Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Cliff Marlow, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

5+1 Things, Closeted Character

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of Heated on ice

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-08 Words: 5,258 Chapters: 1/1

Accidents on ice

Summary

“Rozanov, are you out of your fucking mind?” Shane shouted, furious and startled, flailing as his gear clattered loudly. “Put me down!”

Ilya did not actually manage to hoist him or shake him like a candy jar. Shane’s weight and resistance saw to that. But the rough, sudden jolts that followed

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Gravity finally won.

The puck slipped free from the bunched fabric at the back of Shane’s jersey and dropped onto the ice, rolling neatly to a stop near a referee’s skate.

or

5 funny accidents on the ice that made both Boston and Montreal lose their minds

Notes

The Chinese version is here:
冰上事故合集

I’ve been watching a bunch of on-ice accident compilations lately and laughing way too hard.

So I figured I’d put together a 5+1 list. Nothing serious, just something fun to watch.

Any Russian lines are run through a translator, so they might not be perfectly accurate. Just a heads-up.

Я тебя люблю -> I love you
Каждый день, Каждую проклятую секунду. -> Every day. Every goddamn second.

1.
The winter night air of Montreal was sharp as a blade, yet it could not suppress the boiling hostility inside the arena. Tonight was one of the league’s most blood-heated rivalry games: Boston vs Montreal. Even during warm-ups, the jeers from both fanbases were deafening. The commentators endlessly reheated old grudges, and the cameras carved across the faces of both teams’ core players with knife-like precision.

Third period. The score was tied, 3–3.

Time dragged on amid violent puck battles and the shriek of skates slicing the ice. Both sides had gone feral. Every shift carried a do-or-die viciousness. The tie felt like a wire pulled tight, strangling everyone’s nerves.

On the Boston Bears’ bench, Ilya Rozanov leaned heavily against the boards. He was not on the ice, but every muscle in his body was coiled tight. His steel blue eyes, sharp as a hunting hawk’s, tracked a single figure through the slit of his visor without blinking: the sprinting No. 24 Shane Hollander.

Shane looked like a drawn bowstring. Once again, he ghosted through a scrum and stripped the puck clean. One explosive push of his skates sent him forward, lightning-fast, tearing straight through Boston’s neutral-zone defense.

Acceleration. A sudden cut. His shoulder dipped low.

Just as he was about to reach top speed, a Bears defenseman in dark colors hurled himself in from the side. The hit carried desperation and brute force, written into every inch of his motion.

The impact landed with a heavy, muffled thud.

The force knocked Shane violently off his line. His skates lost their grip. Control slipped away. He tried to adjust, but the momentum was merciless, and his body was flung toward the Boston bench.

The world spun.

The crowd, the lights, the shocked faces all blurred past his vision.

Then, the fall stopped.

He did not crash into hard benches or cold flooring. Instead, he landed in a waiting embrace, solid, unyielding, unmistakably prepared.

Warmth seeped through layers of pads. Shane could feel the shape of the other man’s chest and the strength in his arms. The referee’s whistle, the crowd’s roar, and teammates shouting all faded into distant.

Shane snapped his head up.

Ilya Rozanov’s face was right there, far too close.

His arms had closed around Shane on pure elite-athlete instinct, tightening in the instant Shane collided with him.

There was a faint stiffness in that grip.

Behind the visor, those blue eyes were momentarily stunned. The usual ease vanished, replaced by a flicker of raw surprise. It was as if he had not expected this “falling into his arms” to arrive with such violence and weight. Ilya dipped his head slightly. White breath fogged against Shane’s visor. His own breathing faltered, just half a beat.

Time seemed to stretch and freeze.

Shane could smell the sweat and heat trapped inside Ilya’s helmet. He could feel the tension in the man’s arms beneath the pads. The arena erupted. Cameras locked onto the scene, capturing the absurd and electric image before them.

Montreal’s star player, sprawled awkwardly in the arms of his sworn enemy’s captain.

Ilya swallowed, his throat bobbing. It felt less like a conscious action and more like a physical reset, slipping back into armor. Within a single breath, the shock in his eyes sharpened into something familiar and dangerous.

In the pocket of noise that seemed to hollow out around them, his voice dropped low. It was stripped of restraint and edged with pure mockery as it slid into Shane’s ear.

“Morning sunshine.” He paused, his breath brushing close.
“Throwing yourself at me already, Hollander?”

Shane’s heart thundered wildly in his chest. He could not tell whether it was from the hit or from the sudden, forbidden proximity under thousands of watching eyes. Rage flared. Embarrassment burned. Beneath it all, something darker and far more treacherous surged, hot enough to set his ears on fire.

He shoved a gloved hand against Ilya’s chest plate and forced himself back. Pads scraped together with an ugly screech.

“You wish, Rozanov,” he snarled through clenched teeth, trying to bury humiliation beneath fury. “Fuck off.”

The corner of Ilya’s mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly.

He loosened his hold as instructed. But just before Shane fully pulled free, the tips of Ilya’s gloved fingers seemed to accidentally drag hard across the fabric beneath Shane’s arm guard.

Shane twisted away as if escaping a trap. He vaulted back onto the ice without looking back and disappeared into the blinding lights and roaring chaos of the rink.

But his breathing was completely wrecked. His skin burned beneath the mask, as if an invisible mark had been left where Ilya had touched him.

Behind him, on the Boston bench, Ilya slowly drew his arms back and crossed them over his chest. His gaze remained fixed on the retreating figure of No. 24, dark and unreadable.

Marlow bumped his shoulder, grinning as he lowered his voice.
“Captain, that chirp was brutal. Hollander’s probably about to blow a fuse.”

Ilya closed his eyes briefly, as if replaying the fleeting weight and heat of that moment. When he opened them, a smile curved his lips.

“Yeah,” he murmured softly, almost as if confirming a secret.
“He’s definitely furious.”

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---

2.
Next year, in regular season, Boston and Montreal meet once again.

The game crept toward the end of the second period, the pace still razor-tight. The roar of the crowd rolled endlessly, like waves crashing against the edges of the rink.

During what should have been a routine defensive-zone transition, Marlow tried to chip the puck off the boards toward a teammate in the middle. The puck had barely left his stick when Hayden reached out and clipped it. The trajectory changed.

Instead of drifting into open ice, the puck shot off on a low, sharp angle and slammed straight into the back of Shane Hollander, who was jockeying for position on the right side.

Thump.

Not a hard hit, but solid enough to be unmistakable.

Shane’s spine jolted slightly, as if someone had rapped their knuckles against him. He froze and glanced back instinctively. There was nothing there. The black rubber disk had vanished the instant it struck him.

The referee’s whistle cut sharply through the noise. Play stopped cold.

“Where’d it go?”
“Didn’t it bounce over here?”

Players from both teams drifted in, peering down at the ice. The lights glared off the spotless surface, yet there was no sign of the puck. Shane looked down too, his brow furrowed hard, but the puck was nowhere to be seen.

“It definitely came this way,” Marlow muttered, scratching at his helmet.

In the brief, strange silence as everyone searched, Shane felt something lodged between his back and his padding. Something hard. Rounded. It shifted slightly as he moved.

Suddenly, the truth sank in, and heat rushed up his spine.

He reached back toward the space between his neck and shoulder blades. Through glove, damp jersey, and gear, his fingers brushed a shape that absolutely should not have been there.

Confusion collapsed instantly into horrified embarrassment. Heat flared up behind his ears.

“Uh…” Shane shrugged experimentally, but the object wedged itself even more firmly.

He lifted his head and realized that nearly every player and referees was now staring directly at him, drawn by his awkward movement.

“Hollander?” A referee raised an eyebrow.

Shane’s cheeks burned. With no way out, he admitted it under everyone’s gaze, his voice dry and strained.
“I think… it might be inside my jersey.”

For half a beat, the rink went quiet. Then came stifled laughter, a few whistles. Montreal teammates rushed in immediately, hands everywhere. Someone tried reaching in through the back of his collar. Someone else patted along the edges of his back padding, hoping to knock the puck loose.

The damn thing did not budge.

It seemed perfectly content in the warm gap between Shane’s sweat-soaked jersey and rigid gear. Shane bent forward, rolled his shoulders, even bounced slightly on his skates. The rounded pressure stayed planted between his shoulder blades, unmoved. Every failed attempt made the moment stretch longer, more unbearable under thousands of watching eyes.

His face was on fire. Sweat slid down his temple. Whether it came from the intensity of the game or pure mortification, he could not tell. Under the blinding lights, surrounded by helpless teammates and opponents trying not to laugh, he stood there rigid and miserable. He looked like a cat trapped by its own fur, bristling with irritation and completely unable to escape.

Then a low voice cut cleanly through the murmur of the crowd.

“Need a hand, Hollander?”

Ilya Rozanov stood a few steps away, arms folded comfortably. His gray-blue eyes gleamed with undisguised, wicked amusement.

Before anyone could react, he stepped forward and moved behind Shane.

“You know,” he said mildly, “I’m a generous guy. Happy to help for free.”

The words had barely landed when Shane blurted, “The Fuck?!?” and several players sucked in sharp breaths.

Ilya’s hands clamped suddenly around Shane’s sides and under his arms. Gloves, padding, and jerseys did nothing to soften the intent.

He tried to lift him.

Muscle bunched sharply beneath Ilya’s sweater as he exerted himself. Shane was caught completely off guard. His skates almost left the ice as he was hauled upward, his balance ripped away. He could feel Ilya’s breath against the side of his helmet, feel the unyielding strength in the arms locked around him.

“Rozanov, are you out of your fucking mind?” Shane shouted, furious and startled, flailing as his gear clattered loudly. “Put me down!”

Ilya did not actually manage to hoist him or shake him like a candy jar. Shane’s weight and resistance saw to that. But the rough, sudden jolts that followed

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Gravity finally won.

The puck slipped free from the bunched fabric at the back of Shane’s jersey and dropped onto the ice, rolling neatly to a stop near a referee’s skate.

For a split second, the entire arena fell silent.

Then it exploded.

Laughter, whistles, shouted reactions crashed together in a deafening wave.

Ilya released Shane at once, as if he had touched something forbidden and dangerous. He even stepped back half a pace and adjusted his gloves, his face carefully neutral, as though he had done nothing remarkable at all.

Shane stumbled before regaining his footing. His face burned behind the mask, half from exertion, half from raw fury and humiliation. He spun around, clearly intent on grabbing Ilya, only to be stopped by teammates and officials.

“You fucking asshole!” Shane snarled, rage forcing its way through clenched teeth.

Ilya merely raised an eyebrow. He brushed imaginary dust from his sleeve, his tone as flat as a weather report.
“Problem solved. You’re welcome Hollander.”

His eyes flicked over Shane’s shaking frame. A tiny, victorious curve finally touched his mouth.
“Though you might want to cut back on your meals. You weigh about as much as a sandbag.”

The referee blew his whistle, jaw twitching as he signaled for play to resume. The puck was reset at center ice, but the interruption, along with Shane’s murderous glare and Ilya’s infuriatingly innocent façade, was already destined to become one of the season’s most replayed moments.

Shane’s response came immediately.

Every hit he threw for the rest of the game looked like an attempt to tear someone apart.

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---

3.
Another game, another regular season.

At the end of the first period, Ilya Rozanov received a sharp pass from the left while cutting in at speed. He dropped his center of gravity, ready to explode past the defense on pure acceleration. But as he made the turn, his stick behaved as if guided by some invisible hand. It drove straight into the narrow seam between two glass panels, a gap so unforgiving it felt almost deliberate. The fit was perfect, cruelly so.

The sudden resistance caught Liya completely off guard. Momentum died instantly. Balance followed. He went down hard on the cold ice.

“Блять!”

Ilya pushed himself up and skated back to the glass, irritation still crackling through him. He grabbed the exposed shaft, leaned back, and hauled with everything he had.

The stick did not move.

Only the teeth-grinding scrape of carbon fiber against metal answered him, mocking the effort.

He adjusted his stance, dug the toe picks of his skates into the kick plate for leverage, and pulled again. The expensive carbon-fiber stick remained stubbornly wedged in place, no longer sports equipment so much as part of the rink itself.

A soft laugh sounded from behind him.

Ilya sigh. He did not need to turn to know who it was.

Shane Hollander drifted closer and stopped a few steps away. His arms were crossed, posture infuriatingly relaxed, his weight resting on his stick. Even through the distance and the visor, the faint upward curve of his mouth was unmistakable.

“Need a hand, Captain?” Shane drawled, genuine delight in his voice. “Or did Boston’s equipment budget this year include ice-rink décor?”

Ilya released the stick and turned. His blue eyes locked onto Shane through the visor. He rolled his eyes and took a slow breath.

“Haha, very funny.” His voice was controlled, if one ignored the faint grind beneath it. “If you’re done, come help. да?”

Shane lifted a brow but said nothing. He skated forward and grabbed the middle of the stick. Their arms inevitably drew close, the edges of their pads nearly touching.

No countdown. Ilya simply growled, “Pull.”

They both surged at once.

Shane clenched his jaw, Through thick gloves and padding, he could still feel the tension ripple through Ilya’s arms as they flexed. He could feel the carbon-fiber shaft trapped between them, hear the strained protest it made as it scraped and groaned inside the seam. Two powerful forces collided through that rigid length, pushing and bracing against each other, until they fused into one last, uncompromising effort against the glass.

A shriek of friction. Then a sharp crack.

The stick tore free.

The recoil sent both of them flying backward. Ilya pitched onto his heels, skates screaming against the ice as he staggered several steps before regaining balance. Shane fared no better. He nearly went down, catching himself with a desperate twist of his core before straightening again.

Ilya immediately looked down at the stick. Aside from being caked with ice shavings, it looked intact. He gave it a few experimental swings, then glanced at Shane, who was still catching his breath.

“You should really adjust your training load, Hollander,” he said, tone settling back into its familiar, lightly mocking calm.

Shane shot back, “At least my Boring training plan can get your precious stick out of a wall, Rozanov.”

He did not wait for a reply. He turned away and skated back to his position, blades cutting cleanly through the ice.

Play resumed after the brief disruption, faster and harder than before.

A few minutes later, Boston executed a clean, well-designed power play. The puck found its way to Ilya near the net, quietly drifting into open space. The shooting lane was perfect.

No hesitation.

Muscle memory took over. He dropped his shoulder, rotated his torso, and swung the stick that had just been “rescued,” lining up a signature slap shot.

But a fraction of a second before contact, he heard it. More accurately, he felt it through his hands.

A sharp internal crack.

The shot still completed on momentum, but at the apex of the swing, the stick snapped cleanly in two. The blade flew free and clattered hollowly across the ice. Only half a jagged shaft remained in Ilya’s hands.

Without its full force behind it, the puck was easily intercepted.

The tide shifted. Montreal turned the play. The counterattack came fast, and in the ensuing scramble, Shane Hollander found the opening and buried the puck in Boston’s net.

The whistle blew.

As Shane skated past the scene, his blade casually flicked up the broken stick blade from the ice. The fragment spun once in the air before he caught it neatly, the motion so smooth it looked rehearsed.

He headed straight for Ilya and stopped precisely half a step in front of him. Ice sprayed up between them in a burst of white.

“I think,” Shane said softly, his voice low enough to exist only in the narrow space between them, the ending lifting just a touch, “this is yours.”

He winked, quick as a trick of the light

Ilya took the broken piece and tossed it lightly in his hand. A low chuckle escaped his throat.

“Well,” he murmured, voice dropping even further, roughened with grit. His eyes stayed locked on Shane through the visor slit. “That’s real sweet of you. Since you care so much about my gear, maybe you would like to help me pick out a better stick next time?”

For a brief moment, the corner of Shane’s mouth curved further than intended. Then he caught himself and shut it down, his expression snapping back into its familiar, taut focus.

“Keep dreaming, Rozanov.”

He pushed off cleanly, turned, and skated away without a hint of hesitation. Still, as he left, the line of his shoulders looked just a shade looser than usual.

Ilya remained where he was, watching the red-and-blue figure cut across half the rink before disappearing into a cluster of teammates. Only then did he glance down at the broken stick in his hands and let out a quiet laugh.

When the final horn sounded, Montreal had won. In the locker room, Ilya sat with his lower lip caught between his teeth, smirking as he snapped a photo of the stick, broken cleanly in two.

---

4.

Boston versus Montreal often went to overtime. Because of that, both teams prepared obsessively before every matchup. The problem was that real accidents never gave anyone time to prepare.

In routine lateral glide, Ilya Rozanov’s left skate took a viciously angled pass straight to the side. The impact sheared the bolts almost instantly. The blade tore free from the boot and spun away across the ice. Weightlessness hit him in the same heartbeat. His body lurched. He tried to recover balance on the remaining edge, but the feedback under his foot was alien and uncontrollable.

A second later, Ilya went down hard, limbs flung wide as he slammed into the cold, polished ice.

The good news was the puck had already been passed before he fell. Most of the players were clustered at the far end, locked in a fierce battle. For the moment, no one noticed the problem on this side of the rink.

The bad news was that Ilya now had to get himself back to the Boston bench on his own.

He pushed carefully with his right leg, bracing on an elbow, inching forward in slow, clumsy motions. The whole thing looked desperate. Like a stranded seal dragging itself across the ice.

He had barely managed a few meters, and had just started thinking how ridiculous this was, when a shadow stopped beside him.

Shane Hollander braked and looked down. The glare on his visor hid his expression, but the unspoken what are you doing now was clear enough anyway.

Ilya stopped, considered it for a second, then tilted his head up. He adjusted his posture to look a little more helpless, extended a gloved hand, and let a deliberate note of pitiful exhaustion creep into his voice.

“Give me a hand?” He blinked, though the visor probably ruined the effect. ““I won’t bite. Trust me.”

The tone. The posture. He looked like a giant dog rolling in the snow and refusing to get up. Obviously fake.

Still, Shane couldn’t bring himself to refuse.

Shane’s shoulders dropped with a sigh. He went quiet for a couple of seconds before muttering, low and tight, “…Behave.”

He extended his stick.

Ilya took it without hesitation and hauled himself upright. Once he found his balance on one foot, he casually shifted most of his weight onto Shane’s stick and arm, as if this were exactly where he belonged.

Shane staggered half a step and recovered, jaw locked tight. Without a word, he hauled him along in a strange, strictly professional glide toward the Boston

The whole thing took seconds. By the time the Boston trainer leaned out, Shane had already pulled his stick free. The motion was crisp and quick. Like he’d simply completed a necessary assist at the boards. He didn’t give Ilya time to speak. A sharp pivot and he was gone, cutting back into the current of the game, disappearing without a trace of hesitation.

Ilya grabbed a teammate’s hand and settled onto the bench. He watched Shane skate away. The helpless act was gone. In its place sat a tiny, satisfied curl at the corner of his mouth.

Out on the ice, Shane shook his head as if trying to shake off something annoyingly persistent, and locked back onto the spinning puck.

Hayden had just come off a line change and caught the whole exchange. He slid up beside Shane, voice half a beat slower than usual.

“…What was that?”

“Nothing. Focus.” Shane didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed on the play as he pointed to positioning.

“We’re still in overtime.”

---

5.
Playing against Ilya felt incredible. At times, even the thought of gaming made Shane Hollander’s spine prickle.

Ilya was the one player in the league who could see straight through him. Every fake move. Every shift change. Every hesitation. Ilya read it early and moved first.

Whenever they matched up, Shane felt the familiar surge at the base of his skull, running straight down his spine. His nerves tightened. His body wound itself tight with tension.

The puck ricocheted off the boards. Ilya and Shane hit it like twin bolts of lightning in different colors.

“Move, it’s mine!” Ilya growled, stick darting first.

“In your dreams!” Shane snapped back, slamming his shaft down across Ilya’s with a sharp crack.

Shoulder to shoulder, skates screaming, they wrestled the puck out of the corner and toward center ice. The puck jittered desperately between their blades, never fully under either player’s control.

“Fuck off Rozanov” Shane snarled, wrists snapping as he tried to pry the puck free, “You don’t stand a chance.”

“You can try to get it with your weak and terrible backhand,” Ilya fired back, crushing Shane’s stick to the ice with raw strength and driving in with his shoulder like a wall. “Go ahead, show me your moves.”

“I can show you moves” Shane grunted, shoving back instead of retreating. His blade flicked like a snake and stole the puck in impossible space. “That all you got?”

“I’ve read you all night, clever boy” Ilya bared his teeth."So predictable."

Their sticks weren’t just tools anymore. They were weapons. Tap to the blade. Sweep to the shaft. Crack after crack echoed louder than the whistle. The chirping bounced between Russian and English, curses flying nonstop.

“Skate faster, Hollander. The ice is melting,” Ilya breathed, glued to his side.

“What’s the rush?” Shane sneered, dropping low and carving a tight turn to shield the puck. “Hurry to loss?”

“Hurry to teach you to stay on your feet.” Ilya slammed into him chest-first.

“We’re almost the same speed.” Shane absorbed the hit and jammed his stick into Ilya’s lane, locking the rush dead.

The puck rattled between their feet like a trapped animal.

“Boring,” Ilya dragged out, sweeping again.

“Shut up.” Shane blocked.

Crack.

Somewhere in the chaos, one blade applied just the wrong pressure. The battered puck shot free, bursting upward between them. It cleared every player at center and traced an absurd, perfect arc toward the Montreal bench.

And the goalie was leaning there, watching their fight. The sudden “pass” caught him off guard, but muscle memory lifted his glove.

Thump.

The puck landed squarely in it, like it had finally decided to come home.

The arena froze. Then it erupted in laughter and shouts of disbelief. The referee’s whistle stopped the period.

Ilya and Shane were still locked together, weight pressed against weight. They turned together toward the goalie’s glove, then back to each other.

Life was full of stupidity and ridiculous moments. Shane and Ilya proved that once again.

Shane acted first. He pulled his stick back and sighed onto the ice, muttering something, maybe in French, that Ilya couldn’t quite catch.

Ilya let his overworked shoulder loosen. He blinked a few times, the rink lights smearing before his sore eyes until they cleared. He rubbed at his nose and spoke lightly, the grin already there, unapologetic.

“What was that, Hollander? Even the puck’s more interesting than your play.”

There it is. Classic Ilya Rozanov shitty talk. Sometimes Shane was genuinely impressed by how a guy working in a second language could chirp better than most of the players in the league.

“One more word, Rozanov,” he said calmly, a faint threat beneath it, “and you won’t touch the puck again tonight.”

Ilya let out a soft huff of laughter. "Yeah? We’ll see.”

They split without another glance. Shane cut left. Ilya glided right. Back to their spots. Back to the faceoff. As if nothing had happened.

Except the air now carried a faint, shared embarrassment layered over the rivalry. The goalie bounced the puck in his glove once, decided he wanted no part of this story, and said nothing.

 

---

+1
All-Star games were supposed to be easy. Loose atmosphere. Excited fans. Pure hockey. Everything was perfect until halfway through the third period, when a low hum rolled through the ceiling and the arena was swallowed whole by darkness.

The cheering died mid-breath and collapsed into noise. Emergency lights flickered on in the corners, sketching the rink in dim outlines. The referees signaled a stoppage. Players drifted back toward their halves, murmuring, waiting for the power to return.

In a pocket carved out by shadow and emergency light, two figures slipped close to the glass along the boards, disappearing into the triangular blind spot formed by stacked equipment and the edge of the stands.

Shane leaned an elbow loosely against the cold glass and lifted the edge of his visor. The distant crowd sounded muffled, as if heard through frosted glass, making the privacy of the corner feel sharper. His voice was quiet enough to dissolve into the dark.

“My mom called last week,” he said, pausing, his skate tracing a thoughtless line on the ice. “She said next time you’re in Montreal for an away game… if you’ve got time after, you should come by for dinner.”

The emergency lights blurred across the glass, catching the slight turn of his face as he said it.

Ilya turned toward him. The light slid over the bridge of his nose, leaving the other half of his face in shadow.

“Okay.” The answer came fast. No hesitation. His voice was just as low.

Silence stretched between them. Shane’s fingers picked absently at the rubber edge of the boards. The cold of the rink seemed to stop at the border of that small corner.

He looked up. Ilya’s outline was deeper in the dim light. The question that had been circling longer slipped out under cover of darkness, softer than the invitation had been.

“…Did you miss me?”

The second it left his mouth, it felt stupid. Too direct. On the ice he could throw trash talk without thinking, but this? made heat creep up behind his ears.

Ilya didn’t answer right away. The pause ticked on long enough that Shane almost regretted asking.

Then Ilya moved.

He didn’t answer with words. He reached out. His gloved hand closed around Shane’s forearm where it rested on the boards. The grip wasn’t hard, but it carried weight. He stepped closer. Their pads brushed with a dull thud. He dipped his head until their foreheads nearly touched, breath tangling in the cold air.

“Каждый день,” he murmured, voice low enough to vibrate more than sound. “Каждую проклятую секунду.”(Every day. Every goddamn second.)

No joke. No tease. The confession was stripped raw, edged with something almost angry.

Shane didn’t understand the words. The syllables slid past him, foreign and fast. But meaning didn’t need translation. The hunger in the tone. The faint tremor at the end of each phrase. The sudden tightening of fingers against his arm.

His heart lurched like it had been grabbed in a fist, then hammered loose in his chest. Heat rushed to his face and ears. He opened his mouth and found nothing there. Language fell away, leaving only sensation: the weight of the voice, the pressure of the grip, the warmth of breath stirring the hair at his forehead.

He didn’t understand the sentence.

Still, he felt like he understood what it meant.

Then—

The lights exploded back to life.

Every overhead beam roared on at once, flooding the arena in white. Cheers, music, whistles crashed back like a wave.

The hand moved. Ilya had already stepped back. The movement was so quick it almost felt imagined. He snapped his visor down with a click. Behind the shield, his gray-blue eyes were flat and calm, whatever had surged there sealed under ice.

“Back to work, Котик,” he said, voice easy again, carrying that familiar lazy edge. As if the dark corner had never existed.

Shane dragged in a lungful of cold air and shoved his heartbeat back into place. He dropped his visor and carved a sharp line in the ice, falling in beside Ilya as they skated back into the light.

The game resumed. They flew, collided, passed. Everything looked the same.

Or not?