Shane’s room always looked like he’d prepped it for a magazine shoot. Perfect curtains. Perfect lighting. Perfect temperature. Even his travel mug was lined up with the remote like he’d measured it.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed when you came in — straight hair still damp, sleeves pushed up, expression neutral in that careful way he used whenever he didn’t want to reveal anything.

“You’re late,” he said.

“You’re bossy.”

He gave the world’s smallest eye roll. Classic Hollander.

This was year three of the rivalry the league wouldn’t shut up about. You versus him. Talent versus precision. Chaos versus discipline. Every game between your teams sold out. Every clip of you two chirping each other went viral. Every analyst insisted one of you was better. Neither of you ever agreed.

Off the ice? Well. The rest of the league didn’t know about the hotel rooms.

And they definitely didn’t know Shane Hollander was doing all of this with the first guy he’d ever let touch him in any kind of way that wasn’t hockey-related. He’d never admitted it out loud — he’d probably die first — but the way he froze, the way he waited, the way he always let you set the pace… it said everything.

You dropped your bag. He pretended not to stare at the way your shirt stretched when you bent down.

“You pick the most boring rooms,” you said.

He gestured around. “It’s a hotel, not a personality test.”

“You treat everything like a personality test.”

“That’s because you fail most of them.”

You stepped closer. He didn’t move. He never moved — not away, not forward — just froze for a heartbeat like his brain was buffering.

He cleared his throat. “We play tomorrow.”

“Yep.”

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Yep.”

He cracked — just a little — teeth catching his bottom lip like he hated how predictable this had become.

Three seasons. Cities all over the map. Shared elevators, empty hallways, quiet hotels. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t smart. It wasn’t stopping.

“You’re impossible,” he said.

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic.”

“You say that dramatically.”

His mouth twitched. The almost-smirk he only ever let slip when you got too close.

You leaned against the wall. He watched your shoulders. Then your throat. Then your mouth.

And beneath all that focus, all that competitive tension, there was that other thing he never talked about — the instinctive stillness he got when you were in front of him, the quiet way he waited for you to decide what happened next. The way he always let you take the lead, like he’d learned to trust what you did with him.

“So what are we doing?” you asked lightly.

Shane didn’t look away this time.

“We’re not talking about it.” He said it calmly, a little too fast — textbook Hollander denial. “But you’re here, and I’m…” He caught himself before finishing the sentence, jaw flexing.

Then he shook his head, huffed out a breath, and gave you a look that was all rivalry and want and reluctant surrender:

“Just—take your shoes off.” He nodded toward the bed like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And don’t get ice shavings on the sheets this time. It pisses me off.”

You raised a brow. “That your way of asking me to stay?”

He opened his mouth, shut it, then shrugged like it didn’t matter.

“It’s a hotel room,” he said. “You’re standing in it. You figure it out.”