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December 2017. Montreal. Third Period.
The arena hummed like a giant, overheated hive. Montreal was up 3-2, with less than three minutes left in the third. Shane Hollander had just broken up a dangerous Boston attack, but the puck stayed with Ilya Rozanov just inside the blue line.
Ilya hovered by the boards, his eyes searching for a pass through the cage of his helmet. Shane shadowed him, pinning him to the boards.
"Miss my hips, Hollander?" Ilya hissed, trying to twist free.
"Only miss watching you choke," Shane shot back through gritted teeth.
That's when it all went sideways. Ilya lunged forward, Shane moved to block him, but his stick got tangled in Ilya's skate. They both crashed to the ice in a thunderous heap that echoed through the arena. The crowd roared. They wrestled on the ice, looking more like brawling teenagers than NHL superstars. Referees' whistles were drowned out by the frenzy. JJ and Price were already skating over. This wasn't a battle for the puck; this was pure, personal. Ilya ended up on top, trying to pin Shane down, but Shane, furious, rolled them over, pressing the Russian back against the ice. Gloves grabbed jerseys, helmets clacked together. Close-up cameras caught the furious glare in Shane's eyes and a barely-there, defiant smirk from Ilya, flickering under his cage right before they were pulled apart.
Both got ten-minute misconducts. Heading off the ice to a chorus of boos and catcalls, Shane caught Ilya's eye. Ilya, already taking off his helmet, ran his tongue over a cut on his lip, courtesy of his mouthguard, and winked. Fucking show-off.
---
Boston's locker room. Post-game.
Cliff Marlowe shoved his phone under Ilya's nose, nearly hitting him with it.
"Roz, look. Your Canadian kitty cat is trending."
On the screen, memes of their fight were already going viral. GIFs flashed by: Ilya trying to "hug" Shane from above, Shane flipping him over with fierce determination.
@HockeyForever: ROZANOV AND HOLLANDER FOUGHT!!! THIS IS NOT A DRILL, I REPEAT, THIS IS NOT A DRILL!!! #shock #HockeyNews #Fight #RozanovHollander
@PuckBunnyOfficial: I AM IRREVOCABLY CONVINCED. Rozanov just used his whole body to shield Hollander from his own defenseman while they were being dragged to the box. That wasn't a fight, that was tango! "I can hit him, but you can't!" #Hollanov #HateWithBenefits
@RussianBearForever: Rozanov showed this Canadian boy where our bears spend the winter! Threw him into the boards like a suitcase! Pride of the nation! #Rozanov #NHL
@MapleSyrupLover: Shane held his own! Rozanov is crude and unsportsmanlike! Hope the league suspends this Russian goon! #GoHollander
@FangirlPsychologist: Colleagues, as a body language expert, I declare this a classic case of sublimating sexual tension into physical aggression. Their whole "conflict" is just complicated flirting. Waiting for the fix-it fic with slow-mo close-ups of their faces.
@ForceOne: "Hollander demonstrates the proper technique for neutralizing a bear."
A teammate was muttering darkly, tying his skates: "PR called. Asking if you need a translator from Russian to 'normal' to explain corporate ethics to you."
"My ethics are simple," Ilya waved him off, taking off his chest protector, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "Play pretty, score goals. And laughter prolongs life. Even for the PR department."
---
In the shower, his phone buzzed. A message from Boston's PR person: a single word. "Careful." Ilya snorted. Then he opened Twitter.
A tweet from Jean-Jacques Boissieu was already gaining traction:
@JJ_Boissieu_76 (Montreal Voyageurs): @IlyaRozanov when you're done making out with your phone, can you come back and finish the game? We're getting bored without your circus acts. #TheJokeIsntWhoMakesPeopleLaugh
Ilya smirked. JJ defending his captain. Cute. Drying off with a towel, he typed a one-fingered reply:
@IlyaRozanov: @JJ_Boissieu_76 Don't worry, froggy. I've got a special bear hug saved just for you. No circus. Just the boards and your ego. #GetReady #BostonStrong
Then, without much thought, he added a separate tweet, attaching a photo of his slightly swollen lip in the locker room:
@IlyaRozanov: To everyone worried about my pretty face. It's not Hollander. It's from kissing the imaginary Stanley Cup too hard. Dreaming is dangerous. #JokesAside
---
Late night.
Shane, unable to sleep, scrolled through Twitter. Total chaos. His feed had turned into a three-ring circus.
@HabsFanatic: I DON'T FUCKING GET IT. WAS ROZANOV ACTUALLY TRYING TO EAT HOLLANDER??? IS THIS A NEW RUSSIAN TACTIC??? #HollanderDeservesBetter #RIPRozanovsLip
@PuckGossip: INSIDE SCOOP: In the Montreal locker room after the fight, Hollander was darker than a storm cloud. Only said: "He provoked me." In Boston, Rozanov was all smiles, repeating: "It's hockey, baby." Tensions are at an all-time high! #HockeyPassion #RozanovHollander
@BearForceOne: Our captain was just checking if his favorite opponent was cold. Like a brother. Hollander, as always, took it too personally (and too close to the throat). #SweetRussianBear #JustCaring
Attached was a video: in slow motion, you could clearly see Ilya, on top, press his helmet against Shane's neck for a moment — a gesture that, under different circumstances, could be seen as... intimate. Someone had dubbed the clip with music from "Titanic."
@HockeyShitposting: When you hate each other so much it turns into awkward cuddling on the ice. Just classic Montreal-Boston rivalry. #EpicFight #Rivalry
@HockeyShitpostingCentral: Fight? What fight? I just see two hearts beating as one from pure, unadulterated hatred. It's beautiful. #EnemiesToLoversIRL #Hollanov
And then he saw Ilya's retweet:
@IlyaRozanov: "For future generations. Lesson #1: How NOT to introduce yourself." #Tactics #BostonStrong [link to a GIF of him "choking" Shane in slow motion]
Thousands of likes and retweets poured in instantly. Comments laughed, cried, spawned new memes: "Rozanov trying to reach Hollander's heart via his throat," "When your rival is so cute you just wanna strangle him."
Shane clenched his fists. "That fucker. That smug, arrogant, insufferable fucker. He was loving this. Feeding off the attention, the hype, turning their shameful, dangerous, stupid fight into another circus." But still, Shane couldn't stop the smile that escaped him.
Three familiar knocks on the door echoed in the empty building.
Shane yanked the door open. Ilya stood there, in the same leather jacket, eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Brought you a report. Public reaction is positive," he said, holding out his phone.
Shane pulled him inside, shoving him roughly against the entryway wall.
"You're an idiot! An absolute, goddamn idiot! They could have figured us out! The cameras were an inch from your fucking face!"
"They see nothing," Ilya interrupted calmly, almost in a whisper. His arms wrapped around Shane's waist. "They see a show. Hate. Rivalry. What they've been sold. What they'll eat up with a spoon."
"This isn't a game!"
"Everything's a game, Hollander. And I'm fucking great at it. The best."
Ilya kissed him. Rough, without permission, tasting of blood and defiance. And Shane, goddammit, kissed him back. Answered with the same anger, the same fury that had boiled over on the ice. He grabbed Ilya's hair, pulled him closer, biting his swollen lip until he groaned.
"You hate me?" Ilya whispered, tugging at Shane's shirt.
"Yeah," Shane breathed out, tilting his head back as Ilya's mouth found his collarbone. "Fuck, yeah."
It was their ritual. Rage spilling into lust. Rivalry finding release in touch. They didn't make it to the bedroom, ending up on the living room floor, hurried and furious, scratching backs and muffling cries with kisses and teeth.
---
Later, after a shower, lying in the dark on fresh sheets, Shane asked:
"Why did you post that?" He was looking at Ilya's tweet:
@IlyaRozanov: Doing some overtime game analysis 😋, wonder what @ShaneHollander is up to [photo of the showers with a "transparency" effect, clearly showing a silhouette of someone inside; not clear if it's a woman or a man; just clear the hair was dark]. Shane recognized himself.
Ilya, smoking by the window (he'd started again, stress, he said), shrugged.
"It's funny. And useful."
"Useful?"
"They think we hate each other's guts. Means we're safe." He turned, and something serious flickered in his eyes, quickly masked by the usual smirk. "The best lie is the one everyone already believes. They'd never suspect it's you."
Shane was silent. He understood the logic. But he hated it. Hated that their truth—these quiet evenings, this empty building, the mute despair sometimes in Ilya's eyes in the morning—had to hide behind a farce of memes and trolling.
---
Morning. Twitter explosion.
Overnight, the story took on new life. Fan art appeared: Ilya as a huge, grinning bear in a Boston jersey, carrying in his paws a growling, but clearly not-too-resistant, black-and-red kitten with freckles in a Montreal sweater. The hashtag #BearAndKitten was trending.
@FangirlHockeyExtra: I BEG OF YOU. THE BEAR AND KITTEN DYNAMIC IS EVERYTHING. Bear teases, kitten hisses, but the bear secretly feeds him the fattest prey (score me a goal please, Shane). I CAN'T. #Hollanov #ItWasAlwaysYou
@AnalyticsHockey: If you watch the video of that scuffle, Rozanov clearly dominated early, but Hollander won on total shots on goal. Metaphorically and literally. #HockeyAnalytics #TheyKnow
Other players got involved. Hayden Pike couldn't stay out of it:
@HaydenPike_18: @IlyaRozanov Hey, you finished admiring your reflection yet? Come back, we gotta play. Without you, Hollander has no one to swear at except the refs. Miss your face. A little. #MissTheAsshole
Ilya, sipping coffee in his empty condo, replied instantly:
@IlyaRozanov: @HaydenPike_18 Pike, sunshine, I'm always in your thoughts. And in your zone. Wait for me in Boston. I'll bring you a souvenir. Like a -2 on your +/- stats. With love.
But the main blow came from an unexpected source—Troy Barrett, Ilya's old teammate from Boston.
@TroyBarrett_19: @IlyaRozanov Bro, remember, your "overtime opponent analysis" usually ended with you calling housekeeping at 5 AM because you overslept the team bus. You sure things are different now? #JustAsking #OldHabits
Ilya laughed and, glancing at the still-sleeping Shane, replied:
@IlyaRozanov: @TroyBarrett_19 Troy, old friend. Housekeeping's afraid of me. But last night's analysis was... thorough. The opponent's qualities were fully appreciated. I recommend you try it. Might help. #KnowledgeIsPower
"Idiot!" Shane, woken by the laugh, saw the screen. "Troy might suspect something!"
"Troy suspects I love drama and attention. Which is absolutely true," Ilya stretched and kissed the top of his head. "And he couldn't give less of a fuck who I create it with."
"Did you see what your teammate wrote?" Ilya changed the subject, poking the screen in front of Shane's face.
Shane sighed. "Yeah. You've dragged half the league into your circus."
"Not half. Just your first line and your defenseman so far. And the fans. And, looks like, a few reporters." Ilya moved closer, kissed his shoulder, and summed it up. "It won't be boring."
---
Game day in Boston. Morning. Media.
Shane, getting ready for the away game, opened Instagram. Ilya had posted a story from practice: a video of him taking a slapshot with incredible ease. Caption: "Warming up. Getting ready to roll out the welcome mat. @ShaneHollander, don't worry, I'll be gentler tonight. Well, I'll try. #BearHugs #ComingHome"
Shane felt his jaw tighten. He opened Twitter. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Risky. Insanely risky. But after that fight, after that night... boundaries had blurred. He typed, deleted, typed again. Sent.
@ShaneHollander: Focused on the game. @IlyaRozanov, if your "gentle" is anything like your passing on Friday, I'm gonna need more than extra insurance—I might need a lawyer. #Voyageurs #RoadTrip
It was his first direct, public response to Ilya's trolling. Not as the opposing captain, but as... a participant in this insane spectacle.
The reply came almost instantly.
@IlyaRozanov liked the tweet.
@IlyaRozanov quoted the tweet: "Keep the lawyer for your financial advisors. The insurance... I'll provide. Personally. Available 24/7. #CareService #bears"
The internet exploded again. #HollanderStrikesBack #RozanovService shot straight to the top of the trends.
---
Boston. Second period.
Boston was leading 2-1. Ilya, skating back to the bench after his shift, passed by Montreal's bench. He said something short and distinct towards Shane, who was sitting with a water bottle. Shane, mid-sip, coughed sharply, water spraying everywhere as he almost choked. The cameras caught his ears turning instantly red and the murderous glare he shot at the grinning Rozanov's back.
That was enough.
@SportsNet: REPLAY OF LAST WEEK? Rozanov SAYS something to Hollander AGAIN! Montreal's captain is furious! What is going on between these two? #NHL #RivalryReborn
The game ended 3-1 for Boston. In Montreal's visiting locker room, a heavy silence hung in the air.
"Hollander," Coach LeClair stopped him as everyone was leaving. "My office. What did he say to you?"
"Nothing, coach. Just... trying to get in my head."
"Shane." LeClair sighed wearily, lowering his voice. "I'm not blind. There's something between you two. Something... personal. It's obvious. It's starting to affect your focus. Deal with it. Or it'll deal with you, and our game."
---
Boston hotel. Ilya's room. Well past midnight.
"You came," Ilya stated, opening the door. He was already in just sweatpants, hair still damp from the shower.
"You said 'come' in that stupid tweet," Shane said, not taking his jacket off, standing in the middle of the room like an accusation. "After your little show on the ice."
"So?" Ilya spread his arms carelessly. "Your stick was twitching like you were thinking about my dick again. And you were. It was obvious."
Shane clenched his fists.
"LeClair called me on the carpet! Because of you! Says I have a 'personal conflict' with you!"
"Well, yeah."
"This isn't funny, Ilya! They could figure us out!"
"Us?" Ilya raised an eyebrow, taking a step forward. "Or you?"
Silence hung between them. Shane realized his slip. He'd said "us." Too honest. Too... couple-ish, and it made something warm bloom in his chest. They still weren't used to "we," "us," instead of "you," "me." Shane sometimes couldn't believe this was real, and now there wasn't just "him," but "them."
"Fine. Yeah. Us. But that doesn't change the fact that my coach chewed me out," Shane said quietly, looking at the floor. "Said the captain of Montreal shouldn't stoop to social media spats. That I should be above it."
Ilya was quiet. The arrogance faded from his face.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing. Just nodded."
Ilya put down the bottle he was holding, took Shane's chin, and made him look up.
"You can block me. Ignore me. Or get your PR person to write some canned response about 'respect for the opponent.'"
Shane pulled his chin away.
"I already answered. Myself."
"And? Did the world end? Did Captain LeClair tear up your contract?"
"No, but—"
"But what?" Ilya frowned. "You liked it. Admit it."
Shane turned away. The silence was louder than words. He had liked it. Felt some semblance of power in this game, some way to respond, instead of just silently swallowing Ilya's and the tabloids' jabs.
This time, he kissed Ilya differently—slow, almost tender, silencing the worry and the anger.
"Now forget about him. It's just me here. And you."
And Shane gave in. As always. Letting the rage dissolve into touch, the fear drown in familiar heat.
---
Just before dawn, while Ilya still slept, Shane picked up his phone from the table. Unlocked it, opened Twitter. Didn't look for a flattering photo. Picked one of a sad cat. And typed a short message. Sent.
@ShaneHollander: Completed game analysis. Analysis complete. Findings are unfavorable for Boston. The material turned out to be... malleable. See you next game. #RevengeIsPlanned
He put the phone back.
A minute later, Ilya stirred and opened one eye.
"What did you do?"
"Return fire," Shane said quietly, already getting dressed. "Captain to captain. Just honest."
Ilya grabbed his phone, read the tweet. His face lit up with a wide, insanely pleased smile. He immediately retweeted it, adding his own comment.
@IlyaRozanov: Retweeted @ShaneHollander: Oh, captain. This is starting to sound like flirting. Careful, I might get used to this kind of attention. #NewTactics #CantWaitForRoundThree
---
The next day. Twitter feed — utter madness.
The interaction had peaked. PR managers for Boston and Montreal were probably on sedatives. The fans were ecstatic.
@HockeyConspiracyBrain: GUYS, I'M TELLING YOU. THEY'RE WAGING THIS WAR FROM THEIR DM'S. THESE PUBLIC JABS ARE TOO POLISHED. IT'S LIKE CHESS, BUT WITH MORE SUBTEXT AND, POSSIBLY, SEXUAL TENSION. #HollanovIsCanon #CheckTheirDMs
@BruinsHistorian: Subtext aside, this is the greatest hockey rivalry of the decade. It's breathing life into the league. Give them microphones and their own reality show! #GiveUsTheDrama #NHLNeedsThis
@MontrealPure: As a Voyageurs fan, I should condemn this... but holy shit, it's brilliant. Hollander is coming out of his perfect-captain shell, and it's mesmerizing. Rozanov... unlocked him. #NewEra #HollanderUnleashed
Shane, on the plane back to Montreal, scrolled through the tweets and thought that maybe Ilya had been right from the start. The safest way to hide a secret, dangerous truth was to shout it from the highest digital rooftop, in the language of memes, trolling, and "bear hugs." Because behind every daring tweet, every GIF of their fight, lay not hatred, but the silence of a secret apartment, warmth stolen from the world, and an unspoken word that even alone they were afraid to say.
And Ilya, left behind in Boston, liked another piece of art featuring a bear carrying a sleepy kitten by the scruff, and saved it to his "Favorites." For the memories. Just because.