PetronellaRose
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m2m by pookiewookie111
Fandoms: Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types
19 Jul 2026
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Summary
Ilya has two problems.
The first is that his best friend is freshly single and needs to get laid. The second is that Ilya is having some...weird feelings about it.
These are completely platonic and heterosexual concerns for his friend, of course.
(or a college au featuring shane and ilya as best friends, and shane as ilya's bisexual awakening)
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- English
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Bookmarked by PetronellaRose
26 Jul 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
"Try being from Russia." Ilya sat up, grinning. "People won't just assume you are good in cold, they will also assume you are homophobic!"
He said it lightly, easily, a throwaway line to keep the mood where it was. But when he swung his legs through the window and dropped into Shane and Hayden's bedroom, Shane was standing with his back to him, hands in his pockets, and the easy air between them had gone stiff.
"I'm really sorry," Shane said, not turning around. "That I just listened to them. I should have just spoken to you directly."
Ilya stood there, one hand still on the windowsill. The shift was so sudden it almost gave him whiplash. "Is okay. I understand why."
Shane turned around. His face was open and earnest, and Ilya felt so moved all of a sudden. When was the last time someone had done him wrong and apologized? Who in his life had the humility to admit they were wrong? "It was shitty. You were just trying to be friendly and I made assumptions about the type of person you were." He pulled at his hoodie string. "I’m sorry.”
"Is done now," Ilya conceded. Then, because the room had gotten too heavy and that wasn't where he wanted this to go: "Your side is very organized. Freak."
Shane blinked at the subject change. Looked around his own room like he was seeing it for the first time. "It's just clean."
Ilya didn't wait for an invitation. He started moving through Shane’s side of the room, slow and curious, pulling Shane's life apart one piece at a time. The desk looked like it was from one of those dorm photoshoots, like someone had intentionally staged every item. His laptop was centered, his textbooks perfectly aligned. He had a pen holder with blues, blacks, and reds, each one facing the same direction with the caps on. In the corner, there was a small framed photo of Shane holding some academic award and an older couple who had to be his parents—they were smiling at him so proudly. Ilya felt a pang of longing and moved on in his investigations.
The bookshelf was arranged by subject, then by color within each subject. The bed was covered and pillows and had the fluffiest but somehow most crease-less duvet Ilya had ever seen. It looked endlessly comfortable.
Instead of saying that, Ilya said, “You have too many pillows. Where do you sleep?"
"Good thing you’re not sleeping here, am I right?"
"Obviously. I have my own room. With normal amount of pillows."
He moved to the wall above the dresser, where a row of hockey trophies caught the rising light from the sun outside. There were a lot of them. More than a lot. Ilya counted seven without trying, and there were smaller medals pinned beneath them in a neat line.
"Wow, there are so many.”
Shane had followed him across the room, hovering near his shoulder. "The teams I played on were good."
"You are good."
"Thanks." Shane tucked a piece of hair behind his ear. The tips of his ears had gone pink. "Do you play?"
"Yes. In Russia I played." He didn't mention his father. Didn't mention the fight they had about his future—and whether Ilya would rather go to school in America with no hockey, or never go to college or play in the KHL. Then, just to be a little shit: "I was very good. Better than you, probably."
Shane scoffed—actually scoffed, a sharp little sound through his throat. "Sure, man. I'd like to see you try."
"You would not be able to keep up."
"I'm the best center on this team." Wow. So Ilya was getting a peek of the real Shane right now.
"Best center on college team. In Russia, I was playing against men. Real men."
"You're like nineteen."
"Eighteen, when I stopped. And yes, eighteen-year-old Russian men are still more intimidating than American college boys."
"You're ridiculous—” Shane's watch beeped. He stopped mid-sentence, looked down at his wrist, and his eyes went wide in a way that was completely disproportionate to the situation. "Oh, shit."
"What?"
"I gotta go to the kitchen." He was already moving toward the door.
"What? Why? Is six in the morning."
"I have this app — it tells me when to eat to maximize—" He paused, caught Ilya's expression, and squared his shoulders like he was daring him to comment. "To maximize my gains."
Ilya stared at him. "You have an app that tells you when to eat."
"Yes."
"And you are going to the kitchen right now because it told you to."
"...Yes."
Something warm moved through Ilya's chest. He was so tickled by the robot that was Shane Hollander. A neat, labeled, pillow-hoarding, app-following robot, and for some reason Ilya found this completely endearing instead of annoying. Ilya couldn’t believe he had been missing out on this for a year.
"Do you want breakfast?" Shane asked, hand on the doorframe.
"Sure."
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Fall in love with anyone by sistercacao
Fandoms: Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types
24 Jul 2026
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Summary
“If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future or anything else, what would you want to know?” Quickly, Ilya adds, “Don’t say that you want to know if you win the Cup.”“Why not? What if that’s my answer?”
“Is so boring, Hollander. Of course you want to know this. But Ilya Rozanov and Boston Raiders exist in this world, so crystal ball says, so sad, but no.”
“Fuck off. What are these questions even for, anyway? Are you interviewing me for something? Wouldn’t you have to, like, tell me if you were?”
Ilya is quick to assure Hollander before his paranoia takes him right out of this phone call. “It is not for interview, Hollander. I am just wondering. Answer the question.”
“And I can’t say that I would want to know whether I win the Cup.”
“Yes, other than that.”
“I guess… I guess I would want to know, like, am I happy?”
Ilya reads an article about 36 questions that are supposed to make people fall in love. He decides to ask them to Shane.- Language:
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Bookmarked by PetronellaRose
26 Jul 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
Ilya scrolls through the article at his locker later on. It’s meant to accompany the Modern Love article, so it’s brief and to the point. “Allowing oneself to be vulnerable with another person can be exceedingly difficult, so this exercise forces the issue,” it reads. That doesn’t sound particularly magical to Ilya. And the first set of questions don’t seem like the sort of thing that would make you fall desperately in love with someone. Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest? That’s the kind of thing he occasionally gets asked in oddball interviews.
He’s still reading—skimming—the article, half in his gear, when he gets a text from Jane.
[Jane]
You’re disgusting. I’m not doing that.Ah, yes. The last thing he sent Hollander was a text late in the evening, long after Hollander’s elderly bedtime, asking for a video of Hollander riding his dildo and crying. This is more or less the response he expected back. Hollander is far too paranoid to even send a photo of himself from the shoulders down. Ilya will keep trying, though, in case it pays off one day.
[Ilya]
but you always cry on my dick (( is not the same when you are all alone?He’s sure he’ll get another scandalized response once Hollander finds a safe place to text back. He always freaks out when Ilya drops the very thin veneer of heterosexual plausibility in his sexts. Someday, Hollander might realize that this is exactly why Ilya finds it so irresistible to text him about riding his dildo and crying on Ilya’s cock, and stop getting so flustered, and Ilya will be very sad when that day comes.
Ilya doesn’t get a chance to read through all of the questions before practice. He’s still going through them at lunch, listening to Marley chew loudly on his sandwich. No response from Hollander since the morning, but that’s all right. Ilya can imagine him anyway, red all over, huffing all through practice, chewing a bruise into his bottom lip because Ilya’s made him think about his dick.
“You’re blushing, Roz. You talking to your Montreal chick again?”
“Fuck you.”
“Dude, harsh. Get off your phone, then. Fatima says technology is ruining our ability to engage intentionally with each other.”
Ilya thinks he might pray for this one to end sooner than usual. “I am looking at stupid questions Fatima told you about.”
“Oh, yeah? You think you’ll try them with your Montreal girl?”
Jesus. That’s definitely not happening. None of these questions are the sort of thing they ask each other. What hotel room are you in? How many times can you come in an hour? That’s more like it.
Ilya scoffs. “Maybe I ask you, instead?”
“You know I already love you, brother,” Marley says sincerely. “You should take that shit seriously, though. It’s pretty cool.”
“I am taking seriously. See?” Ilya picks a question at random from the first set. “Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?”
Marley considers this, slurping his extra large soda. “Bears,” he says eventually.
“Bears?”
“Yeah, like, eaten by bears in the woods.”
“Marley, what the fuck? You live in Boston. When are you going in the woods and meeting bears?”
Marley shrugs. He looks kind of annoyed, like Ilya is being unreasonable. “It’s a hunch, bro. It’s just a feeling. I don’t need to explain it.”
“You tell Fatima you think you will get eaten by bears in the woods?”
“Yeah, obviously.”
“This will be, where? Alaska? Russian wilderness?”
“I don’t know where the bears are, dude. But yeah, like, someday.” He thinks for a moment. “Or maybe lions.”
Ilya laughs.
“Shut the fuck up, man. You’re doing it wrong. What about you? What is your hunch about how you’re going to die?”
Ilya looks at him. “I am one asking questions.”
“No, Roz. Read the fucking article. You ask each other the questions. You have to answer, now.”
Ilya’s first thought—an empty bottle of pills, a bathroom floor—is obviously not something he is going to share with Marley in a Jersey Mike’s on a Tuesday afternoon. He shrugs.
“I will die at age ninety-five of heart attack while beautiful woman is bouncing on my dick.”
Marley laughs. “You’re so fucking bad at this, dude.”
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not a lot, just forever by yrsaffectionately
Fandoms: Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
01 Jul 2026
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Summary
“Shane, honey, what happened?”
Shane inhales sharply, his breath hitching. “That house next door to you? The one that was just sold?”
“What about it?” Yuna asks, unable to tell where the conversation is going.
Usually, Shane is one of the easiest people to read on planet earth. He wears his heart on his sleeve, even though he typically doesn’t intend to, and it’s one of her favorite things about him. Now, though, she’s at a loss, and she finds that she kind of hates the feeling.
“Your new neighbor is Ilya Rozanov."
or
David never catches them at the cottage. Months later, Ilya moves to Ottawa. Yuna figures it out as she goes.
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- English
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Bookmarked by PetronellaRose
26 Jul 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
Yuna sees the headline before she gets the call.
Boston Raiders’ Star Center Ilya Rozanov Traded to Ottawa Centaurs.
It’s a miracle her phone doesn’t crack from how hard it hits the ground.
Once she’s over her initial shock, her brain barrels into confusion. She’s been a hockey fan for as long as she can remember. She grew up loyal to Ottawa, despite their tendency to lose. Like, every time. The first time she even considered sporting another team’s merch, was when Shane was drafted by the Metros, and even then, she still followed the Centaurs religiously, as if some day, some young upstart rookie would get drafted, and finally move them out of the last spot in the rankings.
Never in her life did she expect Ilya Rozanov to be their saving grace.
So, when the call from Shane comes, she only has one question.
“Why would he do that?” She says, a little harsher than she meant for it to sound.
“I need you to have an open mind with what I’m about to tell you,” Shane replies. She doesn’t miss the fear in his tone, but she doesn’t ignore it, either.
“Always a great way to start,” she says, sarcastically, hoping it will get him to loosen up. He’s so tense all the time, and as a mother, it’s hard not to pry.
“Mom, please,” he says, his tone bordering on desperate. “I’ll explain everything tomorrow, I swear, but I really need you to be okay with this.” His voice nearly breaks at the end of his plea, and her stomach twists.
“Shane, honey, what happened?”
Shane inhales sharply, his breath hitching. “That house next door to you? The one that was just sold?”
“What about it?” Yuna asks, unable to tell where the conversation is going. Usually, Shane is one of the easiest people to read on planet earth. He wears his heart on his sleeve, even though he typically doesn’t intend to, and it’s one of her favorite things about him. Now, though, she’s at a loss, and she finds that she kind of hates the feeling.
“Your new neighbor is Ilya Rozanov.”
He says it like a talk show host would announce a surprise guest, right before they burst out of a giant cardboard cake. The silence that follows is potent, as Yuna tries to work out whether or not she’s hallucinating their entire conversation.
“I’m sorry?” She asks, sure she’s only misheard him.
“Ilya Rozanov is moving into the house next to you. Tomorrow. Around noon, I think.” It comes out in bursts, and Shane still somehow seems out of breath when he’s done. “I’ll have to double check his flight info,” he adds. As if he’s not talking about Ilya fucking Rozanov. As if he’s not casually working his archrival’s plane touching down into their family’s shared Google calendar.
Something she’s learned when it comes to Shane, though, is that when he sounds as anxious about something as he appears to right now, it’s best to trust that he has meticulously planned how the entire thing will eventually play out for at least three days in advance. Usually, a spreadsheet or two get involved, as well. It’s just how he works, and Yuna wouldn’t change it one bit.
So, when her son tells her that Ilya Rozanov needs her help moving his stuff into the house next door to hers, she doesn’t protest.
She asks if he needs someone to pick him up from the airport (no, he insisted on getting an Uber), if he will be hungry for lunch by then (yes, mom, he’s always hungry), and if he’s allergic to anything (no, but if she asks him, he’ll say that Shane’s green smoothies will give him a rash). She jots everything down on a notepad that she digs out of the bottom of a drawer in her office, the Ottawa Centaurs logo stamped at the top. A list of groceries she needs to buy in order to make Ilya Rozanov’s favorite meal sits below it, begging her to pry.
She thinks about how quickly Shane responded when she asked about Rozanov’s allergies, and decides that whatever it is that’s going on between the two of them has clearly been going on much longer than anyone could have guessed. Anything she wants to know will still be true tomorrow, when she is apparently due to move Ilya Rozanov into his new house next door.
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Summary
All the world's a stage and Scott has unwittingly been cast as an ignorant Cyrano. If he knew about it, he'd be pissed as hell. Instead, he inexorably falls in love with a man he can't have while unwittingly helping a man he'll eventually call his best friend woo him.
But one man in his time plays many parts. Who knows how this strange eventful history ends?
Bookmarked by PetronellaRose
25 Jul 2026
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Bookmarker's Notes
"On the Assist, Aline speaking."
"It's me. Met with Hollander. We should have charged them more."
"He's difficult?" Aline asked with surprise.
"Not even a little."
He gave her the rundown (leaving out his suspicions about Hollander's interests and subsequent impulsive coming out). After she made some annoyed noises, they both agreed to reject any further Metros inquiries.
"For now though, let me know when he calls," Aline sighed. "I'll keep the record. Poor guy. That's a lot of pressure at that age."
It had been. Scott remembered it well and he hadn't had the additional struggle of not looking the part.
"It is. Who knows, maybe I can actually help. Or at least, not make it worse."
"You've never once made it worse," Aline said fiercely. "Not even for Henri, so don't even bring him up. He did that all to himself."
"Yeah, that's fair," Scott relented. "Did I miss anything?"
"Yes, actually. Carl called."
"And he's agreed to the place in Yonkers that's clearly better?"
"He called in a business capacity," she corrected, then paused. "You really think it's better?"
"You know I'm a sucker for a view," Scott said with a grin. "And you want it. I think brides should get what they want."
"He said something like that," Aline admitted. "So yes. Yonkers. But that's not what this is about."
"Okay, what was it about?"
"You know that rookie that they said spoke great English and didn't need any help navigating a new city?"
"Rings a bell," Scott said dryly. "Let me guess. Not so much?"
"Carl says they were 'snowed by his incredible charisma'."
"Fuck," Scott laughed. "They got hoodwinked by a nineteen-year-old. Great. So now he's my problem?"
"I already sent along the usual invoice. I didn't think you'd object."
"Nah, that's fine. I'll be back tomorrow afternoon. If they get it back to us, I don't mind meeting with him then. Might as well get him in before the weekend."
"All right, I'll let them know. It is a little funny it working out this way."
"What do you mean?"
"Top two draft picks within twenty-four hours of each other?"
The view from the hotel room was a city glittering with the coming darkness. He thought about Hollander stabbing the straw through viscous green fluid over and over. Uncomfortable, but unwilling to cede his ground, negotiating his way through that conversation with Scott as if it were the disarming of a bomb.
"Too bad I can't just assign them each other," Scott said wryly. "It would probably do more good."
"But earn us less money," Aline said with a laugh.
Scott encountered Ilya Rozanov for the first time in a coffee shop a ten minute drive from the Admirals' practice rink. It wasn't a meeting. Hollander had been a meeting. Rozanov could only be encountered. Though Scott hadn't known that yet, so he'd prepared for a normal event.
Instead, the door to the shop opened, siphoning in crisp autumn air. The table by the windows was colonized by an elderly book club and they looked up as one like a herd of antelope hearing a twig snap. Scott, seated near the wall, turned to follow their gaze. Moving into the space wearing stylish clothes, a smirk and wind-tousled curls was Ilya Rozanov. The man the Admirals had begged, borrowed and ruthlessly bargained their way into drafting to hopefully finally fill the hole that Scott had left behind in the rosters.
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I'm Coming to the Cottage (No, Not That One) by Greenginger
Fandoms: Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Game Changer - Fandom, Barghest | Barguest (Yorkshire England Folk Tale)
24 Jul 2026
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Summary
Shane Hollander desperately needs to disappear.
After a spectacularly awful week, a remote Yorkshire cottage seems like the perfect place to hide from the press, rediscover himself, and drink an irresponsible amount of tea.
Unfortunately, the cottage isn't empty.
The Russian stranger insists it’s his. Shane has paperwork that says otherwise. It's just after midnight, there's a storm outside, the roads are probably flooded, and the only available weapon is a stuffed fish.
Clearly, this is all Svetlana's fault.
They're both convinced the cottage belongs to them. They're both refusing to leave.
A Yorkshire romcom.
Inspired by The Holiday (2006), with lashings of Wallace & Gromit.Bookmarked by PetronellaRose
25 Jul 2026
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Bookmarker's Notes
Grey ribbon-like tarmac threading its way through rolling green hills, hemmed in on both sides by dry stone walls that looked older than Canada itself. Beyond them, sheep dotted the fields like scraps of dirty wool, lifting incurious faces as he crawled past. The light was strange here: flat and silvery, as though the sun was somewhere overhead but couldn't quite be bothered to make an appearance. Every now and then the road climbed high enough for the North Sea to appear between the hills, vast and slate-grey beneath the cloud cover before disappearing again behind another rise.
It was beautiful.
Not the dramatic beauty of the lakes back home. This landscape seemed quieter than that. Soft green hills folded into one another, stitched together with ancient stone walls and narrow lanes that looked as though they hadn't changed in centuries.
A sign flashed past.
He had learned in the last hour that it meant: ‘Single track road with passing places’. He really, really hated that sign. English signs had rapidly become his least favourite things.
A sign had warned him to watch for sheep.
Another had warned him about concealed entrances.
Another simply announced: ‘Give Way’
He’d had to Google that one while waiting at a petrol station.
“Yield,” he muttered under his breath. “You could just say yield.”
As if on cue, the satnav's pleasant English voice announced,
"Continue for two miles."
"Two miles of this?"
The road narrowed again. It shouldn't have been physically possible, and yet somehow it happened. Stone walls pressed close enough that he found himself drawing in a breath, as though making himself smaller might somehow help the car fit between them. A battered Land Rover appeared around the next bend, faster than it had any right to be. Too close. Entirely on what his brain insisted was his side of the road.
“Jesus!”
He swerved instinctively toward the stone wall, heart lurching, convinced he was about to sideswipe either the car or several hundred years of Yorkshire infrastructure. Instead, the other driver slowed with practiced ease and pulled into a gap in the wall Shane hadn't even realised was there, completely relaxed, one hand on the wheel. Like this wasn’t a near-fatal experience.
A passing place.
The rental slipped by with inches to spare. The driver lifted two fingers from the steering wheel in a casual wave. Shane stared at him in despair. “Right,” Shane breathed. “Sure. Totally normal.” The road narrowed even further. He didn’t understand how that was possible, but it did. And now a soft strip of grass and moss ran down the centre of the road. That felt like it might not be a good thing for a Canadian driver in a rental car drenched in growing panic.
Slowly, the road climbed steadily higher, twisting around blind corners bordered by foxgloves and ferns. His shoulders nudged higher, hunched about his ears, his knuckles white around his death grip on the steering wheel. Another sharp, blind bend, taken at a crawl, to face a cluster of sheep standing directly in the centre of the road. Shane hit the brakes a little harder than he'd intended, The car rocking gently to a stop, as the animals turned their heads toward him in slow, collective confusion.
The sheep looked at him.
He looked at the sheep.
"...You've got to be kidding me."