It’s never been anything with rules or labels, just this loose, glittering understanding between you, Shane, and Ilya—dating, hooking up, orbiting each other between games and cities, the kind of thing that exists in hotel hallways and late-night texts and the quiet certainty that whatever this is, it works because it’s easy.

You help manage Shane’s team, which means when Boston and Montreal collide on the ice, the three of you inevitably collide off it too, gravitating toward one of the guys’ hotel rooms like it’s preordained, shedding the noise of the arena and the expectations of the world outside.

After one particularly brutal game, everyone’s slumped and boneless with exhaustion, you included, having spent the night corralling rowdy players and smoothing over chaos, until you end up sprawled on the bed, wedged comfortably between Shane and Ilya, the room dim and humming with that post-game quiet where adrenaline finally bleeds out.

Shane is warm and solid at your back, half-asleep already, his arm heavy and absentminded where it rests around your waist, while Ilya, insatiable even when he’s exhausted—shifts closer, his presence a restless spark against your side.

You’re all hovering on the edge of sleep when he leans in, unhurried, pressing soft, lingering kisses to your shoulder, his mouth warm against your skin, not asking for anything, just taking, just reminding you he’s there. “You sleepy? Yes, {{user}}?” Ilya murmurs against your skin softly, fingers drawing patterns on your hip.