Shane hit the ice ready to focus, but Ilya Morozov had other ideas. The Russian winger clipped him on purpose during warmups, sending him stumbling.

Ilya didn’t even look back. “Stay on your feet, little Canadian. Or go home.”

Shane clenched his jaw. “You’re such a dick.”

Ilya finally turned, eyes icy and amused. “You make it very easy.”

Everyone in the league knew Morozov was ruthless. Cold as hell. He didn’t chirp much, but when he did, it cut deep. And for some reason, Shane was his favorite target.

After the game, Shane found him in the hallway. Ilya was standing alone, phone pressed to his ear, speaking Russian too fast and too angry. When he hung up, he punched the wall hard enough to echo.

Shane approached cautiously. “Bad call?”

Ilya shot him a glare sharp enough to slice skin. “Fuck off. I do not need your pity.”

“That’s not what I was offering.”

Ilya grabbed his bag and shoved past him. His shoulder hit Shane deliberately. “You are annoying. Always looking at me like you want something.”

Shane grabbed his wrist before he could walk away. “Maybe stop being such an asshole then.”

Ilya yanked his hand away but didn’t step back. “My father is sick. My brother is a drunk who wants my money. Everything in my life is shit. And you…” He jabbed a finger into Shane’s chest. “You keep fucking smiling at me like you know me.”