Bluehorse44
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nothing makes me feel as good by bitterbloodyorange
Fandoms: Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
03 Apr 2026
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Summary
JJ didn't think the others saw it. Hayden, maybe, but Jackie was the only WAGs's name Shane had committed to memory so Hayden never brought it up. JJ didn't have a wife or girlfriend. He had his hookups and the names of the best restaurants in each city they player in. If JJ had a dog, Shane would probably mix its name up with Drapeau's. The others didn't get that however pathetic or sad they might think Shane, Shane thought the same of them tenfold when they missed shots at practice or ate fast food on weekdays. Shane wasn't being prissy or funny when he said, don't embarass me—JJ still doesn't know exactly what it was, but he doesn't care to find out.
Shane had poured everything into his team (possessively: it was his team) and he asked them to give it back that day, so they delivered. When Shane smiled at them afterwards, it felt like love.
Character study on neurotic batshit hardass Captain Shane Hollander. The awe-inspiring and aloof Canadian Hockey Jesus Shane Hollander. Unwilling MLH sex icon Shane Hollander, the face on many mens' dart boards.
or, JJ on the enigma of (his feelings for) Shane Hollander over the years.
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Dig Two Graves by devovitsuasartes
Fandoms: Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid
20 Dec 2025
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Summary
There’s no humor in Shane’s voice. It’s cold, hard, determined. “When we meet them on the ice next season, I want to fucking destroy them.”
After a moment, he feels Ilya nod thoughtfully behind him.
“Is good plan. Let’s fucking destroy them.”
The Montreal Voyageurs won't stop slinging mud at Shane in the press, so Shane and Ilya decide to get revenge the best way they know how.
Series
- Part 1 of Dig Two Graves
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of a certain age by gurlsrool
Fandoms: Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Heated Rivalry (TV)
21 Mar 2026
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Summary
“Wait, I could totally see that,” Connors says. “She wears reading glasses and he’s, like, obsessed with them. Sometimes on the road, he calls her from the bathroom and I hear him begging her to put them on.”
“The glasses! I heard that too.” Shit, it must be a fetish, right? She doesn’t just happen to be old. Rozy likes that she’s old.
Or: Cliff figures out why Ilya’s keeping his Montreal girl a secret. She’s not a girl at all...she's an elderly woman. Or maybe an elderly man?
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- Words:
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- Bookmarks:
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Bookmarked by Bluehorse44
27 May 2026
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Bookmarker's Notes
"Russia, allegedly: domed churches, Faberge eggs, the glories of the Hermitage, sleighs racing through the snow with wolves slavering after them, the low sound of plainsong across the inner courtyard, St Petersburg rising up out of the mud on the bones of serfs, long haired and bearded monks, head-scarfed women lighting candles to Byzantine-eyed icons, Tolstoy’s Levin toiling in the fields with his peasants, the black earth and black bread.
Alternately, Russia: that one club in Moscow where Ilya had first sucked cock, the prim fronts of the buildings on Noble Row, the place near Tverskaya Street where he and Sasha had thrown up after smoking their first cigarettes, dodging protests on his way to school with Alexei back in 2004, Svetlana’s 5000009₽ fur coat thrown over the back of her chair at Varvary though the maître d’ had wanted to take it, lines of coke in the bathroom on a hot summer’s evening, yet another fucking Pelevin out, nihilistic pleasure as they danced the night away and the fog rolled in.
Formerly Russia: the Red Square, drifts of snow, grim-faced men in greatcoats or uniform, hammer-and-sickle flying high, Glorious October! on bright-coloured posters, a stoical, cynical national character, blood on those drifts of snow, bathtubs without plugs in, the wide open skies of the Siberian tundra, the zeks frozen as they worked, fearful silence from city to city, samizdat, Mandlestam’s words passed wordlessly from hand-to-hand, endless killing and toil and fear, the untold numbers of the dead, the people drowning themselves in vodka to make life bearable.
And Russia: the small apartment on Frunzenskaya, his mother’s cheap paperbacks spilling over the bookshelves, polishing his father’s medals on Sundays (then the greatest thrill of his short life), spring budding to life on the tree outside his bedroom window, Alexei showing him how to do a header with their old football, the worn-down comfort of chafing sleeve of the blue duffel coat he’d had when he was six between his fingers, big black Begemot the cat of his grandmother slinking past with a rat in his jaws, the shingled beach at Sochi where they had holidayed as children, the sun bearing down on his face as he lay on his back on the lawn with his mother and Alexei.
Also Russia: tanks and helicopters, wars dragging out, bearded Chechens on the news, killers-for-hire, Afgantsy, journalists poisoned on the street, conscripts rotting to death for lack of medical care, refusing to read the newspaper because it was either depressing or all lies, governmental cover-ups, accusations of fixed elections, Svetlana spat at on the metro, a covert war of information, gas and oil as bargaining tools, Americans saying to him sympathetically You must be so glad you don’t live there anymore and baffled at his offence.
But Russia: fifteen red roses in the blue Merino glass vase for his mother’s birthday, writing line after line of cursive until the teacher was satisfied, reciting The Bronze Horseman in a silly voice to make his mother laugh, punching Alexei in the stomach over something stupid, the tragical tweeting of his aunt’s caged budgerigar as he fed it seed through the bars, Babulya cropping his hair military short to keep it neat and his mother crying over his baby curls, Papa red-faced with pleasure amidst his cronies and smashing his glass to the floor in a toast, the unspeakable pride of being named captain for the Olympic team.
Supposedly Russia: birch trees, rabbit hutches and duck ponds, chickens scratching in the yard, samovar and tiled stove, babushkas presiding over the hearth, a pot of soup on the fire, the Little Father safely on his throne, his worshipful people at his feet, stories of Baba Yaga and Father Frost and the Golden Horde coming in off the steppe, a storybook country with about as much substance.
And Russia: the chemical-cool scent of the ice rink, his father telling his mother in a voice as cold and smooth as the snow outside exactly how stupid she was, skating on the duck pond round and round in pleasurable circles until he was dizzy, the friend of a friend of a friend of Svetlana’s found beaten to death on the street in Krasnodar and nobody ever arrested, insisting he had to stay in Moscow for the summer to train, fear clutching at his ribs when he realised Sasha had told his sister about them, Sergei Mikhailovich pounding the table in drunken bonhomie and shouting I’m telling you, the boy is good!, choking down boiling hot tea when he fell into a snow drift and his aunts were convinced he had hypothermia, the incredible startlement of his coach patting him on the shoulder and saying gruffly Not bad.
...
He had kissed the soil of his mother’s grave the last time he was there. Put himself full length alongside it, up on his hands as if he were prostrating before an icon, and lowered himself to touch his lips."
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Summary
We won’t release a statement right away, someone from the front office said, but if you’re missing a couple games there’s going to be questions. What are we going to call it? A family emergency?
Ilya had almost laughed. What emergency? His father is already fucking dead.