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It was late into the evening, the kind of late where the city outside seemed almost asleep, and the only light left came from the dim streetlamps and the harsh glare of the apartment’s overhead bulbs.
The guys were scattered across the living room in varying states of collapse. Sofas were littered with empty pizza boxes, half-drunk beer cans, and the sticky evidence of spilled drinks.
The smell of sweat and alcohol hung in the air, mixed with the faint tang of old pizza crust. They had been celebrating their win for hours now, four, maybe five, and it was nearly midnight.
Rozanov had left around eleven to meet his Montreal girl, Jane, disappearing quietly into the night with that half-smile he always wore when he was up to something.
Victor had also gone home to his girlfriend, leaving the apartment quieter than it had been all night, but not quiet enough. Music still thumped softly, a low pulse through the room, and the current track was King by Olly Alexander.
Cliff was the only one not sprawled on a sofa. Instead, he was lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling with glazed eyes.
His limbs felt heavy, like lead, but that was understandable considering how many drinks he’d consumed.
From his prone position, he squinted at the harsh light and let his gaze wander to Ryan, who lounged on a sagging sofa nearby.
Ryan had a remote in his hand and was scrolling through YouTube with a lazy, almost hypnotic concentration. His hair was tousled in every direction, his eyes half-lidded, his expression slack enough to make Cliff suspect he might be slightly high on top of drunk.
Suddenly, Ryan let out a loud, high-pitched laugh. It wasn’t subtle, it was a little ridiculous, almost like the delighted squeal of a child at a birthday party. Cliff’s eyebrows lifted involuntarily, and despite himself, he cracked a confused smile.
“What’s so funny?” Brad asked from the other couch, scratching at his chest as he took another careful sip of his beer.
“Look what I just found,” Ryan said, sitting up slightly, that smug grin stretched across his face.
Cliff blinked, sitting up on his elbows. “Hollanov compilation? Wait… what’s Hollanov?”
“You’ve never heard of Hollanov?” Conner’s voice carried from across the room, wobbling slightly as he stumbled over to join Ryan. “You’re in for a surprise.”
Brad followed, sliding onto the sofa beside Conner. “Seriously, though, what is it?” Cliff asked again, furrowing his brow. He reached for a pizza slice that had probably been abandoned for at least two hours, taking a huge bite and immediately wincing at the cold, dry crust.
“Ship name for Ilya and Shane Hollander,” Ryan said, scooting over slightly to make room.
“Ship?”
“You don’t know what a ship is?” Conner laughed, leaning back.
“Well… no. Am I supposed to?”
“Shipping someone is basically hoping two people end up together. I’m surprised you don’t know, considering how much you get shipped with Ryan,” Conner teased, and Ryan shot him a mock glare.
“What the hell??” Cliff groaned, flopping back onto the floor, one hand on his forehead.
“Just play the damn video,” Brad said impatiently, clearly tired of the side commentary. Cliff just stared at Conner, wide-eyed, still trying to process the concept of shipping.
Ryan pressed play. The room faded slightly for Cliff as his attention locked on the screen. The first clip appeared, clearly from years ago.
Ilya and Shane were seated side by side at a press conference, perfectly dressed in tailored suits. Their faces were calm, controlled, professional, but it was the subtle body language that caught the eye.
The reporters weren’t visible, but their voices carried across the screen, the flashes of cameras punctuating every sentence.
“Ilya, can you walk us through your team’s defensive adjustments in the second period, and how that might have impacted your game?” a female reporter asked, her voice crisp over the press conference microphones.
All the boys in the room winced collectively, the tension palpable even from the video. They all knew how much Ilya struggled with questions like this, complex, nuanced, public, and phrased in a way that forced him to think on the spot.
On the screen, Ilya’s face contorted slightly in thought, his brow furrowing as he visibly translated the question in his head.
Each word seemed to weigh on him before he responded, and the movement of his lips was almost imperceptibly delayed, as if he were carefully weighing his words in real time. “Well… uhm” he began saying, the soft uncertainty in his tone barely noticeable if you weren’t paying attention.
Before he could actually say anything, Hollander cut in, his voice calm and measured. “Well i personally think it made them worse, but i can’t speak for Rozanov” He gave a small, nervous smile, one that didn’t fully reach his eyes.
Not that this was surprising; Shane Hollander always carried the kind of expression that made him look like a perfectly polished robot, composed and almost immovable.
Yet somehow, that tiny interjection carried enough weight to deflect the awkward question.
The reporters on the screen laughed, lightly, but sincerely amused, and Ilya’s shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. He almost looked… grateful.
It was strange to watch, gratitude directed at Shane Hollander, the stoic, nearly unreadable man, who had just intervened so subtly that the question had been deflected entirely.
Cliff blinked at the screen, still processing that combination of emotions: surprise, amusement, and a kind of quiet warmth between them.
Even weirder, the simple fact that Shane had helped Ilya seemed entirely out of character for public scrutiny.
The clip ended abruptly, and a new one started. Both of them appeared slightly older this time, the lines of experience and subtle maturity etched into their faces. Hollander’s hair had changed a little, styled slightly looser, softer than before.
A male reporter asked, “Shane, how do you feel about being the face of the queer community when it comes to ice hockey?” Shane’s body language immediately stiffened, hands fidgeting in a small, nervous motion.
He flinched slightly at the weight of the question, the attention heavy on him.
Ilya, recognizing the tension, leaned slightly forward with a teasing grin, his Russian accent thicker than usual. “Well, you should rather ask me how it feels to be the face of handsomeness,” he said with a lilt of humor, clearly saving Shane from the potential discomfort.
Shane visibly relaxed on the screen, almost allowing a real smile to slip past the usual barrier of professionalism. The reporters, naturally, ate it up, laughter and murmurs of approval filling the clip.
Ryan paused the video. “Was I the only one that didn’t realize how… I don’t know, nice they are to each other?” he asked, his voice a mixture of awe and confusion.
The other guys just nodded, still staring at the screen as if trying to convince themselves it wasn’t a fever dream. A few seconds later, Ryan hit play again, and the clips continued.
The sequence unfolded like a slow, deliberate revelation, each moment building on the last. Time and again, one of them would save the other from a difficult question, diffuse tension, or otherwise quietly support them under the harsh scrutiny of the press. It became a pattern, repeated over the years: subtle gestures, slight smiles, protective interjections.
“What the hell?” Brad muttered when a clip played of Ilya shooting a sharp, angry look at a reporter who had asked Hollander an invasive question.
The intensity in Ilya’s eyes made the moment almost electric, but what struck everyone was the clear concern for Shane underneath the anger.
“Yeah, this is kind of weird,” Conner said, leaning slightly forward, fascination in his tone.
Suddenly, the screen overlayed text, accompanied by faintly suggestive music. “Now, comments from each of them about the rivalry,” it read.
The video shifted to Ilya, his expression fiery, words sharp but tinged with admiration. “He’s, of course, a great player, but he’ll find us difficult to beat,” he said, winking at the camera, intensity radiating from every syllabl.
Cliff’s jaw practically dropped. The fervor in his tone made Cliff want to ask outright if he was high. Rozanov was passionate about a lot of things, but here, about this rivalry… the passion was almost obsessive.
Clips continued to play, showing Ilya speaking about Shane repeatedly, each phrase making him appear increasingly obsessed, his words laden with subtle awe.
Cliff couldn’t find the right descriptor, the way he said things, the way his eyes lingered on the camera, it was just… different. Strange. Intensely strange.
Then, the video shifted to Shane. Sweat was dripping down his temples, beads sliding along his cheek, the unmistakable sheen of someone fresh from a gym session.
He quickly took a towel from an assistant, patting his face and neck, and even in the act of drying off, his movements were precise, almost delicate.
A reporter off-camera asked, “Anything you want to say to Ilya Rozanov before the game tomorrow?” Shane’s response was sharp, confident, a wide, real smile spreading across his face.
“Get ready to lose.” The clip immediately jumped to the next, seamless, unbroken, moment after moment showcasing Shane’s composure and subtle confidence.
Ryan groaned, massaging his temple. “Holy shit… why do I honestly kind of see it?” His words trailed off as his eyes stayed glued to the TV, the others similarly lost, distracted, only able to respond with murmured “Hmm”s and “Huh”s.
A final clip of Ilya appeared after Shane’s, this time outdoors. He wore sunglasses, his smile wide and unguarded, casual.
A blonde reporter stood beside him, mic angled just so. “So, Ilya Rozanov. Any comment about Shane Hollander?”
“Well, he’s good. Just not good enough,” Ilya replied with a teasing smirk. But the words landed differently than intended; his expression held no malice, only amusement, curiosity, even.
Then, without warning, another clip played. A press conference again, but this time, Ilya and Hollander were seated closer than ever.
A bright red circle appeared at their feet, catching everyone’s eyes. Their feet were almost touching, rubbing lightly against one another as they casually answered reporters’ questions.
“What the actual fuck?” someone whispered. Cliff was too shocked to even form coherent words, his eyes wide. Previously, they had laughed at smaller surprises, but this was different.
Dead silence settled over the group.
A few more clips followed, each one emphasizing the subtle foot contact at various conferences. And then, just like before, the focus shifted: the circle appeared on their hands.
Intertwined, fingers laced together, Ilya’s thumb strokingg Shane’s in tiny, deliberate motions, hands clenched gently but firmly around one another. Ordinary hands, but highlighted, unmistakably intimate.
Hands you might never notice without the huge red circle around them.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Cliff muttered. The others didn’t need to speak; the silence alone was agreement.
The video ended, leaving a lingering, almost heavy quiet. Then, almost immediately, another auto-play video began. The title flashed: COMPILATION OF ROZANOV CHIRPING HOLLANDER ON THE ICE.
“Oh, this’ll be good,” Ryan said weakly, leaning back.
The video started normally: Ilya in full chirp mode, running his mouth like he did every other second of the day. But then, clips where Hollander appeared suddenly had arrows pointing at his face every time Ilya said something. And Shane… wasn’t annoyed. He was blushing.
“Okay, what the-” Ryan almost yelled, waving frantically at the TV.
A text overlay appeared: Look at how fiercely Rozanov insults Shane. More arrows popped up. Excited wiggle indicating absolute fury. Besotting grin indicating deep hatred. Sarcasm dripping, and yet, in every frame, Ilya looked… in love.
Cliff leaned further forward, utterly transfixed. Clip after clip, Ilya said things meant to sting, to provoke, but Shane just blushed, smiled faintly, never truly offended.
“Oh my god,” Conner muttered, leaning so far forward it seemed he might topple off the couch.
Finally, the video ended, and Ryan stopped the auto-play just in time. The room lingered in silence, the weight of what they’d just seen settling like a fog.
Brad straightened suddenly, forcing a joke to break the tension: “Montreal Jane? More like Montreal Shane, am I right?”
Cliff shook his head slowly, staring at nothing. “Are we just… stupid?” he asked, voice low, to no one in particular, as the others sat quietly, still processing.