Chapter Text
*Shane*
Growing up, Shane cheered for his mom’s favourite team: the Montreal Metros. Loyalty is important to Yuna Hollander — especially when it comes to hockey. Even rooting for the Ottawa Centaurs, their hometown team, was unthinkable.
On draft day, his mom said she would support him no matter the outcome. Despite her assurances, Shane isn’t convinced she would be cheering for him today if he were playing for any other team. And he knows in his bones that his own mother would be actively rooting against him, her only child, if he’d been drafted first overall to the Boston Raiders.
The way she explains it, the rivalry between Montreal and Boston is cosmic — both were original six teams, colliding since the dawn of the NHL. The first time Hayden put on his blue and red jersey, he told Shane he could feel it, innately, viscerally, in a way that didn’t need to make logical sense because it was just a part of him.
But the rivalry isn’t a part of Shane, at least not in the way Ilya Rozanov is.
After a century of grudges and gloves dropped, there’s a lot of bad blood between the two teams. Inherited and passed down roster to roster, it supposedly pulses through the veins of every Metro, hardening their hearts for competition.
Fresh off a humiliating loss in game one of their playoff series against the Raiders, this bad blood is now spilling into the locker room, hot and vicious.
“Did you see the effigy of Rozanov being burnt in front of the Bell Centre? I may have ‘accidentally’ liked a post,” says Tanner Gagnon, securing the straps of his shin pads as the room around him erupts.
Yet, Shane’s traitorous heart thrums not with bad blood, but with anticipation for the next text from “Lily.”
He supposes, sleeping with the enemy has something to do with that. Unwilling to linger on his reckless stupidity or examine what lies beneath it, Shane keeps his head down and concentrates on pulling up his socks.
“Can you believe what that cock sucking Russian said about us yesterday?” Gilbert Comeau spits.
Of course believes it. He saw the clip. He watches all of Rozanov’s interviews. Unlike the rest of his team, Shane found it charming when the Boston captain — shirtless, sweaty and as arrogant as ever — promised to sweep the Metros in just four games. That wink was for me.
“Rozanov’s not getting past me tonight, and he sure as hell isn’t getting past our fans when we’re back in Montreal,” Patrice Drapeau, their goalie, sneers.
“That’s if he survives tonight,” JJ Boiziau says. The defenseman throws the weight of his considerable frame behind a punch, stopping just short of the concrete wall. “I am going to fuck him so hard he won’t know what hit him.”
“I think you mean fuck him up,” Hayden laughs.
Shane sees a few guys exchange the look — the same weary expression they wear when he refuses to go out, share the details of a hookup, or drink anything harder than a ginger ale. Shane knows they want a captain who is as vicious off the ice as he is on it. More than that, they need a captain who will give voice to their fury.
For the last twenty minutes, that fury has been a howling gale of hot air. As they ready themselves to take on their biggest divisional rival, a team standing between them and a run at the Stanley Cup, Shane’s silence is louder. And like the wind, their ire is shifting direction.
Hayden must feel the cold front coming on too because he blurts out, “Shane hates Rozanov the most.”
Shane understands why Hayden would think so. The rivalry had been written in the stars when he and Rozanov were still children, long before either of them had played a single game on NHL ice. From the outside, their casting resembles fate. But the line separating real from performance is blurry, even to him.
They were once eighteen years old, newly drafted and sharing a water bottle on the floor of a hotel gym with the person who shares the same dream, close enough that it feels like something.
That night, Shane caught his first glimpse of the vulnerability beneath Rozanov’s brash exterior. While he would be moving just a few hours away from his parents, Rozanov was preparing to cross an ocean and a language barrier alone. He’d asked Shane for reassurance that Boston was a safe place to land.
Though this soft side of Rozanov is rare, belonging to the few stolen hours they spend together each season, it’s real.Perhaps fate is actually a culmination of choices because how else could the man predestined to be his rival become the one person he can be himself around, completely.
So, no. Shane doesn’t hate Ilya Rozanov. Though, if ever someone asks, he’d lie. He would never admit, not even to himself, and certainly not to Rozanov, that he is, maybe, just a tiny bit, in love. Or that some nights peers up at the sky and wishes their stars could burn brightly together without combusting.
A second passes, and then another. Finally, Shane takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders and says, “Rozanov’s an asshole.” Then, more quietly, “but I don’t hate him.”
He pauses for a moment, carefully choosing his next words. “I want to beat him — probably more than anyone in this room. To do that, I need him on the ice in one piece.”
“He called you a goalie!” Gagnon shouts.
“Flattery,” Shane says with a shrug. “If you scored a hat trick from the net, that would be pretty fucking impressive.”
Drapeau tilts his head, considers the probability, then nods in agreement.
“I don’t care what Rozanov says about me. We’re not competing for ‘best chirp’ or ‘most time spent in the penalty box.’ The Raiders can have that. I want the Cup,” Shane continues, his voice rising as he finds his rhythm.
He’s on his feet now, fully in captain-mode, “We’re going to win tonight and tie up the series and win again, because we’re focused on winning, not on personal attacks. Anything you need to say, you say it on the ice. We leave it all out there. Let’s play some fucking hockey!”
Shane checks his phone one last time—still nothing from Lily—then stows it in his stall.
“Good speech, buddy,” Hayden says, falling into step beside Shane as they head to the rink. “Sorry for putting you on the spot like that. Rozanov gets the guys heated.”
“It’s for show.”
Hayden looks at Shane curiously. “Are you defending him?”
Shane doubts Rozanov wants, or needs, his honour defended. And he doesn’t expect Rozanov to stick his neck out either.
“I’m not defending him. I can’t defend us,” Shane says, barely concealing his frustration.
“Maybe some of the guys went a little too far,” Hayden concedes. “But you do have a bit of a blind spot for Rozanov.”
“What’s that supposed to mean,” Shane chokes out. His stomach is in his throat. It’s the same weightless sensation he got as a kid when his dad drove too fast over hills on the country road they took to the cottage each the summer just before the drop.
“I don’t know…just… why can’t you see what he’s really like?” Hayden asks, his voice softening to adjust to the sharp edges in Shane’s.
Shane can’t possibly tell Hayden that he does, in fact, know Ilya Rozanov.
He imagines telling Hayden anyway. Telling him that Rozanov may be insufferable on the ice, but he is unexpectantly gentle in private; that his uncanny ability to read people, to get under their skin or find a bruise and press on it, also makes Shane feel seen; or how he murmurs words Shane barely understands but feels all the same.
How can he confess that hockey feels more alive when he and Rozanov are on the ice together?
And this is the problem. Hayden doesn’t know him, or at least not this part of himself that he’s so carefully guarding. Fault falls on both sides.
“Wanting him hurt, the homophobic shit. It goes beyond hockey. I won’t talk about Rozanov that way… or any other player.” It’s more honesty then Shane intends to offer.
Hayden seems to accept this or is at least willing to move on for now. When they reach the rink, Shane squeezes his friend’s shoulder as if to say no hard feelings, then skates away, his blades cutting flawless arches into ice.
***
Shane is stretching at the centre of the rink — his forearms on the ground, knees wide and hips rocking back and forth — when he feels the cold spray of ice on his face. He doesn’t need to glance up to know it’s Rozanov halting to a stop beside him. Even though Shane knows better than to stare directly at the sun, he looks up anyway. The view is impeccable.
Rozanov’s hands are on his hips, and the few golden curls escaping his helmet are pressed to his forehead, damp with sweat or still wet from the shower. If not for the predatory grin plastered to his perfect face, he might look cherubic. Shane’s skin is buzzing. In a different setting, he would gladly stay kneeling on the ground.
“I like you like this, Hollander,” Rozanov smirks. Evidently, he’s indulging in the same delicious thought.
The arena is already brimming with fans. Shane gracefully pushes himself up off the ice and onto his feet. Standing, they’re nearly the same height. “What do you want, Rozanov?”
“Oh, nothing,” he replies with a halfhearted shrug and lopsided smile. “I want to apologize in advance for crushing your dreams of winning Stanley Cup.”
“Fuck off.”
“I will go easy on you, don’t worry.” Rozanov’s gaze blatantly drops to the mouthguard caught between Shane’s teeth. “I will be gentle since you will be very sore from losing.”
“I think you mean sore loser.”
“No.”
They’re so close that Shane can see the crease at the corner of Rozanov’s mouth, the one that means he’s holding back a self-satisfied smile. He adjusts the grip on his stick just so he has something to do with his hands.
Their bodies curve toward each other naturally. Rozanov opens his mouth and begins to whisper a room number or an address.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing!” someone barks, startling them apart. Then Hayden is wedging himself between them, nostrils flaring.
Rozanov raises one eyebrow. “Talking.”
“Looked like more than that,” Hayden fires back.
“And what does it look like?”
Hayden frowns. “What?”
“You thought you saw something. What did you see?”
Shane holds his breath. The ice suddenly feels thinner. He’s listening, waiting, for it to crack beneath their skates.
“It looked like you were starting something.”
“Maybe I was.” Rozanov’s mouth quirks up in amusement.
“Try it,” Hayden says, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin the way men do when they want to take up more space. It would be impressive if not for the inconvenient fact that Rozanov is several inches taller and infinitely more menacing.
Can’t they wait until after the first face off, Shane internally groans. Whether they punch each other or not, he will be the one bloodied — pulled apart, pieces of him drifting in the space between Montreal and Boston.
Rozanov’s gaze flicks past Hayden for the briefest second, toward Shane, lingering on the pale of his skin and tightness of his jaw. When his eyes return to Hayden, they are flat with restraint.
“Not with you,” he says quietly.
The words land soft and dangerous in Shane’s chest. I won’t. For you, he hears.
“Hollander is more than capable of handling himself,” Rozanov continues in a low voice, laced with pride and something that sounds suspiciously possessive. “You?” His eyes drag over Hayden’s body, appraising him with a dismissive yet vaguely predatory stare. “I cannot say the same.”
“I’m serious,” Hayden growls, taking his gloves off and curling his hands into fists. “Stop fucking with him.”
Rozanov frowns slightly. “What makes you think I am fucking with him?”
Anyone might have mistaken the question for sarcasm. But there’s no hint of mockery. No wink or a smirk or a sign this is still a game. If anything, he sounds genuine. Which is somehow worse.
Shane looks at him for a long moment, searching for the punchline. Whatever he expected to find there, it isn’t the naked sincerity that flashes across Rozanov’s face for one reckless second. It would be easier if Rozanov were joking.
Shane’s pulse stutters. This conversation needs to end now because every second of it is like skating on a knife-edge. Hayden might be too blinded by his own point of view to see what’s been exposed, but somebody always does. Eventually.
Good, loyal, stubborn Hayden only hears a challenge.
“You think I don’t see it? Every press scrum, every game, every stupid interaction. You’re always talking about him, looking at him, always pushing, always finding some reason to get in his face. You hate him, but you can’t leave him alone. So yeah, I think you’re fucking with him.”
Shane wants nothing more than to grab Hayden by the shoulders and drag him away before he pulls on yet another thread he doesn’t even know is there and unravels everything. Very publicly.
“Hayden.” Shane says his name with enough warning that it scrapes his throat on the way out. Stop. Don’t do this. At least that’s what he intended to convey. The second the word leaves mouth, he knows Hayden didn’t hear the warning. He heard a plea.
Hayden’s expression hardens into something protective. He takes a step forward and puts a finger on Rozanov’s chest. It’s not a palm or a fist, but it’s not nothing. It’s a line crossed. For fuck sakes. Why don’t they both take a piss on me and move on. People are beginning to notice.
They are eroding his patience. Every stupid dig strips away another layer of Shane’s normally polite exterior, leaving him feeling hollowed out and exposed. Raw. An empty exhaustion is settling in. He’s really fucking tired of the crashing pressure of hiding on top of being treated like he needs defending by his best friend and his…
Even if, in their own misguided way both men are standing here because they care about him, right now, Shane cares only about protecting his ugly secret.
He closes his eyes for half a second. “Hayden,” Shane tries again. “Rozanov.”
At his name, Rozanov goes very still. Shane knows what this stillness means. It’s one of a hundred things he shouldn’t know. A ghost of their draft night celebration, watching Rozanov with his father from below. Seeing Ilya stand here now, swallowing Hayden’s anger with the same stoic expression — to protect them — undoes him.
Thankfully, a referee moves in and tells them to take their positions, breaking it up before Shane has to.
Rozanov flips Hayden a jubilant middle finger as he takes his place on Shane’s right.
“Asshole,” Shane mutters, steeling himself for the puck drop. When Rozanov’s piercing blue-green peer up at him again from under dark blonde lashes, the irritating arrogance is gone. In them, Shane thinks he sees an apology. It’s not enough to soothe the heavy ache in his chest and the pain of being pulled in impossible directions.
As is his ritual for every face off, Shane taps his stick twice on the ice. At the same time, he wishes Hayden and Rozanov could understand each other; for a cosmos where wanting both hockey and Ilya didn’t leave him feeling so utterly split in half.
***
The game of tug of war is more brutal than any game Shane has played.
Almost.
By the start of the third period, both teams have set new penalty box records. With four minutes to go, Rozanov checks. Shane into the boards. As their sticks tousle for control of the puck, Shane drops his voice and injects his words with wanting. “When I win, I want you to—”
“Fuck you” Rozanov laughs, filling in the blank. He shoulders Shane out his way. In a flash he’s gone.
Shane quickly surveys the composition of bodies on the ice, deciphering his next move. Ilya is cutting hard across the rink. Hayden is heading straight for him. Too fast.
Shane opens his mouth to shout a warning, but the breath is punched from his lungs before he can form the words. The sharp scream of armour clashing with armour echoes through the arena, followed by the sickening thud of men falling onto the ice, and the hiss of blades as other players pull up short.
The rink falls into stunned silence.