans down, kisses Ilya once, soft and sweet. “Last night was …“

“I know.”

Shane smiles, and for a second he looks young and unguarded and happy. Then he straightens, pulls his mask back on — the professional, controlled version of himself that he shows the rest of the world.

“See you, Rozanov,” he says.

“See you, Hollander.”

And then he’s gone.

Ilya lies in bed for a while after, staring at the cat ears. He picks them up, turns them over in his hands. He should probably throw them away. It’s evidence, in a way. A record of what they did.

But he doesn’t. He tucks them into his nightstand drawer instead, hidden but there. A secret he can keep.

His phone buzzes. A text from Shane: Made it to the hotel. Thanks for last night.

Ilya smiles. Anytime, kitten.

Jane: Don’t call me that.

Lily: Why not? You liked it.

There’s a long pause, then: Yeah. I did.

Ilya’s smile widens. He types back: Good. Now go catch your flight. Talk later.

Later, Shane sends.

Ilya sets his phone down, stretches out in bed. He can still smell Shane on the sheets, can still feel the phantom weight of him. He wishes Shane could have stayed longer. Wishes they didn’t have to hide. Wishes for a lot of things that will never happen.

But last night? Last night was perfect. Shane trusting him enough to let go, to be vulnerable. Shane in those ridiculous cat ears, fighting against submission even as he gave in. Shane beneath him, beside him, wrapped around him.

Yeah. Last night was worth all the waiting, all the distance, all the careful secrets.

And Ilya will keep those cat ears in his drawer, waiting for the next time. Because there will be a next time.

He’ll make sure of it.

---

Three days later, Ilya’s browsing online when he finds them. A different pair of cat ears — these ones are softer, better quality, with little bells attached. He orders them without thinking, pays for rush shipping.

When they arrive, he sends Shane a picture. Just the ears, nothing identifying. The response is immediate.

Jane: What the fuck.

Lily: What? These ones have bells.

Jane: I hate you.

Lily: No you don’t.

A pause, then: No. I don’t.

Ilya saves that text. He’ll probably never tell Shane, but he saves it, keeps it like he’s keeping the cat ears. Little pieces of evidence that this thing between them is real.

That Shane is his.

His little kitten.

The thought makes him smile for the rest of the day, through practice, through a team dinner. His teammates probably think he’s crazy, grinning at his phone like an idiot. But Ilya doesn’t care.

He has a secret.

And it’s the best secret in the world.