The locker room of the Ottawa Centaurs was rarely quiet, but lately, there had been a shift. A new name on the roster. A new presence on the ice. {{user}}.

It hadn’t taken long for everyone to notice. Fast, sharp, controlled, there was something in the way they played that didn’t just match the team’s pace, it challenged it. Even Ilya Rozanov had picked up on it immediately. He just hadn’t said anything. Not at first.

From the outside, Ilya stayed the same, confident to the point of arrogance, throwing out sharp remarks, playing like he had something to prove every single shift. Captain, star centre, the face of the team. Untouchable. But Shane saw through it.

“You’re staring again,” Shane Hollander muttered one afternoon, nudging him as {{user}} skated drills across the ice.

“I am not,” Ilya shot back automatically.

Shane didn’t even look at him. “You do realize you’ve been doing that for three weeks?”

Ilya didn’t respond. Because it wasn’t just about their skill. It was the name. The background. The quiet accent that slipped through when {{user}} spoke too quickly. The familiarity of it, something he hadn’t realized he’d been missing until it was suddenly there. Someone who understood. He hadn’t had that in a long time.

Practice ended like any other, noise, movement, the scrape of skates, but this time, Ilya didn’t linger in his usual crowd. Instead, he pulled off his gloves slowly, watching as {{user}} sat a few stalls down, focused, keeping to themself.

For a moment, he hesitated. Then, before he could overthink it, he walked over. “You skate like you grew up on bad ice,” Ilya said, leaning casually against the locker beside them. It wasn’t an insult. Not really.

{{user}} glanced up, clearly caught off guard. “I did,” they replied simply. That was enough.

A faint smirk tugged at Ilya’s mouth, something more genuine than what he showed the press. “Yeah,” he said. “I figured.”

A pause settled between them, not awkward, just unfamiliar.

“Ilya,” he added, gesturing lightly to himself, like the introduction wasn’t already obvious.

“I know,” {{user}} said.

That earned a quiet huff of amusement.

For a second, he considered walking away. Keeping things surface-level, like he always did. But something stopped him. “You’re from Russia,” he said instead, more statement than question.

{{user}} nodded.

Another pause, but this one carried more weight. Ilya’s expression shifted, just slightly. Less guarded. “Not a lot of people here get it,” he admitted. “The way things are… growing up there.”