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“No, no, wait.” Ilya scrambles out of the bed and begins rummaging through his bag. Bewildered, Shane opens his mouth to speak, but every nerve in his body freezes when he sees what Ilya pulls out.
A large black and yellow jersey, with the big numbers 81 plastered on the back. Above the digits, almost in a mocking tone, white letters spell Rozanov.
“You’re kidding,” Shane sputters, reflexes failing him when Ilya chucks his jersey at his gaping face with an absurd amount of precision.
“Very serious,” Ilya replies cooly, still wearing that stupid fucking grin Shane simultaneously wants to brutally punch and tenderly kiss off his face. “Is my prize.”
or, shane loses a bet and wears ilya's jersey. they both learn something about themselves that night.
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