Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

Gen

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

POV Outsider, Episode: s01e01 Rookies (Heated Rivalry), Bets & Wagers, Secret Relationship, Humor, Introspection, POV Outsider on Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Collections:

TDH Game Changers / Heated Rivalry

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-03 Updated: 2026-02-20 Words: 2,555 Chapters: 2/7

A Lack of Subtlety

Summary

Scott Hunter overhears Rozanov and Hollander at their first All-Star Game. He's not the last one to figure them out, but he is the only one who thinks to place money on it.

aka all the ways various NHL stars discover Hollanov and get in on the ground floor to defend their ship.

Notes

My plan for right now is Scott, Marlow, Carter, Ryan, Wyatt, Troy, and Hayden. Feel free to suggest some others in the comments and I'll try to write them in as well! XD

This first chapter is all tv canon, but I'll update the tags/fandom as I weave in more of the book lore.

Chapter 1: Scott

Chapter Notes

Ilya Rozanov is bisexual. It's a fact. Clearly obvious to anyone paying attention, like the sky being blue or the commissioner being a fucking a tool.

Confirmation of this fact is neither needed or wanted, but Scott gets it all the same.

More specifically, he hears it.

The doom is precided by a faint, rhythmic knocking closely followed by a sudden snap. Hunter doesn't even look up from his phone. Not then.

A hissed voice. Some vaguely heavy breathing. He's familiar enough with the habits of young hockey players to know what's coming next.

Hunter reaches for his headphones, fully prepared to spend the rest of his evening ignoring whatever the fuck Rozanov is doing next door. Whoever.

And then a decidely male voice moans, "Fuck, Rozanov!" Hunter freezes.

He doesn't believe it, can't. No way did the rookie actually invite a man to his room in a hotel full of hockey players. Rozanov is fucking Russian for fucks sake!

Then he remembers how cocky the asshole can be. How arrogant.

Of fucking course he brought a man to his room. Rozanov is an idiot who thinks himself untouchable. Thinks he's safe. Or, safer, maybe, in the States, in a hotel with no cameras in the hallways.

And then the soft, mumbled voices are suddenly punctuated by a sharp, "Shut up!"

It's the same voice from before. Not Rozanov, because of course he's an ass in bed too. Hunter almost rolls his eyes

His eyes widen instead, as he realizes just who that voice belongs to, where he recognizes it from. Hunter's brain just stops, just for a moment.

Just until Rozanov's voice carries through the too thin walls as well. "No, no, Hollander," he whines, "I want to fuck you."

It's needy, almost begging. Hunter blanches. His stomach turns at the thought of the two rookies messing around on a bed just like the one he's laying on himself.

The headboards are not secured to the walls...

Hunter scrambles for his headphones. He plugs them in quickly, hands shaking, even when he hears a shower turn on.

Apparently, one of the idiots had the bright idea of fucking in the shower instead. He'd appreciate their attempt to muffle themselves more if it had actually worked.

The moans are muffled, but still very much audible. Their voices too. The words entirely indecipherable through the water. And yet Hunter still knows the exact moment Hollander orgasms.

He bets Rozanov gets off on it, hearing his rival say his name like that. Literally, even, because apparently they get each other off on purpose.

Hollander and fucking Rozanov...

No wonder their rivalry is so entertaining. The charged atmosphere around them every time they competed, their face offs. The accuracy record...

Had this been what they'd started talking about after the shoot outs?! Had they coordinated this on the ice?!

Idiots. They are reckless fucking idiots.

Another fact unfortunately confirmed the following morning when Hunter goes down for breakfast. He hasn't even gotten to finish his first cup of coffee.

"I'm telling you, the rivalry is total bullshit," Liam Casey, a defenseman from Pittsburgh is gesturing emphatically with his fork. "They're friends, I'd bet money on it!"

The men at Casey's table remain unconvinced and Hunter isn't about to insert himself into the conversation. Or the situation at all even.

He doesn't need to be associated with the rooks who will, undoubtedly, out themselves if they keep this shit up.

Hunter doesn't need the smoke. He just doesn't.

"Sometimes, a rival is better than a friend," Hunter calls to the other table, smiling over his coffee cup when they look his way. Casey arches a brow.

He'd made good points. Hollander and Rozanov knew each others' stats - or at least were never surprised when the reporters threw them at one another - and they'd watch each other during competitions. Closely.

"A rival pushes you to be your best," Hunter explains, waving away all of Casey's arguements, "They challenge you, so you have to keep up, stay on your toes."

"So, what? You think they just sit around at home watching each other's tapes so they can one up each other?"

Hunter snorts, "Yeah, I do." They probably did actually. He thought back to the day before, to Rozanov's face when Hollander smashed his brand new record. His gaze heated as it tracked the other man all the way back to the bench.

Shrugging his shoulders back, Hunter pushes that memory - and all the others it conjures up with it - away to focus on the table of hockey players in front of him.

Casey seems skeptical, but the other two are nodding, so Hunter doubles down, "I'm not saying they aren't friendlier than they seem, I'm sure they play up their rivalry a bit, but I don't think Hollander and Rozanov are actually friends."

They are, in fact, much more than friends. Much more. Hunter does not appreciate knowing this quite so well.

"I'd bet on it," Hunter tacks on with a smirk. All three of the players perk up at that.

By the end of the All-Star Game, the wager has grown to include every player on both rosters except Hollander and Rozanov.

With Bennett as the designated bookie, Hunter quietly places his bet, ignoring his friend's rising eyebrows when he reads it. No one knows he has inside information. It's just a friendly bet amongst competitors.

But Hunter fully expects to take the whole pot one day when he writes down 'lovers' on his slip.

Maybe distracting all the other best players with this will give the two idiots a chance to develop some fucking subtlety even. Hunter catches Hollander biting at the ties of his hoodie at the airport the next day, gaze trained on Rozanov's ass one gate over. His throat bobs. Hunter rolls his eyes.

Or, maybe he'll win the bet before the season is out.

Chapter End Notes

Bonus points for anyone who caught the big book reference in this chapter! XD

Chapter 2: Marleau

Chapter Notes

I have decided to make Marleau and Marlow separate people, so I can have the best of show *and* book canon. 🤭 Marlow will be oblivious for a while. Marleau is suffering.

Sorry this took longer than expected. The muses really had to rotate this idea over the fire for a while before it could cook properly.

The downside to being one of the few unmarried vets on the team was being expected to look out for the rookies. Check on them, take them out, make sure they didn't get alcohol poisoning or take anyone home who might try to murder them.

Marleau typically gets assigned one rook per season. Usually a defenseman. He's the literal backbone of the Bear's defensive line after all.

Except for this year. No, this year, the captain gave him Rozanov. Their new star center. The number one draft pick

A nineteen year old still learning English and so far from humble, Marleau is confident he remains blissfully unaware of the word's existence.

Generally, he likes the brat though. Underneath the ego and the arrogance, Rozanov is actually pretty great. Polite to the bartenders, considerate of his roommate on the road, and a surprisingly decent wingman when he wants to be.

Of course, that charming baby face is far less appealing when he's pouting. Marleau already wants to knock him over the head before they even board the flight.

It's Montreal. The nervous energy is not, in any way, appreciated. He's basically jinxing them!

At first, Marleau thought it was the game. Bears versus Voyageurs is the stuff of legends, after all, and Rozanov's own personal rival plays for Montreal.

But then he catches him glancing at his phone. Not once, not twice, but a dozen times. In between every hundred or so leg bounces, Rozanov pulls his phone up and flicks open his messages.

No messages pop up. The phone doesn't vibrate, and every time Rozanov starts to type one, he back tracks before he finishes.

Then another round of leg bounces starts.

Marleau has been more than patient. He should get a fucking medal.

"Hey, sorry, boys. No one's getting into Montreal today. Two feet of snow."

Rozanov curses, emphatically. Resisting the temptation to roll his eyes, Marleau attempts to offer a bit of comfort.

"It's a night off, boy. It's not the end of the world." His generosity only earns him a glare and a flippant response before Rozanov is glancing down at his phone again.

Marleau catches the name at the top of the chat for just a second. Jane. No last name. No emojis. Nothing descriptive. Not even a photo for the icon on the top left.

"Look," Marleau sighs, "Whoever she is, she's gonna get over it." The glare is scorching at that point so Marleau gives up.

Apparently, Montreal Girl does not understand, because Rozanov is in a mood for days after. Even with the decidely feminine perfume clinging to him the next morning.

There is only so much moping Marleau can take before he snaps. He manages to restrain himself for a full two games - Rozanov's extra aggression definitely gives them an edge - but then the chirps during practice start getting a little too pointed. Their captain gives Marleau a look, so he has no choice but to step in.

"Do we need to pack you off to Montreal to have the stick pulled out of your ass, Rozy?" Marleau huffs, slamming the asshole into the boards.

His rookie goes silent, and Rozanov is usually physically incapable of keeping his mouth shut so that's a bit terrifying. A grumbled 'fuck you' as the kid skates off definitely does not count.

That is his first clue. Not exactly incriminating But then Rozanov stays quiet for the rest of practice. Clue number two.

Obviously, Montreal Girl is something extra fucking special.

When Rozanov badgers Marleau and a few others into going out with him after, its the proverbial nail in the coffin. The kid spends the first hour practically throwing himself at anyone with a pulse.

Maybe Montreal Girl isn't so special then. Maybe all the pouting and the chirps are just symptoms of the kid being nineteen and ragingly horny.

Given the tantrum - and their captain's very pointed reminder to 'look after the rookie' - Marleau decides to stay relatively sober.

Someone has to make sure their new star center doesn't end up dead in a ditch.

Not that he stops Rozanov from his near manic search for someone to fuck. Marleau would appreciate him finding the person a bit quicker actually, if it gets the kid to mellow out. He needs a fucking break.

So Marleau drinks a few beers, chats with the pretty bartender, and keeps an eye on the dance floor where Rozanov is grinding between a whole mess of people. His curls falling into his face every time he ducks his head to talk with someone.

Its easier to sympathize with his rookie in these moments. Rozanov actually looks like the kid he is, for one - flushed and frantic, a dopey grin on his face.

Mostly, it's the smile. The laugh. Rozanov flirts with everyone, but he only seems to go home with the ones who make him laugh, who tease and rib him back. The ones who give as good as they get.

Like a bratty kid pulling pigtails on the playground until their crush chases them past the monkey bars. Flirting and chirping are practically the same thing for Rozanov. He just wants the attention.

So, realistically, it shouldn't be as shocking as it is when the crowd parts. The person in front of Rozanov revealed right as their fingers brush up into his hair. Rozanov smiles. His face lighting up at the soft attention. Marlow stills.

Its a man. Some pretty boy with broad shoulders and a mischievous smirk. Rozanov's drunk ass barely thinks to glance around before following the dude into the bathroom. Willingly.

Just like that, the pieces fall into place. Rozanov's bad mood and his awkwardness about Montreal. The 'girl' he didn't get to see because of the weather...

Not a girl, and Rozanov apparently prefers his men with dark hair and fucking stacked.

Somewhere, there's a joke about Rozanov wanting to be the prettiest one in bed waiting for Marleau to finish freaking out.

His rookie is gay. Or, at least in to dudes. Bisexual? Is that the right term? He'll have to ask his niece later. She knows all that gay shit.

Montreal Girl must be a dude. Jane is...

Shane Hollander. The idea pops into his head immediately. Marleau almost hurls.

Rozanov chirps his rival more than anyone else. Teasing and mocking the Canadian on and off the ice.

"Little shit's been flirting on the ice!" Marleau cringes, head falling to the bar. The pretty bartender offers some water, but its not enough to stop his head from spinning. His gut twisting.

No one can find out about this. He might not know the correct terms, but his niece's rants about gay rights have been about as subtle as Rozanov's dumb flirting.

Is it even legal to be gay in Russia?! Marleau googles it while Rozanov is busy with his dance partner. He only ends up more confused

After that, Marleau catches all the signs. Not just Rozanov's extra gloomy mood the next morning - because the bathroom quickie hadn't been enough apparently - but the sudden perkiness whenever his phone starts buzzing.

Glancing quickly, Marleau looks at the top of the screen. Jane. He does his best not to look at anything else.

Marleau does not want to know what sort of freaky shit Rozanov is into with his maybe-lover who might be his rival. He already knows way too much about Rozanov's sexual activities.

Or, his preferences, anyway. Rozanov never shares details. Not like some of the other guys. Even the married dudes will brag a bit occassionally.

But Rozanov just smirks when asked. They all see the photos on twitter, in the tabloids. Their rookie and his veritable feast of women.

If it wasn't for all the - far too heated - makeouts he is forced to endure when they go out clubbing together, Marleau might think its all a smokescreen. A show, hiding the reality.

Bisexual is the correct term, according to his niece. Rozanov is just more careful with his hookups when they're dudes. Until they stop, abruptly, during the next season.

Their captain gives Marleau another fucking rookie to supervise the next year, another forward too. Rozanov stills hangs with him though, chirping Marleau to high heavens when he's assign Cliff Marlow.

Because their captain is an even bigger fucking asshole than Rozanov sometimes.

An asshole who is clearly grooming Rozanov to take over his position. His rookie becomes the face of their brand, of the Bears, within a year. Marleau hangs back, hovering.

He's a defenseman. It's what he does. He watches and he waits, ready to rush forward to take a hit or speeding past to clear a way. On or off the ice, Marleau has Rozanov's back.

Even if that means ignoring his sudden disappearance every time the team plays in Montreal, or covering every time the Voyageurs play in Boston.

Rozanov plays harder, better, when Hollander is around. His smiles keep getting softer too. When he looks at his phone, when he returns after longer and longer stretches of time.

He blushes. Rozanov. Rozanov blushes and Marleau can't help but tease him.

Obviously, his Montreal Girl is something extra fucking special. Maybe one day Rozanov will even admit it.

Marleau is fully prepared for that day. Years of jokes, of teasing and taunts, of observations - he's filed them all away for that day. He can't fucking wait.