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"Hey do you have a minute to talk about our lord and saviour Park Jimin and his golden husband Jeon Jungkook?" 🐰💜🐥

[themoonandmyman]

baby Ilya’s tiny angry Russian ranting when Irina won’t let him stay on the ice and his cheeks are all bright pink and his little nose is wet and he’s plopping down onto the ice and crossing his arms and yelling NYET NYET NYET.

Across the ocean at the exact same time, the exact same thing is happening to a very exhausted Yuna Hollander.

[morganasmissus]

just realized that Heated Rivalry came out after October. which means this year will be Shane and Ilya’s first kinktober. everyone hold on

[bigandlong]

If you see this on your dashboard, reblog this, NO MATTER WHAT and all your dreams and wishes will come true.

[jae-felidae]

Oh hey! Haven’t seen this in forever! Didn’t reblog it when it came across me before, not gonna skip it this time, I need some good vibes.

[isolabellz]

does tumblr know about pork hollander?

[writinginasnowglobe]

a collection of agendas i'm furthering in every hollanov fic i write as much as i can because they've taken up too much space in my brain:

hollanov team dads / hollanov adopting the cens rookies (why yes ilya texts the rooks when shane "can't do math" and makes too much food for dinner and the rooks come over bc yes free food but also shane and ilya's home is a space of comfort !!!!)

shane calling ilya "baby" (found out that this is not a tag yet even though the vice versa one is and i'm gonna need more people to hop on this train with me i can't be the only one contributing, pls i beg)

shane hollander CAN fight even if he doesn't always (this one is so important to me okay shane deserves to be angry and hurt by the voyageurs' betrayal and deserves to fight a little sometimes, we die like shane hollander's "golden boy" persona !!)

luca haas is a little menace (no further explanation except that he learned from the best)

luca haas hollanov stan (this is canon to me idc bc he WAS running a hollanov tumblr when he was a younger teen and that’s just fact)

ottawa centaurs found family (i don't CARE if it's unrealistic they are a family to ME)

this is very specific to my smau fics but....shane hollander deserves to be a little unhinged on main okay i know we all know ilya's the main menace but i personally love when it's shane being unhinged

freak4freak shane hollander and ilya rozanov (i don't think this one needs any more explaining)

[milominderbindered]

frequently, secretly fond of each other.

| the hollanov boston raiders teammates au | chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19

Shrugging one shoulder far more casually than he possibly feels, Ilya says, “I like both. Is secret, okay?” “Okay,” Hollander says. He doesn’t say anything else. The air’s so heavy around them that it feels like being in the middle of a scrum, the weight and heat of all those bodies pressing down on you. Danger always feels like hockey; it’s the most dangerous thing Ilya knows, except for this. Everything dangerous in his life involves men’s bodies and just how close he can get to them. Closer than he probably should.

Nobody knows why Shane Hollander dropped out of the 2009 draft at the last second, and a year later it stuns the whole hockey world when he's signed by the Boston Raiders. Having the two biggest stars in the league on the same line is great for Boston - but playing alongside their worst rival was never exactly in Shane or Ilya's plans. Especially not when staying away from each other starts to feel just as impossible as getting along.

[ilya-sweetheart]

yeha yeah ilya has scratch marks down his back fics, but what about Shane showing up in the locker room with scratch marks down his back 👀

(he was riding ilya so good he couldn’t keep his hands off his man)

“woah wow! who hurt you tiger?” jj laughed loudly as Shane turned to his locker

“what?” shane was admittedly a little tired from spending the night at ilyas place before their match

“woah, cap i never thought you had it in you but damn - is this from boston lily!?”

“is what what?!” shane started getting frustrated now, but hayden quickly got him with the program

(shane has never blushed or stuttered as much as he did in that moment)

in the end, he was cheered on and hollared at for a good ten minutes (“no i won’t tell you fuckers anything, now get dressed we have a game!”)

the guys took a picture of shane’s destroyed back, all red with scratches down to his hips (which were covered in bruises) and shared in in their team groupchat

(shane then sent the picture of his flexing back muscles and ruined skin to ilya just to fuck with him before their game)

“look what you’ve done to me, lily”

“fuck hollander”

“again, tonight?”

“maybe if you’re lucky”

[ladykvetchingradish]

oh training a pet is hard? well Shane Hollander domesticated his little bisexual freak without even trying, so maybe you’re just not doing it right babe

[ellestarcentaurs]

՞. .՞𐦯 Summary:

“Crazy fucking season, eh? Never thought they'd let a faggot like you back on the ice,” His chest was shoved – hard. It hurts him through his padding before his collar gets balled up and Rozanov violently shakes him, momentum favoring the speed at which he jumps him. “Watch your fucking mouth when you talk to my team,” he snarls.

՞. .՞𐦯 Tags and Themes: author will ride or die with centaurs, protective hollanov, use of homophobic chirps, blood is drawn in a fight

՞. .՞𐦯 Warnings: MAJOR spoilers for The Long Game from the Game Changers series. THEMES OF HOCKEY-RELATED VIOLENCE AND HOMOPHOBIC LANGUAGE USE.

՞. .՞𐦯 Word Count: 5.3k | find me.

divider credit - v6gue

“You have got to be fucking kidding me…” Anthony Mullner, Colorado Blizzard’s alternate captain furrows his brows, the newly released rosters finally out. “We cannot be the against fucking Ottawa in our second match-off,”

“We are?” one of his teammates, fresh out of the shower, leans over and looks at the screen. “Fucking christ…”

“Hollander’s first season in the Cents eh?”

“What a fucking nightmare,” Mullner shakes his head. 

Hollander pops off the knob before stripping off the tape narrowly, making it flush against the butt end, wrapping it over ten times before it reaches a certain thickness before capping the opened end the plug left with more tape, thrice over and then twisting the tape to form ropes for better grip. “You still tape like amateur, Hollander,”

“Fuck off and mind your own business, Rozanov.” he rolls his eyes, not stopping when he twines the ropes into candy canes, wrapping it twice with the normal width of tape up until the label up top. The team had yet to get used to the sharpness with their interactions, trying to pass it off as normal. It’s not like they haven’t seen Shane or Ilya lovey-dovey with each other – it was just a really stark contrast. The mere idea of the ice sets them off, a rivalry so embedded into them it’s hard to break away, or rather, they’ve found a familiar sense of familiarity and comfort behind the roughness of their play. 

They’re being playful, and the team needed more time for them to wrap their heads around that. 

Their tape jobs are also a heavy contrast–with Hollander obsessing over every meticulous detail and Rozanov’s barely there job, just five twists all over and calling it a day. There was a reason his hands were more calloused than his husband’s. 

“That’s why your tape cracks open mid-game,” Hollander passes over to grab the pride tape, just doing it once over the very bottom of where his gloves stopped holding the shaft. He loved the representation but the finish was not ideal to him. 

“What happened to minding your business, huh?”

“You started it,” 

Rozanov suddenly grabs Hollander’s stick, pulling him until he’s forced to lean forward, and he steals a kiss before Hollander shoves him lightly on the shoulder, holding back a smile before his husband smacks him on the ass and lets him continue getting ready. 

Grabbing a marker, he scribbles a quick ‘Yuna’ on his stick. Twisting it around, he adds ‘Irina’, blowing on the ink, watching it dry before taking it out on a spin. The last of his taping rituals finishes when coach Wiebe walks in, tense energy now palpable. 

“Gather up,” his voice booms. “Let’s talk game,”

Meanwhile, the energy is more glum within the locker rooms of the Blizzards. Their captain, Jonathan King, clasps his hands together. “Come on gang, we cannot look so fucken’ glum eh?” his eyes span around the room, “What about it? It’s just fucking Hollander and Rozanov, yeah? They aren’t on the ice all the time and Hollander is a baby deer with new legs. There’s no Pike, no Boizieau, and no Miitka,” he assures them.

“Hell yeah!” Mullner cheers from the west cubicles. “Can’t possibly lose to the fucking Centaurs now!”

Their team follows along, riding the tides of adrenaline despite the pressure breathing down their backs. Individually, either Rozanov and Hollander could have a hat trick within the 1st period. Three goals too much, if you asked the other teams. God knows what they could do together. 

“We have to believe in the power of our team. We’ve been in the play-offs in an unbroken streak and we’re just getting fucking started this season, we can’t let Ottawa have a fucking pass at us now, can we? Let’s wipe that backwater team from the map again,”

Cheers echo through the guest locker rooms, team chants leaking through their walls.

And before anyone knows it, it's game time. 

 Hollander ducks down center ice, face to face with Colorado’s newest draftee, a fresh-faced rookie who couldn't even look him in the eyes, death grip on his stick and eyes planted down on the ice. 

He pities the poor kid. He remembers once upon a time, coming face to face with his hockey idol at eighteen years old. He badly lost three face-offs against that legendary hockey player. It all seemed like yesterday too, so young and full of gas in the tank. The ref poises himself, holding the puck above them as he slips his mouthguard in. 

“Good luck, kid,” he simply says before pushing the puck sideways, his teammates quickly darting to grab it into their zone. 

Haas immediately attempts a shot at the net, tapping his stick against the ice twice before Hollander passes it through, allowing their own rook to try and find an opening against the Blizzard’s own goalie–veteran against rook, a game played as old as it could. He misses, not too entirely, hitting the left pole as it enters the crease before being pushed out. 

Hollander has heard from his husband that missed shots immediately throw the rook off, too rife with guilt so with as loud as he could muster, he shouts across the ice, “Shake it off! Shake it off, one more!” before trying to contend with the other players behind the net, getting into the scrum with Rozanov and Dykstra before passing it to Haas again. 

This time, he finally pushes it in a bar down, the lights immediately flashing and horns blaring at a 1-0 within the first two minutes of the first period. Whether Colorado wanted to believe it was luck or an intentional pass, it didn't matter. Not when the Cents were already piling on their youngest, shaking and smothering him with helmet pats and cheers with their first goal. Hollander’s passes were great with the rook's, the anticipation and understanding of what he needs coming in clutch as they go have another face-off. 

The play continues, Colorado winning with Dykstra and the forwards immediately heading to the defensive zone. Dykstra immediately checks one the right winger, puck slipping out from his blade only for a teammate to save it and try to make a shot at Hayes who bounces the puck back off his shin pads, successful at deflecting it only to be dogpiled with a second try, the whistle immediately blowing when both Hollander and Rozanov tear the opposition off their goalie. 

“They're covering the puck!” Rozanov argues, always at a home court disadvantage when it comes to the refs and linemen. Obviously with additional pushback now. It was understated, but the officials didn't have to hide their disdain toward Ottawa. 

“Back to the neutral zone, Rozanov,”

“No, no, not until you penalize Logan. I saw him high stick our goalie before covering the puck,” he argues, not one to really take shit from everyone and wildly protective of his team. 

Boodram nudges Hollander, “Love a man in authority” 

That makes him smirk, tapping Bood to retreat back, “He's always been one hell of an enforcer,” 

“Oh trust me, we know,” Bood chuckles and shakes his head, “Fucking Logan is a gong show, ey?” 

“All height, no power. Fucking embarrassing,” he scoffs back. 

Time ticks by as the play continues, the boards remaining a 1-0 even at the end of the first period. 

By the time the second period is marked at fifteen minutes in, Rozanov has to go back to the bench, Barrett coming in hot only for Mullner to zip past Rozanov quickly and before he knows it, his husband is the target. 

Managing to dodge the alternate captain, Hollander moves, getting caught in the momentum before the shank of his stick snaps against Muller's skates. Rozanov darts back, tossing his own and bringing his husband's broken one with him, not wanting Hollander to lose the puck he had in his possession.

With quick enough movements, he manages to maintain his ownership on the puck. 

The announcer's surprised voice rings through. “And it seems Hollander’s snapped! Rozanov is back on the bench, his own stick offered to his teammate!” 

“I don't know about you Charles, but from what I've heard the two have very different stick specs! With Hollander operating at a 105 flex, harder than his usual, would he actually be able to play?!” 

But Hollander just adjusts his grip. He'd tried out his husband's stick in jest a handful of times. But even with what he considers a shoddy tape job from his husband, he tightens his wrist and braces for harder hits. 

“Cap…” LaPointe trails him nervously the moment his captain gets settled on the bench, eyes sharp and trained on him and the ice.

“He'll manage,”

It takes him four shots towards the net before getting the hang of it. Effectively, however, his momentum is not broken–better to use another stick rather than stopping to change. 

Chouinard manages to get the puck back, immediately passing it to Barrett as they rush back to the opposing defense zone, and by the wings, Hollander is waiting for him to cross the blue line before speeding up, and with a twist on both his wrist and arm, he braces himself and shoots the puck directly off Barrett's pass, the speed of the puck making the snow around it flurry up before it lands on the net, another goal scored by the Cents. 

2-0.

When Shane enters the bench for a break, he immediately receives a big, fat kiss on his cheek as he laughs and playfully shoves Ilya off him, who pats his helmet with a beaming smile. 

“Such a saucer that was, yes? Very nice,” 

Shane rolls his eyes and hands Ilya's stick back to him, tape already split down the middle. “If you taped it a little more properly it wouldn't crack like that,” 

“Again, with the tape job. Then I just re-tape it again, so easy,” Ilya groans with exasperation, handing Shane another roll of tape save for the one he was about to use as his husband finally recovers his own stick. “Maybe I should start using a firmer flex,”

“I told you. Less flimsy,” 

“But maybe not a 105, still too stiff,” Shane shakes his head while multi-tasking with his new tape job. “Got a marker in here?” 

One of the guys from the line toss it to him, and he busies himself with his ritual–same names, same places. 

“You put mama’s name too,” Ilya points out, “I saw it a while ago,” 

“I wasn’t necessarily hiding it,” Shane hums and looks at him, seeing the slightly watery look in his husband’s eye. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he quickly shakes his head, unable to hold his smile back, gently bumping his shoulder against Shane’s. “Love you,”

“Тоже тебя люблю,” Shane pushes back against the weight before Zane suddenly crashes down against the boards, snapping them out of their revelry. “Motherfuck!” he curses loudly before getting himself back together and darting after the puck. 

They manage to knock out the game by the end of third period – a good 3-1 against the Colorado Blizzards. 

Game 5 — September 24

The Winnipeg Darts had a history of verbally scathing players. Any and every insult and chirp under the sun, released from their arsenal better than their puck ever entering the net, especially within the confines of their home court. Star problem players, however, Mark Bernese and Salvadore Golde, were short fuses looking for a bad time. 

In their minds, the Centaurs were easy prey. Queer, married, fathers within the team and to them were very glowing and glaring soft spots. No bar too low.

“Okay, listen up,” Rozanov calls their attention, clapping his hands before taking a deep breath, “This team will try to piss you off. It breaks my heart to ask, but please do not engage in any fights on the ice,” 

The team is silent, as if already solemn with self-control. “You let me and Bood handle whatever fights they try to make, but we are not in home court and their refs are shit. I know it is hard, and when you are stressed out and tired, you want to throw hands. We can do that to Toronto next game, we cannot do that here, so no fisticuffs yet. Please,” 

His eyes span around the room, seeing the steadfast faces of the men who held onto his every word like law. Rozanov from the Raiders would’ve scoffed and called him a pussy, but this was a game they couldn’t afford to throw. It would be very dangerous for their general point standing if they allowed any officials to cherry pick what penalties they wanted to dole out. 

“Take care of each other on the ice. You only have each other here. And I know you could do it,”

“Yes captain!” their voice booms through the locker room. Rozanov grinds his teeth, taking in a deep breath before nudging his head towards Boodram and his alternate captain follows suit. “You got this?”

Boodram bumps his helmet against Roz’s, “Abso-fucking-lutely. Let’s do this cap. I got you,”

A small smile is pulled out from the tension coiled in Rozanov's body, offering his glove up to be bumped. “I know you do,” 

“Let's wipe the ice with ‘em, see how they like it,” Bood cranes his head back into the locker room, “Let's roll out!” 

The boos are immediately evident from the home side of the audience. Even their own fans didn't like their own players and god, was Winnipeg a mess. And the moment Golde’s eyes come into contact with Hollander’s, the smirk on his face tells all–like the cat got the cream and Shane tries his best to not let it affect him before they could even face-off. 

Even before his signing to Ottawa, Golde was already a homophobic player, throwing slurs and derogatory chirps at anyone who would listen. Now that in his mind, his fucked up humor had been realized–three queer players in a team–he couldn't help but grin and relish in the feast he thinks he's having. 

“Hollander,” Wiebe nods, “First line center again, yeah? I'll put you in with Holmberg and Haas. I need to distribute the lot of you out, and I find this is the wisest it could get. You try to rack up as many you could before they fucking pummel you down into the boards,” 

“Seems like we're about to have a lot of power plays today, coach,” Hollander stretches his neck. “We've got this,”

Skating towards center ice, he's flanked by Dykstra and LaPointe, triaded with the rookies as he bends down and braces himself. Taking a deep breath, he sees Golde’s skates roll right in front of him.

Haas hesitates, seeing Hollander’s eyes shift upwards when the opposing center says something to him. His eyes flit back to Rozanov, seated and spectating from the bench and before he could stop himself–barks at him in a desperate attempt to try and detach from what he could only assume was a derogatory chirp.

His captain wasn't on ice, but he'd be damned if he didn't try.

Just one, firm ‘woof’ but he sees him smile from the periphery, dropping his head with a laugh as the ref finally drops the puck. 

Pushing forward and fueled by Haas somehow, Hollander wins the face off. 

It doesn't take long for both Haas and Hollander to be checked, toppling into each other while the older player helps him up quickly, catching up to retrieve the puck while hearing a distant, “Fucking gay ass cunt!” 

Hollander’s eyes narrow, immediately speeding up and jabbing off one player’s stick from the ice, making a pass at Dykstra who hurriedly brings it to Winnipeg's defensive zone, intentionally making a shot behind the net so that Hollander coming from the east side of the court could swipe it up with enough momentum even with two Darts players hot on his trail.

“Haasy, your right!” he shouts, seeing them charge after him preemptively before finally shooting in the net able to make it slide in top-side. The goalie is able to bat the puck, making him curse under his breath before the whistle blows. 

Back in the center ice, there's another face-off and Hollander manages to win again, teeth grit with determination and white-knuckle grip just wanting to score at least one. Winnipeg was shit, but they were riding hot on their rookie goalie’s trail, so fresh and full of ambition. 

Eventually, however, with Rozanov joining the frey and Hollander taking a breather on the benches, he manages to score with a minute left for the first period, saucer pass managing to bounce off his puck and slam into the net. 

With a 1-0, Hollander returns on ice for the second period after intermission, briefly paired with his husband again. 

“Tough goalie,” he huffs. 

“Good kid. Got a lot of mileage, the faster he's out of his team, the better,” 

Rozanov shrugs his shoulders and hums, “Fair, actually. It is obvious he is the best they got and is not such an asshole,” he comments with finality before crossing sticks with a Darts player, being right winger for his husband. 

The puck drops, and with one strike too hard, Winnipeg accidentally forms a hole on the board panels, garnering an immediate whistle as the referee immediately goes to check – calling in game stoppage. Whether it was their excuse to buy their own home team some time or was an actual area of concern, none of the Cents contested it.

The game stops momentarily, and as Hollander idles by, waiting for the refs to proceed, Bernese approaches him, squaring up as he stops just shy of an inch from brushing against his jersey. 

He'd played against Hollander a handful of times in past seasons, seeing how docile he could get, not one to get into fights outside of body checks and the usual puck scrum. 

“Crazy fucking season, eh? Never thought they'd let a faggot like you back on the ice,”

Hollander takes a step back, immediately moving out of the way as Rozanov charges from his right, catching Bernese seemingly off guard, not anticipating him to actually hear the chirp. His chest was shoved – hard. It hurts him through his padding before his collar gets balled up and Rozanov violently shakes him, momentum favoring the speed at which he jumps him. 

“Watch your fucking mouth when you talk to my team,” he snarls. 

Hollander makes eye contact with Bernese who tries fighting back and smirks, rolling his eyes and turning around to skate away, allowing Rozanov to have his way with him if the lineman didn't intervene immediately. “Back to your bench! Both of you! Jesus,” 

Bernese skates back, a little shaken by what he witnessed as Gahllager chuckles. “I see Rozanov is back at it,”

“...Hollander had him at me,” he slowly comes to the realization. “Fucking…he turned around! He wasn’t going to hold Rozanov back!” 

He wasn’t fucking crazy, was he? He saw it with his own eyes. Maybe it was better after all that he was Captain. In Montreal. Not whatever the fuck Ottawa was allowing him to be. 

The game ended in an embarrassing 4-0 for the Darts. Only doling out penalties for both Rozanov and Boodram, and even with seven chances at a power play, they couldn’t get a score in. 

Game 7 – October 15

Anaheim Albatross had very good defensemen. And god if that wasn't pissing Rozanov off already with a glaring 1-2 gap in their first period. 

Steering himself to try and break that defense line, he checks Felix Kister. Hard. His entire arm shoves him off, knocking the stick back down and letting go of the puck before leaving him in the dust, finally having the damn thing in his possession rather than just scrambling to make sure it doesn’t go through Hayes or their goal. 

Kister, with a now obvious chip on his shoulder and bruised ego, chases after him. His grip on his stick tightens and before Rozanov knows it, a taped knob is immediately jammed into his face, hitting his nose with an injurious speed as the whistle blows. 

The ref signals with one closed fist above the other, a high sticking penalty called making the players stop. Dykstra is about to charge against Kister but stops when he sees small droplets of red on the ice. 

And when he finally lifts his head up in recovery, Rozanov's nose is bleeding. A five minute penalty for the Albatross. 

All the worry fizzles out of Hollander when his boxers tighten within the confines of his padding and jock, it's fucking embarrassing how hot his husband looked with a cocky grin and literal blood dripping out of his nose, tongue darting out against bloodied lips while he trudges back to the boards.

“Subtitles,” Barrett nudges him, reminding him that he had a tendency to wear his heart out on his face. “Your husband just got sacked, at least look a little sad. Jesus, Hollander,” 

“Right. Right,” he feels his cheeks heat up, shaking his head. “My bad,” 

Barrett does a double take towards Rozanov, brows furrowed before looking back at Hollander. “You…are one messy motherfucker Hollzy,”

“Just tell me you and Harris are vanilla, hurts me less,” he bumps his fist lightly against his shoulder, hearing him stammer in shock. Of course he feels bad for Ilya. 

But his teeth and tongue ache between his guard and he truly tries to skate it off. Would it be a dream to lick all that blood off? Absolutely. Would it be abhorrent to do that in front of an audience and officials? Also yes. 

So he tamps it down, trying to channel his arousal into anger because an injury is an injury regardless. His focus dialing back in, he steers himself to catch after the puck when Anaheim wins the face off. The Centaurs have Hayes flanked, making sure that if they couldn’t get Chouinard to steal the puck back, it couldn’t get in the net.  

The lot of them are clustered around near the crease, legs, skates, and sticks tangling with each other, one of them takes a shot and the puck goes to the back of the net, both Barrett and Haas fighting tooth and nail with the blades of their stick to make sure the puck doesn’t get veered off sideways. 

With another try at a shot, one of Anaheim pushes past the two forwards playing defensive before being stopped by Haye’s stick, pushing the puck towards the far left where Hollander is waiting and quickly, he manages to gain possession of the puck, skating fast enough with four Albatross players on him. Taking a shot, he hits the cross bar and it isn’t a goal. 

With exhaustion seeping into his veins, he looks to the benches, seeing LaPointe hiking the boards as he opts to rest and head back. 

“Tired already?” his husband teases, making Shane tip him off the bench while grabbing Ilya’s bottle for himself and taking in large gulps of water, “Shut up. How’s your nose?”

“Not too painful, I wanna scratch but Terry said no,”

“Yeah? You better not,”

“You like it when I bleed, sweetheart?”

That makes Shane snap his head back, eyes wide with accused surprise as he sputters in shock. “Absolutely not!”

Ilya raises a brow, “No? But I think you’re lying.”

“Ilya…fucks sake we’re still on ice,” Shane’s face reddens, like a kid with his hand caught down the cookie jar, turning away from his husband who starts gently tugging at his ankles with his stick, grinning like the cat got the cream. “We can explore that little fascination, no?”

“Ilya.” he sternly stops him.

“Shane?”

“Oh fuck you, drop it!” he sputters and ambles his way to the other side of the bench, nape too hot underneath his helmet but rather suffering through it than expose his very red face. One time, it was one time!

His eyes trail the ice, the Albatross managing another point, putting them 1-3 but Rozanov hops over the boards the moment Barrett opts out, and passing by Hollander’s side, he makes a quick pit stop. “If I bring that score count up, you owe me the truth, yes?” he winks and darts towards the ice before Hollander could even process his wager. The little shit. 

But that’s what Rozanov does best on the ice. Getting on people’s nerves and having his words to be answered for with an absolutely lethal play. 

Ducking down for a face off, Rozanov lifts his eyes to Laughnan, grinning, “You’re tired, I can see it in your eyes. Is the big leagues too tiring for you? No hard plays in div two?” he chirps and it clearly gets on the center’s nerves who spits on the ice. “Fuck you Rozanov, I’ll make your fag nose bleed again,”

An infuriating shrug to his shoulder, he hums, “Sure,” before the puck drops and he immediately pushes back, not waiting for Laughnan to react, breaking his stick away from him and catching the very puck he touched, immediately charging to the opposition’s defense line. 

Pushing through with pure brute strength given by being off the ice for nearly ten minutes, the puck goes airborne when he lifts off, batting it towards the goal and immediately making the indicator light go off and it’s a second goal for the Centaurs. Fueled by the sheer idea of his husband confessing that maybe he does have a violence kink. 

With each face off every after goal, he manages to get on Laughnan’s nerves while finishing up a hat trick on his second shift on ice, bumping them into a 4-3 within just two minutes and before anyone knows it, the third period is nearly starting. Much to Shane’s chagrin because he had a sinking feeling that he wouldn’t get sleep tonight at all. 

“You’re such a fucking show-off, you know that,” Hollander snarls playfully against grit teeth, the tip of his nose nearly pressed against Rozanov’s when his husband hangs out the the boards with a satisfied smirk. “If I do one better, I don’t have to tell you shit tonight,”

“No, no. Not possible, Hollander. I made those numbers go up, see?” Rozanov points at the scoreboards, “Is that how you thank your captain?”

“Asshole,” 

“You are starting to sound like Laughnan, is not so original anymore,” he beams with lips between his teeth when Hollander makes it his goal to shoulder check him when he’s called into ice for what could hopefully be their last period of the night. 

Laughnan on the other hand, is not doing so hot as he keeps his eyes trained on Hollander from the bench. “Fucking…did Rozanov get even more insufferable the moment his faggot fucking husband joined his backwater shit team?”

“Woah, language,” Jordie Manucas, his captain laughs along, sarcastic and shaking his head. “But he gets more audacious with his fleshlight on his team, yeah? Keeps the depression away, no?”

Laughnan raises a brow, turning to his captain, “He got depression?”

Manucas shrugs, “Ion know. His mom had it, my girl says he probably has it too. Psychology or some shit,” 

And something stirs inside him, eyes narrowing down on Rozanov who was taking a break on the boards. The moment he takes over the last of his shift for the third period, he manages to check Rozanov, only for the Russian to grin and make sure his husband got the puck. 

“Your aim is shit. Probably all those steroids you’re taking,” he chirps, shoving Laughnan off him. 

“Fuck off Rozanov! Join your dead fucking mother too!” 

Hollander’s head snaps sideways, a little shellshocked at the chirp before dropping his gloves and immediately charging. It was 5-3 with two minutes and fifteen to burn before time, he could afford a fight. 

Laughnan goes down the ice with a sickening thud, helmet immediately off by Hollander’s hand, his first infraction among many. But with a player as big as him, he clambers back up, able to rip his helmet off too. Fist fly, and there's no letting go even with a lineman trying to intervene.

But Hollander has the higher ground, fist immediately colliding with the south of his cheek, skin breaking. “Say that again!” he roars against Laughnan's face, “Say that to my face, what about my fucking mother, huh?!” 

“Not even yours man!” he coughs, feeling his face heat up from the impact, god knows he's cut somewhere. 

“You dumb fuck. Watch your fucking mouth next time, or I'll have it personally seen to that shithole of yours being unhinged at the bone you can't even fucking swallow soup,” Shane bellows, pure bloodlust in his eyes. If the chirp wasn't so bad Laughnan would've assumed he was just doing it to pick a fight. 

“Hollander enough!” the linemen and a referee finally pulls him away. Heaving, Hollander finally slackens as he comes face to face with a very angry referee. “When you are told to stop. You stop,” 

And finally, Rozanov skates by his husband's side. “Out of the game for you, Hollander. We'll take it from here,” he says in a stern voice, a little surprising for the ref who would've expected a bit of pushback from the game ejection. 

“Got it cap,” he concedes easily, wiping the now dripping blood from his nose, adding to the disbelief amongst the disciplinary committee. Laughnan had it worse. “Sorry about him,” Rozanov softly chuckles, “Bad chirp,” he shrugs. 

Like his husband hadn't given another player a cut cheek, missing tooth, bleeding nose, and black eye. 

Rozanov grabs his arm, gloves off and pushes his nose in closest he could to his cheek, “You really want your dick sucked tonight, no?” 

“I couldn't let him talk about you that way, Ilya,” Hollander says through grit teeth, fire burning in his eyes and Rozanov swears he would fuck him center ice one of these days. 

“You are too dangerous for my heart, Hollander. Now go take a breather, we'll take it from here,” he pats his chest and shoos him off, watching as his husband ambles off to the dressing room. Shanking his head, he has to hold off from beaming too widely on the ice, but god was he absolutely gone for Shane fucking Hollander.

“Okay, I do not condone violence like that on ice!” Rozanov announces in the locker room as a chorus of cheers and woops fill the space, hands and fists jostling Hollander. “Because he punched a guy, no player of the night, but! He did give us fifty assists this game alone, Hollzy!” he reads from the list Brandon had handed him after the game. 

“So no honorable pink cowboy hat for you tonight, Hollander, very sad,” he says very patronizingly while makes his husband swat at his ass with a grin. 

“Instead, with the second best player in rank, Barzy! Our winning goal of the night!” and the cheers intensify, Harris handing Ilya the pink, felt cowboy hat, a tradition they’ve started since he was made captain. As the team celebrates, Ilya manages to steal Shane away back from incessant rookies and Wyatt goading him on further for sacking someone so bad. 

“You have been on fire this season, my love,”

“Wow, my love. That’s new,” Shane grins up at him, smug and more than self-satisfied. 

Ilya shrugs, “Wanted to change some things up. Just like you,” he bumps his shoulder against his'. "And is just English version, you know that right?"

“Just feel like I have more to prove now,” he tilts his head up, their noses nearly touching as the ruckus in the locker rooms blur out of their space, “Somehow I feel like I gotta impress you,”

“And you are,” he affirms, grin irremovable from his face. “And you are getting very lucky tonight, Hollander.”

“Oh I know I will,” 

[fidget-scribbles]

The Gay Hockey show is gnawing on my remaining braincells, and I know I'm not alone in that. The tag is exploding, I don't know anything special, but… Here's some Hollanov fic I've enjoyed

Comment/reblog with your recs?

Learning to Fly by WriteSmart 11,558 Words - Teen  Shane calls his parents and, for reasons beyond understanding, asks them to pick Ilya Rozanov up from the hospital and take him home with them. They start to understand. Yuna Hollander POV

The Game Plan by FestiveFerret, pouringinsheets 64,024 Words - Explicit Ilya's immigration status is compromised by a draft day celebration. Shane (possibly looking for an excuse to get out of a party) decides to help, which logically means they have to get married. You know you want secret marriage hijinks. 

I'm Reading Your Lips (You're Speaking My Language) by some1_around 30,447 - Mature Shane speaks Russian, and that starts the most famous friendship in the NHL. Full of feelings and metaphors about language and communication and trust. 

please leave a message by Ravenesta 2,407 Words - Teen Fun cracky textfic - 'Lilly' gets added to the Montreal WAGs grouptext. Hijinks ensue.  Currently #1 in kudos. It's funny and cute, and has a dozen 'inspired by' in case you want more

loving this body by beetlesandstars, kryptonian 22,370 Words - Explicit Bodyswap. That's it, that's the plot: they wake up in each others' bodies. It's fun and sexy. 

don't leave me high (don't leave me dry) by emonlispenardstreet 83,600 Words - Explicit - WIP 9/? chapters Smutty College AU - Shane puts a drunken ad on craigslist asking for help with oral sex. His teammate Ilya replies. It's funny, it's hot, it's angsty. 

the soviet montage by pressuretoparty 63,128 Words - Mature  - WIP 5/6 chapters 1980s AU featuring Soviet defector Ilya Rozanov, gay disaster Shane Hollander, and surprise BAMF Rose Landry

Home Ice Advantage by taywrites11 27,466  Words - Explicit - WIP3/5 chapters Shane gets traded to Boston halfway through his first season. Boston, where Ilya is. Cue panic.

[itsimii]

Read almost all of these, excellent stuff 😙👌🏻

[a-stray-thief]

Shane fucking Hollander - or a Cliff finds out ficlet

[this is a first draft but bc ao3 is still down, so this is my offering in these dark times]

Cliff wakes up early. He loves to party but he’s still a professional hockey player and at some point getting drunk until 2 AM and then getting up for an early morning flight has just become second nature. Hydration, Advil, and a lot of coffee are the keys to survival.

When his internal clock wakes him at eight, he’s not mad about it. They have a noon flight so that gives him time for a shower, a nice greasy breakfast with Roz, and then herding the no doubt incredibly hungover rookies back to their hotel.

He finds a bathroom with fresh towels in the hallway. He’s not a fan of putting his old clothes back on, but he can just turn his boxers inside out and he’ll borrow a fresh shirt from Roz. It’ll be a little short but he can deal.

When he walks downstairs, Roz is in the kitchen in sweatpants and a Centaurs shirt, staring blarily at the coffee maker. There’s no sign the rookies are conscious yet.

“Well, you look like death warmed over.” Cliff doesn’t bother keeping his voice down, the rookies need to get up.

He thinks he hears a faint groan from the living room.

Roz stares at him with narrowed eyes. It would be intimidating if he didn’t look so pathetic.

“Come on man, we didn’t even drink that much last night.”

Roz waves him off. “Not used to it anymore.”

Cliff wants to prod him about that, about his new life with Jane and whether it makes him happy enough to make up for playing on such a bad team, but that’s when there’s noise from the living

room and then Svenson and Brooks stumble into the room. They look even worse than Roz.

“Bathroom,” Roz says and points down the hallway. “Then coffee.”

They nod and shuffle down the hallway. There’s some noise, the click of a door and then Brooks reappears, blinking dumbly.

“Only one toilet,” he says.

Cliff sighs and hands over a mug of coffee. “Lightweight.”

Brooks gives him a betrayed look. “You made us drink vodka with a Russian.”

Roz nods. “Is true. Rookie mistake.” He snickers at his own joke then groans and grips his head.

“Roz isn’t even in drinking shape,” Cliff says mildly and pours more coffee.

Brooks stares in horror and then burns his mouth on his coffee. Cliff can’t help but laugh.

Eventually, Svenson reappears. His face is flushed and the tips of his blond hair are wet so he attempted some sort of wash. Cliff pushes a coffe cup in his direction and Roz digs out a bottle of Advil. He takes two before he hands it over.

“Grease?” Cliff asks.

“Eggs and bacon in the fridge,” Roz says, apparently unwilling to move from where he’s leaning heavily against the kitchen counter.

Cliff gets started and eventually Roz manages to help with the eggs. He throws some herbs in it which is definitely new but it smells nice so Cliff isn’t complaining.

Brooks reappears, lookin marginally more alive but also incredibly grateful for the Advil.

“You guys need to learn how to party,” Cliff says. “Roz here was a natural when he came to Boston.”

“I am a natural at everything,” Roz mutters but his bragging is lacking his usual energy. He still looks like he’s ready to go back to sleep.

“Yeah, I’m not comparing myself in anything to Ilya Rozanov,” Svenson mutters under his breath.

It’s not quiet enough because Roz nods and says, “I am incomparable.”

Cliff laughs again. Man, he misses Roz. He blames it on his own lack of sleep that he actually says that out loud.

Instead of ribbing him, Roz just bumps his shoulder against Cliff’s.

It's what gives Cliff the courage to say, “I feel like in compensation I should at least get to meet Jane.”

Roz’s instant “no” clashes with Brooks “Jane?”

“Shut up,” Roz says to the room at large.

“Oh come on, man,” Cliff says. “I already know she’s the reason you moved here.”

Roz stares at him with wide eyes. “What?”

The two rookies stare equally wide-eyed.

“Montreal girl.” Cliff says. “Jane.”

“In case you forgot, I moved to Ottawa,” Roz says with a snort but his shoulders are tense. Cliff should probably drop this—he dropped it last night—but fuck that. They were team mates for nine years, friends even Cliff likes to think, partied their way through every club in a city with a hockey team.

Roz was the one who bailed him out of jail after the whole thing in St Louis and Cliff was the one who took a punch to the face when it turned out Roz unknowingly hit on a married woman whose husband had a very short fuse and a mean right hook in Philly.

And then Roz just left, almost no warning, packed up and left for fucking Ottawa, giving Cliff nothing more than press answers and cryptic shoulder shrugs. And Cliff never pressed on the whole Montreal girl thing because Roz was touchy about it, clearly a sore subject with the long distance and her obviously not wanting to move to Boston for him, but pretending she’s not the reason Roz left for Ottawa and Cliff’s too stupid to know it… Cliff’s a laid back guy and he rarely gets angry, not even with Roz, but fuck this.

“You still moved for her,” Cliff says. “And I don’t know why you keep lying about it.” To me Cliff doesn’t say, but then he does because fuck this. “Come on man, you can tell me. You could always tell me.”

“Ottawa,” Roz says slowly, with emphasis, like he’s speaking to a toddler, “Is not Montreal.”

And Cliff is done with this bullshit.

“Yeah, well you couldn’t go to Montreal.” Cliff holds up a finger. “They would never sign you because you’re the most hated player in Montreal.” He holds up another finger. “Hollander would never play with you. He’d never move to second line for you and you’d never play second line for him. So unless you suddenly want to play wing, no dice. Never mind that even if the fans don’t set the Bell Centre on fire for signing you and Hollander doesn’t run you through with his stick, they still don’t have the cap space to afford you. So no dice on Montreal. And if my Canadian geography isn’t completely fucked, then Ottawa is the closest you can get to Montreal.”

Roz stares at him, shoulders slumped in defeat.

“What I don’t fucking get, is why she wouldn’t move for you?”

“That’s what you don’t get?”

Cliff shrugs. “You’ve been after your Montreal girl since rookie season. No one stuck around for as long as her except for Svetlana and you were always the one who said she’s just a friend. But Jane was never a friend. And then you stopped sleeping around last year, so it was obvious it was getting serious. But man, you’re one of the best and Ottawa is shit so… Why couldn’t she come to Boston?”

Roz looks up at the ceiling and mutters something in Russian. Cliff really only learned one Russian word, blyat, because it’s Roz’s favorite curse word. He hears it now too.

Behind Roz, the rookies are staring, mouths open but not making a sound.

Finally Roz says, “Jane has job in Montreal. Career. Would be stupid to move.”

“And it wasn’t for you?” Cliff asks incredulously.

Roz shrugs. “I can rebuild the team. Did it before in Boston, no? And… family is here, in Ottawa. So Jane is here a lot. It makes sense.”

It’s an odd mix of mushy and cocky, which is really Roz’s whole thing if you get to know him, just that he usually hides the mushiness more under layers of insults. Still, Cliff has questions.

“Okay, but what I don’t get is why you didn’t tell anyone? Like the fans might have not felt so betrayed you know?”

Cliff might not have felt so betrayed.

Roz shrugs again. “Jane is very private. I did not want the press to go snooping.”

That makes Brooks break. He lets out an incredulous noise.

Roz turns around like he forgot the rookies were there.

“Just,” Brooks stars helpelssly, falling silent under Roz’s hard look.

Svenson, now apparently remembering that he’s a six foot four MLH defenseman who regularly gets into fights on the ice, says, “What girl wouldn’t want to be seen with you?”

Roz snorts. “Jane is much too good for me. Trust me, I would not be good for reputation.”

The rookies both stare uncomprehending. Cliff gets it; Roz is their idol. They both had his poster on their walls just a few years ago. When Brooks got drunk with the team for the first time, he confided in Hammersmith that getting drafted to Boston was a dream come true because of Roz and that he’d honest to god cried when Roz went to Ottawa before Brooks ever got to meet him. It’s the main reason Cliff brought them with him last night, instead of catching up with Roz alone. The rookies’ sad puppy eyes had been too much for even Cliff to refuse.

“Still,” Cliff says, because he can be a dog with a bone when he has to, “now that I know, I could meet her? Just grab lunch or dinner or something? I really want to meet the girl who got you to move to fucking Ottawa.”

Roz blows out breath. “Sure. Some day.” There’s something heavy in Roz’s expression.

Some day. It doesn’t sound like any day soon. And it’s glaringly obvious that it’s not Roz’s choice.

Cliff stares into his coffee and wonders about this girl—or woman now, considering how long they’ve been a thing—who made Roz settle down and move to the worst team in the league. Who works in a field where she doesn’t openly want to date a hockey player. Who comes to visit Roz sometimes but doesn’t want to live with him full time.

Cliff is starting to hate Jane from Montreal a little.

The kitchen is quiet now, everyone staring into their coffee cups, the rookies still in shock and Roz just tired.

In the silence, the noise of the front door opening is very loud.

Roz’s head snaps up immediately.

There’s some shuffling, maybe a bag dropped, then a voice calls out. “Ilya?”

The voice is male. And vaguely familiar.

What the fuck?

Roz has gone as white as a sheet and hurries out of the kitchen. “Hey. I have—”

“Oh good, you’re up, I thought maybe you got so shitfaced with Marleau yesterday you’re still unconscious,” the voice says. There’s more shuffling, maybe a coat hung up or shoes toed off.

“We did and Marleau is still—” Roz starts, standing in the hallway, but then Shane Hollander steps into view, steps up right to Roz, takes his face into his hands and pulls him in for a kiss. Right on the mouth. And it’s not just a little peck either, it’s a full on lip smash, tongue swipe, going in for seconds kiss on the mouth.

What the…

One of the rookies squeaks and Cliff stares and Roz is frozen and Hollander—Shane fucking Hollander— pulls back.

Hollander makes a face. “You taste like an ashtray rinsed with vodka.”

Roz makes a helpless croaky noise. “I—”

Hollander rolls his eyes, plants another kiss on Roz’s mouth and then says, “Go brush your teeth. I missed you.”

“I didn’t know you were coming early,” Roz says, desperately, pleading.

Hollander grins. “Surprise.” Then his face falls, apparently finally registering Roz’s expression. “Not a good surprise?”

Roz shakes his head.

There’s a clinking noise and every head in the room turns to the kitchen island where Brooks just turned over his coffee cup.

“Sorry,” he says, a small puddle of coffee spreading over the counter.

Hollander stares, wide eyed. “Fuck.”

“Yeah, so Marleau and the rookies got so drunk last night, they couldn’t remember their hotel or room numbers so I took them home,” Roz says, somewhat weakly.

“And you couldn’t tell me this?” Hollander hisses.

Roz shrugs. “Was also very drunk. And didn’t think you were coming until later.”

“The interview was canceled,” Hollander says, almost absently, his eyes flitting back and forth between Cliff and the rookies. “Oh god. Fuck.”

And Cliff… he shakes his head, thoughts finally kicking into gear again. Because suddenly Roz’s secrecy about his Montreal girl makes a lot more sense.

And it’s… a lot. Fucked up probably. What about their whole rivalry? How long has this been going on?

But no, Cliff knows this. Montreal girl has been around since rookie season. He just has a hard time translating this to Shane Hollander—Shane fucking Hollander—having been around scince rookie season in his head.

Shane Hollander. Montreal girl.

Shane. Jane.

Jesus Christ.

Cliff lets out an almost hysterical laugh.

Roz rounds on him immediately, gets a fist into his shirt. “Marleau, I swear, if you—”

Still laughing, Cliff raises his hands. “Roz, no. I just… fuck, you were right.”

“Right?”

“Your Montreal girl really is too good for you.”

And then Cliff laughs again. Because Roz is in love with Shane Hollander. Has been in love with Shane Hollander for years, maybe his entire career, and no one fucking knew. How the fuck did no one know? Because it’s fucking insane, that’s what it is, but here Cliff is, hungover in Roz’s kitchen where Shane Hollander—Shane fucking Hollander—just kissed Roz square on them mouth. With tongue.

Roz stares, then he laughs too. “He really fucking is. I’m still best hockey player though,” he adds and Cliff slaps him on the shoulder.

“My brother in Christ, Hollander always had you beat,” Cliff says, and it's at least halfway true, and it’s Roz’s turn to punch him and none too gently.

“What the fuck,” Hollander says faintly behind them and Cliff really should have recognized his voice immediately.

Roz turns around, and his whole posture changes. He walks over to Holland slowly. “Shane. Is okay. Cliff is okay.”

Holland nods, then stares at the rookies. Cliff doesn’t think he’s ever seen Hollander afraid, but it’s clear he’s now. And Cliff gets it. This is… a lot. And this is not Scott Hunter kissing his cute smoothie shop boyfriend after his cup win. This is the biggest rivals of the league being in a relationship. It’s kind of incomprehensible. Except they’re both risking their entire careers for this, have been risking their entire careers for this, and even if Cliff doesn’t get it, it’s got to be the real thing and Roz is still his friend, so Cliff will help him protect this. Even if it means threatening the rookies.

Roz just looks at the rookies for a second, his eyes suddenly burning with a promise that usually means someone is about to lose a tooth on the ice, then he turns back to Hollander. “The rookies will not say anything,” he says, voice calm and soothing. “They know I will kill them if they do.”

Brooks makes a noise again and Svenson goes very pale.

“We won’t tell,” Svenson says.

“Yeah.” Brooks clears his throat. “My cousin is a lesbian, so like, I’m down with the rainbow.” Then he cringes immediately.

“Svenson, are you also down with the rainbow?” Roz asks sardonically.

“I’m Swedish,” Svenson just says as if that explains everything. And maye it does.

“Cliff?” Roz prompts.

Cliff raises his hands. “Hey, man, I’m an ally. I went with Hunter to his bar the last time we played the Admirals.”

“And… us?” Hollander says, still standing very still and tense.

Cliff shrugs, decides to be honest. “I mean, it’s weird. I don’t understand how that worked for you guys. But like, I’ve watched Roz moon at his phone over his Montreal girl for years.”

“I did not moon,” Roz says, outraged.

“So whatever you guys have seems to be the real deal,” Cliff continues. “And I’m a romantic at heart.”

Roz snorts. “Stacey really domesticated you.”

“Pot.” Cliff points at Roz. “Kettle.”

And Roz, Ilya fucking Rozanov, smile as happily as Cliff has ever seen.

[ficauthor]

[kkumri]

911 what’s ur emergency? 👮🏻‍♂️👶🏻☎️

[crokitheloki]

everyone say thank you ao3 volunteers you're the best ao3 volunteers ily ao3 volunteers

[raisedbylibrarians]

[thatonekimgirl]

The moment Ilya fell hard for Shane, per Rachel Reid.

[academicblorbo]

Yuna and David asking about the timeline of their relationship would have been even funnier if, after discussing how long they've been "lovers":

Yuna: ok, so you've been "seeing" each other for 9 years... And when did you confess your real feelings and decided to be together?

Shane:

Ilya:

Yuna:

David:

Shane:

Ilya: like, today at 4am

[madrasaur]

hard launch