Chapter Text
The arena is louder than it has any right to be.
Montreal vs Boston always is.
The noise hits Shane the second he steps onto the ice for warmups—boos layered over cheers, jerseys flashing blue and black, the energy sharp and electric. Every shift of weight, every scrape of his blade against the ice feels charged.
Across the rink, he spots Ilya immediately.
Of course he does.
Ilya is already in motion, skating fast, loose, dangerous in the way that always makes Shane’s stomach tighten. He looks confident. Smug, even. Like he knows exactly how much space he takes up just by existing—in Boston colors.
Their eyes meet for half a second.
Nothing.
Everything.
Ilya’s mouth tilts in something that might be a smirk.
Shane looks away first.
No one here knows.
Not the team.
Not the league.
Not the media.
Only Shane’s parents, Rose and Svetlana.
Everyone else sees a rivalry.
They have to keep it that way.
In the locker room, the air is thick with adrenaline and noise and ritual. Taping sticks. Pulling on gear. Jokes that are a little too loud.
“Big one tonight,” one of Shane’s teammates says. “You ready for your boyfriend over there?”
Laughter.
Shane doesn’t react. Doesn’t even blink.
“Just another game,” Shane says.
That’s the lie he lives with.
Across the hall, in Boston’s room, Ilya hears the same kind of talk.
“Montreal boy looks fired up,” someone says. “You planning on wrecking him tonight?”
Ilya snorts, pulling his jersey over his head. “Always.”
It’s safer to say it like that.
On the ice, it’s war.
The puck drops, and everything goes sharp.
Shane plays hard. He always does. But tonight, there’s an edge to it—every hit a little heavier, every race to the boards a little more desperate. He tells himself it’s just rivalry.
But then Ilya lines up across from him on a faceoff.
They stand too close. Close enough that Shane can hear Ilya’s breath through his visor. Close enough that Ilya’s shoulder brushes his.
“You look tense,” Ilya murmurs under his breath, thick accent curling around the words.
“Focus on the puck,” Shane mutters back.
Ilya smiles. “I am.”
The puck drops.
They crash into each other moments later along the boards. Hard. The impact rattles through Shane’s chest. For half a second, they’re tangled—gloves pressed, skates locked, bodies too close for it to be purely professional.
The crowd roars.
From the outside, it looks like hatred.
From the inside, it feels like restraint.
Ilya shoves off first, eyes sharp, jaw tight. Shane watches him skate away, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with the hit.
The cameras follow everything.
Every glance. Every shove. Every time they’re on the ice together, the broadcast lingers like it’s trying to catch something unsaid.
Between periods, Shane sits on the bench, sweat dripping down his face, breathing hard. A reporter is already hovering at the tunnel, waiting.
Across the ice, Ilya catches his eye again.
This time, there’s no smirk.
Just something steady. Something grounding.
The second period is worse.
A bad hit. A near fight. Sticks clacking. Gloves shoved into chests. The refs pull them apart before it goes further, but the message is clear.
The rivalry is alive.
The media loves it.
During a TV timeout, Shane hears his name through his helmet.
“They’re saying this is personal,” a teammate mutters. “You and him.”
Shane forces a laugh. “They say that every time.”
But this time, it is personal.
Just not in the way they think.
Late in the third, Boston scores.
The arena explodes.
Ilya’s line is on the ice. He’s part of the play. The replay flashes on the jumbotron, his face lit up in celebration.
Shane’s chest tightens.
Not jealousy.
Something worse.
Pride mixed with frustration mixed with the unbearable urge to cross the ice and grab him by the jersey and tell him to stop looking so damn alive in another team’s colors.
The final buzzer sounds not long after.
Boston wins.
The handshake line is torture.
They pass each other too fast. Gloves brushing. A quick look. Nothing that anyone else would notice.
But Shane feels it all the same.
Good game.
Be safe.
I’m here.
It’s all there in a single glance.
In the hallway after, reporters swarm.
“Shane, another heated matchup. Thoughts on Boston’s performance?”
Shane keeps his face neutral. “They played well. They earned it.”
“Is there bad blood between you and Ilya?”
Shane forces a small smile. “It’s hockey.”
Down the hall, Ilya gets the same treatment.
“You and Shane seem to bring out the intensity in each other.”
Ilya shrugs. “Montreal does that to people.”
It’s easier to hide behind the rivalry.
Later, when the arena empties and the noise fades, they find each other in a quiet corner of the visiting tunnel. Not alone. Never truly alone. But close enough.
Ilya leans in just slightly. “You okay?”
Shane nods. “You?”
Ilya hesitates for half a second—then shifts closer, like he’s just another player passing by.
“Eight-four-two-one,” he murmurs. “If you need me.”
Shane stills.
He meets Ilya’s eyes, understanding hitting harder than any check on the ice. “Your place?”
Ilya’s mouth tilts into a smirk. “See you later.”
Shane exhales slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. “Yeah. Okay.”
They separate before anyone can notice.
Public rivalry intact.
Private doors quietly unlocked.
***
By the time Ilya makes it back to the locker room, the place is already loud.
Not arena-loud—but close. Music blaring from someone’s speaker. Laughter bouncing off tiled walls. The sharp, electric buzz of a win still fresh in everyone’s veins.
Boston won.
They earned it.
And everyone in this room knows it.
Ilya peels off his gloves and drops them into his stall, breathing out slowly. His body hums with leftover adrenaline, muscles still tight, hands still buzzing from the game.
Someone slaps him on the back as they pass.
“Hell of a game,” a teammate says. “You were flying.”
Ilya gives a half-smile. “Thanks.”
Another voice from across the room: “That Montreal guy looked ready to kill you out there.”
A few guys laugh.
“Which one?” someone else jokes.
Ilya doesn’t answer. He focuses on untying his skates, movements practiced, automatic. It’s easier when his hands are busy. Easier not to think about the tunnel. The code. The look in Shane’s eyes.
Across the room, Cliff is already halfway out of his gear, towel slung over one shoulder, energy still crackling through him.
“Boys,” Cliff announces, loud enough for half the room to hear, “we are going out tonight.”
A cheer goes up.
“About time,” someone says.
“Drinks on Cliff,” another adds.
Cliff grins, soaking it in, then looks straight at Ilya. “You in, Rosanov?”
Ilya pauses.
Just for a second.
Normally, the answer is automatic. Wins mean celebration. Noise. Distraction. Letting the adrenaline burn itself out in bars and music and too many drinks.
Normally, he’d already be nodding.
But tonight, there’s something more important on his mind. There’s a Montreal jersey burned into the back of his mind. There’s the memory of Shane’s mouth twitching like he wanted to smile but couldn’t.
Ilya looks back at Cliff.
“Nah,” he says.
The word lands heavier than he expects.
Cliff blinks. “What?”
“I’m out,” Ilya repeats, calmer. “Not tonight.”
A couple of heads turn.
Someone laughs like it’s a joke. “Since when?”
Cliff studies him more closely now. “You sick or something?”
Ilya shrugs, casual. “Just tired.”
It’s not even a lie.
But it’s not the whole truth.
Cliff’s eyebrows knit together. “You? After a win like that?”
“Yeah,” Ilya says. “After a win like that.”
There’s a beat of silence. Not awkward. Just… curious.
Then Cliff snorts. “Alright, mystery man. Your loss.”
“More drinks for us,” someone adds.
The room moves on. The music gets louder. The energy keeps building.
Ilya sits there for another moment, helmet still in his hands, letting the noise wash over him without really hearing it.
This is the part where he’s supposed to feel satisfied.
Victorious.
Instead, what he feels is pulled.
Like the game ended, but something else is just starting.
He finishes changing in record time.
Shower. Street clothes. Hoodie pulled up. Phone in hand.
There’s a message waiting.
From Shane.
You good?
Ilya stares at it longer than necessary.
Then types:
Yeah. You?
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Yeah. Omw.
Ilya exhales slowly.
Good.
He pockets his phone before anyone can look too closely.
On his way out, Cliff calls after him. “Don’t be boring forever, yeah?”
Ilya throws a hand up without turning around. “No promises.”
The hallway outside the locker room is quieter. The echo of celebration fades behind him, replaced by the low hum of the arena winding down.
This is the part no one sees.
The part after the cameras. After the interviews. After the rivalry performance is done.
He walks fast.
Not because he’s in a rush.
Because he knows exactly where he’s going.
And who’s waiting on the other side of that door.
***