Works – Archive on My Own

Ilya Rozanov has exactly one problem with his secret relationship with Shane Hollander: Scott Hunter has more fanfiction than them. The solution is obvious. They’ll just have to make the internet ship them harder. What could possibly go wrong? Or in which two NHL players discover AO3, decide to manipulate their public image to generate more fanfiction, and not so accidentally come out in the process. Featuring: competitive nonsense, live television mishaps, and one very distressed Scott Hunter. Ilya is sprawling across Shane’s ridiculously expensive couch in Montreal when he discovers the betrayal. “Shane,” he says, and his voice has that particular quality that makes Shane look up immediately from where he’s chopping vegetables in the kitchen. It’s the tone that means Ilya has found something on the internet that will derail their entire evening. “No,” Shane says preemptively. “You do not even know what I am saying.” “I know that tone.” Shane points the knife at him, then seems to remember that’s probably not safe and puts it down. “That’s your ‘I found something online and now I’m going to be weird about it’ tone.” “I am never weird.” “You spent three hours last Tuesday looking up whether penguins could be gay.” “They can be! Was important research.” Ilya sits up, phone clutched in his hand like evidence. “But this is different. This is serious.” Shane wipes his hands on a towel and comes around the kitchen island. He’s barefoot, wearing joggers and one of Ilya’s new Centaurs hoodies that he definitely stole, and Ilya’s heart does something complicated in his chest. It’s been nine years and Shane still makes him feel like he’s seventeen and discovering what want means. “What is it?” Shane asks, softer now, because he can probably see something in Ilya’s face. “Scott Hunter has more fics than us on AO3.” Shane blinks. “What?” “Scott. Hunter.” Ilya enunciates each word with deep offense. “Has more fanfiction than Hollanov.” “Hollanov?” “Is our ship name. Keep up.” Ilya scrolls aggressively through his phone. “Look. Scott Hunter/Kip Grady has one thousand two hundred thirty-seven fics. Ilya Rozanov/Shane Hollander has nine hundred and eighty-three.” Shane stares at him. “You counted?” “AO3 counts for you. Is right there.” Ilya gestures at his screen. “And is bullshit. We are much better love story than Scott and his little smoothie boyfriend.” “His name is Kip, and they’re cute together.” “We are CUTER.” “Ilya-” “No, listen.” Ilya stands up, pacing now, phone still clutched in his hand. “We are generational talents. Best rivalry in hockey right now. Everyone says. The media, they love us. ‘Rozanov versus Hollander, the new Crosby and Ovechkin,’ they say. We have drama. We have passion.” “We have to keep it secret or we’ll destroy our careers and possibly get death threats,” Shane points out. “Details.” Ilya waves this away. “Point is, we are interesting! Scott Hunter is old and boring-” “He’s thirty-one-” “ANCIENT. And he is with normal guy who makes smoothies! Where is intrigue? Where is fire?” Ilya spins to face Shane, eyes bright with the particular intensity that means he’s gotten an idea, and those are always dangerous. “We should have more fics.” Shane crosses his arms, and oh, Ilya knows that posture. That’s Shane’s ‘I’m going to be reasonable and you’re going to hate it’ posture. “We can’t have more fics because people don’t know we’re together. Because we’re not out. Because it’s complicated.” “Maybe is too complicated.” “Ilya-” “Maybe we should make people suspect.” Ilya’s grin is sharp and reckless. “Nothing confirmed. Just … little things. Hints. Enough for people to write about.” “You want to bait fanfic writers into shipping us more?” “I want to beat Scott fucking Hunter, yes.” Shane’s mouth twitches. He’s trying not to smile, which means Ilya is already winning. “You know this is insane, right?” “You love when I am insane.” “I really don’t.” “You love me.” Shane’s face softens, the way it only does when they’re alone like this, when the walls come down and he stops being Shane Hollander, Canadian Golden Boy, and becomes just Shane. Just his. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I really do.” Ilya closes the distance between them, and reaches down to cup Shane’s face. Ilya is four inches taller, which Shane will deny matters until his dying breath, but right now it means

Language:: English
Words:: 14,156
Chapters:: 1/1
Files:: 2 versions
AO3:: #77028326

The internet has decided that Ilya Rozanov is absolutely, definitely, 100% banging a Hollander. They’ve got photo evidence. Multiple sightings. Instagram stories from the same café. The man stayed OVERNIGHT at the Hollander residence. It’s the most legendary power move in NHL history: seduce your rival’s hot mom to assert dominance. There’s just one tiny problem with this theory. Ilya’s fucking a Hollander, all right. Just … not that one. Or in which Ilya’s boyfriend's mother keeps adopting him, the internet keeps assuming the worst, and Shane Hollander is having the worst month of his entire life. At least until he does something that breaks hockey forever. Translation into 中文-普通话國語 available: 【授翻】香草妈妈理论（已完结） by 3Liquids Translation into Русский available: Это не то, что вы думаете! by dramione_must_reads r/hockey Posted by u/puckedup247 • 3h ago Okay what the FUCK is going on with Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander’s mom??? So I was at this charity thing in Ottawa yesterday (my aunt volunteers) and I literally saw Ilya Rozanov having brunch with Yuna Hollander. Just the two of them. At this cozy little place on Elgin Street. And like … they seemed REALLY comfortable with each other??? She kept touching his arm and laughing and he was doing that thing where he leans in all close when he talks. I took a pic but it’s blurry as hell (sorry, was trying to be subtle). Am I insane or is this weird??? Why would Rozanov be hanging out with his RIVAL’S MOM??? [Blurry photo of a curly-haired man in a leather jacket sitting across from an elegant woman with long black hair at a café table] 2.4k comments u/hockeyfan_617 819 points • 3h ago oh my fucking god u/BearsNation96 723 points • 3h ago LMAOOOOO this is the most alpha shit I’ve ever seen. Rozanov is literally fucking with Hollander by dating his mom. I’m fucking DECEASED 💀💀💀 u/VoyageursForever 651 points • 2h ago This cannot be real. This CANNOT be real. I refuse to believe this is happening. u/CheckingForHockey 589 points • 2h ago Guys, there’s probably a totally innocent explanation for- Actually no, I got nothing. This is wild. u/PuckSlut420 512 points • 2h ago okay but can we acknowledge that Yuna Hollander is like 52 and looks like THAT? I’d shoot my shot too tbh u/BearsNation96 301 points • 2h ago Right??? Total rocket. Rozanov’s got taste. u/MontrealMadness 445 points • 2h ago Shane Hollander is somewhere having a complete fucking meltdown right now and I wish I could see it u/hockeyinsider99 398 points • 2h ago This is the most elaborate mindfuck in NHL history. Rozanov saw “fuck the Voyageurs” and said “okay, specifically the mother of their first line center“ LILY: Someone on reddit has picture of me and your mama at brunch LILY: Is very blurry but still LILY: People think I am fucking her 😂😂😂 JANE: WHAT JANE: WHAT THE FUCK JANE: ILYA LILY: Is very funny! LILY: They think I do this to mess with you LILY: Like psychological warfare JANE: This is NOT funny JANE: People think you’re SLEEPING WITH MY MOTHER LILY: I know!!! 😂😂😂 LILY: Is hilarious JANE: ILYA. LILY: Shane, relax LILY: Your mama thinks is funny too LILY: She send me the reddit link JANE: oh my god JANE: oh my GOD

Language:: English
Words:: 13,813
Chapters:: 1/1
Files:: 2 versions
AO3:: #76676306

When their son comes home with split knuckles and a suspension for throwing the first punch, Shane and Ilya just want to know one thing: what did the other kid do to deserve it? Or in which the Hollander-Rozanovs learn that raising good kids sometimes means teaching them when the rules are worth breaking. Shane’s phone rings at 12:39 PM on a Wednesday, which is already strange because people don’t usually call during the day unless something’s wrong. He’s in the kitchen making Sachiko’s favorite snacks for when she gets home from school — apple slices with that specific brand of almond butter she likes, the one with honey — when he sees the number. Ottawa West Secondary School. His stomach drops. “Hello?” “Mr. Hollander? This is Principal Matheson from Ottawa West Secondary.” Shane sets down the knife he’s been using, his hand suddenly unsteady. “Yes?” “I’m calling about Viktor. There’s been an incident at school today, and we need you and your husband to come in immediately.” “An incident?” Shane’s voice comes out higher than he intends. “Is he hurt? Is he okay?” “He’s not injured, but there was a physical altercation, and-” “A physical altercation? Viktor?” Shane almost laughs because the idea is so absurd. Viktor, who cried for an hour when he accidentally stepped on a snail when he was nine. Viktor, who mediates arguments between his friends instead of participating in them. Viktor, who’s never even raised his voice at his little sister despite her sometimes stealing his things and hiding them around the house. “Yes, Mr. Hollander. Viktor punched another student. We have a zero-tolerance policy for violence, and-” “We’ll be right there,” Shane interrupts, his heart hammering. “Twenty minutes.” He hangs up and immediately calls Ilya, who answers on the second ring. “Solnyshko, I am at store. They are out of the good pasta, the one Vitya likes. Should I-” “Ilya.” Shane’s voice cracks slightly. “We need to go to Viktor’s school. Now.” The line goes quiet for a beat. Then: “What is wrong? Is he hurt?” “No, he’s—they said he punched someone. They said he was in a fight.” “Vitya?” Ilya sounds as disbelieving as Shane feels. “Our Vitya?” “That’s what they said.” “I am coming home now. Two minutes.” Shane leans against the counter, his mind racing through possibilities. Viktor’s been quiet lately, maybe a little withdrawn, but Shane had chalked that up to typical teenage stuff. Hormones. Growing pains. The universal adolescent need to assert independence from one’s parents. Had Shane missed something? Had they both missed something? The front door bangs open, and Ilya strides in, still wearing his jacket, car keys jangling in his hand. “Okay,” Ilya says, slightly breathless. “Okay. We go now. Is probably mistake, yes? Maybe is different Viktor.” “There’s only one Viktor Hollander-Rozanov at that school, Ilya.” Ilya runs a hand through his hair, which is still thick despite being in his mid-forties, though there are silver threads now mixed in with the light brown curls. “Then is mistake in other way. Vitya does not fight. Is not who he is.” But Shane’s remembering the way Viktor went quiet at dinner two nights ago when Sachiko asked him how school was. The way he’d pushed food around his plate and said “Fine” in a tone that clearly meant it wasn’t fine at all. Shane had meant to follow up, had meant to talk to him, but then Sachiko had spilled her juice and the moment had been lost in the chaos of cleanup and bedtime routines. “We should go,” Shane says quietly. The drive to the school is tense. Ilya’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel, and he keeps muttering things in Russian under his breath. Shane catches “ne mozhet byt” more than once, which he knows means “It can’t be.” “Whatever happened,” Shane says, trying to convince himself as much as Ilya, “There has to be an explanation. Viktor wouldn’t just hit someone for no reason.” “Of course not,” Ilya snaps, but Shane knows the anger isn’t directed at him. “Our boy is good. Is sweet. Is-” He struggles for the word. “Is gentle.” Shane’s throat tightens. Viktor is gentle. He’s the kid who brings home injured birds and nurses them back to health in shoeboxes. Who reads to Sachiko every night before bed even though she’s perfectly capable of reading to herself. Who still, at fourteen, will curl up next to Shane on the couch during movies and rest his head on Shane’s shoulder. The school parking lot is half-empty, most students still in afternoon classes. Shane and Ilya walk quickly toward the main entrance, and Shane notices the way Ilya’s jaw is set, the way he’s holding himself like he’s about to step onto the ice for a crucial playoff game. “Let me do the talking,” Shane says as they approach the main office. Ilya shoots him a look. “When have I ever let you do all talking?” “Ilya, I mean it. We need to stay calm and-”

Language:: English
Words:: 8,803
Chapters:: 1/1
Files:: 2 versions
AO3:: #76338821

Four times Ilya Rozanov reminded everyone exactly who the fuck they were dealing with (spoiler: still an asshole, still elite, still not going anywhere), and one time he didn’t have to be anything except soft. Or being out didn’t make him nicer. Being married didn’t make him softer. Being older didn’t make him weaker. And being a father? Well. That’t when things get complicated. (He’s really good at that last part. Don’t tell anyone.)

Language:: English
Words:: 18,287
Chapters:: 5/5
Files:: 2 versions
AO3:: #75653646

Wisdom teeth surgery: 0/10, would not recommend. Confessing your feelings to your secret boyfriend while high on anesthesia in front of a nurse: -10/10, please make it stop. Shane’s parents are in Belize, he’s got an emergency dental surgery, and Ilya drives two hours from Ottawa without hesitation. What follows is 24 hours of post-op care, an alarming amount of feelings said out loud, and the mortifying realization that yes, he really did call Ilya a “hot lion.” At least the nurse was cool about the whole secret boyfriend thing.

Language:: English
Words:: 4,234
Chapters:: 1/1
Files:: 2 versions
AO3:: #76048306

One security camera. One leaked video. One choice that changes everything. Ilya Rozanov loses his country, his team, and his shot at Olympic gold in a single night. But he doesn’t lose Shane, and that makes all the difference. A story about finding home in a person, not a place. About choosing love over legacy. And about winning the medal you never knew you needed, standing next to the one person who matters most.

Language:: English
Words:: 26,873
Chapters:: 4/4
Files:: 3 versions
AO3:: #75284826

Shane and Ilya take their rookie to Kingfisher for some post-game celebration. It’s supposed to be a fun night out — just drinks, darts, and team bonding. Instead, Noah spends the entire evening having an existential crisis that culminates in him nervously showing up at their hotel room at 1 AM because he has something important to tell them. Something he’s been anxious about all night. Something that requires courage to say out loud. He’s straight. (Or the most supportive hockey husbands in the league accidentally become hockey dads to a terminally anxious rookie who thinks “coming out as straight” is a thing he needs to do.) The bus ride back to the hotel feels like a victory lap, even though they’re just crawling through Manhattan traffic at eleven PM on a Saturday night. Ilya’s sprawled across two seats near the back, his legs extending into the aisle because he’s never learned how to sit like a normal person. Shane’s next to him, scrolling through his phone with that little smile he gets when he’s reading congratulatory texts from his family. Three rows up, Noah Blanchard sits alone, staring out the window at the lit-up city like he’s never seen buildings before. “Hey,” Ilya calls out, loud enough that half the bus turns to look. “Baby Blanchard.” Noah’s ears go red — they always do — but he twists around in his seat. “Yeah?” “You come out with us tonight.” It’s not a question. Ilya doesn’t really do questions when he’s decided something. Shane looks up from his phone, eyebrows raised. “We’re going out?” “Of course we go out. We win. We are in New York. We go to Kingfisher.” Ilya says this like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like they didn’t just play nearly twenty-three minutes each and it isn’t creeping toward midnight. “I’m not twenty-one yet,” Noah says, and his voice does that thing where it cracks a little at the end. He’s twenty, but sometimes he sounds about fifteen. “Is okay,” Ilya waves his hand dismissively. “You are with NHL team. Is fine.” “That’s not how the law works,” Shane says, but he’s already got that look on his face that means he’s going to give in. He’s always been soft when it comes to their teammates, and especially soft when it comes to Noah, who showed up to training camp in September looking like a scared puppy and hasn’t quite shaken the expression. “Scott will let him in,” Ilya insists. “He knows us. He knows Noah is good kid.” “Scott’s probably pretty pissed at us right now,” Shane points out. “We just beat them four to two.” Ilya grins, all teeth. “Exactly. So we go rub it in his face.” Shane sighs, but he’s smiling. He turns in his seat to look back at Noah properly. “You want to come? You don’t have to. No pressure.” Noah looks between them, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “I mean ... yeah. Yeah, okay. If you think it’s cool.” “Is very cool,” Ilya says firmly. “You are Centaur now. You come out with Centaurs.” “Most of the team’s probably just gonna crash,” Shane says, glancing around the bus. Half the guys look like they’re already asleep, slumped against windows or each other. “But we usually hit up Kingfisher when we’re in New York. It’s ... well, you’ll see.” Noah nods, even though he looks a little uncertain. He’s got that wide-eyed expression he wears a lot, like the world is happening to him faster than he can process it. “Text your parents or whatever,” Shane adds. “Let them know you’ll be out a bit longer.” “Shane,” Ilya says, his voice dripping with amusement. “He is not baby.” “He’s our rookie,” Shane counters. “And his mom follows me on Instagram. I’m not dealing with an angry mom in my DMs.” Ilya laughs at that, loud and bright, the kind of laugh that makes other people want to laugh too. “Okay, okay. Yes, Noah, text your mama. Tell her your hockey dads are taking good care of you.” “Please don’t call yourselves that,” Noah mutters, but he’s pulling out his phone, so he’s clearly going to do it anyway. The bus pulls up to their hotel, and there’s the usual chaos of everyone gathering their stuff and stumbling out into the cold night air. Shane grabs both his and Ilya’s bags because Ilya’s already halfway to the sidewalk, turning back to yell at Noah to hurry up. “We meet in lobby in twenty minutes,” Ilya announces. “You change, we change, then we go.” “Do I need to dress nice?” Noah asks, hovering near the bus doors. Shane considers this. “It’s a bar. Just wear ... I don’t know, not your team hoodie?” “Wear something tight,” Ilya suggests with a wicked grin. “Show off that rookie body.” “Ilya,” Shane says, in that warning tone he’s perfected over the years. “What? I am just saying he should look good. We all should look good.” Ilya gestures at himself like he’s exhibit A, which, to be fair, he usually is. They scatter to their rooms — Noah’s somewhere on the fourth floor, while Shane and Ilya have a suite on the seventh because Ilya always upgrades them when they’re on the road. “Is investment in our happiness,” he always says, and Shane stopped arguing about it years ago. Shane showers quickly, because Ilya takes forever and they’re never going to make twenty minutes otherwise. When he comes out, toweling his hair dry, Ilya’s standing in front of the closet in just his briefs, scowling at his options like they’ve personally offended him. “It’s a bar, not a fashion show,” Shane says.

Language:: English
Words:: 9,715
Chapters:: 1/1
Files:: 2 versions
AO3:: #75551231

Ilya’s spent his whole life hiding. Now he wants to go to Pride — their first as a married couple, in their new city, with their new team. Shane’s spent his whole career being careful, being quiet, being private about everything that matters. But maybe it’s time to stop being so fucking careful. (or the one where Ilya buys too many flags, the team shows up in matching shirts, and Shane learns what it feels like to be proud.) The humidity hits Shane the moment he steps out onto the back deck, coffee mug warm in his hand despite the August heat. Inside, Ilya is singing along to something in Russian — badly, enthusiastically, the way he does everything these days. The way he’s been doing everything since they got married, since Shane signed with Ottawa, since their whole fucking lives became this impossible thing Shane still can’t quite believe is real. “You are going to burn,” Ilya calls from inside, not even looking. Somehow he always knows when Shane’s outside without sunscreen. “It’s eight in the morning.” “Sun does not care about time.” The screen door slides open and Ilya emerges, shirtless, holding his own coffee and what Shane now recognizes as the industrial-sized bottle of sunscreen they bought at Costco last week. “Also, we have practice in two hours and I am not listening to you complain about sunburn through bag skate.” Shane takes the sunscreen because arguing is pointless. Ilya’s already rubbing it into his shoulders before Shane can even open the cap himself. “You’re very nurturing this morning,” Shane says. “I am keeping my husband alive. Is different.” But Ilya’s hands are gentle, thorough, spreading sunscreen across Shane’s neck, behind his ears, down his arms. “Also, I need to ask you something.” “That sounds ominous.” “Is not ominous.” Ilya moves around to face him, blocking out the sun. His eyes are very blue this morning, the way they get when he’s scheming. “Is fun thing. You like fun.” “I’m immediately suspicious.” “Shane.” Ilya’s hands land on his hips, thumbs hooking into the waistband of Shane’s shorts. “Capital Pride is next weekend.” Shane’s stomach does something complicated. “Okay.” “I want us to go.” The deck is suddenly very quiet except for the sound of someone’s lawn mower three houses down. Shane takes a sip of coffee, buying time. “To Pride.” “Yes, to Pride. In Ottawa. Our city now.” Ilya’s face is open, hopeful, and fuck, Shane knows where this is going. “I have never been to Pride. Not as myself. Not as-” He gestures between them. “As this.” Shane’s chest tightens. “I know.” “In Russia, I could not even-” Ilya stops, swallows. “I could not even think about it, you know? Not just illegal, but dangerous. And then in Boston, I was not ready. Was not out. Was hiding everything.” His hands squeeze Shane’s hips. “But now I am here. With you. And I am married to you. And I can—I want to be there. I want to see it.” “Ilya-” “You do not want to go.” It’s not a question. Ilya’s face does something complicated, shuttering slightly. “That’s not what I said.” “But is what you think.” Shane sets his coffee down on the deck railing, carefully. “I just—it’s going to be a lot. Media will be there. Everyone will-” “Everyone already knows we are married,” Ilya interrupts. “We did not hide this. You signed with Ottawa, everyone knows why. Is not secret.” “I know it’s not a secret.” Shane runs a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself, with how he can’t seem to just be as brave as Ilya makes it look. “I’m just—I’m not good at this stuff. The public thing. The-” “The being proud of us thing?” “That’s not fair.” Ilya’s expression softens. He steps closer, cups Shane’s face in both hands. “Moya lyubov. I am not trying to be unfair. I am trying to-” He pauses, searching for words. “I spent my whole life being afraid. Hiding. Pretending. And now I do not want to do this anymore. I want to go to Pride with my husband. I want to hold your hand in public and not be scared. I want to-” His voice cracks slightly. “I want to exist, okay? As myself. As bisexual man. As married man. As Ilya Rozanov who loves Shane Hollander more than anything.” Shane’s throat is tight. “Fuck.” “Is good fuck or bad fuck?” “Good fuck.” Shane pulls Ilya closer, wraps his arms around him. “Always good fuck when you do the romantic speech thing.” Ilya laughs against his shoulder. “So you will come?” “Of course I’ll come, you manipulative asshole.” “I am not manipulative. I am persuasive. Is different.” “You’re both.”

Language:: English
Words:: 8,280
Chapters:: 1/1
Files:: 2 versions
AO3:: #75195001

1 – 8 of 8 Works in pucksandpower

love in the time of AO3 metrics by pucksandpower

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

The MILF Theory (And Why the Internet Got It Wrong) by pucksandpower

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

reality check by pucksandpower

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

still the best (still an asshole) by pucksandpower

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

the anesthesia made me do it by pucksandpower

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

when the world sees (we run toward each other) by pucksandpower

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

How to Come Out as Heterosexual: A Guide for Anxious Rookies by pucksandpower

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

Capital Pride by pucksandpower

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