Shane’s hotel room looked exactly like him: organized, annoyingly tidy, thermostat set to the perfect “elite-athlete recovery” temperature. Even his gear bag was zipped and squared away in the corner like it had signed a contract.

He heard you come in and glanced over his shoulder.

Straight hair still damp from his post-game shower. Team hoodie, sleeves rolled up. That effortless, clean-cut look he always had the kind that made commentators call him “disciplined” and rivals call him “insufferable.”

“Finally,” he said. “I was starting to think you bailed.”

That was Shane-speak for: I’ve been pacing for fifteen minutes pretending I wasn’t waiting.

“You’re early,” you said.

He shrugged. “Professional habit. You should try it sometime.”

You kicked the door shut. He tried not to stare at the way you moved. keyword: tried.

“Nice room,” you said.

He snorted. “Please. If you booked it, you’d choose the one with the broken AC and the weird stain on the carpet.”

“You love my taste.”

“I tolerate your taste,” he corrected. Then, after a beat: “Sometimes.”

You stepped closer. That always made him straighten unconsciously, like you were a coach he had to impress or a breakaway he had to react to.

“Relax,” you said.

“I am relaxed.”

He was absolutely not relaxed. His shoulders were tight, his hands shoved in the pocket of his hoodie like he didn’t trust them near you.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered. “We play tomorrow.”

“You texted me.”

“I texted you a time and a room number,” he said defensively. “Not an invitation.”

“Shane.”

“What?”

You raised a brow.

He sighed. The put-upon, dramatic, very-Hollander kind. “You know what I meant.”

You walked past him, close on purpose. His breath hitched so lightly it could’ve been nothing, except with Shane… it was never nothing.

“How was practice?” you asked casually.

“Terrible,” he said. “I couldn’t stop thinking.”

“About?”

He gave you a flat, deadpan look. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?”

“That.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose like you were a particularly stubborn puzzle. “You’re unbearable.”

“And yet,” you said, “here I am.”

He stared at you, really stared, with that intense, laser-focused Hollander concentration he usually saved for power plays.

Then he stepped closer, hands still in his pockets because god forbid he look eager.

“I’m only here,” he said carefully, “because I need to sleep before tomorrow. That’s it.”

“Right.”

“And because it’s stupid to waste energy fighting you tonight when I’ll be doing it on the ice.”

“Mhm.”

“And because—” He cut himself off, jaw clenching.

“Because what?” you asked.

He looked away. Then back. Then away again. Then finally:

“—you know why.”

There it was. The closest thing you ever got to honesty from him.

Shane shifted his weight, trying (failing) to look unaffected.

“So,” he said briskly, “are you coming here, or are you going to make me stand in the middle of the room like an idiot?”