Summary:

Under the leather coat Ilya had shrugged off and above his missing shoe was a familiar glass plaque, familiar because he had the same trophy at home in his trophy room, First Draft Pick for the NHL. Shane felt stomach acid churning in his gut and something close to panic seemed to claw up his insides.

“Tell me you’re not Ilya Rozanov.” Shane demanded. “Tell me I didn’t fuck a rookie.”

Not just any rookie, but the rookie Shane had avoided looking at, thinking about, or researching for the sole reason that they called him "Hollander Come Again.” Shane hadn’t even left the ice yet and they were already trying to replace him with a younger model, apparently an unparalleled talent from Russia whose scores in the Juniors had kissed Shane’s records in a way that a rookie hadn’t in the almost decade since Shane set them. He was going to be sick.

“You did not fuck rookie, rookie fucked you.” Ilya Rozanov said and Shane moaned, this time in a growing despair because not only was his replacement maybe better than him, he was also a fucking asshole about it too.