Chapter Text

“You’d like us to do what?!” Shane Hollander asked, only a beat away from screaming . To be honest, Ilya Rozanov was not far behind him .

“We’d like you to date each other,” Commissioner Crowell explained once again, speaking painfully slow and stressing each word like they were stupid .

“Yes, I heard you first time. It is not happening,” Ilya said, arms crossed tightly over his chest . This was the one thing he knew he could support the Montreal captain on .

The PR head cleared her throat. “This is a rare circumstance—”

“Bullshit,” Hollander spat out, taking the words right out of Ilya’s mouth .

But she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “As you’re both aware, the NHL is inclusive and supportive of everyone.”  Ilya barely managed to strangle the scoff inside his throat at that corporate lie . “However, the media coverage surrounding Dallas Kent on Tuesday has crossed a line.”

“Then ask that asshole to love Hollander. I have other things to do,” Ilya barked back .

“The hockey world thinks it’s a hate crime, and the sponsors are panicking,” Crowell interjected, his voice flat . “We need a massive pivot.”

Ilya stared at the Commissioner, blood rushing in his ears . He looked over at Hollander, whose jaw was clenched so tight a vein was throbbing in his temple . “Is fucking hate crime. Asshole was openly being homophobe on ice.”

“A pivot,” Hollander repeated, his voice dangerously low . “So your solution to us breaking each other's noses is to make us kiss in public?”

“Precisely,” Crowell said, entirely missing the sarcasm . “An enemies-to-lovers arc. The fans will eat it up, the bad press vanishes, and the league looks progressive. You start next week.”

“I’m not so sure this will work,” Ilya muttered darkly .

The PR head didn’t blink . Instead, she slid a sleek tablet across the mahogany table toward them . On the screen, two apps were open side by side: Tumblr and Archive of Our Own .

“It will work because it’s already working,” Crowell said, tapping the glass . “Right now, you two are the most written RPF couple on the internet after Larry Stylinson.”

Ilya squinted at the wall of text and the tags underneath . Hollander, however, just looked entirely blank .

“What the fuck is RPDF?” Hollander asked, butchering the acronym without a hint of irony. “And who the hell is this Larry person?! What does he have to do with us?”

“RPF,” Crowell corrected sharply . “Real Person Fiction. It means thousands of people are already spending their free time imagining the two of you in love . The foundation is built . All we are doing is giving the public exactly what they want so they forget about Tuesday.”

Ilya rubbed his temples, feeling a massive headache coming on . “This is crazy. People write stories about us punching each other, not kissing.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Crowell replied with a terrifyingly corporate smile .

“I hate him,” Hollander provided, jerking his chin toward Ilya like the man was a piece of rotten garbage left on the table .

“Yes, I do know how difficult this asshole is!” Ilya countered, slamming his hands flat on the wood . “He thinks because he wears the ‘C’ for Montreal he owns whole damn ice!”

“And you think being Boston’s golden boy means you can slash anyone who looks at you wrong,” Hollander snapped back, leaning in until they were practically nose-to-nose .

They truly, deeply hated each other . It wasn’t a manufactured media narrative; it was years of bad blood, dirty hits, and intense playoff series between the Metros and the Bears . The entire league knew that if you put Ilya and Hollander in the same room, ice packs and penalties followed .

“Perfect,” Crowell said smoothly, leaning back . “That raw energy is exactly what we are going to channel . The line between intense hatred and intense passion is very thin, boys . We just need you to cross it . And as your Commissioner, I'm telling you it’s either this, or a season-long suspension for both of you.”

“Season-long suspension? You cannot do that,” Ilya said, his eyes narrowing . “We are best players in this league right now . You bench us, you lose half your TV ratings.”

“He’s right,” Hollander added, finally agreeing on something . He leaned back, folding his arms . “The fans pay to see us play, not sit in the press box . You wouldn't dare suspend the two top scorers in the NHL over a fight that Dallas Kent started.”

Crowell didn't even blink . The man just leaned forward, his creepy smile widening . “Try me . The Board of Governors is already on my side . The sponsors don't care how many goals you score if your names are attached to a PR disaster . I will bench you both, and I will make sure the public narrative says you were suspended for conduct detrimental to the league . Your choice, boys . Play along, or don’t play at all.”

Ilya searched the Commissioner’s eyes for a bluff, but there was nothing . Crowell meant every word .

Beside him, Hollander let out a long, ragged breath, rubbing a hand over his face . His shoulders dropped just a fraction . He looked defeated, but his eyes were sharp when he finally looked up .

“Fine,” Hollander said .

Ilya’s head snapped toward him, his jaw dropping . “What? You say yes to this madness?”

“I’m not sitting out a whole season, Rozanov,” Hollander bit out, focusing entirely on the Commissioner . “I’ll do it . But under one condition . Dallas Kent doesn’t get away with this . You suspend that homophobic piece of shit, or the deal is off . I don't care about the ratings.”

“He is right,” Ilya chimed in quickly, recovering from his shock . He leaned over the table, glaring at Crowell . “If we must pretend to love each other because of his mouth, that asshole needs to pay . Maximum fine . Five-game suspension . At least.”

Crowell didn't hesitate, making a small note on his tablet . “Done . Kent’s suspension will be announced tomorrow morning for unsafe on-ice conduct and verbal abuse . And your first public appearance together will be this weekend.”

He clicked a sleek, silver pen and placed it in the center of the table alongside a printed document . “You both need to sign this non-disclosure and behavioral clause before you leave . It legalizes the arrangement . If either of you breaks character in public, speaks to the press, or acts hostile on camera, it triggers an automatic breach . The season-long suspension activates instantly.”

Hollander snatched the silver pen, his knuckles turning white, and scribbled his name at the bottom of the page . He threw the pen down across the table toward Ilya .

Ilya picked it up, staring at Hollander’s neat signature . His stomach twisted into a hard knot . With a dark curse in Russian, Ilya leaned forward and signed his own name right next to Hollander’s .

“Excellent,” Crowell said, pulling the paper back with a satisfied smile . “Details for your weekend appearance will be emailed to your agents tonight . Discharged.”

Because their first scheduled appearance wasn't until the weekend, they needed a private space away from prying eyes to figure out how the hell they were going to pull this off. They drove straight to Shane’s apartment.

The moment the heavy front door clicked shut behind them, the tense silence shattered. Shane immediately walked over to his kitchen island, tossing his keys onto a small ceramic tray. He took a long, sharp breath to steady his racing thoughts, his hands trembling slightly from the sheer frustration of the meeting. He felt like his head was about to explode.

He turned around, his posture completely rigid.

“Rule number one,” Shane said, his voice dropping into a harsh, tight whisper. “No touching unless a camera is pointed directly at us. I need a clear boundary. I do not want you near me, I do not want your hands on me, and I absolutely cannot handle you in my personal space when we are behind closed doors. Clear?”

Ilya dropped his duffel bag onto the hardwood floor with a loud thud and crossed his arms, a dark, mocking scoff escaping his throat. He looked at Shane like the Montreal captain was being completely ridiculous.

“Trust me, Hollander, I have no wish to touch you either,” Ilya barked back, his lopsided grin returning as a pure, defensive smirk. His Russian accent was heavy and thick with irritation. “You think I want hold hand of Montreal captain? Is nightmare for me too. We do what contract says in public, but in private, you stay on your side of room, I stay on mine. I am not rushing to get close to pretty boy.”

Shane let out a slow, controlled breath, running a hand through his hair to keep from completely losing his temper. “Fine. Good. We establish the boundaries right now so we don't screw this up. Crowell is looking for any excuse to bench us, and I am not letting you ruin my career.”

Shane marched over to his couch, slumping down onto the leather cushion, and pulled up his laptop. He hated this entire chaotic mess, and right now, the entire public expectation of their "relationship" was a massive, unpredictable nightmare.

“We need to look at what Crowell showed us,” Shane said, his eyes glued to the screen as his fingers flew across the keyboard, his face tight with embarrassment. “If we have to fake this, we need to know what the fans are actually expecting. Otherwise, our behavior will look totally unnatural to them, and the league will flag it immediately.”

Ilya groaned loudly, walking over to lean against the back of the sofa, making sure he kept a careful two feet of distance from Shane. “You cannot be serious, Hollander. You want to read fairy tales written by teenage girls? You are obsessed with what people think.”

“It’s not an obsession, Rozanov,” Shane snapped back, his voice sharp as he navigated to Archive of Our Own. He filtered the search tags for Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, his skin hot just looking at the sheer volume of results. “We are analyzing the public perception so we don't fail. It's like studying game tape.”

Shane clicked on the top story, which had over ten thousand ‘kudos.’ He began reading the tags out loud, trying to keep his voice flat and professional to mask how deeply weirded out he was.

“Enemies to lovers. Fake dating. Slow burn.” Shane paused, his brow furrowing as he stared at the screen, pointing at a tag that made absolutely no sense to him. “Banter as a love language. Miscommunication. Hurt/Comfort.” He looked up at Ilya, his face entirely deadpan. “What is comfort? Do they think we are injured? We both passed our physicals on Monday. I don't need you comforting me.”

Ilya let out a choking sound, his face instantly turning red under his stubble as he stared at the screen over Shane's shoulder. “Oh, bozhe moy... shut up, Hollander! Do not read that nonsense out loud! Is embarrassing!”

“Why?” Shane asked, turning his head slightly, completely defensive because Ilya was mocking him. “Look at this one. It says clandestine finger-brushing and intense eye contact from across the ice. Those are things people are looking for. We can easily do that during warm-ups just to throw them a bone.”

Ilya rubbed his hands over his face, laughing out of pure, horrified disbelief. He leaned closer, his hazel eyes sparkling with that obnoxious, teasing light. “You are crazy machine, you know this? You want to schedule finger-brushing like hockey drill? 'Okay Ilya, at five minutes we brush fingers, then we score goals.' You are ridiculous.”

“If we don’t pay attention to details, we will forget,” Shane reasoned, his fingers gripping the side of his laptop tighter. He hated when Ilya made him feel foolish. “The data shows the public looks for small, subtle cues. If we just show up and immediately start acting like a couple, it violates the narrative progression they have established. They will know it is fake, and Crowell will suspend us.”

Shane scrolled further down the page, his eyes tracking the long list of bold text. He stopped on one specific phrase, his head tilting slightly as he analyzed the words, completely missing the dirty context.

“Watersports,” Shane read aloud, his voice dropping into a confused cadence. He blinked at the screen. “We play hockey on frozen water. Why is it tagged as a specific category? Is it a translation error for ice hockey or something?”

Ilya, who had started pacing near the kitchen counter again, froze mid-step. His eyes went wide, and his jaw practically hit the floor. “Oh, suka... Hollander, close the computer. Do not look at that. You are too innocent for this.”

“Why?” Shane asked, looking up, his expression entirely demanding. “What does it mean, Rozanov? If it's part of the narrative, I need to know.”

“It does not mean hockey, okay? It is... very different thing. Involves... fluids. Not ice.” Ilya rubbed the back of his neck, his face burning a furious shade of red, though his lopsided smirk was still trying to break through. “Just do not click it. Trust me on this one, pretty boy.”

Shane looked back at the screen, his mind trying to find a logical pattern, his face flushing as he realized from Ilya's reaction that it was something highly inappropriate. He quickly scrolled past the tag and noticed a few others nearby. “The next tag is Russian culture shock. They write a lot about you being from Russia. Is this related to that? What about Russia? Do they think you're going to drag me to Moscow?”

Ilya let out a sharp, exasperated laugh, throwing his hands in the air. He was completely sick of the media treating him like a cartoon villain. “What about it? I have green card, Hollander! I am American now! I live in Boston, I pay American taxes, I buy American groceries! Why do these people think I am walking around wrapped in Russian flag all day? I like my sports cars and my money here!”

“Because it provides a stark cultural contrast to my upbringing in Montreal,” Shane explained, his voice quieter now as he tried to bring the conversation back to logic. He kept tapping his fingers rhythmically against the laptop shell, a nervous habit to keep himself grounded because Ilya's booming voice was making the room feel incredibly small. “It creates a clearer narrative friction for the readers. But if you are American now, we should probably update your public profile data so the media stops focusing on it.”

“Government already did that,” Ilya muttered, crossing his arms and leaning back against the kitchen counter with a heavy sigh, his smug demeanor fading into actual exhaustion.

Shane looked up from his laptop. The rigid, hyper-competitive focus in his eyes softened just a fraction, replaced by a flicker of genuine tiredness. He closed the laptop halfway, the blue light fading from his face. He felt completely drained by the stress of the day.

“Right,” Shane said softly. He rubbed the back of his neck, his shoulders dropping as the sheer exhaustion of the last four hours finally caught up to him. “Sorry. My brain just... when things get this messy and my career is on the line, I start treating everything like a game tape. I know you’re not a stereotype, Rozanov. I’m just trying to find a script so I don't panic on our outing day. I like to win, okay?”

Ilya blinked, a little caught off guard by the sudden honesty from the usually rigid Montreal captain. He let out a much quieter, less defensive breath, his hazel eyes softening. “Is fine. This whole day is disaster. My head is spinning too. We are both in this shitty situation.”

Shane offered a small, hesitant nod, appreciating the temporary truce. He opened his laptop fully again, but his tone was much more grounded now, focused back on the reality of their nightmare. “The league just emailed the itinerary. Our first appearance is a mandatory charity gala this weekend in New York. We have to arrive in the same car.”

“In the same car? No, absolutely not,” Ilya shot it down immediately, cutting Shane off with a sharp wave of his hand. He stepped away from the kitchen counter, his lopsided smirk returning with a competitive, clever edge. “Think about it, Hollander. We don’t need to jump straight into back seat together. It violates the 'enemies' part of this stupid story they are making up.”

Shane blinked, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He frowned, his analytical mind trying to process the deviation from the league’s strict itinerary. “The Commissioner’s instructions were precise, Rozanov. We are supposed to travel together to maximize the media impact.”

“Crowell wants progressive PR, yes, but he also wants people talking,” Ilya countered, leaning his hip against the edge of the sofa, just outside Shane’s personal space. His hazel eyes sparkled with the familiar thrill of outsmarting an opponent. “If we show up holding hands in New York, everyone knows it is corporate bullshit. It is too fast. But if we keep the rumor going? If we play the media like we play on the ice? We don't violate contract, and we give them exactly what they want.”

Shane looked from Ilya to the laptop screen, his analytical mind spinning. “Explain the execution.”

“We travel separate,” Ilya said, gesturing between them. “You take your Montreal car, I take my Boston car. But we arrive at the exact same minute. The paparazzi see us walking into hotel at same time from different vehicles. Then, on red carpet, we do what your little fanfiction stories say. We give them the... what did you call it? Clandestine eye contact.”

Shane’s brow furrowed, but he was listening. “Intense eye contact from across the ice. Or the carpet, in this scenario.”

“Exactly,” Ilya grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “We look like two guys who are desperately trying to hide something big. The media will go completely crazy. They will write articles speculating if the fight on Tuesday was actually a lover's quarrel. We fulfill the behavioral clause by fueling the story, but we don't have to sit in a tight car together for four hours breathing same air. It leaves a safety margin.”

Shane evaluated the proposal, his eyes tracking the logic. It was risky to alter a league directive, but mathematically, Ilya’s strategy actually created a more believable narrative progression. It gave them a shield.

“It leaves a safety margin,” Shane agreed softly, his shoulders dropping a fraction as the relief of not having to share a confined vehicle with the Boston captain washed over him. He made a neat note on his digital itinerary. “Fine. We coordinate our arrival times with the drivers to the exact second. But if Crowell calls us out on it, you take the blame.”

Ilya let out a booming laugh, his thick Russian accent warming up the tense apartment. “Deal, Hollander. I am American citizen, remember? The league cannot deport me for arriving in nice car.”

Shane stared at him, his face suddenly turning a deadly serious, tight shade of pale. He shut the laptop the rest of the way, the plastic clicking loudly in the quiet room.

“Just remember, Rozanov,” Shane said, his voice dropping into a defensive, rigid line, his eyes darting down to his own knees. “I’m straight. This is a business transaction. I have a girlfriend.”

Ilya rolled his eyes so hard it practically hurt. He threw his head back against the wall, letting out a loud, theatrical groan that echoed through the apartment.

“Yes, Hollander, I know,” Ilya scoffed, his heavy Russian accent dripping with absolute amusement as he looked down at the Montreal captain. “I know you are straight guy. I think everyone in North America knows you are straight guy. I do not think Rose Landry is in business to be anyone’s beard, okay? She is too smart for that nonsense, and you are too boring to hide a secret.”

Shane’s jaw tightened, his skin flushing a quick, hot pink at the mention of his girlfriend. He hated when Ilya talked about his personal life, especially with that smug, all-knowing look on his face. “Rose has nothing to do with this. I just want to ensure we are completely aligned on the parameters of the arrangement. No unscripted implications.”

“Parameters are perfectly aligned, pretty boy,” Ilya chuckled, leaning off the wall and picking up his duffel bag from the floor. He checked his watch, completely unfazed by Shane’s sudden spike of panic. “You are straight, I am straight, and we are both trapped in this shitty nightmare. Now, I am going to hotel down the street because your couch looks like it is made for robots. I will see you at exactly 18:00 on Saturday for our grand romantic eye-contact battle.”

Shane didn’t answer, he just watched rigidly as Ilya walked toward the door, his heart hammering against his ribs from the sheer exhaustion of the threat to his spotless reputation.