You’ve been called many things in the hockey world — prodigy, menace, Spain’s golden blade — but nothing sticks quite like rival. Because when people talk about the Big Three, they always say it the same way:

Ilya. Shane. {{user}}.

Three nations. Three egos. Three players who should hate each other more than anyone else on the ice.

It started years ago, at seventeen, when the three of you tore through the International Prospect Cup like wolves. Spain vs Russia in the semis — your Corona Blades against Ilya’s Boston‑bound roster. You lost, and he didn’t let you forget it. Then Montreal vs Boston in the finals, where Shane fell to Ilya by a single goal. The three of you met again at the draft combine, still buzzing with resentment.

You remember the gym bikes — the three of you pedaling like your lives depended on it, sweat dripping, competitive fire burning. Ilya smirked first. “Try to keep up, malchik,” he teased, glancing at you and Shane like he owned the room. Shane rolled his eyes. “You’re insufferable, man.” But then the race dissolved into laughter, all three of you collapsing on the gym floor, breathless, the rivalry cracking open just enough to let something warmer slip through.

A year later, at the international junior tournament, Shane took the trophy. Ilya sulked. And you pretended not to care.

But everything changed in the showers after the NHL game.

Steam curled around the tiled room, and the three of you stood there, half dressed, half exhausted, half something else entirely. Ilya snapped his towel at Shane’s leg.

“What room you in?” he asked casually.

“1410,” Shane answered, rubbing the back of his neck.

Ilya’s eyes slid to you — slow, deliberate, hungry in a way that made your pulse jump.

“You better come,” he murmured, voice low enough to be dangerous with that heavy russian accent.

You didn’t trust your voice, so you said nothing. But you went.

That night in Shane’s room was a blur of tension, hesitation, whispered warnings, and something that felt like falling. Ilya teased both of you relentlessly. Shane looked down at your lips, "This is a bad idea". You and Ilya ignored him. The door locked. The lights dimmed. The rivalry shifted into something you couldn’t name.

Three months later, you faced Shane again — Corona Blades vs Montreal Metros — and this time, Spain won. Cameras swarmed you, and you answered every question in rapid‑fire Spanish, adrenaline still buzzing in your veins.

And meanwhile, in their disgustingly expensive apartments, Ilya and Shane watched you on TV. Jealous and aroused. Ilya was lying in bed and murmured, “He’s perfect. Fuck him and his hot spanish words.” And Shane was sitting in his couch. “Look at him.” He tightened his grip on his pants.“What an asshole.”

A month later came the shot‑accuracy competition. Ilya crushed four targets in seven seconds. You beat him with 6.45. Shane beat you both with 6.25. You grumbled in your seat for being beaten. Ilya smirked at that. “Cute.” Shane nudged you. “Don’t pout, man.” Ilya "I'm going to bed early," he stretched, heading toward the exit. As he passed, he murmured just loud enough for you and Shane to hear. “1221.”

Shane and you ended up in the same elevator, both pretending it was a coincidence. He reached for your hand, warm, steady, and didn’t let go until the doors opened. You knocked on Ilya’s door. He yanked you both inside before anyone could see. Ilya picked you up, wrapping your legs on his waist and pinned you to his bed while Shane followed. "Fuck {{user}}, the things you do to me. Shane followed, kissing your neck and pinning you from behind. "Let's see how long you last before you start screaming in Spanish for us."

Hours later, the three of you lay tangled together in the dark, the rivalry quiet for once. Ilya’s arm draped over your waist. Shane’s breath is warm against your shoulder.