chapter 1 heated Rivalry

chapter 1& 2 heated Rivalry /Hayden

Chapter:1/1

Shane. You were the best thing in my life. I love you Always. Maybe from the first time I saw you. I am only thinking about you right now. Whatever happens, I am with you. Safe in your heart. I believe it.Hours later, on the balcony of the hotel room he shared with Zane Boodram, who he’d left to sit on one of the beds and cry to with his wife on the phone in private, Ilya Rozanov looked down at his i********: messages, exhaled a careless plume of cigarette smoke, and took another drag. Even drunk and chainsmoking, at his most morose and self destructive, he couldn’t quite muster the strength to delete them.Maybe that was because of the little voice in his head that said Shane Hollander had only followed him on i********: to be tagged in a promotional post after they presented at the MLH awards all those years ago, so of course he would never read them. It couldn't possibly have anything to do with the stupid, pathetic hope that he would.The last i********: post from user ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer was dated April 21, 2017. It was a picture of him for Speedo’s summer lineup. He was smiling in sunlight, chest bare, wearing swim shorts that were intended to be athletic, not sexy. That was Hollander’s whole thing, though. His charm.All of it, everything about him was just gone. From Ilya’s life. From hockey in general.The misery in his belly curdled. Thinking about Shane Hollander hurt in a way uncomfortably similar to losing his mother—both taken from him for reasons beyond his control, both losses he’d been forced to suffer alone.Ilya had tried to tell himself he’d already lost Shane: to Rose Landry, to his own stupid pride for making light of the situation, to Shane’s fear and insecurity (when Ilya was feeling especially angry), but it didn’t matter. He could close his eyes and see the news on that random day in June, the image of it on the television, the beautiful anchorwoman and some washed up former player acting like they knew something even though no one knew anything.Contract Terminated. No one from the MLH or Hollander’s camp available for comment.How many texts had he sent before the horrible, gut wrenching finality of calling only to hear: We’re sorry, the number you are trying to reach has disconnected. Please hang up and try again it had to be a hundred, at least.And then, earlier, when he thought it was all over, he hadn't even really thought about it, about what he was typing with shaky fingers. His blackened, shriveled heart had kicked his brain aside and taken over, saying all the things Ilya never would have said if he thought he'd have to live with them.He reached for the bottle of s**t vodka he’d gotten from the bar, ignoring the way he spilled some when he poured. He sipped, then stopped and threw back the whole glass. The only option he had were to get so drunk he passed out before he started crying and couldn’t stop.Idly, he wondered if he was depressed. He squeezed the cross at the base of his throat until the points stung his fingers, thinking of his mother.If he was, he wouldn't be surprised, not that he could get depression right either. Death didn’t seem to want him yet, so what did any of it even f*****g matter?

Part One Summary (Heated Rivalry)

Part One of Heated Rivalry begins with tension, expectation, and the weight of two futures already set on a collision course. Long before Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov truly know each other, the world has already decided what they are to one another: rivals, opposites, and the faces of a new generation of hockey.

Shane Hollander is drafted first overall, and from the moment his name is called, everything about him reflects control and preparation. He is calm under pressure, careful with his words, and always aware of how he appears to others. He has spent years building himself into the perfect athlete, someone who can handle the demands of professional hockey both on and off the ice. To fans and media, he is reliable, disciplined, and easy to admire.

Ilya Rozanov, drafted second overall, enters the league with just as much talent but an entirely different presence. He is bold, unpredictable, and often deliberately provocative. Where Shane measures his words, Ilya says whatever he wants. Where Shane maintains composure, Ilya thrives on disruption. His skill is undeniable, but so is his tendency to stir reactions, especially from Shane.

From the beginning, they are compared constantly. Every statistic, every performance, every interaction becomes part of a larger narrative. Fans argue over who is better. Commentators analyze their differences. The rivalry is not just between two players—it is something built and reinforced by everyone watching.

When they finally face each other on the ice, the energy between them is immediate and undeniable. Every shift feels sharper, every play more intense. They push each other, challenge each other, and refuse to back down. Their rivalry becomes one of the defining stories of their era. 🥰😋?

The arena roared like a living thing.

Lights burned bright overhead, reflecting off the ice in blinding white streaks. The sound of skates carving into frozen surface cut sharply through the noise, blending with the clash of sticks and the thunder of bodies hitting the boards.

Shane Hollis lived for this.

Every breath he took felt sharp, cold, electric. His lungs burned, his pulse pounded, and his focus narrowed into something almost violent. The game wasn’t just a game tonight—it was personal.

Because he was here.

Shane didn’t need to look to know exactly where he was. He could feel him on the ice like a storm pressing against his skin.

Still, he looked.

Across the rink, number 17 glided effortlessly, like the chaos around him didn’t exist. Dark hair damp with sweat, movements precise, controlled—dangerous.

Ilya Volkov.

Shane’s jaw tightened.

Rival. Enemy. Problem.

And the only person who had ever made him lose control.

The whistle blew, sharp and final. The period ended, but the tension didn’t. It never did—not when Ilya was involved.

As Shane skated toward the bench, he felt it—that gaze. Heavy. Intentional.

He turned.

Ilya was already looking at him.

Not just looking—watching.

There was a faint smirk on his lips. Not wide. Not obvious. Just enough to get under Shane’s skin.

It worked.

It always worked.

The locker room smelled like sweat, metal, and adrenaline.

Shane dropped onto the bench harder than necessary, dragging a hand through his damp hair. His teammates talked around him—loud, energized—but their voices blurred into background noise.

“Hey, you good?” Marcus asked, nudging him.

“Yeah,” Shane muttered. “Fine.”

He wasn’t.

He could still feel that look.

God, he hated him.

Coach paced in front of them, barking instructions, but Shane barely heard a word. His mind kept circling back to the same thing—the same person.

Ilya Volkov.

The name itself felt like a challenge.

They had been drafted the same year. Same hype. Same expectations. From the very beginning, they’d been compared—skill for skill, goal for goal.

But comparisons had turned into competition.

Competition had turned into rivalry.

And rivalry had turned into something… sharper.

Something dangerous.

“Stay focused,” Coach snapped, pointing directly at Shane now. “You’re letting him get in your head.”

Shane stiffened.

“I’m not.”

Coach gave him a look that said he didn’t believe him for a second.

“Then prove it.”

The second period hit harder.

Faster. Rougher.

Shane played like he had something to prove—because he did. Every move was sharper, every pass cleaner, every shot more aggressive.

And still—

Still, Ilya matched him.

No.

Not matched.

Anticipated.

It was like he knew what Shane would do before he did it.

Halfway through the period, it happened.

Shane broke through the defense, the puck glued to his stick as he pushed forward. The goal was right there—clear, open—

And then—

Impact.

Hard.

Sudden.

Ilya.

They slammed into the boards with enough force to rattle the glass. The crowd erupted, but Shane barely heard it over the rush of blood in his ears.

For a second, everything froze.

Too close.

Way too close.

Ilya’s hand pressed briefly against Shane’s arm—not enough to be obvious, just enough to linger.

Their faces were inches apart.

“You’re predictable,” Ilya murmured, voice low, almost lost under the noise.

Shane’s breath caught—not from the hit.

From him.

“Get off me,” Shane snapped.

Ilya didn’t move right away.

That smirk again.

Then he pushed off, skating away like nothing had happened.

Like Shane hadn’t just felt something twist tight in his chest.

---

The game ended in a narrow win.

For Shane’s team.

The crowd cheered. His teammates celebrated. But the victory felt… off.

Incomplete.

Because as Shane skated off the ice, there was only one thing on his mind.

Him.

---

The hallway behind the arena was quiet.

Too quiet compared to the chaos outside.

Shane should’ve been with his team—celebrating, laughing, enjoying the win.

Instead, he found himself here.

Alone.

Or… not.

“You played well.”

The voice came from behind him.

Of course it did.

Shane didn’t turn immediately.

“I didn’t ask.”

A soft chuckle.

Then footsteps.

Slow. Confident. Closing the distance.

“I don’t need you to ask.”

Shane turned then—and there he was.

Ilya Volkov.

Up close, he was worse.

Sharper. More real. More dangerous.

“Why are you here?” Shane asked.

Ilya tilted his head slightly, like he was considering the question.

“Maybe I wanted to see you.”

Shane scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

But his pulse had already started to pick up.

Ilya stepped closer.

Too close.

“You’re different off the ice,” he said quietly.

Shane’s breath hitched.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.”

There was a pause.

Heavy.

Charged.

Then—

“You keep looking at me.”

Shane’s heart stuttered.

“I don’t.”

Ilya’s eyes flicked down briefly—to Shane’s lips—before returning to his eyes.

“You do.”

Silence stretched between them.

Tight. Unsteady.

“You hate me,” Shane said finally.

Ilya didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he stepped even closer—close enough that Shane could feel the heat of him, could see every detail in his expression.

“Do I?”

Shane couldn’t breathe.

This wasn’t right.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

They were rivals.

Enemies.

They weren’t supposed to be—

Whatever this was.

“Ilya—”

But he didn’t get to finish.

Because in the next second, everything shifted.

Ilya’s hand came up—hesitant for just a moment—before gripping the front of Shane’s jersey.

And then—

He pulled him in.

Not quite a kiss.

Not yet.

But close enough that Shane felt it—felt everything.

The tension. The heat. The pull.

“Tell me to stop,” Ilya murmured.

Shane should have.

He knew he should have.

Instead—

He didn’t say a word.

Chapter2 Hayden, part 1

Chapter Text

March, 2021 Boston, MA

Hayden Pike frowned at the guy holding an iPad with his name on it at the airport. He knew he was traveling on little sleep (which he was actually a pro at, thank you very much), so he could be hallucinating, but he was pretty sure he was not and that the massive guy dressed in a suit and cabby hat was not actually a driver.

Judging by the dark hair peeking out from around the hat and trademark s**t eating grin, Hayden was rather convinced it was actually Cliff f*****g Marleau.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he said, approaching warily, looking around for a camera. It'd be just his luck that they were recording it for social media or some s**t.

“You’re making that up.”

Marleau turned on his heel, walking toward the exit with Hayden's bag. He called over his shoulder, “Rule two is that all rules are subject to change. Deal with it.”

Hayden took a second to lament his life, curse his agent (even if he'd promised Hayden he’d make at least another one point five per year on the contract extension he was going to sign first thing tomorrow), then scuttled after him, shouting, “If you can just change the rules, shouldn’t that be rule number one?”

“Your reputation precedes you,” Marleau said as Hayden made it to his side, having had dodged a family pushing a cart loaded with bags, no less than three people not paying attention to their pets, and a man who stopped dead in front of him which Hayden had needed to squeeze between a sign and a barrier to prevent bowling over with his momentum because hockey player. “I didn't know Dad could be a personality.”

“I have four kids!”

He made a show of looking Hayden up and down

" I can tell,"

“f**k you.”

“You should be so lucky,” Marleau chirped, ushering him toward a nice looking Mercedes with its hazards on and opening the trunk. “Get in.”

Marleau went over to the crossing guard and handed over what must have been a tip for not towing his car. They did what looked like a secret handshake Hayden would do with Jade and Ruby, which morphed into a one armed hug. It was incredibly wholesome. Hayden shook his head, muttered, “Cliff f*****g Marleau picked me up from the f*****g airport. How the f**k is this my life now,” and got into the car.

—

Since Montreal, everything had been fine, so long as Hayden ignored the massive Shane Hollander shaped hole in his life. Prior to that, he’d been so focused on Jackie’s pregnancy, because for once they'd managed to plan a baby that would come in the off-season, but then Amber had come early, and—

And when he and Jackie had finally made it out of the bubble that all parents fell into when a new addition came along, grateful that Amber was healthy despite her surprise arrival, it was June and Shane was gone. A ghost whose silence haunted every corner of Hayden's life. Shane's messages were pinned under Jackie’s. They were each other's on-the-road emergency contacts. They had practically lived in each other's pockets for seven whole years.

The Metros wouldn't give him any details. They said, Shane is gone, the past is the past and we’ll come out stronger than ever. Anyways, Hayden, we know you're a mess over this but cheer up! We're going to give you the C.

He'd told them he needed to think about it, walked directly to his car and called his agent, threatening to terminate his contract (a stupid decision, one Jackie and Seth, his agent, had rapidly talked him out of). Apparently, Montreal had decided Hayden failed their vibe check, so both sides settled for a trade that sent Hayden to a small market team.

Winnipeg was at least Canadian. It had been the best he could do at finding the bright side. He could've wound up in Buffalo. No scenery change would have stopped him from feeling like his best friend had died, because for all intents and purposes, he had. Shane's phone had been turned off, then disconnected, Hayden was pretty sure shane probably had to chuck it into Lake Ontario or something because he was not the kind of guy who let notifications pile up.

Still, Hayden had called Shane two hundred times in those early days. He'd tried from Jackie’s phone, thinking surely he wouldn't block her, he'd be worried something happened to the kids. He'd tried his mother in law’s, too, which really told you just how desperate the situation was.

And now, nearly four years on, Hayden Pike was a Boston Raider, and Shane had come back from the dead—

Er, Sweden. Same difference.

Arthur had been on a Lion King kick lately, so Hayden had started to think of Shane like he was Simba. The Metros could be Scar, and Hayden was like, what, Zazu or something?

Not important. The fact of the matter was that Shane was back, and he'd brought the truth with him.

“Brother, you’re looking at the tv like Sportscenter's got the answers to the meaning of life or some shit.”

Marleau, who had claimed the part Hayden's short-term roommate in this very f****d up, very much not Disney movie that was Hayden's life, came in from the kitchen with a beer. He went to sit down in his usual spot on the far end of the couch and froze, ass suspended above the cushion, eyes catching on the footage of Shane leaving a meeting with Montreal leadership and a fuckton of lawyers. “s**t, dude. Sorry.”

“Oh, uh,” Hayden winced. “It’s okay. Just trying to keep up with the headlines.”

Marleau, no, Cliff—they were teammates and would be for the next five years seeing as Hayden had signed the extension last week, best to get used to being friendly—said carefully, “You still haven't heard from him?”

“Nah. He read the i********: message I sent him when the news dropped, but...” he shrugged helplessly.

What could he say? It had been years, and he had been a part of the team that had f****d Shane over, even if he wasn't personally responsible. Shane's i********: account was the only social media he had, the only place he could send a message. Hayden had sent him a handful of years—birthdays and holidays, times when he thought the lack of Shane in his life was worse than losing a limb. None of them had been read until recently. He really hoped Shane had read those messages and it wasn't Yuna or some lawyer or something.

Marleau seemed to get it. He handed over his beer, got up even though he'd just sat down, and went to the fridge to grab another one.

Living with Cliff Marleau was like the f*****g twilight zone. Cliff had joked about living a bachelor lifestyle and reminding Hayden of how the other half lived for a bit since he and Jackie had decided not to uproot the kids this close to the end of the school year, and yet it was eight-thirty on a Friday night and here they were at home. He did go out sometimes, but mostly it was after games or to pick up some of the younger kids on the team when they went too hard.

Begrudgingly, Hayden had to admit Marleau was a damn good captain. He was always there when a guy needed him, and his strength seemed to come in handy, when wrangling the i***t kids on the squad. All three rookies on the Raiders roster were six-four or taller and built like brick shithouses and Cliff had yanked them off barstools and out clubs like they were featherweights. But more than that, Cliff was always there to lend an ear or a shoulder, and if someone f****d with one of his guys, he'd spend the night in the box. He wasn't captain because he was the best player on the ice. He was captain because he was the team's heart and soul.

Hayden respected him.

He'd admitted to Jackie after the Raiders’ first win since his trade that it felt like healing or something. Something that had been broken since he'd left Montreal switching back on, like he'd forgotten what hockey was really like. He didn't really know his place yet and he had less than fifteen games left before playoffs to figure it out, but it felt good. Better than it had in a long time.

“It's so weird, all of this.” Cliff propped his legs up on the coffee table and gestured with his beer to the tv. They were still going on about Shane, speculating about how successful his talks with the league were, if things would wrap prior to the playoffs. The same s**t they always said, really. “If the league knew what was good for it they'd take their lumps, apologize, and get him back for next season.”

Hayden shrugged.

“You don't have to tell me,” He hedged, taking a pull from the bottle before cradling it to his chest, “But like, did Montreal—”

“Couldn’t tell you. I'm sure it was all just business to them,” he scoffed. “That's all it ever was.” He slugged back a mouthful of Cliff’s mediocre beer and scoffed. “They offered me the C in the same conversation as they told me he was gone. Why, I couldn't f*****g tell you.”

“Seems like they were probably trying to figure out whose side you were on.”

“It wasn't a secret that he was my best friend,” Hayden pointed out.

“Yeah, but maybe they thought they could buy it? Had a couple GMs like that. They didn't usually last. You meet Jim Crosby? Our CEO?”

“Yeah.”

“He's all about culture. We don't do that s**t here. We stand by our guys. If they go through s**t, we go through it together.”

“You think your guys would be okay with a gay man on the roster?”

“Who’s to say we haven't had one, you know?"

“Might have to threaten to scramble a couple skulls if someone has a problem but,” Cliff shrugged. “Only an i***t wouldn't ice Hollander because he's gay.”

Hayden held out the neck of his beer. Cliff clinked their bottles together.

“B’sides,” he continued, when they both were back to staring at the television, “Why the f**k do you think you're here, Pike? Hollander wouldn't be showing up to play ball with Crowell if he wasn't going to win. Our best chance at getting him involves dangling you in front of him like a carrot.”

“Me? He hasn't spoken to me in four years.”

Cliff shrugged. “I get the feeling Hollander didn't go no-contact for his own good. He's a little too loyal for that.”

“And how would you know?”

Another shrug. They both drank their beer. “I don't. Rozanov's the one who said that way back when it happened. We thought it would be over in a couple months, he'd just, I don't know, reboot and go somewhere else, not, y’know.”

Desperately searching for an out—he could dread/despair/hope through a reenactment of this conversation to Jackie later—Hayden took what he was given.

“Really? I always wondered why he wanted out.”

He chuckled. “You trying to collect the hockey infinity stones or some s**t?”

“Of course you're a Marvel guy.”

“Don’t act like you aren't either. I've seen your Blu-ray collection.”

They exchanged a smirk. Despite playing against each other for years, with more than a couple fights and fractures between them, the chirping was light-hearted and fun in a way Hayden was pretty sure neither of them expected. Cliff was kind of a big ol’ teddy bear. Not the smartest guy in the room, but would give a guy the shirt off his back. Hayden could relate.

Fuck, it was so weird to be a Boston Raider.

“Wouldn’t that be something? Could you imagine getting Hollander and Rozanov on the same team? They’d be unstoppable. Roz could play wing or some s**t and they'd just,” he made an exploding sound, fist mimicking a blast.

“You got a plan to get him back, too?”

“Nah.” Cliff shook his head. “Still try every time I see him. I think he's wasted in Ottawa.”

Hayden swung an arm toward Cliff. “That's what I'm saying. Why the f**k would he go there?”

The side eye Cliff gave him would've been more frightening if Hayden hadn't spent enough time with the guy to learn it was actually his thinking face. Hayden waited.

“I don't know that he knows why he went, man,” Cliff finally said.

Chapter 2 — Pressure Points

The next three days felt wrong. Shane trained harder than usual, skating until his legs burned, shooting until his wrists ached, pushing through drills like something was chasing him. It didn’t help. Nothing did. Every quiet second brought him back to the same place—the hallway, the grip on his jersey, the space between them that hadn’t quite become a kiss. Tell me to stop. He hadn’t. That was the problem.

“Again,” Coach snapped. Shane reset instantly, took the pass, fired—clean shot, top corner. Good. Not enough. “You’re overthinking,” Marcus muttered as they circled back. Shane didn’t answer. He didn’t trust himself to.

Across the city, Ilya had the same issue—just quieter about it. He moved through practice with precision, but there was a fraction of hesitation where there had never been any before. Coach noticed. Of course he did. “Hollis beat you on that last read,” he said. Ilya’s jaw tightened slightly. “Won’t happen again.” He meant it. He just didn’t know what “again” would look like.

Game night came fast. The arena roared, louder than before, anticipation thick in the air. Shane stepped onto the ice and felt it immediately—that awareness, sharp and unavoidable. He looked up. Ilya was already watching him. No smirk this time. Just focus. Direct. Intent. The whistle cut through the noise. They moved.

From the first shift, it was different. Faster, tighter, more deliberate. Shane drove forward, cutting through defense, but Ilya met him head-on, stick clashing cleanly with his. “Still predictable,” Ilya said under his breath. “Still talking,” Shane shot back, shoving past him. They separated, but the tension didn’t.

Second period. Harder hits, shorter tempers. Shane chased a loose puck along the boards and felt it coming this time—the impact. He braced. Ilya slammed into him anyway, controlled but heavy, pinning him just long enough to make it count. Too close again. “You’re adjusting,” Ilya murmured. “Don’t sound surprised.” Their eyes locked for half a second too long before the whistle broke it apart. Again.

By the third, the game wasn’t clean anymore. It was a standoff. Tied score, final minutes. Shane caught the puck off a bad rebound, turned—and there he was. Always there. Ilya moved to block, reading him, anticipating. Shane shifted left, saw the reaction, then cut right at the last second. Space opened. Shot. Goal.

The arena exploded. Shane barely heard it. He was already looking at Ilya. No smirk. Just something sharper—acknowledgment, maybe. Or challenge. Then his teammates crashed into him, dragging him back into the noise.

They won. Again. It still didn’t feel simple.

Shane stayed longer this time—celebration, noise, anything to avoid thinking—but eventually the hallway found him anyway. Quiet, empty, inevitable.

“You’re getting better.”

Shane exhaled once before turning. “Do you just wait around for me now?” Ilya leaned off the wall, calm as ever. “Only when it’s worth it.” Shane shook his head, but his pulse had already picked up. “What do you want?” “To see if it changed anything.” “It didn’t.” A pause. Then, softer—“Liar.”

Shane’s jaw tightened. “You’re reading into things.” Ilya stepped closer, not all the way, but enough. “You didn’t walk away.” “I did.” “Eventually.” That landed. Shane looked away first, which annoyed him more than it should have. “It doesn’t mean anything.” “Then say it again.” Shane opened his mouth—stopped. The words didn’t come as easily this time.

Ilya noticed. Of course he did.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s what I thought.”

“Don’t do that,” Shane snapped. “Do what?” “Act like you know me.” “I don’t,” Ilya said. “But I know this—you don’t hate me as much as you should.”

Shane stepped forward before he could think better of it, closing the gap. “You want to test that?” Ilya didn’t move back. “Yes.”

That space again. Smaller now. Tighter. Familiar in the worst way.

“Bad idea,” Shane muttered. “Probably,” Ilya agreed, but didn’t step away.

A distant door slammed somewhere down the hall. Neither of them moved.

Shane’s voice dropped. “We said this was a mistake.” “Did we?” Ilya asked.

That was the problem.

It didn’t feel like one anymore.

Shane knew where this was heading. Knew exactly when he should stop it.

He didn’t.

Not when Ilya stepped closer. Not when his hand caught the front of Shane’s jersey again, slower this time, giving him time to pull away.

He didn’t.

“Tell me to stop,” Ilya said, low, steady.

Shane’s breath hitched.

He should have.

Instead, he stayed right where he was.

And this time—

Neither of them pretended it didn’t mean anything.