1 – 10 of 10 Works in Enemies to Friends to Lovers
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All My Roads, They Lead to You by Anonymous
Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types
2026-06-19
All Shane wanted to do was to play hockey.
He knew he was pretty much the best at it.What he didn't know, being the best was not enough.
Being a gay Asian-Canadian hockey player didn't help anything at all.
Nor did the fact that he got drafted to Ottawa, the team where Ilya Rozanov was already the biggest star.
Or,
An alternate universe where Shane is openly out as gay. Ilya is still closeted bisexual. And they both play for the same team- ie, Ottawa Centaurs.- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 83,047
- Chapters:
- 19/19
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #85216911
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what's the best that can happen? by Anonymous
Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
2026-04-15
Shane Hollander returns as a cabin leader at Camp Ridgewater- this time as head councillor. Unfortunately, Ilya Rozanov returns as well.
or
Since childhood, Shane & Ilya seemed to always be orbiting one another. After 11 long years, maybe all they needed was one more summer to finally collide.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 9,494
- Chapters:
- 2/11
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #82693601
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̶B̶o̶y̶friends with benefits by Anonymous
Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
2026-02-09
“You are so pretty, Hollander. Your freckles err— take my breath.”
Shane glares. “Rozanov, you can’t say that here,” he says through gritted teeth. “They can hear us.”
“Who gives a fuck?” He declares with a careless shrug. “Whole world knows we are lovers, so what?”
The world most definitely does not need to know that he’s on Ilya’s extensive fuck buddies roster.
Or
According to Ilya, Shane is the best boyfriend anyone could ask for. If you ask Shane, he’ll tell you they are just fuck buddies.
- Part 2 of Gwen’s heated rivalry fics
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 10,139
- Chapters:
- 4/4
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #78940096
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Ottawa, 2010. Canada wins the championship, and Shane slips away from the overwhelming celebration for some peace and quiet. Russia loses, and Ilya runs from his father’s furious disappointment to have a panic attack in the stairwell. Neither boy is really looking for company, but for a tentative few hours in the middle of the night, they find solace, acceptance and a first kiss, first time prelude to something heated and risky in each other’s arms. **** Ilya leaned in with lips pursed and Shane jerked away, “Whoa! What the hell are you doing?” “You do not want kiss?” Ilya frowned. “You stare at my mouth all night, same as after draft. I thought you wanted kiss.” “No.” Shane’s eyes were wide. “That’s insane.” “Okay.” Ilya stood up, hiding how bad the rejection hurt. “I misunderstand. Sorry. Do not worry, I will not say anything about–” “Wait.” Shane’s grabbed Rozanov’s arm at the last second, gathering all his courage, “Y- yes.” “Yes.” Ilya repeated. “What is yes?” “I mean yes.” Shane pulled him back in slowly, carefully, his heart racing. “Kiss me?” January 2010 Ottawa, Canada The party was loud. The championship had been hard won and well earned and the celebration was out of control. The players were cheering, jumping, hugging one another high off the win, the boys were spinning, laughing, shoving one another drunk on the adrenaline, some actually were high off smuggled in weed and others actually were drunk off punch spiked from not very secret flasks, and the coaches and chaperones were all too busy congratulating each other and themselves to pretend to care. Champions. Trophy winners. They were at the top of their game and feeling on top of the world, and the fever pitch excitement combined with the delirious exhaustion of a too long, too intense, too physically mentally emotionally grueling few weeks of tournament shook the walls of the multipurpose conference room on the basement floor of hotel. The noise was deafening, the chaos of it all dizzying, the crush of people and body heat and clamor of conversation suffocating and in the very middle of the room– –in the very middle of the room, team Captain and tournament MVP and all around Canadian Wunderkind Shane Hollander stared down at his glass of electric red punch and tried his fucking hardest not to throw up. “Hollander! We did it! We fucking did it!” Someone pushed into him, fell into him, grabbed him into a messy, sloppy hug and planted a messy, sloppy kiss on his cheek. Teammate. A buddy. Shane had played with him for years. “Shane Hollander! Second in the draft son, good for you! You make us all so proud!” Someone shook his hand, squeezed his palm, pounded at his shoulder. A parent. A chaperone. They’d known Shane since he was sixteen. “Wouldn’t be the player he is without a great coach!” Right in his ear, bellowing over the noise. Shane knew he was supposed to smile, supposed to agree, supposed to pound the no doubt spiked punch and whoop at the top of his lungs and let go – let loose– now that the work was over and the tournament was finished and he had another trophy and medal to put in his room. Instead, “I gotta find the bathroom!” he announced to no one in particular, cos no one fucking cared. They were lost in the party, reveling in the victory, but it was too much hammering against Shane’s head, too much crushing around his body and his stomach was twisting, head pounding, chest too tight, holy shit he had to get out somewhere and get some air. Out of the multipurpose room and into the hall. Down the hall and right past the bathroom. He ditched the cup of punch in the nearest water fountain and broke into a jog down the generically ugly carpeted corridor and by the time he crashed through the door leading to the stairwell, Shane was running. Gasping. He yanked at his tie and scrubbed at his face, rolled his shoulders and popped his neck and told himself to breathe. Started up the stairs to get to his fourteenth floor room and told himself to breathe. Huffed a self deprecating sort of laugh because Shane Hollander jogging up fourteen floors worth of stairs instead of partying with his teammates was exactly the sort of over dedicated, wet blanket, fitness and work ethic obsessed bullshit everyone expected from him so– so whatever. When his parents asked sort of sad and sort of resigned about why he hadn’t stayed to celebrate with his teammates and revel in the end of his juniors era, when they told him he probably should really definitely enjoy these moments of silliness and fun while he still could cos come fall he’d be playing professional and have to lock in, when his parents couldn’t hide how they worried about him isolating and clicked their tongues about him avoiding his long time teammates in favor of running stairs alone, Shane would call it a work out. He’d call it dedication. He’d brush it off and wave them away and tell them he might have gotten second at the draft but he was gonna be first in the league, rookie of the year, and to make that happen, he couldn’t party, he had to train. He certainly wouldn’t tell them how the noisy crowd and pushing unhinged behavior made his skin crawl and lungs seize up and head hurt, no way. There wasn’t anything wrong with him. He was just dedicated. Just focused. It was fine. He was fine. Nine, ten, eleven, floors up and Shane actually started to feel fine. The stairwell was soothingly monochromatic and cold enough to be clarifying, easing the clamor in Shane’s head until he felt like he could think again. His shoes didn’t make any noise on the concrete steps and landing after corner after landing after corner was empty, the doors to the adjoining halls all closed, it was a half hour till midnight so anyone who wasn’t partying in celebration was sequestered in their rooms mulling over their loss and packing for the trip home. It was nice. Peaceful. Space to move and space to breathe and twelve floors up Shane was starting to feel like maybe he wouldn’t just collapse face first onto his bed and scream, maybe he’d have the mental energy to watch a movie or read a little bit in his book, or– Noise in the stairwell up ahead, and Shane slowed at the door for the thirteenth floor landing, paused waiting to see if he heard the noise again, then peeked around the corner bracing himself so he could try and be passably polite to whoever had inadvertently interrupted his single minded dash up the stairs. Ilya Rozanov. It was Ilya fucking Rozanov sitting just below the next landing blocking the stairwell with his body turned sideways taking up a whole step, an unlit cigarette in one hand and his phone in the other… and tears on his face, reflecting the light from his phone, tracking down his cheek and dripping off his chin, landing wet on the cold concrete below. Shit. Shane came around the corner cautiously, curiously, fidgeting with the string on his hoodie as he asked, “Rozanov?” Ilya jumped when someone spoke at him from just a few feet away. He hadn’t heard any door open, he hadn’t heard any footsteps coming up the stairs and he jumped cursing when the empty echoing cold of the stairwell was shattered by the unexpected intruder.
- Part 5 of Heated Rivalry
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 7,284
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #78900926
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“Fuck.” Shane melted into the strong hand at his neck, the pressure over his throat and the heat of the Alpha’s palm. “Fuck, that’s–” his eyes started to flutter closed, his knees going weak, but he heard the Alpha huff a laugh and immediately stiffened again.
“Don’t do that.” he warned. “Don’t laugh like me letting you put your hand on my throat is predictable submissive Omega behavior and you're making fun of me."
“That is not why i was laughing.” Ilya squeezed Shane’s throat lightly, his thumb pressing over the suppressant patch covering the Omega's bonding spot and blocking his sweet scent. “I thought you would fight it, fight submitting. But you didn’t.”
“No I–” Shane swallowed hard. “I like it.”
“Good.” Ilya smiled slow and a little dangerous, running his tongue over his bottom lip and then over the sharp ends of his fangs before he leaned in and growled into the Omega’s ear. “Now get on your knees.”
- Part 4 of Heated Rivalry
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 146,649
- Chapters:
- 10/10
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76264181
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“It’s a mystery,” he added, quieter. “Small town one.” The silence stretched again, but it didn’t scrape at him the way it usually did. It just hovered, fragile. Shane waited for the joke. For the comment about it being boring or pretentious or a waste of time. He waited for the familiar sting. It didn’t come. Instead, Ilya nodded once, slow and deliberate, like that answer had settled something. “Okay,” he said. “I can do that.” or Shane and Ilya have spent months dancing around each other, teasing, competing, and sharing quiet, stolen moments. Between hockey practice, frat house chaos, and long nights watching Twin Peaks, the tension finally breaks—and neither of them can deny what’s been there all along.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 10,073
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #77280796
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"You have to come to the locker room. Now."
Shane frowns. Holds up his notebook. "I'm busy."
"Forget that, man. It's all over the news. Ilya Rozanov has just defected from the Soviet Union."
Red Army superstar Ilya Rozanov defects from the Soviet Union. A Cold War-era hockey au
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 79,518
- Chapters:
- 6/6
- Files:
- 4 versions
- AO3:
- #75927071
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apply pads (shock now!) by Anonymous
Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
2026-01-04
When Paramedic Shane Hollander and EMT Hayden Pike start working nights, they expect to spend their shifts getting fucked over by Response Paramedic—and notorious asshole—Ilya Rozanov.
Shane does end up getting fucked, just not in the way he was expecting.
(shane just wants to do his job and ride the ambulance. ilya thinks shane should be riding him, instead.)
- Part 1 of return of spontaneous circulation
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 34,467
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 2 versions
- AO3:
- #77037646
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When Shane and Ilya meet at a club between the 2011 All Stars Game, and Ilya teases Shane by calling him "his good friend Shane Hollander," suddenly Shane gets an idea... Things may be easier if they were seen as friends instead of bitter rivals. What if Shane and Ilya become public friends years before canon.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 2,938
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #76551636
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“We race.” Ilya pushed his shorts down and gripped his cock, smiling when Shane’s eyes dropped down to watch. “You run and I will touch myself. You do not stop, and I will not stop. Deal?” “You’re serious.” Shane huffed and folded his arms. “What happens if I win? If I last longer than you?” “If you win?” Ilya arched an eyebrow towards him. “You get to see me cum.” “Right.” Shane wished his voice hadn’t cracked just then. “And that’s supposed to be a reward?” “Yes.” Ilya bent one knee so his shorts pulled tight across his thighs, across the outline of his cock. “Obviously.” “And if I lose?” Shane swallowed nervously. “If I quit before you’re done. What then?” “...then you get to see me cum.” it came out nearly a growl in Ilya’s thick accent. “As punishment.” “Fuck.” Shane got back on the goddamn treadmill and hit the start button. “Fuck. Fine. Let’s go.”
- Part 1 of Heated Rivalry
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 4,411
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #75183431