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At 12, Shane dreamed of life at university. He dreamed of sitting on giant fields with a group of friends; he dreamed of low-key nights in dorms, of playing ice hockey on weekends.
What he didn’t dream of was hastily climbing out of windows at the crack of dawn, of a muscled back littered with moles, of kind blue eyes, of a thick Russian accent moaning his name. But he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Ilya, stop it, you’re gross.”
It’s 6:00 am. He probably should’ve climbed out of the room by now. Hayden would be up in another 45 minutes; he has hockey practice to get to – and he’s never late. The only issue is the 210-pound man sprawled on top of him, still sticky from the night before – unwilling to let him go.
“If I’m late, they’ll be suspicious; they’ll know!” He’s been at it for 15 minutes, Ilya refuses to budge (but let’s be real, Shane doesn’t try hard enough to push him off)
“Hollander, I could suck your dick in front of their eyes, and they’d think it’s a joke. Hayden is not smart enough to think of anything except impregnating his girlfriend.”
“Hey, that’s my best friend you’re talking about – watch your mouth.”
Ilya hums and falls right back to sleep, Uncaring of the fact that Shane will be late.
By God’s grace, Ilya briefly rolls over, giving Shane just enough time to escape from under his crutches. He quickly gets dressed, covers Ilya up with the blanket that fell off the bed during some time at night, and as he’s climbing out the window –
“Do not eat the muffins in the kitchen. My frat is pranking yours.”
“Ilya, what?”
Shane doesn’t understand why he agreed to join Phi Kappa with Hayden, but it’s far too late to back off now.
All good dormitories are taken, and studios are too expensive. He’s stuck with a group of rowdy boys who like to chug bottles of beer like it's water and have sex way too loudly on Wednesday nights.
That isn’t even the worst part of it all.
Shane almost leaves the frat when he learns of the rivalry. He learns of Alpha Mu and the decade-long rivalry between the two frats – who hosts the better parties, who fucks the most girls, who wins the most hockey games. They’ve got a tally for it all.
Shane Hollander meets Ilya Rozanov when he is 17 years old. It’s his fourth day of university, a frat meet and greet they call it. He doesn’t like to admit it, but Rozanov’s eyes glaring into his is what solidifies the fact that he is, in fact, very gay.
Rozanov is loud, he’s abrasive, and he’s been on campus for 5 days, but has somehow helped his frat lead the most hookups tally. Shane Hollander hates him. Shane Hollander hates him as they stare down one another from across the living room, he hates him as Rozanov leads him into his room, hates him as he gets fucked into the mattress.
That was 7 months ago. Shane Hollander still hates him (hates the way he pouts when he cannot remember English words, hates the way his eyes soften when it’s just the two of them, hates the fact that their time spent tangled up in one another is a secret, hates having to leave the comfort of his arms every morning)
Shane Hollander loves Ilya Rozanov, and Ilya Rozanov loves Shane Hollander. (Maybe the rivalry wasn’t so bad after all)
It started as a one-time thing. One fuck on a Tuesday evening while his brothers get too drunk to notice his absence. A one-time thing to get it out of his system.
It wasn’t his fault that Rozanov was the captain of the opposing team. It wasn’t his fault that they shared the same gym on campus; maybe it was his fault when he watched Rozanov jerk off in the showers and decided to act upon it.
Maybe the sneaking around acting as an aphrodisiac, hiding inside cupboards, climbing out of windows, the whispers shared post-game, the ”look” that only he recognizes. Call it weird foreplay, it worked well.
i.
It’s barely seven in the morning, the air in Ilya’s room is still thick with sleep and the faint smell of sweat and last night’s cologne when a knock rattles the wooden door – far too loud and aggressive for this hour. Shane stiffens, Ilya barely stirs, one arm still lazily hung over Shane’s chest.
“Rozanov!” Cliff’s voice echoes through the room. (thanks to the overly thin walls, Shane wonders if his brothers are deaf due to the violent nature of hockey or just conveniently choose to ignore the noises he makes in this bedroom every other night, either way – he’s grateful nobody brings it up) Loud, booming, and distinctly annoying. Shane thinks Cliff doesn’t know what it’s like to talk in a normal octave; he probably hasn’t whispered a word since kindergarten. Another loud rap at the door makes Ilya groan and tug at Shane’s arm.
“Door is open.” His accent is thick, so early in the morning, Shane can think about how sexy he sounds after this crisis is averted.
“Door is- are you insane?” Shane hisses, flinging himself upright. He’s shirtless, hair a mess, wearing nothing but boxers with faded hockey logos. Cliff isn’t dumb enough to miss a naked man on Ilya’s bed, no matter how much the Russian thinks otherwise.
Ilya does not bother opening his eyes, and some drool oozes out of his mouth and onto the pillowcase. Gross, Ilya. “Closet”
“Ilya- what-“
“Closet, Hollander”
There’s another knock, louder this time, followed by the twist of a doorknob. Shane’s reaction is immediate. He tries to grab his jeans, misses, trips over a helmet that is definitely not a decorative piece, and crashes into the closet just as the door opens. He squeezes himself inside among the wreckage of gym bags, cheap deodorant, and abandoned protein tins. It smells like a cold pizza pocket. Shane is going to lecture Ilya into cleaning this up.
“Your ass could sleep through an earthquake, man.” Shane hears Cliff’s heavy footsteps walking around the room, rummaging through drawers like privacy is a concept unknown to him. That’s when the closet door swings open, and Marleau is staring directly at him.
There’s a long pause. Cliff blinks once, twice. Shane, shirtless and very much there, stares back. Then he laughs – the big, stupid, unrestrained kind of laugh that could rattle a building. “What kind of prank is this? How did u even get in?” he says, still laughing as if Shane appearing in Ilya’s closet at 7 in the morning is just part of the shared idiocy of frat life.
“Uh- surprise?” Shane manages to get out.
Cliff, still laughing, picks up a hoodie from the closet, “You guys need to pull better jokes. This was bullshit.” He closes the closet door, leaving Shane trapped in this heat box yet again. Shane can hear Cliff walking away, and right before the bedroom door shuts again. “Rozanov, there’s a Hollander in your closet by the way.” The door clicks shut.
Shane remains frozen, wholly aware that his dignity died somewhere between the mess in the closet. He steps out and hears Ilya laugh from the bed.
“Ilya,” Shane starts, voice sharp, “he’s going to tell everyone.”
“Too early,” Ilya mumbles from under the covers, still half-asleep, “Come back to bed.”
“I’m not coming back to bed!?” Shane snaps, tugging on his jeans. He’s pacing now, “I was naked in your closet! Marleau saw me naked in your closet!”
“Is funny,” Ilya replies, “He thinks it’s a prank, Моя фасоль. Do not fret. Come cuddle now.”
“Not funny,” Shane sighs, tugging his shirt over his head, heart still punching against his ribs.
Ilya hums, still seemingly unbothered, “You looked good in the closet.”
“Ilya-“
He turns over to Shane, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Next time, go under the bed, yes? Closet too small for you.”
Shane stares. Flops onto the bed in resignation. He’s doomed either way. Even if Cliff doesn’t have enough brain cells to put two and two together, he knows he’s too deep under to deny his boyfriend morning cuddles.
After all, who doesn’t like a bit of thrill in their lives?
ii.
At 11:58 pm, Shane’s back is arching off the bed, breathless repetitions of Ilya leaving his mouth, as he might just die if he doesn’t chant his name again, and again, and again. By 12:00 am, Ilya is scrambling upright, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, his eyes glistening in the moonlight because somewhere outside the door, he hears a choir of an extremely off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday.”
It takes Shane a second too long to register what is happening. He’s dazed, a little too out of breath, skin flushed, legs still trembling, and he’s wondering why the universe has a personal vendetta against him. “What the hell?” He croaks.
“Your people,” Ilya says, wide-eyed, frozen, almost laughing, “They are singing.”
And sure enough, they are. Hayden, JJ, Comeau – the holy trinity of Phi Kappa stupidity – belting Happy Birthday like it’s some sort of war anthem. They’re loud enough to wake up the whole campus. Shane stares at the door, panic boiling up.
“Oh my god,” Shane whispers, scrambling for his underwear discarded somewhere between these sheets. This is why he folds his clothes before sex.
Ilya looks out the window like it’s his salvation, “I jump out.”
“You’re naked!”
He’s found his underwear, pulling it up to his waist when the handle jiggles. There’s only one option left, and his brain moves on autopilot. “Under the bed,” Shane hisses, flinging the blanket up to his shoulders.
Ilya looks at the gap, then back at him, unconvinced. “It is too narrow.”
“Either you fold yourself like a pretzel or give my entire frat a live porn show!” Ilya smirks as if that isn’t Shane’s worst nightmare. He swats the man on his arm before Ilya finally gives up and drops to the ground. He vanishes, somehow, folding his 6’2 frame under the bed just as the door bursts open.
“Happy birthday, Hollander!” JJ yells, voice booming through the room. Lights flip on, someone blows an airhorn, Hayden bursts in holding a cake far too aggressively decorated with blue icing. Shane sits against the headboard, face flushed, breathing very definitely not birthday-appropriate.
The trio stares at him like an animal in a zoo. Promptly, Comeau bursts out laughing, “Dude, did we interrupt your jerking off time or what?” – Shane flushes harder, if that was even possible. Amidst the laughing, Shane swears he can hear giggles from under the bed, too. Shane tries to discreetly kick the frame – stop it.
JJ records the whole thing. Hayden is making a speech about “our golden boy of the rink.” Comeau helps Shane put on a shirt and pants.
He endures about 10 minutes of off-tune singing, 5 of cake-cutting, and another 40 of small talk before realizing none of them intend to leave. JJ has set up a live countdown to 2:00 am on his phone for reasons no one understands.
Ilya is still under the bed. Shane wonders if he managed to grab his phone before getting down there.
At some point, when they get lost in conversation, Shane starts dropping pieces of cake near the edge. A quiet hand sneaks out, collects them with terrifying precision, and disappears.
By the time everyone finally tires themselves out and leaves – leaving behind empty beer cans, frosting smears, and a traumatized Shane – it is 3:00 am. The door clicks, and silence finally returns to the room.
Then, Ilya slides out from under the bed, curls full of dust, expression murderous. He stretches, joints popping from staying still too long.
“I was down there for three hours. Three!” He cries out, crashing face-first onto the bed.
Shane laughs, reaching out to Ilya to help dust out the grime sticking to his skin. “If I remember correctly, it was your idea to hide under the bed.” There’s a pause, Ilya turns, and blinks. Then, very slowly, reaches over to Shane to swiftly shove him off the bed.
Shane lands on the floor, laughing so hard he can barely breathe. Ilya reaches across the bed, hangs his head off the edge, “I still need to give you your birthday gift, da?” Shane raises an eyebrow, “Not before you shower, you’re gross.”
“You wound me, Hollander.”
Shane smiles, kisses Ilya, and promptly forgets that he asked Ilya to shower.
iii.
The Brolympics begin, as all bad ideas do, with beer and too much testosterone.
Every year, Alpha Mu and Phi Kappa agree to “settle their differences” through a day-long gauntlet of drinking games and dubious athletic events, all under the illusion of brotherly bonding. In reality, it’s the perfect stage for disaster - thirty drunk university boys competing to see who can prove their superiority through chugging, shouting, and falling off tables.
By event three, someone’s thrown up in a shoe. By event six, Hayden has declared himself the “beer pong commissioner,” which is ironic, considering he can’t chug a pint without throwing up his lunch. But the real shift comes at event seven: the final round – Phi Kappa vs. Alpha Mu.
Hollander vs. Rozanov.
Shane tries to appear unbothered as the crowd circles the long folding table. Cups are lined up like soldiers, cheap beer inside vibrating with the bass of the speakers someone has balanced on the radiator (that has to be a health hazard, right?)
Ilya stands on the other side, smirking, baseball cap on backwards, daring Shane to look away first.
“Ilya Rozanov versus Shane Hollander!” Cliff bellows as if announcing boxers in an MMA match. “Winner gets bragging rights, and eternal glory!”
“It’s my turn,” Shane announces casually, even though Ilya’s piercing gaze might just cause his heart to beat out of his ribs.
“Your hands are shaking, Hollander,” Ilya smirks, his grin nestled with the softness that Shane simultaneously hates and dies for.
From the sidelines, JJ yells something about penalties, met with a chorus of laughter that neither boy acknowledges. Their attention is reserved only for one another. Shane takes his shot – straight, effortless, straight into the cup. The crowd roars, Comeau starts shit-talking Alpha Mu.
“Lucky,” Ilya says, rolling his eyes.
“Skilled,” Shane replies.
Ilya leans forward and rolls up his sleeves to his forearms – Shane should call a penalty. This feels like targeted psychological warfare. Ilya locks his gaze onto the cups and takes his shot. Beer spills from the rim, 1-1.
Shane nearly misses his next throw – it’s 50 degrees outside, why is Ilya wearing a full sleeves shirt anyways? The game stretches on, mixed chants of “Hollander! Rozanov!” echo across the room. Hayden gets too drunk amidst it all, somehow lands on the couch, and snores the night away.
There’s a moment before the final shot, he can feel Ilya smirking from across the table, he flicks his wrist, ball arcing in the perfect form, the Russian winks – and the ball drops neatly into the last cup. Alpha Mu explodes into cheers, Ilya raising his hands in triumph, like he’s just won the Stanley Cup. “Good game, Hollander.” He calls out, before getting lifted into the air on Cliff's shoulders.
Shane waits barely ten minutes before slipping away from the noise, walking down the corridor into the laundry room. It’s quiet in here – barring the washers whirling around. He hears the door open, and the smell of a familiar cologne overtakes his senses. “Can we have one night where we don’t almost get caught?” Shane says, rolling his eyes, but already in the process of peeling his jacket off.
There’s the click of a door, large hands pulling him in from the waist, “No, it’s tradition.” Ilya grins, a halo of dim laundry room light behind him. “I won, it’s time for my prize, yes?”
“You cheated.”
“No. I charmed the ball; balls love me. You know that.”
Shane smiles; he’s too tired to argue, and a little bit drunk, and really horny. Ilya presses him against the washer, before he can get another word in, warm lips crash against his, he can taste the beer on Ilya’s tongue, he can feel his hands running up and down his sides. It’s fast, messy, familiar – the relief of finally getting to touch each other after hours of pretending to be enemies, like they’re star-crossed haters and not just two teenagers so in love that they cannot stop orbiting one another.
The door creaks open. Again, really?
Shane jumps, hiding behind the machine he was just pressed up against mere seconds before.
Connor strolls in holding a pint in his hands, utterly unfazed to find Ilya half-bent over the machine singing – of all the songs in the world – Shake it Off. Shane has to stop himself from bursting out laughing from behind the machine. He feels like an overgrown housecat trying to fit into this small gap.
Connor raises an eyebrow, “Rozanov…why are you serenading the Washing Machine?”
“Machine is sad. Lost in the cup game. It needs comfort.”
Connor stares at Ilya for a painful two seconds. “How drunk are you?” and bursts out laughing, “I thought this was the toilet. Where is the toilet?”
“Next door to the right”
Connor shrugs, passes Ilya the beer, and decides to take his leave. The silence that follows is deafening – broken by Shane’s muffled laughter.
“I hate you,” He wheezes, standing up from his hiding spot. Ilya smiles, stepping closer, “You love me.”
“Not enough to hear you sing again. I think my ears bled,” Ilya rolls his eyes and continues to devour his boyfriend. (this time, he locked the door)
iv.
The rink is loud – the kind of loud that vibrates through your bones, that swells from every corner, adrenaline pumping, cheers echoing. Shane’s heartbeat thrums in tandem with blades gliding across the ice, with sticks clapping against boards. Phi Kappa’s banner hangs crooked above the stands. JJ’s in the back, yelling something incomprehensible. Right across him stands Ilya Rozanov, grinning like he owns the ice.
Phi Kappa Metros vs. Alpha Mu Raiders, Captain vs. Captain – the ultimate showdown of the year. By this point, everyone’s forgotten the score half-hazardly scribbled onto the whiteboard – the silly games are old news. All that matters now is this one match. The breaking of the ultimate hockey rivalry – Hollander vs. Rozanov.
The ref drops the puck, and it's muscle memory – the way the sticks collide against one another, fighting for control of the match. Shane wins the face-off.
The rink feels chaotic in a way that’s almost choreographed. Ilya’s body collides with Shane’s, harsh against the dasher boards, chest-to-shoulder, the kind that’s half-spite, half-a reminder.
Every time they meet, Ilya pushes - deliberate, heavy - slamming Shane into the boards with more heat than hostility. Shane shoves back, hard enough to earn laughter from both benches. Hayden watches from the corner of his eye. Something is different – the way they play against each other, versus when they play amongst themselves. Nobody can quite understand the electricity; perhaps it’s an ode to their rivalry, two extraordinary talents going against one another for the final game of the year.
There’s something magnetic about it. For Shane, the game narrows only to the two of them; every motion feels like a conversation, every smirk – a message. When Ilya speeds past, Shane catches the curve of his shoulders; when Shane breaks through defence, Ilya’s stick sweeps out and catches the puck like it's fate.
Mid‑period, Shane scores. Fast wrist shot, perfect aim. The crowd erupts. He turns instinctively, searching the opposite line - the only victory that matters is the look on Ilya’s face. And there it is: that tight grin, sharp and defiant, eyes cutting across the distance between them. It’s possessive, not angry. Never angry.
On the next face off, they’re heaving, out of breath – still not ready to give up. “Don’t look too smug. It’s just one goal,” he says, as they line up for the puck drop, voice low enough for only Shane to catch it.
“It’s one more than yours.” Shane’s pulse spikes. Stick gliding against Ilya’s, “I let you come for every goal you score tonight.” Shane falters for half a second, Ilya takes the advantage, and glides away with the puck. Shane laughs to himself before chasing after.
The third period is chaos. Checks turn rougher, hands linger. Ilya shoves Shane hard enough that their faces are inches apart against the plexiglass – their helmets scrape, fog blooming from the impact, and Shane mutters, “You hit like you flirt.”
Ilya smiles, his teeth barely visible against the grills – “You like it, yes?” Shane’s grin is wicked; his answer is stolen by the slap of a puck. He spins away just as the horn blares – someone’s scored again, they don’t care who.
When the buzzer signals endgame, Shane realises it is the Metros who took the match. 2-1. Shane thinks he doesn’t really care. The rest of their team scatter towards the benches, and Ilya catches Shane’s gloves before he can peel off into the tunnels. The grip is brief – disguised in postgame sportsmanship.
“You won. Come to my showers?” Ilya says, quietly, smiling with a grin that doesn’t quite belong on a losing captain's face.
They let go simultaneously, following their respective teams.
According to Shane and Ilya, nobody seems to understand their gravitational pull. Onlookers notice it, acknowledge it, and write it off as one for the books. It's right in front of everyone’s eyes. The lingering touches, the unnecessary checks – nobody seems to notice the not-so-private dance the two captains seem to indulge themselves in.
And as Shane skates off toward the locker room, heart still racing, he can already feel the bruise forming on his shoulder where Ilya pressed hardest. A mark from Ilya he can proudly show off.
+1
As much as Ilya likes to downplay it, losing tastes bitter, like the shitty smoothies Shane forces him to drink for nutritional value. The locker room smells like stale sweat, beer, disinfectant, and whatever heartbreak smells like when you’ve spent sixty minutes skating at full speed into disappointment. Ilya’s sitting under the fluorescent hum, helmet tossed somewhere near the showers, jersey peeled halfway down his chest. His hair’s damp and curling around his forehead, his mouth set into a near‑pout, looking ridiculous on his grown features. (Shane loves it, so it’s okay.)
Shane shouldn’t be here, obviously. The Metros’ locker room is two corridors down, and Phi Kappa’s probably still celebrating like they’ve personally won the Stanley Cup. But he’d slipped away after briefly celebrating with his team – he promised to meet Ilya back here.
The showers are half-lit, steam rising off the tiles. Ilya is already in there when Shane steps in, still wearing his compression shirt and pants. “Are you lost, Hollander?”
“Just checking in on the losing team. Captain’s duties and all.”
“You tease.”
“You deserve it.” Shane grins, stepping closer, stripping off whatever clothes he’d left on. The water hits his forearms, warm enough to ease the tense muscles. “You going to sulk or-“
The rest of the sentence is lost as Ilya pins him to the cold tiles. Their mouths meet, wet from the shower, hard and reckless like every game they’ve ever played against each other. “I hate losing to you,” Ilya murmurs against his mouth.
“Then stop letting me win,” Shane laughs. It’s faster after that. Hands in hair, clothes discarded, the platter of water hitting sharply against the floor. Ilya kisses along Shane’s jaw, down to his throat, feeling Shane’s pulse speed up through the press of his lips. For a year, it’s always been this: between parties, between locker rooms, between moments they shouldn’t have.
They hear the footsteps too late.
“Rozanov, Coach is going to start charging us for the amount of water you waste,” Cliff’s voice, unmistakable. The water’s still running, and Shane freezes instantly, eyes wide. Ilya mutters something in Russian and buries his head into the curve of Shane’s neck.
“Maybe if we stay quiet-“
The door slams open.
Connor follows right behind, a towel wrapped around his waist. “Roz, coach wants-“
He stops. So does Cliff. Two raiders, half-naked, staring at their naked captain, inexplicably very close to a naked Shane Hollander – the Metro’s captain. In the middle of the showers.
The silence that follows is biblical.
It lasts for a total of three seconds before Cliff snorts. “Rozanov. There’s a Hollander in your shower.”
“…He fell in,” Ilya replies flatly.
“I did NOT fall in,” Shane blurts, half laughing, half-trying to conceal his internal panic. His cheeks are almost as pink as-
Connor blinks very slowly, looks from one captain to the other. “So, this is what the rivalry is about?”
Shane opens his mouth, closes it again. Words fail him entirely. Ilya looks ready to start throwing punches.
“Look, if you have a-“
Then Cliff bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, I knew it! JJ owes me twenty bucks!”
“What-“ Shane starts, a little horrified.
“Dude. It’s kind of obvious. Roz hasn’t bought home a girl in months! And suddenly I find you hiding in his closet?”
Contrary to what Ilya believed. Maybe Cliff wasn’t as dumb as he looked.
“Cover yourself up, please. Coach wants a meeting. Continue your shit later.”
With that, Connors and Marleu take their leave, mindful of leaving two towels behind, instead of one.
“Ilya,” Shane says, voice strangled. “Ilya, they know.”
“It’s okay. Let them.” Ilya replies, shaking the water from his curls. “We were kind of stupid trying to have sex here post-game. This one is on us.” It is at this moment that Shane realizes we might be just as dumb as Cliff. Scratch that, probably dumber.
By the time they emerge – towels slung around their waists, embarrassment clinging to Shane like a warm, humid afternoon – both frats already know. Someone has even updated the scoreboard. Right between “Brolympics” and “Hockey Wins,” there’s a new category:
Inter-FratCest
Phi Kappa – I
Alpha Mu – I
When Shane sees it, he doesn’t know whether to laugh or vanish into the ground. JJ’s puffing about as he hands over a couple of dollars to Cliff and Hayden (god, were they really this obvious?) Connor is laughing so hard that Shane’s worried he’s going to have an asthma attack.
Ilya just loops an arm around Shane’s neck, entirely too pleased with himself.
“You’re insufferable,” Shane mutters, trying not to smile.
“Da. But you love me.”
And somehow, standing in front of a board that immortalizes their secret in marker, with almost 30 men laughing around them, Shane thinks – yeah, maybe he really does.
fin.