Calii0703



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    When Ilya is asked a simple question for a team Q&A he finds himself spiraling.

    "What’s your favorite word or sentence in English?"

    English was never something he loved. It was something he learned to survive, to leave, to play hockey at the highest level. It brought embarrassment, ridicule, and the constant feeling of being reduced.

    But it also brought Shane.

    Language:
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    15 Jan 2026

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    “No,” he says, smiling gently, like he doesn't know how irritating he's being. “Is my room first, da? You should speak with front desk.”

    Hollander stares at him.

    And then he starts to laugh.

    You ask the front desk,” he shoots back, in between his odd wheezes. Ilya's heart starts to pound in double time, because this is not—this cannot be Shane Hollander playing bed chicken with him. Their competitiveness is fierce, to be certain, but surely, Hollander would be the bigger person, no? “This is my fucking room, Rozanov. Wild horses couldn't drag me away.”

    OR: Ilya's apartment is under construction. Shane's in town for a game. It'd be a shame if they somehow had the same hotel room.

    [or, or: we need some more goddamn 'there was only one bed' out here.]

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    13 Jan 2026

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    Rozanov posts on Instagram a lot. Not on his feed, but his stories.

    Every time he lands in a city, he posts a story. Usually it's just back of his seat, or sometimes the view out the window—on the tarmac, never anything exciting, one of just many cities their lives are broken up into—and a location tag. Low effort.

    It’s pretty obvious what it is. Guys laugh about it, call it Rozanov’s Fuck Signal. The easiest way to get the hot girls who follow him to slide into his DMs.

    Easy pussy.

    Language:
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    12 Jan 2026

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    Every Boston Raider knows that although their captain has a girl in every port, he’s got a soft spot for the one in Montreal. Dr. Shane Hollander knows it’s better to have a semi-regular source of casual sex than try to make a relationship work during residency. Ilya Rozanov knows that the doctor he’s fucking in Montreal is unaware that he plays hockey, and in fact probably thinks he’s Bratva.

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    11 Jan 2026

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    “Holy shit, dude,” Hayden whispers, too loudly, as he pulls Shane away. “No way you were just talking to Ilya Rozanov.”

    “Uh, yeah. We just met. Wait, did he lie to me?” Shane asks, looking back over his shoulder where Ilya is now standing next to a short but very muscular woman with long black hair. “What does he play?”

    Hayden stops, so Shane does too.

    “You don’t know who that was?” 

    Shane makes a face that says ‘no shit’, and waits for an answer. 

    “Dude. You are so innocent. Ilya Rozanov, ‘Russia’s Greatest Love Machine’?” Hayden says, like it’s obvious. 

    Shane looks at him blankly, and then Hayden laughs. Not like, a chuckle. He full on cackles, bending over like he can’t even contain it. “Man, he’s like prolific.”

    “At what?” Shane snaps, because he’s getting really sick of not being in on the joke. 

    “He’s a porn star, man.” 

    “A-” Shane says, swallowing thickly. “What?” 

    ---

    Ilya is a porn star, Shane is a hockey player, and their paths cross.

    Language:
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    11 Jan 2026