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Shane had always believed in rules. Hockey had rules. Life had rules. The universe had rules.
And the rules were very clear about the names on your wrists: one was your soulmate and one was your greatest enemy.
The problem was that the universe had forgotten to include labels.
Shane didn’t think that was an accident. The universe, in his experience, liked confusion. It liked drama. It liked watching people ruin perfectly good lives because they guessed wrong.
He’d seen it happen.
Classmates comparing names like it was a game, deciding overnight who they were supposed to love and who they were supposed to avoid. Friendships turning strange and careful after someone finally looked. People building their whole lives around a guess.
People made it complicated. Emotional. Messy.
Shane didn’t do messy.
And honestly? He’d gotten lucky.
Because for him, it had never been a mystery.
He remembered the first time he’d checked, sitting on his bed after waking up on his seventeenth birthday. The names had appeared overnight on his wrist, faint but permanent, like they had always been there and he’d only just learned how to see them.
Shane had stared at them for maybe five seconds before the whole thing sorted itself out.
One of those names belonged to a girl he’d never met. Soft, neat lettering. The kind of name that sounded like libraries and coffee shops and quiet conversations about normal things.
Olivia Ashford.
The other belonged to his rival on the ice.
Ilya Rozanov.
Fast. Annoyingly talented. Always exactly where Shane didn’t want him to be, on the ice, in the rankings, in conversations, always in his way.
There was no universe where Ilya of all people was his soulmate.
Which meant the answer was obvious.
Olivia Ashford was the soulmate.
Ilya Rozanov was the enemy.
Simple. Logical. No confusion. No drama.
Shane liked it that way.
He never went looking for Olivia. There was no rush. If she was his soulmate, the universe would take care of it eventually. Things like that were supposed to happen on their own.
Ilya, on the other hand, was right there.
And if the universe thought Shane was going to take it easy on his greatest enemy, it clearly didn’t understand how seriously Shane took the rules. Or at least the one that really mattered: hockey.
In a few months, he would finally meet him in person.
Nationals.
Different regions, different leagues, different schedules. Until now, Ilya Rozanov had mostly existed as a name on score sheets, highlight clips and in conversations Shane would rather not hear.
Rozanov had another hat trick last night.
Rozanov’s skating was unreal.
Rozanov’s definitely one to watch.
Shane had been watching.
Soon, he’d get the chance to play against him.
And beat him.
This wasn’t just another game. It wasn’t only about rankings or scouts or statistics.
It was personal.
And since Ilya Rozanov was his greatest enemy, Shane knew one thing for sure.
It wouldn’t be easy to beat him.
-
Shane had never been a fan of hotels. Too many corridors, too many locked doors, too many people pretending to be somewhere they weren’t. But here he was, dragging his bag down a hall that smelled faintly of disinfectant and cheap carpet, when he heard the voice.
“You’re walking like you’re carrying the whole damn game on your shoulders,” Ilya said, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, smirk in place. Shane stopped. Groaned inwardly. Of course he would be here.
“I’m walking fine,” Shane muttered, trying to sound irritated.
“Sure,” Ilya said, stepping closer. “Fine. Definitely fine. That’s what losing by two felt like, right?”
Shane glared. He wanted to walk past. He wanted to ignore him. But every nerve in his body was suddenly aware of Ilya’s proximity. Too aware. The teasing tone, the tilt of his head, the way he seemed to own the space around him.
“Why are you following me?” Shane asked.
“I’m not,” Ilya said smoothly, taking a step closer. “I’m… observing. Giving you a chance to redeem yourself.”
Shane blinked. Of course he would say something ridiculous and somehow make it sound reasonable.
“You’re impossible,” Shane muttered, but even he knew that wasn’t entirely true. Impossible was too soft a word for Ilya Rozanov. Infuriating. Magnetic. Dangerous.
Ilya smirked. “I prefer… challenging.”
Shane wanted to roll his eyes, but his stomach betrayed him. He wanted to pull away, but some part of him, a part he refused to name, was fascinated. Curious. And, annoyingly, wanting.
Hours later, they ended up in the same hotel room. It wasn’t planned. Never planned. Shane had tried to leave, tried to keep things strictly professional, but Ilya had a way of cornering him without making it feel like a trap. One hand on his arm here, a lean too close there, a smirk that said you’re already halfway gone, admit it.
“You’re staring,” Ilya said suddenly, voice low, teasing, deliberate.
“I’m not,” Shane said immediately. Of course he was lying.
“You are,” Ilya said, stepping closer, eyes gleaming. “You’ve been staring since practice. Admit it. You like it. You like being pissed off by me. You like the tension. You like… me.”
Shane’s brain sputtered.
And yet his body…
Ilya leaned in, close enough Shane could feel his warmth, his heartbeat, the subtle smirk against his jaw. Shane’s chest tightened. His fists curled at his sides. He knew he should pull back. He had to pull back.
“You know this is a bad idea,” Shane said, voice barely audible, even to himself.
Ilya chuckled. “I know. And you want it anyway.”
The kiss came then. Slow, teasing at first, like Ilya was testing the water. Shane froze. His mind screamed enemy! but his body responded anyway. Every nerve ending alert, every instinct on edge. He could feel Ilya’s hands sliding over his shoulders, his chest steady but insistent, demanding acknowledgment of the tension Shane refused to admit.
It was wrong. So wrong. But somehow… perfect.
Shane tried to push him off. He tried to think about Olivia. He tried to imagine Ilya as nothing but the guy he hated on the ice.
It didn’t work.
Ilya laughed softly against his lips, hand cupping Shane’s jaw, thumb brushing over his cheek. “Stop thinking. Just… feel.”
And Shane did. He did.
They fell into each other with the sort of precision only rivals could manage: fast, aggressive, teasing and also careful, but not gentle. Not soft. Hands moved where they wanted. Kisses sharp and demanding. Breaths quick. Hearts pounding.
Shane hated that he wanted it. That he enjoyed it. That he couldn’t stop himself.
It was just sex, he reminded himself. Nothing serious. Nothing emotional.
But every time Ilya smirked, every time he whispered something that made Shane’s chest tighten or his knees go weak, Shane felt the rules he clung to starting to blur.
This was his enemy.
His greatest enemy.
And somehow, the universe had just handed him… this.
-
Shane didn’t know what he expected when he finally met Olivia Ashford.
Maybe fireworks. Maybe some sudden, inexplicable connection that would make him stop thinking about everything else.
Instead… he got a smile. Warm, confident, teasing. Like she already knew something he didn’t.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Olivia.”
Shane held out his hand, trying to look casual. His stomach twisted. “Shane.”
That was it. That was the first few seconds of meeting his soulmate. And he felt… nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
No spark. No pull. Just a mild curiosity and a creeping guilt.
As time went by, he started to like her.
Not in some cosmic, soulmate kind of way. Not even in the “I can’t stop thinking about her” way.
Just… liked her. Liked talking to her. Liked the way she laughed at his bad jokes, the way she seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say, the way she never treated him like a star player or some walking headline.
They texted. They grabbed coffee. Sometimes they wandered the city after a game, just talking.
Shane told himself the feelings would come later.
It was too soon now.
He thought about Ilya too, of course. About how fast, infuriatingly good and annoyingly confident he was.
About how he liked to watch him play hockey.
How he liked his smile.
How he liked his accent.
And, of course, the way he fucked.
Shane knew he was supposed to hate him.
But he just couldn’t.
That’s what he told Olivia one night. Because as his soulmate she had to understand. Right?
She seemed to. Everything went fine.
Until the article.
It wasn’t just a story. It was a headline designed to hit hard.
“Rivalry Gone Wrong: What Shane Hollander Really Thinks About Ilya Rozanov”
And at the bottom: By Olivia Ashford.
Shane stared at the screen, disbelief settling in.
She had been friendly. Funny. Easy. Nice. For months. And the whole time, she was just… waiting. Waiting for him to slip up, to say the wrong thing, to give her a story she could twist.
A friend? No.
His soulmate? Absolutely not.
Ilya. Ilya had been the one all along.
And Shane finally understood it. The tension he’d tried to ignore, the annoyance that somehow felt like more. It wasn’t confusion. It wasn’t friendship. It was fate.
And he was angry. Angry at Olivia, yes. But mostly angry at himself. How had it taken me this long? It had been so obvious. The teasing, the fights, the constant push-and-pull… and he had ignored it.
He slammed the laptop shut. Anger. Betrayal. And… relief.
Relief that he hadn’t let himself fall for Olivia.
Because the girl on his wrist wasn’t the one he needed.
Ilya Rozanov was.
-
A week later, Shane found himself at a charity sports event, half out of obligation, half because he needed a distraction.
He wandered through the hall, hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes flicking between the buffet and the crowd. And then he saw him.
His soulmate.
Leaning casually against a railing, that infuriating smirk in place, radiating effortless confidence that made Shane’s chest tighten and his stomach twist.
Shane froze for a moment, heart thudding. He hadn’t talked to Ilya since the article. He hadn’t even called him. He wanted to speak to him in person.
Ilya’s eyes caught his almost immediately. That smirk widened, the one that made Shane want to punch him and kiss him at the same time.
“You actually showed up,” Ilya said, voice loud enough to carry, just enough to tease, as he pushed off the railing and approached.
Shane opened his mouth. Closed it. Blinked. “…Yeah,” he finally muttered, trying to sound casual, like he hadn’t spent the last week obsessing over this very moment.
Ilya’s smirk softened slightly, but the challenge was still there. “You look like someone who’s been thinking too much.”
Shane wanted to deny it. He really did. But he couldn’t. “…Maybe I have.”
Ilya raised an eyebrow. “…About me?”
Shane’s throat went dry. “…Maybe.”
Ilya chuckled, stepping closer, brushing past Shane as they navigated the crowd. Close enough that Shane could feel the warmth, the subtle teasing energy radiating off him.
“I was wondering when you’d figure it out,” Ilya said, low, just for Shane’s ears.
Shane swallowed, his mind racing, guilt, desire, and relief all tangled together. “I figured it out now,” he admitted quietly. “Did… did you know the whole time?”
Ilya stopped walking, turned fully, and for a long moment just looked at him. “…Of course,” he said softly, a rare gentleness in his tone. “I thought you knew too. I mean… who lets themselves get fucked by their enemy?”
Shane’s chest tightened. “..I guess I’m a slow learner.”
Ilya laughed softly, a sound that made Shane’s stomach flip. “Yeah, you are. But I like it.”
The crowd, the event, all of it faded to the background. For the first time in weeks, Shane didn’t care about rules, wrist names or rivalry.
Because some things, like Ilya Rozanov, were just meant to be.