Chapter Text
The Olympic Village was a mess.
No, worse than that. It was a fucking logistical disaster disguised with banners and patriotic slogans. Shane Hollander had been promised privacy, clean quarters and a sense of calm before the Games. What he got was jetlag, construction dust and a college dorm hallway that smelled like instant noodles and industrial-grade hand sanitiser.
He was sweating through his Team Canada jacket, dragging his duffel behind a kid in an ill-fitting volunteer vest who hadn’t spoken a full sentence of English in ten minutes.
“This isn’t ours,” Shane said sharply as they turned down another hallway, one marked РОССИЯ in bold Cyrillic. “Canada’s supposed to have the top floor.”
“Yes. Adjustment,” the kid mumbled.
“Adjustment?”
“There was…Swedish problem. Pipes. You are here now.”
Shane stopped cold. “You’re putting me in the Russian wing?”
The kid blinked at him. “Is not bad.”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His brain was trying to process: Russian wing, housing error, two-week-long nightmare while his legs kept moving out of sheer athletic muscle memory.
The door opened before he had time to prepare. And there he was.
Ilya Rozanov. Shirtless. On the bed. One arm behind his head, the other balancing a half-eaten apple. His torso glistened faintly, like he’d just showered or maybe just existed in a way that naturally required high-definition lighting. Tattoos sprawled over his biceps and ribs in sleek Cyrillic arcs. His phone was in his lap. His smirk? Immediate.
“Well, well,” Ilya drawled, gaze sliding over Shane from boots to cheekbones. “Canada sends their smallest soldier.”
Shane froze in the doorway. He couldn’t even blink. The audacity of that grin made his scalp prickle.
This couldn’t be real. This had to be—
“You lost?” Ilya asked, taking another bite of his apple. Juice dripped down his wrist like something obscene. “Little captain cannot find teammates?”
Shane turned to the volunteer. “No. Nope. This isn’t happening.”
But it was. Bag on the floor. Room key issued. Only one available bunk.
The Canadian team manager offered apologetic promises over the phone: just forty-eight hours, we’ll sort it, a fluke.
Meanwhile, Ilya kicked his legs over the side of the bed and watched him with the look: the one Shane had seen on highlight reels and in post-game handshakes, the one that said ‘I’ve already beaten you and I haven’t even moved yet’.
“You and me,” Ilya said, like it was the punchline to a joke Shane hadn’t agreed to. “Roommates.”
He winked.
Shane dropped his bag and told himself to breathe.
__________
They lasted a full day in silence.
On Day Two, Ilya made breakfast. Naked from the waist up again, clad in only compression shorts and thick socks. He clanged pans with aggressive cheer, muttering under his breath in rapid-fire Russian, entirely unconcerned with the fact that Shane was sitting on the couch three feet away trying to ignore the flex of his lats as he flipped a pancake.
Then Ilya turned around mid-ramble and said with a small, crooked smile,
“ Ty vsegda budesh nablyudat za mnoy, kogda ya razdevayus'?” - Will you always watch when I undress?
Shane jolted like he’d been slapped. “What?”
“Nothing,” Ilya said sweetly, voice dipped in innocent mischief.
Shane wanted to throw his protein bar at his head. Instead, he stood up too fast and stalked toward the training centre. His inner voice already spiralling:
You are not staring. You are just trapped in a space where that’s what he looks like. It doesn’t mean anything. He’s a show-off. He wants to get in your head. He wants to make you angry, and you’re not—
He was angry.
__________
The gym was mercifully empty, for a while.
Shane hit the weights with grim focus. Cable rows. Leg presses. Deadlifts. He counted every rep with brutal precision, not because he needed to but because it kept his mind on math, not Ilya Rozanov’s glistening back muscles.
Fifteen minutes later, the door opened behind him.
He didn’t have to look. He knew the rhythm of that walk. Knew it from five years of games, from playoff losses, from centre-ice staredowns.
Rozanov moved like someone who knew exactly what people thought of him and didn’t give a shit. And now he was in Shane’s gym space. Breathing his air.
“Do not stop on my account,” Ilya said lightly, walking toward the mirrored wall, spinning a hockey stick in one hand like a baton. “You looked so focused.”
Shane kept his grip on the barbell. One more rep. Two. He didn’t respond.
Behind him, Rozanov made a show of stretching. His shirt rode up. His boxer briefs peeked above his shorts. Shane gritted his teeth hard enough to crack a molar.
He finally broke on rep seven. Dropped the bar with a solid metallic clang. Turned.
“Do you ever shut the fuck up?” he snapped.
Ilya tilted his head. “Is that how you talk to all your roommates?”
“You’re not my roommate,” Shane hissed. “You’re a mistake that someone in logistics is gonna get fired for.”
“Oh, ouch.” Ilya clutched his chest theatrically. “Wound me, Hollander.”
Shane stepped forward without thinking, only to find Ilya already closing the gap.
“You don’t scare me,” Shane muttered.
“But I make you twitch,” Ilya murmured, low and knowing.
Something burned behind Shane’s ribs. Something primal and furious and unacceptable.
He moved fast, hand going for the stick Ilya had dropped. “Keep talking and I’ll shove this—”
“Don’t threaten me with good time,” Ilya said.
And that’s when the camera clicked. A soft shutter. Barely audible over the hum of gym lighting. Shane turned just in time to see a girl - maybe Swiss delegation, maybe a local volunteer - with her phone out. She looked delighted.
“No,” Shane snapped. “Delete that.”
But she was already gone. Vanished.
__________
By morning, it was everywhere.
A ten-second clip. Shane, flushed and glowering. Ilya, grinning like the devil with a stick over his shoulder. The caption read: “Rivals or lovers?👀🔥 #Rozander”
Shane stood in the kitchen, phone in hand, nausea blooming behind his sternum. He scrolled through the retweets. Fan art. Slow-mo gifs. Someone had edited it with sparkles. Someone else added a soundtrack. His face was everywhere.
His heart beat like he was in game overtime.
He looked up and there was Ilya. On the couch. Shirtless. Laughing.
“Is not even your good angle,” Ilya said, holding up his own phone. “I look better. But you? Mmm. Red face. Angry jaw.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Shane barked.
“Little Canadian boy,” Ilya said, pouting. “So sensitive.”
He stood slowly. Stretched, back arching in a way that was practically criminal. Then he added, softly,
“You know what they call this, yes?”
Shane didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His palms were sweating.
“Enemies to lovers,” Ilya purred.
And something snapped in Shane’s brain. The words hung there, stupid and impossible, but his blood was boiling.
“They think we fuck,” Ilya said with a shrug. “Why not give them show?”
“You’re insane,” Shane hissed, voice breaking.
“But you are blushing,” Ilya murmured, stepping closer. “And I think you wonder. Maybe just little.”
He didn’t blink.
Shane backed into the bathroom, shut the door too hard and stripped his jacket off with trembling hands.
It doesn’t mean anything, he told himself.
He turned the shower to cold and stepped in, fully clothed, heart hammering.