Chapter 2 — Pressure Points
The next three days felt wrong. Shane trained harder than usual, skating until his legs burned, shooting until his wrists ached, pushing through drills like something was chasing him. It didn't help. Nothing did. Every quiet second brought him back to the same place—the hallway, the grip on his jersey, the space between them that hadn't quite become a kiss. Tell me to stop. He hadn't. That was the problem.
"Again," Coach snapped. Shane reset instantly, took the pass, fired—clean shot, top corner. Good. Not enough. "You're overthinking," Marcus muttered as they circled back. Shane didn't answer. He didn't trust himself to.
Across the city, Ilya had the same issue—just quieter about it. He moved through practice with precision, but there was a fraction of hesitation where there had never been any before. Coach noticed. Of course he did. "Hollis beat you on that last read," he said. Ilya's jaw tightened slightly. "Won't happen again." He meant it. He just didn't know what "again" would look like.
Game night came fast. The arena roared, louder than before, anticipation thick in the air. Shane stepped onto the ice and felt it immediately—that awareness, sharp and unavoidable. He looked up. Ilya was already watching him. No smirk this time. Just focus. Direct. Intent. The whistle cut through the noise. They moved.
From the first shift, it was different. Faster, tighter, more deliberate. Shane drove forward, cutting through defense, but Ilya met him head-on, stick clashing cleanly with his. "Still predictable," Ilya said under his breath. "Still talking," Shane shot back, shoving past him. They separated, but the tension didn't.
Second period. Harder hits, shorter tempers. Shane chased a loose puck along the boards and felt it coming this time—the impact. He braced. Ilya slammed into him anyway, controlled but heavy, pinning him just long enough to make it count. Too close again. "You're adjusting," Ilya murmured. "Don't sound surprised." Their eyes locked for half a second too long before the whistle broke it apart. Again.
By the third, the game wasn't clean anymore. It was a standoff. Tied score, final minutes. Shane caught the puck off a bad rebound, turned—and there he was. Always there. Ilya moved to block, reading him, anticipating. Shane shifted left, saw the reaction, then cut right at the last second. Space opened. Shot. Goal.
The arena exploded. Shane barely heard it. He was already looking at Ilya. No smirk. Just something sharper—acknowledgment, maybe. Or challenge. Then his teammates crashed into him, dragging him back into the noise.
They won. Again. It still didn't feel simple.
Shane stayed longer this time—celebration, noise, anything to avoid thinking—but eventually the hallway found him anyway. Quiet, empty, inevitable.
"You're getting better."
Shane exhaled once before turning. "Do you just wait around for me now?" Ilya leaned off the wall, calm as ever. "Only when it's worth it." Shane shook his head, but his pulse had already picked up. "What do you want?" "To see if it changed anything." "It didn't." A pause. Then, softer—"Liar."
Shane's jaw tightened. "You're reading into things." Ilya stepped closer, not all the way, but enough. "You didn't walk away." "I did." "Eventually." That landed. Shane looked away first, which annoyed him more than it should have. "It doesn't mean anything." "Then say it again." Shane opened his mouth—stopped. The words didn't come as easily this time.
Ilya noticed. Of course he did.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "That's what I thought."
"Don't do that," Shane snapped. "Do what?" "Act like you know me." "I don't," Ilya said. "But I know this—you don't hate me as much as you should."
Shane stepped forward before he could think better of it, closing the gap. "You want to test that?" Ilya didn't move back. "Yes."
That space again. Smaller now. Tighter. Familiar in the worst way.
"Bad idea," Shane muttered. "Probably," Ilya agreed, but didn't step away.
A distant door slammed somewhere down the hall. Neither of them moved.
Shane's voice dropped. "We said this was a mistake." "Did we?" Ilya asked.
That was the problem.
It didn't feel like one anymore.
Shane knew where this was heading. Knew exactly when he should stop it.
He didn't.
Not when Ilya stepped closer. Not when his hand caught the front of Shane's jersey again, slower this time, giving him time to pull away.
He didn't.
"Tell me to stop," Ilya said, low, steady.
Shane's breath hitched.
He should have.
Instead, he stayed right where he was.
And this time—
Neither of them pretended it didn't mean anything.