Work Text:
On a Thursday, a video of Canadian star hockey player Shane Hollander goes viral on the internet. The video was taken on the previous Sunday, and it’s not what anybody expects. It’s not a sex tape, or a drunken fight in a bar, or any of the other videos that have been captured of others in the league, but instead, it seems to be a sneakily filmed video of Hollander confronting his former teammates.
It’s certainly unique among a collection that could be collected of leaked videos of celebrity athletes. Fans, as a whole, regardless of team allegiance or even sport preference, are somewhat used to the rude awakening that their idol or crush turns out to be a dick— of course there are the usual posts of At the end of the day, they’re just men and Disappointed but not surprised and the like. Videos of their favourite player verbally abusing his wife or saying slurs are almost anticipated. But Hollander’s leaked video is responded to with posts like Holy shit and Did not see that coming.
The video provides little context to the events posted online. It appears at a house party or get-together, in a living room that is poorly decorated, and the recording appears to have been clipped to begin when Hollander walks into the room. He looks angry. The voices in the room hush as the men turn to look at him.
The camera is shaky. It lowers upon Hollander’s arrival like the videographer is hiding it.
Somebody leaves after a moment of quiet. It appears to be a woman. Fans would later comment that it seems to be a player’s wife, leaving due to the tension in the room.
Oh, Hollander says dryly, looking intently at a player who, for the moment, is out of frame. Now you don’t wanna say anything?
The others’ eyes shift to look past Hollander, but the camera does not pick up on who has entered behind him. The men look confused. One or two look alarmed. Patrice Drapeau, goaltender, speaks first, stepping into frame, toward Hollander.
What the fuck is he—
Don’t fucking look at him, Hollander interrupts, stepping closer. Say to me what you fucking said where you thought I wouldn’t see it, you asshole. Fucking say it to my face.
Drapeau rolls his eyes, looking past Hollander once again, but this time another voice speaks. Hayden Pike, left winger for the Montreal Metros and Shane Hollander's best friend.
Man, did you really think I wouldn’t show him?
But the others’ eyes that are lingering past Hollander aren’t looking in the direction of Pike’s voice. Someone else is there. Someone quiet.
Say it, Drapeau, Hollander says again. He pushes Drapeau’s shoulder. It’s a rare moment of aggression from the usually mild-mannered Hollander. You don’t wanna say it to me, huh?
Another push. Drapeau takes it, stumbling back just a step.
Fucking coward, Hollander says. The phrase has become popular with online fan bases showing their support. You talk all that shit behind my back and won’t even look me in the fucking eye.
Drapeau does this now. He glares, angry. Almost as angry as Hollander
But angry isn’t all Hollander is, fans point out in the hours and days following the leak. His voice shakes, and his hands shake, and his breath shakes. He’s angry, and he’s hurt.
Fuck you, Hollander.
Me? Hollander says like he’s surprised. Fuck me? You fucking asshole, Drapeau, I can’t fucking believe you.
But Drapeau has found his voice, looking into Hollander’s eyes, jaw clenching.
I can’t believe you, man. What the fuck? You’re a fine captain for years and suddenly you’re fucking gay?
It makes Hollander laugh.
Fans are shocked. They had no idea. Nobody had any idea.
Well. Some people did.
Theories had circulated for years, random posts about Hollander's lack of a dating life— publicly, at least. Posts about the way his eyes averted every time a reporter asked about girls.
But they were silly. Nobody really bothered.
Suddenly he’s gay.
You’re so fucking stupid, Hollander says harshly. It’s mean. Nobody’s ever heard him talk like this. Even his former teammates look shocked. I was already fucking gay before you knew me, Drapeau, you know that, right? I was already fucking gay before I was signed on this fucking team, and I was already fucking gay when they made me your fucking captain.
He pushes him once again. Drapeau takes it, seething.
Now what? Hollander says. What, you’re not true to your word? You’re not gonna beat the faggot out me, Drapeau? Fucking try it.
A shove this time. Hard. Drapeau stumbles back, out of frame, and he finally reacts, swatting Hollander’s hands away so hard their arms blur. Pike’s voice says Shane’s name from off-camera, and another player stands to step in, but Drapeau seems to wave him off.
You know, he says, I’m glad you’re not our fucking captain anymore.
Yeah, I bet you are.
You’re fucking gross, Hollander, I can’t imagine having you on my fucking team—
Oh, you can’t imagine it? Hollander says. He sounds condescending. Fans’ posts refer to him affectionately and fondly as ‘bitchy.’ You can’t fucking imagine it? I was your fucking captain, Drapeau. You called me ‘your guy,’ he adds with airquotes.
Somebody tries again to intervene.
Hollander, maybe we should—
But Hollander snaps a harsh Shut the fuck up.
That was before I knew what you are, Drapeau says. It’s followed by a moment of silence that’s tense, punctuated by a scoff from Hollander.
The camera is positioned perfectly for Hollander’s face to be seen. He smiles dryly.
God, he says. You fucking wish you could pull some shit about how fags can’t play hockey, don’t you? But you know you can’t.
More quiet.
You know, Hollander says slowly, gesturing toward Drapeau and then around the room. You all fucking know, that I’m better than fucking any of you. Don’t you?
He looks intently, unblinking, at Drapeau.
You know I fucking carried this team for years, and you know that I carried all of your sorry asses to the playoffs every time we made it. You know that I won those cups, and that I made this team what it fucking is.
I didn’t know you could be such an asshole.
This appears to catch Hollander off-guard. His eyes scan Drapeau’s face, and he exhales in a way that’s audibly unsteady, even through the audio of the phone.
That’s because you never knew me, he says. His voice shakes. I have spent… my entire fucking life pretending to be some fucking person that could be accepted by people like you, and I have spent my life acting like it’s fine that everything about me is wrong, and I have spent my life trying to be fucking palatable for you. And I—
He cuts himself off with a wet laugh, something wry and humourless and kind of scary to hear, waving his hands like he’s dismissing it all, like he’s fanning it all away.
I don’t fucking care anymore, and I need you to know that, okay? He sounds, suddenly, pitiful. Imploring, kind and sweet and gentle the way he’s always been off the ice, the way he’s known around the world for being. I need you to know that I don’t give a fuck what you think of me, or what you think of my boyfriend, and I don’t give a fuck if you hate me because that’s your fucking problem, Drapeau, not mine. And I need you to know—
He steps closer, almost out of frame, and the camera shifts slightly, silently, to keep him visible, but his face can’t be seen from this angle. Fortunately for nosy fans, Drapeau’s face can.
He’s seething, his cheeks red, his eyebrows drawn, and he’s trembling. Hollander is too. It’s clear to viewers when he lifts a hand and touches Drapeau’s face mockingly, grabbing his chin and swatting at his cheek, swerving around Drapeau’s hands shoving at his own like he’s just trying to annoy him, like this is something playful.
I need you to know, Hollander repeats, his voice clear and slow and soft, barely audible. I need you to really understand that a fag is fucking better than you, even after he takes it up the ass.
Drapeau is visibly disgusted and unsettled. Fans are enjoying using a zoomed-in screenshot of this expression in their posts.
Hollander pushes him again, the shove light, just fingers to his chest, and then Drapeau’s fist is rearing back, and there are muddled shouts, and the camera drops. For a few moments, the recording is almost, black, the phone tilted just slightly, just enough to show the texture of the carpet under it. There are voices, fabric rustling and skin landing on skin, the distinct sounds of a scuffle taking place in somebody’s home instead of on the ice.
And through it all, the shouting and yelling, the swears of You motherfucker and Fucking faggot, is a voice saying Get your fucking hands off him and Shane, come on. And the voice, accented and heavy and smooth, is recognized immediately by fans even with the audio muffled and the video blank. The voice belongs to Ilya Rozanov, center and team captain of the Ottawa Centaurs.
The video is cut off only after the noise falls a little more quiet, when it appears that Hollander and Pike and Rozanov have left, and only after Drapeau’s voice can be heard yelling Fuck! So loudly it’s like the audio isn’t muffled at all.
“Holy fucking—”
“Hayden, you are driving.”
“I— What?”
It’s almost more shocking than the entirety of the events that still have Hayden’s hands trembling. The keys to Rozanov’s stupid fucking car jingle when Hayden catches them against his chest, eyes wide, staring at Rozanov. He might have gotten a few too many hits to the head.
But Rozanov isn’t looking at him, caressing the back of Shane’s head and guiding him to the backseat, murmuring something soft that Hayden can’t hear before he gestures blindly at him, some waving Hurry up motion that sets Hayden into action, getting in the driver's seat without taking a moment to admire it all. It’s a fucking nice car.
He drives, glancing in the rearview to check that nobody’s following them— he doesn’t think any of them would, really, but he also wouldn’t be totally shocked if Drapeau has lost his fucking mind— and then glancing in the rearview to look at them.
Rozanov and Hollander. A force to be fucking reckoned with.
Rozanov is holding Shane’s face, checking that the bleeding is stopping— it is— and then inspecting his mouth, pushing Shane’s lips out of the way to check his teeth. They’re stained pink, but Rozanov doesn’t seem alarmed as he touched a few of them, prodding to check their stability. Rozanov is bleeding too, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Ilya,” Shane chokes. Hayden can barely hear it over the roar of the engine, but it makes his chest tighten. He knows that Shane hurts, his body and his head and his mouth, but he knows that’s heartbroken too. Devastated. Shane loves the Metros. He has since before he was signed. “Ilya.”
“I know, baby,” Ilya says softly. Hayden looks at the road, blinking his eyes when they start to sting. “I have you, I know.”
“I need you,” Shane says weakly. Hayden glances at them again. Shane is clinging to him, fingers clutching at his shirt and pulling him as close as he can. Rozanov tries hushing him, nodding, caressing his face. He tends to do that a lot— caress him. It’s unnervingly sweet. Tender. “Fuck, I need you, please—”
And suddenly, his voice is breathless, somewhere high in his throat, and he’s crying, whimpering, sniffling, and Rozanov is hushing him again, nodding. Shane falls quiet, his breathing still stuttered and desperate and panicked. Rozanov is whispering quietly. Hayden can barely hear him until they come to a red light. He runs his hands across the steering wheel. He can’t believe Rozanov is letting him drive this thing.
Shane is quiet. Hayden glances in the rearview, and freezes.
Shane’s eyes are closed, and he’s breathing hard like he’s been running— or coming down from an adrenaline high, Hayden supposes— and his lips are closed around Rozanov’s thumb, uncaring of the blood on both their skin. He’s sucking on it softly, absently, and Rozanov is talking to him, eyes steady on his face like he’s memorising him.
He’s speaking Russian, Hayden realises after a moment. And Shane is listening, nodding slowly, jaw working at Rozanov’s thumb. Hayden, obviously, doesn’t understand a word until he hears his own name, the beginning H sound rough the way it always is when Rozanov says it. (Hayden still isn’t sure why Rozanov calls him by his first name instead of his last. He suspects it’s an attempt to get under his skin, but it doesn’t work if that’s the reason.) Shane nods again, his eyes fluttering, his cheeks pink, deepening his freckles and the already-forming bruise under his eye.
Hayden stares, eyes widening, watching as Shane sucks on Rozanov’s thumb, as Rozanov whispers and leans in to press their foreheads together, nudging their noses together, and it makes Hayden’s chest hurt. They’re so in love he can feel it from here.
And then Rozanov is kissing him, lips soft and tentative, even with Shane’s mouth full, and Shane’s mouth is opening absently, mindlessly, and he’s reaching for Rozanov’s neck, drawing him in closer. Rozanov kisses him clumsily, pulling his hand away so their mouths can latch properly, the kiss slow and deep and intent. He reaches for Shane’s neck, dragging his wet thumb along his skin and squeezing gently enough that Hayden isn’t even worried about Shane hurting. He’s kind of in awe.
His eyes scan down, watching the way their bodies shift closer, the way they turn into each other like it’s their default state, as close as possible. Like there’s no other way to exist. It’s beautiful. Not that he would ever say that to either of them. Especially Rozanov.
Their lips part with a wet sound that Hayden can hear from the front seat, and Shane shudders, a weak sound escaping his throat. Rozanov looks at him, nodding, whispering something in Russian that seems to prompt Shane to inhale slowly and steadily.
Hayden watches, admiring, until he finds that Rozanov’s free hand isn’t actually free, and it’s somehow found itself between Shane’s legs, gripping his visibly hard dick over the fabric of his pants, squeezing like he’s squeezing Shane’s neck.
“Are you fucking having sex while I’m driving?” Hayden says before he can stop himself, and Rozanov turns toward him, face contorting into something annoyed, like Hayden is in the wrong here. Shane groans, falling forward and tucking his face into Ilya’s neck.
“Keep your eyes on the road,” Rozanov says.
“Wh—”
“Green,” Rozanov says pointedly, gesturing toward the lights with a tilt of his eyebrows, and this— all of this— is so fucking absurd that Hayden can’t help but let out a laugh as he drives straight, shaking his head as Rozanov murmurs to Shane. “‘S okay, I have you. Quiet, baby.”
Shane groans again, voice muffled in Rozanov’s neck, and Hayden shakes his head again, glancing at the dashboard and finding the radio dial to turn it on.
Of course, statements from both Hollander and Drapeau are issued following the leak. Drapeau’s comes first, two pathetic paragraphs posted to Twitter containing some nonsense about comradery and sportsmanship that sounds so stiff it’s like his begrudging attitude is coming through his PR manager. Hollander’s statement comes soon after. It reads as follows.
Don’t listen to him.
It’s hard for me to find an apology to make, but I understand that my fans are disappointed in my behaviour and lack of self control. Unfortunately, I am not sorry. Over two decades of maintaining composure were bound to cause a break at some point, and seeing the things that Drapeau said about me behind my back was an easy final straw. I won’t post them on here because I don’t want to get my account banned, but you can piece it together.
I didn’t know someone was recording, but I can’t say it would have changed anything if I had noticed. I was a man on a mission and that mission was to actually stand and speak up for myself for once in my life. I’m not sorry. Actually, I’m kind of proud.
I’ve left the Montreal Metros, and parts of me are devastated. This team signed me as a rookie, propelled me into my life-long dreams, and pushed me into the athlete that I am today. I gave everything for this team and I would have continued to do so if the circumstances were different. But I’ve learned that much of the team doesn’t feel the same way about me, and that my commitment doesn’t matter when I’ve fallen in love with a man. Hockey, and the world at large of course, is very behind in social progression. We all know this. I kept my queerness to myself (and the boy who would become my boyfriend) for my entire life out of fear. I have always been an anomaly growing up in a Western country playing a predominantly white game, and I knew that being openly gay would sideline me even more. My being a so-called prodigy would not protect me when there is too much about me that is unacceptable, and I have done my absolute best to be accepted. I have tolerated far too much. I have sat by and listened to racist and misogynistic language in silence out of fear of my own rejection, and I am ashamed of it. Parts of me are devastated because I trusted my teammates for years, and I trusted my teammates with who I am, and this is what I got. Many of them— not all— turned out to have no respect for me, in spite of everything I’ve done for them. I said it all in the video.
It is because of this that the rest of me is perfectly fine leaving the Metros. I’ve accepted myself— every part of me— and I’ve accepted that I actually dislike some people and that is okay. I have reasons to dislike them just like they think they have reasons to dislike me. The difference is that their dislike of me is based on what I am at my core, what I cannot change even if I spent most of my life wishing I could: Asian, neurodivergent, and gay. And my dislike of them is based on what they choose to be: hateful and mean and cruel.
I understand that this video has outed me as gay, and as much as I would have liked to come out on my own terms in my own time, I accept it and I actually like that this is out of my hands and I didn’t have to think up some creative post about how ~hockey is for everybody~ and ~all the colours of the rainbow belong on the ice~. This is fine. I’m gay.
I also understand that this video also outed me as a bottom. This is also fine.
I also understand that this video outed Ilya Rozanov as my boyfriend. This is more than fine. I am so in love with this man it makes me crazy, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. At the risk of sounding terribly cliche and painfully corny, Ilya is my rock. He’s kept me steady for years. He understands me in ways I didn’t know I could be understood, and it is a fucking blessing to be able to call him mine and to call myself his. I didn’t know it was possible for someone to love someone else this much, and I also didn’t know it was possible for someone to feel so loved by someone. I don’t know what I would do without him.
I’m joining the Ottawa Centaurs in the upcoming season, and I can’t wait to represent my beloved hometown on the ice and to wear the same colour sweater as the man I love. I can’t wait to win more games with Ilya as my teammate and captain instead of my opponent, and I can’t wait to play more hockey with a team that respects me and values me as a person and not just as a player.
See you next season. If you need me I’ll be with the love of my life learning to be shameless.
Rather than a statement, Rozanov posts a series of photos on his Instagram account with the caption cat’s out of the bag.
The first photo: A sunset golden photo of Rozanov and Hollander side-by-side, looking past the camera. Hollander is sitting lower than Rozanov, his head resting against Rozanov’s upper arm that’s propped up on what is assumed to be Rozanov’s knees. Rozanov is holding a cigarette between two fingers loosely. Hollander is smiling just slightly. Two comments compare him to the Mona Lisa. One reads So this is what Mona Lisa was thinking about. Gays. Hollander likes this comment.
The second photo: What appears to be a screenshot of a video, the quality of the image fuzzier than the rest of Rozanov’s posts. A side profile view of them, Hollander sitting on the ground with his knees bent up, arms resting over his knees, and Rozanov in position for push-ups, holding himself up with his hands on Hollander’s feet. They’re both shirtless, wearing exercise shorts, and a tattoo is visible on Rozanov’s chest. Their eyes are closer, and their lips are touching in a soft kiss.
The third photo: A close up photo of their faces. Rozanov is looking up at Hollander like he’s sitting down and Hollander is leaning over him, his eyes almost closed like he’s sleepy, lips smiling, and Hollander’s lips are puckered, kissing the tip of Rozanov’s nose.
The fourth photo: Taken in a living room. They’re on the sofa, Rozanov slumped over onto a pillow that’s cushioning the armrest, and Hollander is laying down, his head resting on Rozanov’s hip. Rozanov’s hand is on Hollander’s head, his fingers in his hair, and they both appear to be sleeping.
The fifth photo: A side profile view. Their noses are pressed together, and they are both smiling. Hollander appears to be laughing, his eyes squeezed shut, and Rozanov is gazing at him.
The sixth photo: At a picnic table. Rozanov, fully visible in the foreground, is turning to take a selfie with the rest of the table, smiling brightly, while Hollander, sitting next to him and mostly hidden from Rozanov’s forward lean, has his eyes closed and is pinching the bridge of his nose as if in exasperation. Hayden Pike is tagged in the corner and it is assumed that he took the photo.
The seventh photo: At night, taken with a harsh flash. Hollander and Rozanov are kissing passionately, arms around each other, Rozanov leaning forward like he’s falling, and Jean-Jaques “JJ” Boiziau is next to them, mid-turn toward the camera with an alarmed and simultaneously ecstatic look on his face.
The eighth photo: Holland Rozanov standing on the ice, arms wrapped around each other as they pose for the camera. They are wearing their gear and holding sticks, but only Rozanov has his helmet on. Hollander’s gloved hand is visible holding the back of Rozanov’s neck. Hollander is grinning, sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, and Rozanov is leaning in close enough to press his tongue against Hollander’s cheek. Hollander does not seem to mind it.
The ninth photo: Asleep on the sofa again. It appears to be the same sofa, in the same living room, but they are wearing different clothes. Hollander is sitting with his legs outstretched on an ottoman, holding a pillow to himself, and Rozanovis laying against his shoulder. Hollander’s head is resting on his, and he is holding Rozanov’s wrist.
The tenth photo: In a locker room. Nobody can explain the photo, and Rozanov and Hollander seemingly refuse to provide context. They are standing, but their bodies are tangled together, limbs woven and holding them up against the lockers, stretching out over the bench down the middle of the aisle. They are held up only by one foot each and Hollander’s hand holding onto the bench. Comments provide theories that range from interpretive dance to That’s just their natural state.
Many comments are deleted. Many are liked by both Hollander and Rozanov as well as other players in the league.
haydenpikeofficial the girls are expecting you to have you own dress for your playdate on saturday
| ilyarozanov81 tell them i am already prepared and will bring glitter
| | haydenpikeofficial do NOT bring glitter i swear to god
thescotthunter21 Happy for you guys! You’ve come such a long way. ☺️
| ilyarozanov81 oddly progressive for an elder… i will accept it.
| | shanehollanderhockeyplayer Ignore him. Thank you Scott.
boiziaujj16 cutie pookie pies ♥️♥️♥️😍😍🥹🥹🌈🎉
| ilyarozanov81 POOKIE PIES
| | shanehollanderhockeyplayer jj what have you done
jackie_pike24 love you boys!!! so proud of you both!! ❣️
| ilyarozanov81 kisses <3
theroselandry CUTIES!!! I love your love so much.
| ilyrarozanov81 thank you, Rose Landry
svetlanavetrova Я так сильно тебя люблю. вас обоих.
| ilyrarozanov81 Мы вас тоже любим. xx
Hollander later posts a photo to his Instagram account. It’s a photo from the photoshoot when they were rookies, dark in the ice rink, both wearing helmets and leaning down so their hockey sticks are touching. They’re looking up at one another, and at first glance, they look serious. Nothing odd about it. But upon a further look, they are both suppressing smile, their eyes squinting, smiling without their mouths, looking into one another’s eyes. They look young, soft and sweet and new at it all. They look like friends instead of committed rivals.
The caption reads, Who would have thought?