Heated Secrets
synopsis: maybe Ilya and Shane weren’t that great at hiding their secrets
a/n - duh. AFAB!reader btw - timeline doesn’t matter if no one addresses it
The luxury suite at TD Garden was vibrating with the kind of intense, seat rocking energy that only a Boston Raiders vs Montreal Voyagers game could produce.
It had taken a literal act of God and a massive, coordinated guilt trip to get Garrett to use the tickets his dad had offered to the group after a win. Garrett had been aggressively hesitant, pacing around the hotel room earlier that afternoon and muttering about "not wanting to owe the old man a single breath." But the promise of glass-seat proximity to an Original Six rivalry had finally won out, mostly because the boys had refused to let it go.
Now that they were actually here, the suite was a chaotic blur of Briar hockey energy. You were tucked into a leather high-top chair, squeezed happily between Hannah and Allie. The three of you had established your own sanctuary of snacks and cocktails, while the boys occupied the front tier of seats. Garrett and Tucker were already three beers deep, passionately screaming at a referee who couldn't hear them, while Logan was leaning over the railing, shouting obscure hockey chirps at the Montreal bench. Dean was sitting just in front of you, his backward cap pulled low, looking like a proud, golden-retriever boyfriend every time he turned back to check if you needed another drink.
You, however, weren't watching the puck. You were watching the ice. Specifically, two star players.
"Okay, am I losing my mind," you said, leaning forward and lowering your voice so the boys wouldn't hear, "or are the Raiders’ captain and the Voyagers’ golden boy trying to murder each other with their eyes? And not in a 'sports' way."
Hannah looked away from Garrett, her eyes darting down to the rink, while Allie immediately abandoned her phone, leaning in closer to you. "Wait, who? Rozanov and Hollander?Whose that?" Allie asked, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the ice.
"Yes! Look at them, right there-" you insisted, pointing with your cocktail napkin as the whistle blew.
Down on the ice, Rozanov had Hollander pinned aggressively against the boards. It was brutal, physical, and completely standard for a high-stakes NHL game, except for the fact that Rozanov’s face was buried directly in the crook of Hollander’s neck, and Hollander’s gloved hand was gripped tight on Rozanov’s jersey, pulling him closer rather than pushing him away.
As they broke apart, Rozanov gave Hollander a slow, infuriating smirk, his tongue catching his bottom lip, and Hollander’s jaw clenched so hard you thought his teeth might shatter.
"Oh my god," Allie whispered, her jaw dropping. "That is foreplay. The way he just lined him up against the glass? That was practically a mating ritual."
"Right?!" you hissed in validation. "That is a 'we definitely hook up in hotel rooms during the off-season' feud. Look at the tension. It’s radiating off them like a heatwave."
Hannah snorted, though she was looking at the ice with an analytical squint. "I mean, Garrett talks about their rivalry all the time. He says they’ve hated each other since juniors. But... wow. Did Hollander just looked at Rozanov's mouth? I swear I just saw him look at his mouth!”
"I am telling you, it's sexual!" you said, turning around to lean over Dean’s shoulder. You nudged his chin toward the rink. "Dean, look. Look at your boy Ilya. He’s obsessed with Hollander."
Dean chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you down just enough to plant a quick kiss on your cheek. "Babe, that’s just Rozanov. The guy is a machine, he plays nasty. And Hollander is the poster boy of the league. It’s a classic rivalry."
"Dean, look closer," you pleaded. "Garrett, your dad got these tickets. Does he know anything? Because those two are a second away from making out on the blue line."
Garrett, hearing his dad mentioned, turned around with an eye roll. "My dad barely knows what day it is, let alone the love lives of the NHL elite. Trust me, Hollander is a boy scout and Rozanov is a terrifying Russian robot. They hate each other's guts. Right, Wellsy?"
"Totally," Logan chimed in, washing down a handful of popcorn. "Yeah, tension because Rozanov probably chirped Hollander’s mom in Russian. Don’t overthink it, guys. Hockey players just hate each other. Especially between those two teams.”
Allie exchanged a look with you and Hannah, shaking her head. "They are entirely blind," she muttered. "Boys have zero emotional intelligence."
Throughout the second and third periods, the game became a background event for the three of you. Every time Rozanov and Hollander were on the ice together, it was a class in loaded glances, unnecessary physical contact, and a strange, hyper attentive awareness of where the other was at all times. When Hollander scored, Rozanov stared him down from across the ice with a look that was pure, possessive heat. When Rozanov took a penalty later in the period, Hollander watched him skate to the box with an expression that looked dangerously close to a pining teenager.
"They're in a situationship," you announced definitively as the third-period buzzer sounded, sealing a Raiders win. "A highly toxic, highly athletic, top-secret situationship."
Tucker laughed, tossing an empty cup into the bin as the boys stood up to stretch. "You've been reading too many of those romance novels, babes. They’re just aggressive guys."
Even back at the hotel, as everyone gathered in one room to wind down, you couldn't let it go. "Dean, seriously," you said, tossing a pillow at his chest as he pulled his shirt over his head. "The way Rozanov grabbed his jersey? You don't grab a guy you hate like that."
"She’s right, Graham," Allie chimed in from the armchair, pointing a finger at Garrett. "You guys can deny it all you want, but the vibe was hot, in a super sexual way."
Hannah nodded in agreement from the edge of the bed. "The body language didn't lie."
Dean laughed, catching the pillow and walking over to catch you by the waist, pulling you into his chest. "Babe, Allie, Han—I love the imagination, but they are straight, rival NHL superstars who live in different cities. Let’s leave the fanfiction on the shelf tonight, okay?" He kissed your forehead, successfully changing the subject by pulling you out to the balcony to look at the Boston skyline.
The next morning, the Boston air was crisp and biting. Dean had his arm slung heavily over your shoulders as you both walked down a quiet side street near the waterfront, hunting for a coffee shop that Tucker had recommended. The rest of the crew, Garrett, Hannah, Logan, Allie, and Tucker, were still asleep, recovering from the post-game bar crawl.
"I think it's just around this corner," Dean said, squinting up at the brick buildings.
As you rounded the bend, you noticed a tall, broad-shouldered man in a heavy black coat standing near a sleek black SUV with heavily tinted windows. He was holding a coffee cup, speaking quietly and intensely into his phone. He had sharp cheekbones, a severe, aristocratic jawline, and thick, dark hair.
It was Ilya Rozanov.
Dean’s hockey-player radar instantly pinged. He stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening. "Holy shit," Dean whispered, his inner fanboy momentarily slipping through. "That's Rozanov."
Being a college star who was completely secure in his own talent, Dean didn't hesitate. He cleared his throat, adjusting his grip on your shoulder, and stepped forward. "Hey, man. Great game last night."
Rozanov paused, lowering his phone. His icy gray eyes swept over Dean, assessing him in a fraction of a second. Recognizing the broad build, the posture, and the distinct athlete-gait, Rozanov’s defensive posture melted into a curt, polite nod. "Thanks. You play?"
"Yeah, Briar University," Dean said, dropping into that easy, universal hockey-bro dialect. "Saw you guys take it to Montreal. Your forecheck in the second period was insane. Really set the tone."
As Dean and Rozanov engaged in standard, polite hockey talk, you stood slightly behind Dean. Your jaw was practically dropping to the pavement, but you weren't listening to a single word about power plays or neutral zone traps.
Your eyes were glued to the heavily tinted passenger side window of the SUV Rozanov was standing next to.
The window was cracked just an inch to let the morning breeze in. And through the dark glass, if you angled your head just right against the morning sun, you could clearly see the distinct, sharp profile of a man sitting in the passenger seat. He was wearing a baseball cap pulled low, but there was no mistaking that jawline, or the distinct logo on the chest of the clothing he wore.
It was a Montreal Voyagers team hoodie.
It was Shane Hollander.
In Rozanov's car.
In Boston.
The morning after a brutal, public, on-ice war.
As if sensing your intense, unblinking stare, the man in the passenger seat slowly turned his head toward the window. Through the glass, Hollander caught your eye. He froze for a split second, his chest hitching. The moment he realized you had recognized him, panic flashed across his face. He quickly reached up, pulled a pair of dark sunglasses down over his eyes, and slid significantly lower into the leather seat, trying to disappear.
Right at that moment, as if possessing a literal sixth sense for Hollander's comfort, Rozanov casually reached back with his left hand, the one not holding his phone, and rested it flat against the passenger side glass. His palm pressed right against the window where Hollander's shoulder would be on the inside, a shield obscuring the view. It was an incredibly possessive, utterly instinctual, completely domestic gesture.
You stopped breathing.
Confirmed.
Single, married, situationship—whatever it was, it was real.
"Anyway, man, good luck with the rest of the season. Go get that Cup," Dean was saying, completely oblivious to the silent drama happening three inches to his left, offering his hand.
"Thanks. Good luck with your season too," Rozanov said, shaking Dean's hand briefly before turning around. He opened the driver's side door, slipped into the SUV, and immediately rolled the window all the way up. The engine roared to life with a deep purr, and the car smoothly pulled away into the Boston traffic.
Dean turned to you, a massive, boyish grin on his face. "Dude, Rozanov is actually pretty chill. Can't wait to tell the guys we ran into him. Garrett’s going to be pissed he slept in."
You stood frozen on the sidewalk, your mouth slightly open, watching the tail lights of the black SUV disappear around a far corner.
"Dean," you said quietly, your voice trembling with pure, unadulterated triumph.
"Yeah?"
"Did you look inside the car?"
"No? Why would I look inside his car, babe? That's kinda creepy."
You turned to him, a manic, glorious smile washing over your face. "Shane Hollander was in the passenger seat. In his Voyagers hoodie. Ducking from the window. And Rozanov literally blocked him from my sight."
Dean stared at you for three long seconds, waiting for the punchline. When he realized you were serious, he let out a loud, booming laugh that echoed down the quiet street, throwing his arm back around your shoulders and pulling you along the sidewalk. "Oh, my god, you, Hannah, and Allie are never going to let this go, are you? Come on, let's get breakfast. Your brain clearly needs glucose if you're hallucinating Hollander in Boston."
"I am an investigative journalist!" you yelled at the sky as he dragged you toward the cafe, already pulling out your phone to type furiously into the girls' group chat.
"I know what I saw, Dean! Allie and Hannah are going to scream!"
Love this!❤️
