Chapter Text
Shane Hollander hated first games.
Not because of the hockey. Hockey made sense. There were rules and lines and numbers that stayed the same. Ice was ice. A puck was a puck. If you messed up, you knew why.
People were the problem.
The rink was too loud. University rinks were always too loud, like everyone was trying to prove something. Shane adjusted the straps on his helmet for the third time even though they were already tight. Too tight, probably. But loose was worse. Loose meant shifting, and shifting meant distraction.
“Dude,” Hayden said, bumping his shoulder gently, “you’re gonna rub a dent into your skull if you keep doing that.”
Shane shrugged. “It’s fine.”
Rose rolled her eyes from the bench behind them. “You say that about everything. You said that when you tried to eat dining hall sushi.”
“That was different,” Shane said. “That was obviously a bad idea.”
Hayden grinned. “And yet.”
Shane didn’t smile back. He was watching the other team skate onto the ice.
Saint Ignatius University. Private. Expensive. Annoyingly good.
And right in the center of them—
“Oh my god,” Rose said. “Who is that?”
Shane already knew who she meant.
The guy had golden hair, messy in a way that looked on purpose. He skated like he owned the ice, like the rink had been built around him personally. His jersey hung loose, sleeves pushed up, tape on his stick bright white and clean.
He was smiling.
At nothing. At everything.
“That’s Ilya Rozanov,” Hayden said. “Transfer. Junior. Russian. Supposedly a nightmsre.”
Shane frowned. “A nightmare how?”
Hayden shrugged. “Trash talk. Ego. Hits hard. Scores a lot. You know. The usual.”
Shane watched as Ilya laughed at something a teammate said, throwing his head back like he wasn’t about to play a game that mattered. Like pressure didn’t exist for him.
Their eyes met.
Shane looked away instantly. His chest felt tight, like he’d done something wrong just by looking too long.
“Relax,” Rose said. “He’s not staring into your soul.”
Shane didn’t answer.
The whistle blew.
***
The first period was brutal.
Ilya Rozanov was everywhere. He moved fast, cut sharp, stole pucks like it was funny. Shane was a defenseman—his job was to read the ice, predict movement, close gaps.
Ilya made gaps on purpose.
By the time Shane lined up against him at the boards for the first time, his heart was already pounding too hard.
“Hey,” Ilya said casually, like they were meeting at a party instead of mid-game. “You’re Hollander, yeah?”
Shane blinked. “…Yeah.”
“Cool,” Ilya said. “Try to keep up.”
Then he took the puck and blew past him.
Shane cursed under his breath and chased, lungs burning. He caught up just enough to shove Ilya into the boards. The impact rattled his bones, loud and sharp and too close.
Ilya laughed.
Actually laughed.
“Nice hit,” he said, breath warm, way too close to Shane’s ear. “You are stronger than you look.”
Something twisted in Shane’s stomach. He shoved back harder than necessary.
“Focus,” he muttered, mostly to himself.
They collided again two shifts later. Stick against stick. Gloves brushing. Shane’s hand caught Ilya’s wrist for half a second, and it felt like static.
When the whistle finally blew for intermission, Shane skated off the ice shaking.
Not from fear.
From something else.
***
In the locker room, Hayden wouldn’t shut up.
“Tell me you felt that tension,” he said, flopping onto the bench. “Rozanov is insane.”
“He’s annoying,” Shane said, sitting carefully in his usual spot, retying his skates even though they didn’t need it.
Rose smirked. “Uh-huh. That’s why you keep thinking about him?”
Shane froze. “I’m not.”
“You are so bad at lying,” she said gently.
Shane stared at the floor. “He’s just… unpredictable.”
Rose softened. “Okay. That I believe.”
The second period went worse.
Ilya scored.
Then he assisted.
Then, when Shane tried to block him near the crease, Ilya leaned in again and said, “You always get this tense, or is it just me?”
Shane snapped.
He shoved him. Hard.
The ref blew the whistle immediately.
Two minutes. Interference.
As Shane sat in the box, helmet off, sweat cooling too fast on his skin, Ilya skated by and tapped the glass.
“Worth it,” Ilya said, smiling like he’d won something else entirely.
Shane watched him go, chest aching in a way that made no sense.
He didn’t know it yet, but this wasn’t just a rivalry.
It was the start of a problem he wasn’t prepared to solve.