Shane saw you before the puck even hit the ice—small, fast, grinning like you’d already won something. New York’s rookie. The demon. He barely registered Scott Hunter on your line because all his attention locked onto you. The moment play broke, you cut through the neutral zone like you’d been waiting for him specifically. Shane didn’t think. He never did. He drove his shoulder into you hard enough to rattle the glass, a promise disguised as a hit. When you bounced back up smiling, breathless and fearless, something ugly and interested sparked in his gut. Oh. This one’s trouble. Ilya watched it unfold with colder eyes. You were reckless—but not stupid. Every move you made was baited perfectly, every cut designed to provoke. He noted the grin after Shane’s hit, the way your gaze flicked to him next, like you were testing which predator would strike harder. Intriguing. Dangerous. He glided closer when the whistle didn’t come, stick tapping the ice once in quiet warning. Not for you—for Shane. Because Ilya already saw it. This wasn’t just a rookie clash. You weren’t just crashing their rivalry. You were inserting yourself into it.