We all get our bell rung eventually, right?

Blog is still under construction, but I'm impatient so... ♡

This muse is an independent portrayal of Shane Hollander from Heated Rivalry / Game Changers, following canon with room for headcanons and canon divergence. ♡

OC and Crossover friendly, this blog is 21+ minors DNI

Mun goes by Luki, 30+ years and I’ve been rping more than half my life. I'm autistic and bilingual so I apologize for any mistakes made! I'm a little awkward around new people but my dms and asks are always open! Discord available for mutuals!

I always read the rules of RP blogs I follow or interact with, but I don’t send in passwords. I’ll assume that if you follow or interact, you’ve read my rules as well. Search: #headcanon for all my affiliated hcs / #open for open starters Most wonderful banners were made by @pompedia Sideblogs: @captainswinged || @hollandermatriach Affiliated with: @bostonlilyxo || @rinksaint || @gardcnofedcn || @falling-for-a-fantasy || @rinkholy || @rivaledmuses || @stxincd

Rules under read more! ♡

Shane 100% signs Ilya up for one of those "adult summer camps" where grown men basically reenact being teenagers for a week. No phones, no social media, no responsibilities, no work. Just camp rules, cabins, activities, and a weirdly strict schedule that treats everyone like they are 13 again, because Shane thinks Ilya didn't ever get to be just a kid and could use some catching up. It takes quite some convincing and Shane being all like "how about you give it a try and if you really hate it, you call me and I come pick you up okay?"

The rules apply exactly as they would for teenagers. Can't leave the camp grounds, no smoking, no drinking. Listen to what the "adults" say. Lmao. They get to call their person of choice once every evening from a stationary phone at the supervisor cabin like it’s 2004. No exceptions.

And the hosts really go all out, the program is fully committed to the bit. First being sorted into different cabins with five other "kids". They sleep in bunk beds of course and their first task is to find a name for their group, then elect a group leader.

They do everything a good summer camp needs. Campfire every night, hiking and tracking, canoeing, pottery with clay harvested there, special night-hike adventures, spooky stories and treasure/scavenger hunts, everything. The unpleasant parts too btw. Shared outhouse, washing the dishes duty, gathering wood, all that.

At first, Ilya is absolutely horrified. He is a professional athlete, a grown man, and suddenly someone is telling him about "team bonding exercises" and "trust hikes" and going to bed at 10 pm. And Ilya is supposed to read a (boring) book with a damn flashlight because the cabins don't have electricity.

And when they first show up with their spouses for the kick-off meeting, Ilya acts all annoyed because "oh my god Hollander I can't fucking believe you" and "this is so stupid I is grown man" but Shane spots him curiously eyeing the other participants like they are a draft board, mentally calculating which group is probably going to be the strongest opponent before he has even unpacked his bag. They gather in a chair circle and there the rules are explained.

Of course the other participants realize who they are though. There is a very awkward five minutes where everyone is trying not to stare at Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov sitting in folding chairs like they're not world famous hockey players but some ordinary middle aged couple. For a hot minute people act weird around them but by the time they get sorted into groups the ice is broken because Ilya forgets who he is (and his mates do too) and they immediately declare war on the other cabins as in may the best cabin win. Ilya, who has spent approximately 90 minutes insisting this is ridiculous, suddenly becomes deeply invested in cabin competition. There is no middle ground. It goes from "this is humiliating" to "we are absolutely destroying Cabin 4 in canoe racing" in record time and everyone except Cabin 4 agrees.

And that's when Shane knows he's done the right thing.

Every evening phone call slowly devolves from "I miss you and your cute freckles so much is making me mad man" to "our royal house has been wronged and justice will be served" and Shane just sits there (missing Ilya just as much), listening, quietly eating snacks, while thinking: Yes. this is healing something. I don’t know what, but it is.

>> ❤ <<

The AC at the Cottage had decided to give a flying fuck just this morning, and even though Shane had apparently called everyone and their mother to try and reach someone, anyone, to get it repaired as quick as possible, they still have to wait for hours until someone's going to be able to come out to their place. Why? because, well, it's very remote... and, apparently, everyone's currently struggling with their ACs due to that heatwave they're currently going through.

Ilya moans, identifying as a starfish in the middle of their living room - his back against the floors, staring up at the ceiling, wearing nothing but shorts and his own sweat. Anya's resting close by, panting softly, chewing on a toy that has seen better days.

"---How dare for beautiful Cottage to betray me like this, after all these years?! I am heartbroken. I am also melting. Is horrible. I will perish. Goodbye."

Shane snorts quietly to himself, though even that feels like unnecessary exertion in this heat. He watches as Ilya dramatically acts out his own demise on the living room floor and briefly considers joining him. Truthfully, he isn't sure he's handling the heat much better. Maybe he's just quieter about it.

Or maybe Ilya is simply committed to dying theatrically. Either way, Shane loves him for it.

Ottawa wasn't exactly known for heatwaves. At least, it hadn't been when this cottage was constructed. Lately, though, they seemed to arrive every summer, and naturally the one week Shane actually needed their fancy air conditioning, it decided to give up.

Shane really tried everything fame and money could provide to get the mechanic here sooner but it seems like they're not the only ones suffering this problem. Probably because Canadian air conditioners aren't constructed to battle the fires of hell.

Standing in the doorway, Shane fans himself lazily with a folded magazine. Unlike Ilya he at least had the decency to put on one of his oldest oversized t-shirts. Though, admittedly, at these temperatures he can't even fully appreciate his boyfriend blessing him with that barely-anything-outfit anymore.

He glances over at Anya and silently envies her. She's sprawled across her cooling mat looking significantly more comfortable than either of them.

The lone fan in the corner has long since given up pretending it's accomplishing anything beyond aggressively redistributing hot air. Still, they've adapted. All the blinds are shut. Every unnecessary appliance has been unplugged. Several cooling packs wrapped in dish towels occupy the freezer, ready for deployment soon enough.

Tomorrow he'll get up before sunrise again to throw every window and door open while the air is still bearable, trapping as much of the cool morning as possible before sealing the house back up.

It doesn't help them now, unfortunately. Neither does the lake. After nearly a week of thirty-five-degree weather, even that had turned into glorified bathwater. The worst part isn't even the heat. It's the stickiness for him.

With a resigned sigh, Shane wanders into the kitchen. Thank God they'd stocked up on ginger ale and Coke last week. He pulls two ice-cold cans from the fridge, lingering in front of the open door for a few blissful seconds longer than strictly necessary before reluctantly closing it again.

Returning to the living room, he crouches beside the starfish-shaped puddle formerly known as Ilya Rozanov and gently presses one of the freezing cans against his boyfriend's cheek.

@gamechxnger plotted starter <3

The address had been sitting in his wallet for almost four months. Folded once. Then twice. Carried from city to city, road trip to road trip, tucked behind receipts and hotel key cards until Shane had almost convinced himself he'd never use it. Almost.

Yet somehow he finds himself staring at it again from behind the wheel of a rental car long after the game has ended. New York had won. The only thing he remembers is walking out of the arena feeling just as empty as he had walking in.

His phone sits in the cupholder beside him. Silent. It's been months. Not that he's counting. The lie feels pathetic even inside his own head. He knows exactly how many months it's been. Exactly how many unanswered texts. Exactly how many times he's checked his phone for a message that never came. We are not anything, Hollander, go away. It stings. Ever since then. And he hates ho much it affected him. He hates how hung up he's been on it.

Shane exhales sharply through his nose and glances down at the slip of paper again. Scott Hunter. Shane always liked him. Admired him even, maybe a little more than just casually admiring him. He can't admit to that yet but somewhere inside he knows.

The address is written in surprisingly terrible handwriting. At the time Shane had almost laughed. Now it just feels surreal. Because normal people don't do this. Normal people don't drive across a city at night to visit a man they've spoken to maybe a handful of times. Straight people don't do this, his head provides uninvited. Straight people go to clubs after a game won and pick up whatever puck bunny throws herself at them first. Or they are like Hayden, with a wife and kids and all that. Normal people definitely don't do it because they're lonely.