Lights burned bright overhead, reflecting off the ice in blinding white streaks. The sound of skates carving into frozen surface cut sharply through the noise, blending with the clash of sticks and the thunder of bodies hitting the boards.
Shane Hollis lived for this.
Every breath he took felt sharp, cold, electric. His lungs burned, his pulse pounded, and his focus narrowed into something almost violent. The game wasn't just a game tonight—it was personal.
Because he was here.
Shane didn't need to look to know exactly where he was. He could feel him on the ice like a storm pressing against his skin.
Still, he looked.
Across the rink, number 17 glided effortlessly, like the chaos around him didn't exist. Dark hair damp with sweat, movements precise, controlled—dangerous.
Ilya Volkov.
Shane's jaw tightened.
Rival. Enemy. Problem.
And the only person who had ever made him lose control.
The whistle blew, sharp and final. The period ended, but the tension didn't. It never did—not when Ilya was involved.
As Shane skated toward the bench, he felt it—that gaze. Heavy. Intentional.
He turned.
Ilya was already looking at him.
Not just looking—watching.
There was a faint smirk on his lips. Not wide. Not obvious. Just enough to get under Shane's skin.
It worked.
It always worked.
The locker room smelled like sweat, metal, and adrenaline.
Shane dropped onto the bench harder than necessary, dragging a hand through his damp hair. His teammates talked around him—loud, energized—but their voices blurred into background noise.
"Hey, you good?" Marcus asked, nudging him.
"Yeah," Shane muttered. "Fine."
He wasn't.
He could still feel that look.
God, he hated him.
Coach paced in front of them, barking instructions, but Shane barely heard a word. His mind kept circling back to the same thing—the same person.
Ilya Volkov.
The name itself felt like a challenge.
They had been drafted the same year. Same hype. Same expectations. From the very beginning, they'd been compared—skill for skill, goal for goal.
But comparisons had turned into competition.
Competition had turned into rivalry.
And rivalry had turned into something… sharper.
Something dangerous.
"Stay focused," Coach snapped, pointing directly at Shane now. "You're letting him get in your head."
Shane stiffened.
"I'm not."
Coach gave him a look that said he didn't believe him for a second.
"Then prove it."
The second period hit harder.
Faster. Rougher.
Shane played like he had something to prove—because he did. Every move was sharper, every pass cleaner, every shot more aggressive.
And still—
Still, Ilya matched him.
No.
Not matched.
Anticipated.
It was like he knew what Shane would do before he did it.
Halfway through the period, it happened.
Shane broke through the defense, the puck glued to his stick as he pushed forward. The goal was right there—clear, open—
And then—
Impact.
Hard.
Sudden.
Ilya.
They slammed into the boards with enough force to rattle the glass. The crowd erupted, but Shane barely heard it over the rush of blood in his ears.
For a second, everything froze.
Too close.
Way too close.
Ilya's hand pressed briefly against Shane's arm—not enough to be obvious, just enough to linger.
Their faces were inches apart.
"You're predictable," Ilya murmured, voice low, almost lost under the noise.
Shane's breath caught—not from the hit.
From him.
"Get off me," Shane snapped.
Ilya didn't move right away.
That smirk again.
Then he pushed off, skating away like nothing had happened.
Like Shane hadn't just felt something twist tight in his chest.
---
The game ended in a narrow win.
For Shane's team.
The crowd cheered. His teammates celebrated. But the victory felt… off.
Incomplete.
Because as Shane skated off the ice, there was only one thing on his mind.
Him.
---
The hallway behind the arena was quiet.
Too quiet compared to the chaos outside.
Shane should've been with his team—celebrating, laughing, enjoying the win.
Instead, he found himself here.
Alone.
Or… not.
"You played well."
The voice came from behind him.
Of course it did.
Shane didn't turn immediately.
"I didn't ask."
A soft chuckle.
Then footsteps.
Slow. Confident. Closing the distance.
"I don't need you to ask."
Shane turned then—and there he was.
Ilya Volkov.
Up close, he was worse.
Sharper. More real. More dangerous.
"Why are you here?" Shane asked.
Ilya tilted his head slightly, like he was considering the question.
"Maybe I wanted to see you."
Shane scoffed. "Yeah, right."
But his pulse had already started to pick up.
Ilya stepped closer.
Too close.
"You're different off the ice," he said quietly.
Shane's breath hitched.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't."
There was a pause.
Heavy.
Charged.
Then—
"You keep looking at me."
Shane's heart stuttered.
"I don't."
Ilya's eyes flicked down briefly—to Shane's lips—before returning to his eyes.
"You do."
Silence stretched between them.
Tight. Unsteady.
"You hate me," Shane said finally.
Ilya didn't answer right away.
Instead, he stepped even closer—close enough that Shane could feel the heat of him, could see every detail in his expression.
"Do I?"
Shane couldn't breathe.
This wasn't right.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
They were rivals.
Enemies.
They weren't supposed to be—
Whatever this was.
"Ilya—"
But he didn't get to finish.
Because in the next second, everything shifted.
Ilya's hand came up—hesitant for just a moment—before gripping the front of Shane's jersey.
And then—
He pulled him in.
Not quite a kiss.
Not yet.
But close enough that Shane felt it—felt everything.
The tension. The heat. The pull.
"Tell me to stop," Ilya murmured.
Shane should have.
He knew he should have.
Instead—
He didn't say a word.