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Ilya Rozanov POV
Shane Hollander does not fight.
This is a universal truth. Like gravity. Or taxes. Or the fact that Ilya Rozanov will always find the best angle to kiss Hollander senseless.
Hollander is calm. Controlled. Boring, even, when he plays.
Beautiful, but boring.
So naturally, Ilya nearly drops his phone when he sees the end of the Montreal–New York broadcast:
Shane Hollander starting a fight.
A real one.
A gloves-off, shoves-thrown, teammates-scrambling fight.
And with Scott Hunter, of all useless human wallpaper.
Ilya sits forward on his hotel bed, staring at the screen.
“What the fuck?” he murmurs.
Hollander pushed Hunter first. HOLLANDER! Then chaos erupts. Hunter’s teammates swarm, Montreal skates in, everyone is on top of everyone, the refs look like they would rather be anywhere else.
Ilya watches the replay three times.
Then he rewinds to Hollander’s face when he pushes Hunter.
Oh.
Oh.
There is heat there.
A tiny flicker of fire.
Ilya feels something warm coil low in his stomach.
“Well, well,” he murmurs to himself.
“Hollander gets spicy when he is angry.”
He thinks about texting him.
He does not.
He instead lies back on the bed and imagines reasons Shane Hollander, hockey’s perfect golden boy, would punch Scott Hunter.
Maybe Hunter insulted his skating stride…
Hollander IS sensitive about it.
Hunter insulted Montreal? Eh.. not important enough.
Hmm… maybe.. maybe, Hunter said something about… him?
Heat spikes down Ilya’s spine before he can stop it.
No. Hollander would not get into a fight because of him.
That is ridiculous.
…But Ilya is stupid sometimes. Especially when it comes to him. Could Hollander be too?
He rewinds the video *again,* watching his face frame-by-frame.
There is anger, yes.
But there is fear too.
Fear is interesting.
Fear means something was said that hit a nerve.
He looks hot. He always does.
Ilya groans into his pillow.
This is torture.
He needs to hear the story from Hollarder himself.
So when Montreal arrives in Boston two weeks later, Ilya corners him in the hallway behind the visitor’s locker room, grabs his elbow, and pulls him into a quiet equipment corridor.
“Hollander,” he purrs. “What the fuck was that fight?”
He turns bright pink immediately.
Which is, of course, Ilya’s favorite color.
“It wasn’t a fight,” Shane lies. “It was, uh, a miscommunication.”
“I saw the video,” Ilya says. “Was not miscommunication. Was you losing your tiny mind.”
Hollander scowls. “I’m not tiny.”
Ilya holds up two fingers pinched barley apart with a shrug. Then he gets serious. “Tell me what happened.”
Hollander hesitates.
His eyes flick left, right.
His throat bobs.
He is embarrassed.
Mortified.
Perfect.
“Fine,” he mutters. “Just, don’t laugh.”
Ilya already knows he will definitely laugh.
Hollander inhales. “So I told Scott, ‘I hope next time you decide to show up.’”
Ilya whistles. “Savage. I did not think you had it in you.”
Hollander glares. “Be serious.”
“I am serious,” Ilya says. “I am also turned on, but continue.”
Hollander ignores him. “He said ‘cheap.”
Ilya snorts.
“Then I said, ‘But true.’ And then—” Hollander winces, “he said, ‘You’re starting to sound like him.”
Ilya freezes.
“Him?” he repeats.
“You,” Hollander mutters miserably.
Ilya feels a jolt of heat… part pride, part fear, part possessive instinct.
He adds: “And then he looked at me like he KNOWS, Rozanov.”
“I see.”
“And then I said, ‘I’m sorry, what?’ and then he doubled down, and then I… shoved him.”
Ilya snorts so loudly it echoes.
“Don’t laugh!” Hollander protests.
“I cannot help it,” Ilya wheezes. “You punched a man because he implied something about us?”
Hollander chokes. “Nobody is supposed to know enough about this to imply ANYTHING!”
Ilya wipes a tear away from his laughter. “This is best thing ever. You starting fight because someone maybe… MAYBE mentions me? How do you know he wasn’t talking about Hayden or JJ. Literally anyone else. Hmm?”
“I’m SO stupid,” Hollander groans.
“I’m honored. Very sexy,” Ilya says. “I wonder when he found out? Did he actually say my name?”
Hollander paused, “No…”
“Great! Then he knows nothing. No problem.”
“Anyways,” Ilya continued. “If he was going to tell someone, he would have already. He is not subtle. He is like raccoon with skates.”
Hollander snorts despite himself.
“There,” Ilya murmurs. “Better.”
He exhales, calmer now.
“You defended me,” Ilya adds, stepping closer.
“It wasn’t—like that,” Hollander mutters, pink again.
“I know,” Ilya says softly. “That is what makes it good.”
Hollander makes a strangled noise.
Before he can respond, a staffer yells for warmups.
They separate immediately. Almost.
Fingers brush.
Hollander flushes.
Ilya smirks.
——————————-
THE NEXT BOSTON V. NEW YORK GAME
Ilya skates up beside Scott Hunter for a face-off.
Hunter sees him and immediately gets that same stiff posture men get when preparing for a fight.
Good.
Ilya rests the toe of his blade casually against Hunter’s skate.
“Hunter.”
“Rozanov.”
A beat.
Then, with perfect bored detachment:
“Didn’t know Hollander had that in him.”
Hunter’s jaw flexes. “Shut up.”
Ilya shrugs. “Just saying. Takes effort to make him snap. You? Must’ve worked very hard.”
“I didn’t—he just—” Hunter stammers.
Ilya cuts him off smoothly.
“Embarrassing, no? Losing five-one and losing temper battle?”
Hunter glares. “I wasn’t the one who—”
Ilya smirks. “Oh, I know. He shoved you. Hard. Almost impressive.”
Hunter clenches his stick.
Ilya leans in just enough to rattle him:
“Careful, Hunter. If Hollander’s coming for you now? Means you said something stupid enough even HE couldn’t swallow it.”
Hunter’s eyes widen just a fraction.
Ilya focuses up before he can reply. Hunter knows exactly what he said. Ilya wins the face off.