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Summary
Shane Hollander doesn’t answer unknown numbers. He doesn’t let his guard down, doesn’t flirt for sport, doesn’t give strangers access to his life. Control—on the ice and off it—has always been how he survives.
So when an unfamiliar number keeps texting him, teasing and needling and refusing to go away, he tells himself it’s nothing. Just a distraction. Just boredom and adrenaline bleeding into bad judgment.
Tell me something true.
Something the cameras don’t know.He shouldn’t reply. He knows that. And yet he does.
The messages come fast, invasive in their casual intimacy, as if the sender already knows him better than they should. As if they’re watching.
Finally, frustrated and breathless on a treadmill he can’t slow down, Shane types the one thing he shouldn’t:
I don’t even know your name.
The answer comes almost immediately.
You can call me Lily.
OR: Ilya invents “Lily,” the perfect girl, and draws Shane Hollander into a dangerous game of texts he can’t escape—because she doesn’t exist.