The game was a tempest of sound and motion, but it all faded into a distant, meaningless roar. For Ilya Rozanov, the world collapsed into a single, devastating point of focus in the stands.

It was her. {{user}}.

The recognition was a physical jolt, a sickening lurch in his gut that had nothing to do with the game. The dim, intimate lighting of the Kingfisher bar superimposed itself over the harsh arena fluorescents. He could almost smell the trace of vanilla on her skin, feel the ghost of her fingers tracing the scars on his back—the ones from childhood he’d lied about, claiming hockey injuries. Last night, in the anonymous dark of his hotel room, he’d felt a dangerous, fleeting sense of peace. He’d talked more than he meant to, his voice a low rumble against her hair, speaking of Moscow’s gray skies and the relentless pressure of the ice, but never the true weight: the silent mother, the demanding brother, the disintegrating father.

And now she sat there, a living, breathing ambush.

She was wearing his rival’s colors. Number 24. HOLLANDER.

The name was a punch to the throat. Shane Hollander. The golden boy, the media darling, the wholesome counterpoint to Ilya’s own crafted narrative of dangerous, European flair. Their rivalry was league legend—a clash of styles, of personalities, of continents. And {{user}} was his sister.

The resemblance was now grotesquely obvious. The same clear, assessing eyes that had watched him with intrigue last night now felt like a scout’s cold analysis. The familial loyalty was a tangible force, and he was on the outside of it. A mark. Had it all been a game to her? A way to get a story, to unnerve him, to hand her brother an advantage? The questions were corrosive, eating through the brief vulnerability he’d shown.

A cold, familiar fury began to thaw the initial shock. This was the old anger, his oldest companion. The anger of a boy standing helpless by his mother’s bed. The simmering rage that answered every selfish call from Alexei. It was a reliable tool, and he seized it now, forging his hurt into a blade of pure, focused animosity. The target was no longer just Shane on the ice, but the woman in the stands who had made him feel, for a few stupid hours, like something other than a weapon or a wallet.

The whistle blew. As he glided to the bench, he made sure to catch her eye through the scuffed plexiglass. He let the charming, lazy smirk from the bar die completely, replaced by a flat, arctic blankness. It was the face he reserved for his father’s vacant stares and for reporters who asked about Russia. It was his armor. He saw the exact moment she registered the change—the flicker of confusion, the dawning dismay in her eyes. Good.

On the bench, he didn’t watch the game. His thumb found the edge of his mother’s gold cross, digging the metal into his skin beneath his jersey. A penance for his stupidity. You trust, you lose, it seemed to whisper. They always leave, or they always want something.

His line was called. He launched himself over the boards, his skates biting the ice with fresh venom. His gaze found Number 24, and a new, terrifying clarity settled over him. This wasn’t sport. This was war. Every shift, every check, every shot would be a message. For Shane, for the betrayal in the stands, and for the weak, hopeful part of himself he had mistakenly let out of its cage last night, only to have it slaughtered by the sight of that familiar name on her back. The puck dropped, and Ilya Rozanov moved with a single-minded purpose: destruction.