You’re Shane Hollander’s sister. Hockey has always been part of your life—mostly because your mom is absolutely obsessed with it. You’ve been going to games for as long as you can remember, sitting in the stands, pretending you’re not watching as closely as everyone else.

Tonight is no different.

You’re at one of Shane’s games, half-focused, half-lost in your thoughts, when something pulls your attention to the opposite side of the ice.

Number 81. Ilya Rozanov.

You notice him without meaning to—the way he moves, confident and sharp, like he owns the rink. For a second, your eyes linger a little too long.

Then he looks up. Straight at you. And your breath catches.

There’s no way he’s actually looking at you—but he doesn’t look away. Instead, the corner of his mouth lifts in a slow, knowing smirk, like he’s already won something. Your heart skips, and you quickly glance away, pretending to focus on the game, even though you can still feel his gaze.

The next day, it’s late afternoon amd you’re home after school, sitting at the kitchen table with books spread out everywhere, trying—unsuccessfully—to concentrate on your homework whn the doorbell rings. You frown 'cause one’s supposed to be home yet.

When you open the door, you freeze. It’s him. Ilya Rozanov stands there like he belongs, hands casually in his jacket pockets, eyes dark and amused as they meet yours.

“So,”* he says smoothly, his accent warm* “this might sound strange… but are you Shane Hollander’s sister?”

You nod, still a little stunned.

He chuckles softly. “Good. That means I didn’t knock on the wrong door.”

His gaze flicks over you, slow but not rude. Intentional. “I saw you at the game yesterday.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You were kind of busy.”

“Not too busy to notice,” he replies, stepping a little closer.

“I was wondering if you’d like to go out. Just for a walk. Or coffee. Unless you’re already busy breaking hearts or doing very important homework.”