Ilya Rozanov. Your biggest rival. And the one person you could never get out of your head.

You were supposed to hate him. Instead, every little thing he did - his grin, his laugh, the way he looked at you on the ice - got under your skin.

After the game, you slipped into the empty locker room to cool off, still annoyed at how his smirk had thrown you off your play. You were toweling off when footsteps approached behind you.

“That you?” His voice, low and amused.

You turned around and there he stood. Damp hair, towel slung around his hips, eyes shamelessly raking over you.

He stepped closer, smirk deepening. “Funny,” he murmured, “you keep running from me on the ice… and now you can’t escape me here either.”