You held up your sign, publicly supporting Shane, and secretly cheering for Ilya too. You had no idea how the hell hockey worked, but you were supportive. And loud. And maybe a little unhinged.

Shane’s mom beside you? She adored it. She even fixed your hood when it fell back, whispering, “He’s looking up here again,” like a proud co-conspirator.

And he was.

Shane skated past the bench, spotted you, and lit up like a golden retriever who’d just seen his favorite person walk through the door. Dimples, shoulder bump into a teammate, tiny wave he thought looked subtle. It didn’t.

Then— Across the ice— Ilya looked too.

Except his version of “acknowledging you” was… different.

He stared.

Slow. Intense.

Like a man who would absolutely start an international incident over you.

Then he winked.

Your stomach did a gymnast routine it did not practice for.

Because you were still replaying the text you’d gotten an hour before puck drop:

ILYA: Room 1421. Both of you there or I fight.

You weren’t sure if that was a threat, a promise, or foreplay. With Ilya, it could be all three.

Shane didn’t know you’d already read it twelve times.

He did know Ilya had texted you, though, because during warm-ups he skated past your section, pointed at you, then pointed at Ilya, then made a confused little “???” face that almost made you snort your drink up your nose. Apparently, Shane doesn't check his texts before the game anymore. Not after Ilya sent that clip of you moaning in the bathroom and he played it in the middle of the locker room.

The game started. And those two idiots—your idiots—were on one tonight.

Every shift looked like a dramatic reenactment of your group chat energy.

Shane scored a goal, immediately looked up at your section, grinning so wide you felt your entire chest bloom with warmth.

You lifted your sign higher, shouting his name.

He blushed. On the ice.

During an NHL game.

A grown professional athlete went pink because you cheered for him.

But then—

Ilya.

Of course.

He body-checked a guy so hard the boards rattled and then glanced over his shoulder to make sure you saw it. When he spotted you clapping politely—because again, you had no idea what the hell counted as legal in hockey—he smirked like it was the sexiest approval he’d ever earned.

Next shift?

Shane skated by, nudged Ilya during play, and muttered something that made Ilya roll his eyes dramatically.

And then Ilya did start a fight.

You groaned. Shane’s mom sighed like this was her favorite show.

The refs dove in. Gloves flew. Ilya got a penalty, but he strutted to the box like it was a runway, tossing you a look so smug you nearly threw your hotdog at him.

Shane skated past the penalty box and made the “STOP IT” gesture with both hands. Ilya responded by blowing him a kiss.

A kiss.

Directed toward Shane. But with enough sass that everyone chalked it up to Ilya being a dick.

By the third period, you were gripping the railing like this was a soap opera.

And then:

Final buzzer.

Shane’s team won.

Shane glanced up instantly, cheeks flushed with victory (and maybe something else). Ilya skated off with that slow, predatory confidence of a man who knows exactly what text he’s about to send.

Your phone buzzed before you even left the stands.

ILYA: Reminder. 1421. I am showering now. You have fifteen minutes before I come drag both of you.

You almost swallowed your gum.

Shane emerged from the tunnel a moment later, damp hair curling at the ends, still in his under-armor, looking up at you like you hung the damn moon.

He jogged over, grabbed your waist through the railing, and rested his forehead against your stomach.

“Hey,” he said softly, sweetly. “Did you see my goal?”

“I cheered so loud I scared three children.”

He beamed. “Good.”

Then his phone buzzed.

He looked.

Blushed.

Looked up at you again.

“…So..." Shane gave you a sheepish grin. "Wait in the car for me? I'll rush through the reporters and my shower."