haterade



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    “Seeing you smile like that, it makes me want to give you all of this,” he called out, making a sweeping gesture across the ice.

    Shane turned back to look at him, eyes bright, and laughed. “Canadian Tire Centre? I know you’re rich, Rozanov, but an entire arena is a pretty big real estate investment.”

    Ilya pushed off, skating to a stop in front of him, knowing his expression had morphed into something serious. “Hockey, Hollander. It should have been yours.”

    Or, everything that happens when your dreams don’t come true.

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    14 Feb 2026

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    A memory springs to mind: two weeks ago, drunk on Hayden's couch, curled up with Jackie. His voice, soft and quiet, heartbroken with desire, wavering through words about the impossibility of wanting. About the greed that rises in him. About how he clings so badly when he's around Rozanov that all of his common sense falls to the wayside.

    Jackie's voice, rising through the dim gray, as Hayden had snored next to them. All it takes is one of you to make a move, she'd said, their hands laced together, her head on his shoulder. Something's gotta give eventually.

    “I—” Shane starts, before pausing. He thinks he's going to throw up. He thinks that they got it right all those years ago, with it's the hope that kills you. He thinks he has to be brave enough for the both of them, to actually ask, and he's so fucking scared, but he can't let Rozanov's quiet offer of something go unanswered—he'll regret it for the rest of his life if he doesn't take a chance. “Ilya.”

    OR: Shane wants, despite how badly he pretends otherwise.

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    13 Feb 2026

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    “I did something stupid,” Shane confesses, inhaling rapidly. He's still crying, still frozen in the doorway, besides his hitching chest and watering eyes. Hayden's never seen him like this, overtaken with emotion, bitter exhaustion in his voice. He makes a soft choked noise, and Hayden immediately wants to kill something, whatever it is that's making him feel so awful. “I—Hayds—you're gonna hate me—”

    “No,” Hayden says before he can even finish the thought, almost hurt by the accusation. “No way. You're—I wouldn't. I won't.”

    Shane sniffs, offering him a sad smile, his eyes watery and solemn. It's an unfamiliar look, burnt through with sorrow and twisting doubt, sharp worry in the furrow of his brow. “You are,” he says, soft and certain. “I do, and I'm the one who's doing it.”

    OR: Shane returns to the hotel room, post-tuna melt. Hayden spirals.

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    ESPN @ESPN
    Video leaked of Boston Raiders player Cliff Marleau (@CMarleauRaiders) taking a nighttime tumble down the infamous Boston "cop slide."

    OR

    Going down the "cop slide" becomes a trend among NHL players when visiting Boston, and Ilya may or may not be responsible, but no one can prove it.

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    Wyatt was not, like, nosy. For sure, he was interested. He was curious. He engaged with people, obviously, because most people were interesting and engaging and had cool thoughts and said neat stuff if you asked.

    So, no. Wyatt wasn’t nosy, but he wasn’t stupid, either.

    Or: A Bromance Blooms In Ottawa
    Or: The Ballad of Wyatt and Ilya

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