881 – 900 of 1,438 Works in Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
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Shane and Ilya are playing together in Ottawa. They're married. They're happy. But is it time for the next step? This starts one year after The Long Game book ends. Baby Games 1 year after Long Game “Why on earth are you smiling?” Shane wants to know as they head down the snow-covered Montreal street. His words form puffy white clouds that hang momentarily in the air between them. “And why couldn’t we take the team bus with everyone else?” The team is staying at the Four Seasons, like they do every time they play Montreal, and it’s close enough to walk to and from the arena. But the team still provides a bus to transport them the three short blocks. In spring months, many players walk it instead, but this is January, and it’s a nut-numbing minus twenty. “This weather reminds me of Regina,” Ilya says simply with what might be a shrug, but Shane is shivering too much to really be able to tell. His hair is still damp from his shower at the rink after the morning skate, and it’s starting to freeze at his neckline. Ilya’s words sink in, and suddenly Shane isn’t thinking about the cold. Their eyes meet. Ilya’s look incredibly blue in the bright white light reflecting off the snow. Ilya smiles. Shane does too. Then Ilya admits, “Makes me want to smoke.” Shane rolls his eyes. “You’re not allowed to smoke.” “Okay,” Ilya says flatly, like he did that day a million years ago before the World Juniors, and then he winks at his husband. “Hollander!” Someone yells from across the street so loudly that they hear it over the din of traffic moving across De La Montagne Street. Shane’s head swivels out of habit even though he knows better than to respond to anyone in Montreal. When his eyes find the middle-aged guy standing by the bus stop, Shane instinctively reaches out to touch Ilya’s arm. The guy had pulls off his gloves and throws both middle fingers high in the air. “Traitorous faggot!” Shane turns away and keeps his arm firmly on Ilya’s arm. He keeps walking up the street, head down, dragging Ilya by the sleeve on his navy peacoat. “Just ignore it.” “Is homophobia. Is not okay, Hollander!” Ilya’s English gets basic when he is pissed off or upset. Or drunk. And the last name thing also kicks back in. “Yeah. Fuck him,” Shane grumbles. “No, thank you,” Illya retorts, and a quick look shows his head is still turned and he’s glaring over his shoulder at the guy now a block away. “Okay. Well, then let’s get back to the hotel room, and you can fuck me instead,” Shane offers. “My dick will probably be frozen and fall off by then,” Ilya replies. “Why the fuck did I want to walk?” Shane almost smiles at that. Ilya finally stops looking back and falls in step beside his husband. And then he picks up the pace, with a hand on Shane’s lower back, pushing him to keep up. “Let’s get back so we can warm each other up.” No one shares rooms anymore due to the new player contract agreement, so Shane and Ilya have their own hotel rooms. It’s an unwritten rule that they are given connecting hotel rooms. They never ask for them, but they get them every time. Ilya has thought about telling his team’s travel coordinator there’s no need to waste money on two rooms connected or otherwise, but he has the feeling that the team and the league needed the pretense of it all. Pretense was what Shane called it anyway. Yuna called it other words like ridiculous and delusional. Ilya doesn’t give a shit. They could put them in one room, joining rooms or entirely different hotels on opposite ends of a city, he would still find a way to sleep in the same bed as Shane. When they get back to the hotel room, Ilya begins stripping off Shane’s layers in silence. First his scarf, then jacket, then hat. Ilya pauses to run his fingers through the damp ends of Shane’s dark, silky hair. They’re stiff, almost frozen. He brings his mouth to Shane’s. Shane’s lips are cold, but his tongue is warm and eager. Ilya will never get over how eager Shane is for every touch. It turns Ilya’s own desire up a notch every single time. It never gets old. “I hate playing here,” Ilya whispers into the kiss as he moves his mouth to Shane’s neck. “Everyone does. It’s Montreal,” Shane murmurs, his hands undoing the chunky buttons on Ilya’s coat. “They are ungrateful. You did so much for them.” Ilya complains as his hands make their way under the cable knit sweater Shane wore to the morning skate. Ilya had made fun of it when they were at breakfast. Told Shane it made him look like a dad in a bad holiday movie. The kind women watch on TV from November to January. But the truth is, he likes the idea of Shane being a dad, so he likes him looking like one. He just doesn’t know if he can tell Shane that… yet. “I know. It’s okay,” Shane replies, and then his breath hitches as Ilya’s hands – freezing cold – touch his skin just under his ribs and begin moving upward. “Not okay,” Ilya argues, and as soon as the sweater is up over Shane’s head, Ilya’s mouth is on one of his nipples, sucking and licking. “Not your fault,” Shane reminds him in a rough, breathy voice. Ilya knows Shane doesn’t blame him for the way he’d felt forced to leave the Metros, but Ilya blames Ilya.
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"Shane heart reacts to the message. Ilya imagines him taking an uneasy bite from the toast, but still enjoying it. He waits until he’s done getting ready for practice before texting again. Lily: you have eaten it all? The reply is instant. Jane: [image attachment] Jane: I’m still shaking The plate and cup are both empty. Ilya’s heart clenches. Shane is…he’s so perfect." Or: A series of moments centered around Shane's recovery process.
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- 1
- AO3:
- #77398996
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Best Laid Plans and the Best Man by Strawberrysmilees
Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
2026-01-09
Shane Hollander, CEO of Hollander Events, had every intention of planning the Hunter/Grady wedding with his usual precision—until Ilya Rozanov showed up and turned his rules, his heart, and his life upside down. Flying sparks, one stolen kiss, a few too many policies, and the chaos of a high-profile wedding later, Shane has to decide which rules are meant to be followed… and which are meant to be broken. [Wedding planner!AU where Shane is organizing Scott and Kip’s wedding, and Scott’s best man is Ilya Rozanov. Roasts, chaos, and falling in love ensue.]
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- English
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- 1/1
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- 1
- AO3:
- #77378806
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we are more than this cold place by GhostGrrl
Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
2026-01-09
Despite learning his lesson. Despite knowing not to go against every single wall he was forced to build up because of his remorseless family, every mask he tried on to hide from his merciless country, every single survival instinct he had left, and every single morsel of preservation, Ilya just couldn’t resist the sun. or Ilya's feelings after Shane leaves him during the tuna melt scene along with the memories and pain this also conjures up for him.
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- English
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- 1,281
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- AO3:
- #77362931
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Hockey is a rough sport. Everyone knows that. You go down, you get back up. That’s the game. When Ilya Rozanov goes down on the ice, the Boston Bears are already moving to defend their captain. No one expects Shane Hollander, captain of the Montreal Voyageurs, to be the one who throws the first punch. Ilya Rozanov loved playing against Shane Hollander almost as much as he loved fucking him. Not that anyone in the arena would ever know that—not with the way Ilya drove Shane shoulder-first into the boards now. His weight crashed in behind him a moment later, pinning him there as the plexiglass shuddered from the impact. The vibration climbed all the way up Ilya’s arms and rattled against his teeth. Shane’s breath left him in a sharp burst of white, fogging across the glass where his visor pressed flush against it. His mouth fell open on a broken sound that never quite escaped, swallowed whole by the crowd as they surged to their feet, hungry and gleeful as they turned toward the collision. Ilya felt it anyway. Felt the way Shane’s body tensed first, instinct flaring hot and defensive, then yielded when recognition set in. When his body understood exactly who had him pinned to the boards. Ilya felt Shane’s spine arch, ribs expanding under the pressure of his forearm, a helpless, involuntary offering that sent something low and dangerous coiling tight in Ilya’s gut. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that single point of contact. Blades biting into the ice. Pads creaking beneath the fabric of their opposing jerseys—eighty-one and twenty-four. Shane was unyielding even when he was pinned, even when his weight subtly pressed back instead of away. Ilya stayed there a fraction too long. Long enough to memorize the exact moment Shane’s resistance softened without ever breaking. Long enough to feel the way Shane leaned into him, like a promise instead of a warning. Somewhere in the crowd, the cameras whined as they zoomed in, greedy to catch the moment for the viewers at home. In the booths, surrounded by those same unblinking lenses that caught every possible angle of the collision, Ilya knew the commentators had already leaned forward in their comfortable chairs. He knew they would already be dissecting yet another brutal meeting between the captains of the Montreal Voyageurs and the Boston Bears. “Oh—Rozanov’s been hunting that matchup all night,” one of the commentators said, delighted. “The captains of these two teams have a long history of rivalry on the ice. Hardly surprising to find them—” “It’s a clean hit,” the other commentator cut in. “Hollander’s not known for losing his head, but Rozanov has a way of getting under even the most level-headed guy’s skin. You can feel the tension every time these two share the ice—neither one of them ever backs down.” “Hell of a show they’re putting on for us tonight.” But on the ice, none of that mattered. The boards were bleeding cold through the layers of their padding, seeping into Shane’s shoulder, his ribs, his spine. Ilya could feel him shivering. The crowd was still on its feet, a wall of sound that blurred the edges of everything else, but the heat between them ignored it completely. Ilya’s body kept Shane pressed to the boards, unyielding even as helmets knocked together, cages scraping with a thin metallic rasp that felt far too intimate for how hard they were supposed to be hitting. It almost—almost—landed like a kiss when Shane twisted, trying to throw him off. Ilya felt every taut line of Shane’s body straining beneath him, muscles coiled and familiar in a way that loosened something dangerous in his chest even as they fought for possession over the puck. Ilya leaned in, just enough that Shane could feel his breath through the vents of his helmet. He smiled where only Shane could see it. “You skate slow today, captain,” he murmured, his accent thicker, softer. “Maybe tired from last night.” His grin turned sharp. “Should I take it easy on you?” Shane huffed a laugh that scraped out of him, rough and breathless. His shoulders shifted, instinctively angling closer even as the linesman started toward them. “Fuck off, Rozanov,” he muttered, dragging in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. The sound went straight through Ilya. And before he could stop himself, his gloved hand slid to Shane’s hip and squeezed—hard. Something reckless and private pressed into the narrow space between their pads and the noise and the regulation rules they both lived by. It shouldn’t have meant anything to anyone who noticed the touch lingered too long. It was for balance. It was instinct. A dozen excuses flared and died in Ilya’s head, because—fuck it—he wanted Shane closer. Wanted to lean in and kiss him stupid, right there against the glass. Wanted the world to finally understand what it was cheering for. Shane Hollander was his. Ilya knew his touch was too possessive. He knew he should probably pull back, create distance, or the illusion of it. But his fingers dug in harder instead, lingering too close to something that could never be explained away as incidental contact. Shane’s dark eyes snapped up, catching Ilya’s, sharp and furious and lit with something that made Ilya’s pulse stutter, like he’d misjudging a step and felt the drop a heartbeat too late. “Make me,” Ilya murmured, the words soft behind his grin. Then he slammed Shane back into the plexiglass again—just to feel it. The jolt. The way Shane’s body reacted before his pride could catch up. The involuntary sound punched out of him as their skates stuttered beneath them, blades biting and chattering against the ice as the puck bounced uselessly between their skates. Shane’s grunt slid low in his throat, a sound he only made when he was fighting for something he refused to lose. And all Ilya could think of—hot and unbidden—was last night. This exact angle. This exact body. This exact resistance that wasn’t resistance at all. Only it had been skin between them instead of gear. Hands instead of gloves. The heat of Shane’s breath breaking apart under him. The way Shane’s thighs had trembled as Ilya took his cock into his mouth. The way Shane had clung to him, arching into every thrust like he
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- 2 versions
- AO3:
- #77390061
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Sometimes, it feels like they’re two planets caught in the same volatile orbit. Shane spends his nights wondering why the girls in the rinkside seats feel like white noise while every single highlight reel of Ilya Rozanov feels like a secret rendezvous. Ilya spends his afternoons wondering if the heavy thrumming in his heart whenever Shane pins him against the boards is hate, or if it’s the only thing that makes him feel human. All Ilya knows is that he would have been there to tell him that a lost game wasn’t the end of the world, and he would have iced the bruises on Shane’s back. Their story is a road movie. It’s a double-feature. Two boys striking out across a field of wildflowers in Ottawa, while desire, like a monster, crawls up out of a lake nearby. All of us are wondering if these two boys will find a way to figure things out. One cuts a lock of his hair with a steak knife in the restroom of a gas station. He knows he’s desperate to subvert expectations. Expectations of being the golden boy, the very best, the pride of his family. The other smothers a cigarette on the ground with the toe of his scuffed-up boot. He presses down on it, hard, and it almost feels like a part of his bruised heart gets smashed into the tile too. One boy, half-destroyed, and the other, half-complete. Both screaming into the space between their faces as they run across a field, watching the sky around them transform from dark night into the coming of dawn. It’s not just the warmth of the glow of sunrise they’re feeling, no. There’s something more there that makes their hearts flutter, something that settles into the pits of their stomachs as Shane grabs onto Ilya’s hand. The world still looks the same to Ilya, but when he squints a little harder, he realizes it burns brighter. It’s shinier, and it’s sunnier. It’s better. OTTAWA, 2005 There is a kind of love between them that Ilya doesn’t quite know how to describe. A love that blazes in innocence, born on a Tuesday afternoon in a downtown community rink. Warm, damp grass grazes Ilya’s palms as he leans back on his hands outside the arena, letting himself bathe in the slow midday heat. It feels like soft kisses across his face. Something he never knew and felt in the biting winters of his childhood in Moscow. It’s nice. Shane braces himself with a wince as he feels the ice beneath his palms etch into his skin like a blade after a particularly hard fall. He feels the glaring floodlights burn holes into his back, right through his jersey. “How do you do it?” “Do what?” Two boys with their shoulders pressed against each other’s as they lean over the boards. Shane with his custom skates that are glossy with crisp red lines running across the middle. He’d leave behind clean lines in the ice as he weaved around the slower skaters. Ilya looks back down at his own skates. They’re rentals, and a jarring industrial blue. Not the shiny finish of Shane’s skates, no. It’s the kind of plastic that makes you scrunch your nose up in disgust. He runs his fingers across the dozens of scratches and scuff marks. He’d leave odd-shaped gashes in the ice after ramming himself into the boards in an effort to slow down. “I wish I could skate like you.” Ilya bumps the toe of his skates against the boards. “Well, if you come here every Tuesday, I can teach you,” Shane says, glancing behind his back. “Oh, really?” Ilya asks, his accent still clipped. “Yeah.” Ilya never returns to the rink. His family moves again, chasing work and a life that he’s never quite entirely sure belongs to him. He clutches a small, crumpled hockey trading card Shane had signed for him as a joke. All he can think about in the car is the distance growing between them as the engine revs, away from the only boy who didn’t care that Ilya was the “weird foreign kid” that nobody wanted to get close to. A sign overhead whizzes past, and Ilya can barely make out the words on it as he clambers to peer through the backseat windows.
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- English
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- 1/1
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- 1
- AO3:
- #77370286
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Ilya rails Shane into the headboard (literally) or Shane gets his bell rung - again.
- Language:
- English
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- 7,058
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- 1/1
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- 1
- AO3:
- #77370971
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“You're Lucky,” Shane murmured as he taped gauze over the gash in his knee. “Could've been worse, could've ended your season.” Ilya huffed, staring at the floor. “Yeah.” --- Ilya gets into a minor bike accident and shows up to Shanes house unannounced and ashamed. Shane patches him back up and sees him as a human, not a burden.
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- English
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- 2,100
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- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #77359131
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I'm in Love with a Criminal by loutos
Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Heated Rivalry (TV)
2026-01-09
Officer Shane Hollander was a very proud worker. He did a lot for the Ottawa Police Service. There was only one thing he couldn't do. He couldn't catch notorious Russian's mafia boss Ilya Rozanov. It was worse. Shane Hollander was in love with that stupid man.
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- English
- Words:
- 6,535
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #77352581
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Hayden and Rum Don't Mix by uncre4tiv3
Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Heated Rivalry (TV)
2026-01-09
Hayden had fucked up. Royally, no, astronomically. Shane Hollander had never played as bad as he did the last couple games. Unorganised, frenzied, nearly paranoid. And all just because he couldn't hold his liquor and keep his mouth closed. Even his teammates knew, straight up told him to his face how it was all because he asked about ‘Lily’.
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- English
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- 3,057
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- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #77351666
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“I’m coming to the cottage,” Shane heard when he answered his phone. He was momentarily stunned, he hadn’t expected Ilya to bring it up again himself, let alone say yes so easily. “Shane, are you there? Or ehm, if you don’t want me to come anymore, that’s okay too,” he heard Ilya stammer. “No!” Shane exclaimed quickly. “I definitely want you to come!” “Oh, thank goodness, for a minute I thought I’d made a fool of myself, because you didn’t remember even asking me or something. You did seem pretty high when you did.” Shane laughed at that. “I was very high, but not just on the meds,” he said. “Well Mr. Hollander, are you flirting with me?” Ilya exclaimed and then he giggled. He actually giggled and the sound made Shane feel weak in the knees. “What if I am?” he breathed out. “You have lot of talk,” Ilya replied, and Shane could almost hear him smirking. “Maybe you should put your hands where your mouth is!” Shane barked out a laugh. “What?” Ilya asked, confused. “Is that not the saying?” “It’s ‘Put your money where your mouth is’,” Shane replied, laughing. Or where Ilya comes to the cottage, but is he ready for the secrets Shane has been keeping?
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- English
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- 13/13
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- 1
- AO3:
- #77080816
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Hayden never imagined his peace would be shattered like this. He bumped his head, unexpectedly gaining the ability to read mind, while simultaneously caught between two lovebirds, Shane and Ilya. (English is not my first language, and there may be issues with the timeline.) Hayden Pike knows he isn't the most dazzling player on the ice, but he is reliable and steady. He is the kind of guy who would show up on time, do his job, and go home to his wife, Jackie, and their twins, Emma and Ruby, and if he is lucky, maybe even catch the last few games on TV before collapsing onto the couch and falling asleep. Therefore, he is absolutely certain of a few things in life: Jackie's Sunday pancakes were the best in Montreal; the kids would make him spend all the money he could possibly have on hockey gear; Shane is the best captain he could have; Shane is a straight man; and Hayden himself is one of the best role players in the NHL. Then, in a meaningless game in November, he was bumped by Cliff Marleau of the Boston Raiders, and everything changed. It isn't even a flagrant foul. Hayden is skating backward, caught up in the rhythm of the game, and didn't even see Marleau coming at him. His head slammed into the ice with a sharp thud that echoed through the Bell Centre. In that instant, he felt dizzy, colors blurred, and the clamor of the crowd turned into a cacophony of noise. When he opened his eyes, Shane was leaning over him, his lips moving. But Hayden couldn't hear Shane's voice; he heard something else. [Please, please, it has to be alright, damn it, it looks terrible. Is he ok? Say something, Pike, say it—] Hayden blinked. Shane's lips didn't move with the words. "Can you hear me?" Shane's voice finally broke through. "Pike? How many fingers?" "Two," Hayden said hoarsely. "I'm alright. Just… give me a second." But he isn't really alright. As the medical team helped him to his feet and escorted him through the players' tunnel, Hayden felt a buzzing in his head, like a radio switching between two channels. Words and phrases swirled in his mind, but he couldn't fully comprehend them. [He looks really badly injured. I can't afford to get hurt again.] [f I'm late for another game, my wife will kill me.] [That new Thai restaurant on St. Lawrence Street…] Maybe I can talk to the coach and try to get more playing time— Various sounds mingled together, like a chaotic symphony, utterly disordered. As the team doctor helped Hayden into the examination room, he pressed his palm to his temple. “Headache?” Dr. Rousseau asked, shining a flashlight into Hayden's eyes. “Yes,” Hayden said, but it isn't just a headache. The sounds were becoming clearer; he could now distinguish the different sounds. [Hope it's nothing serious. I have a wedding to attend next weekend. ]That's Dr. Rousseau. It must be him; he's alone in the room. “I…” Hayden swallowed. “Am I going crazy, Doctor?” Dr. Rousseau gave a reassuring smile. “It's probably just a mild concussion. You'll be fine. Rest for a few days, don't look at screens, and come back for your follow-up appointment next week. Don't participate in any training until I give you permission to recover.” That night, lying in bed next to Jackie, Hayden truly realized the seriousness of his new problem. [I wonder if I locked the car.] He turned his head. Jackie is looking down at her phone, a calm expression on her face. [Emma needs a new pair of figure skates. Maybe we can go to the sporting goods store this weekend. Goodness, they grow up so fast.] “Hey,” Hayden said softly. “Jay?” She looked up. “Hmm?” “What are you thinking about right now?” She raised an eyebrow. “Pike, this is a dangerous question. What’s wrong?” “Just curious.” [—Is this about that celebrity on Twitter? I knew I should have made my account private.] Hayden suppressed a laugh. “Never mind. I love you.” “I love you too, weirdo.” By morning, Hayden had to accept the fact: he could hear other people's thoughts. Not always, and not with everyone, but when he focused intently on someone, their inner monologue would reach his ears clearly. This should have terrified him. However, after the initial panic, Hayden found…it is useful? He discovered that Jackie's favorite coffee isn't her usual vanilla latte but a honey lavender cold brew she'd tried once at a specialty coffee shop, which she'd thought was too expensive. [Eight dollars for a cup of coffee? Insane! But wow, it is so good!] So he learned to make it himself. That Sunday morning, when he served Jackie his homemade coffee, her expression made all the tutorials he'd watched on YouTube
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- AO3:
- #77363666
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"Hockey rivalries make the game fun - for the players and for the fans. Nothing got your blood pumping like a good ole fashioned face off. It’s about more than just winning. It’s about honor. It’s about team loyalty. It’s about getting to shove your win in their face and blow raspberries like you’re five years old again. The darker side of rivalries involve unchecked reckless aggression. It ends in blood being spilt. Bones being broken. Players hauled off the rink into an ambulance. These are the sobering moments that make you snap out of it. It’s just a game. The fun is over. Someone’s hurt. " -- Shane's move to Ottawa unexpectedly causes a new rivalry to pop off and take over the NHL. He's been involved with rivalries his entire career, but this one might just take the cake.
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- English
- Words:
- 3,164
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 2 versions
- AO3:
- #77359361
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aka Shane has cold feet problems but not anymore this winter! because hey he now lives with Ilya
- Language:
- English
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- 2,111
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #77380511
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let me paint you a picture by beautifullyblue
Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
2026-01-09
Shane wearing glasses makes Ilya unbelievably horny. cue Shane getting his face fucked within an inch of his life.
- Language:
- English
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- 3,064
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 2 versions
- AO3:
- #77382046
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Vetiver and Patchouli by Nituaii
Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types
2026-01-09
God. What the fuck had just happened. Shane pressed his head between his knees, the joints tight against his ears as he squeezed his thighs together, putting pressure on his head between his legs. Sometimes, that helped him calm down. But the scent of Rozanov, the phantom touch still lingering against his skin... ... the bite mark throbbing at the back of his neck. Or: After that fateful night in Vegas, Shane is left with a huge problem. A massive problem at the centre of his neck. || A/N: For people worried about the Rape/Non-Con tag. It's ONLY about the Non- Consentual Claiming bite, and them fucking while Ilya is drunk (which is only mentioned, not explicitly written). NOTHING else in that regard happens.
- Part 4 of
- Language:
- English
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- 10,505
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- 1/1
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- 1
- AO3:
- #77288821
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what the hell are you? by andmynewlymeltedheart
Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
2026-01-09
Ilya remembers the last time those hands touched him.
- Language:
- English
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- 1,623
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- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #77392611
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Reveal Themselves (One Star at a Time) by ashes2ashes15
Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
2026-01-09
She had always expected the same life for Shane. Perhaps she couldn’t have predicted birthing and raising the number 2 draft pick, and future captain of her hometown team, but she saw him ending up in an easy and loving marriage. He took after David mostly, being shy and introspective. Despite knowing her son’s intricate list of tells and behaviours, Yuna couldn’t pretend she would ever truly know what was going through his head. Shane was like that. He always had been. Still, Yuna expected some cute, pretty girl to come around and throw Shane over her shoulder one day - similar to how Yuna had found her shy husband. ... Or how Yuna tries to understand Shane's love life for years, until she finally does.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 6,637
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 3 versions
- AO3:
- #77396086
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Montreal's new starting centre fires shots at Yuna online. The centaurs respond. @DomMav_Montreal: Crazy how some people talk like they’re part of the game when they’re just watching from the stands. Maybe focus less on tweeting and more on cheering your boy through another invisible night. @DomMav_Montreal: Ottawa media hype is hilarious. One decent winger and suddenly his whole family thinks they’re untouchable. @DomMav_Montreal: Shane Hollander plays like he’s scared to disappoint mommy. Hockey’s a man’s game, not daycare. #mamasboy @DomMav_Montreal: Tell your son to keep his head up tonight, Yuna. This league eats soft players alive. @DomMav_Montreal: Some guys bring skill. Some bring grit. Some bring their mom to fight their battles online. Guess which one Shane is. #mamasboy @DomMav_Montreal: Hope Ottawa enjoys defending feelings instead of the neutral zone tonight. Northern Ice Sports – Live Broadcast Ottawa Centaurs vs. Montreal Voyageurs Play-by-Play: Jack Mercer Color: Paul Levesque Mercer: Five minutes left, tied at two, and nobody on either bench is pretending this is just hockey anymore. Levesque: Jack, this stopped being about points in the standings the moment Maver opened his mouth about Hollander’s family. Every shift since has been payback. Mercer: Hollander carries through the neutral zone—hooked by Comaeu, no call—he keeps his feet, dumps it deep, and Maver drives him face-first into the boards after the puck’s gone! Levesque: That’s predatory. That’s intent. Mercer: Rosanov is on Maver in a heartbeat—shoves him down—refs screaming for space, but nobody’s listening! Levesque: Rosanov’s not even arguing. He’s staring. He’s remembering. Mercer: Play resumes—Young wins the draw—shot from the point—rebound—ROSANOV SCORES! Levesque: That’s a pressure release. That’s rage finding the net. Mercer: Montreal pulls Stedlund—six attackers—Maver over the line—he fires—Hayes blocks it—covers— WHISTLE —and Maver slashes Hayes after the save!
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 1,893
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #77399761
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Shane needs a break at a charity gala, luckily Ilya knows exactly what he needs.
- Part 2 of hollanov’s filthy escapades
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 5,092
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #77401501