Summary:

With a thunk the puck slams home, a series of loud clanks following as it slides back into its resting spot. Shane growls and throws his arms into the air in frustration. Fuck. “I thought you were good at hockey, Hollander,” Ilya drawls, his tone dripping with smug amusement. He unfurls his long frame, standing tall and crossing his arms over his broad chest. His eyes sparkle wickedly, belying the angelic effect created by the dark curls falling into his eyes and the white cable knit sweater that Yuna gave him last Christmas. He looks fucking beautiful. “Ice hockey, asshole. Not this air hockey shit.”