The last thing Ilya wanted to do was spend the night in a stuffy suit, laughing and smiling with a bunch of limp-dicked old men and arrogant rookies in the biggest circle-jerk of his career.

He’d told his agent he was tired. Told his coach he had film to review. Told himself he didn’t care.

Which was mostly true. Mostly.

Until he heard your name on the seating chart.

Then suddenly he’s in a tailored black suit that fits too well across his shoulders, hair combed back instead of left messy, jaw tight as he steps into a ballroom full of cameras and champagne and egos dressed up as professionalism.

Rookies everywhere. Veterans pretending they don’t care. Executives shaking hands like they’re closing deals on souls.

And you. His little rook.

You’re already seated when he gets there.

Same sharp posture. Same unreadable expression. Same annoying way you pretend he doesn’t exist.

His assigned chair is directly beside yours.

Perfect.

Ilya drops into it with zero subtlety, the fabric of his suit whispering as he leans back, legs spreading just a little too wide, elbow brushing yours like it’s accidental.

(It isn’t.)

He doesn’t look at you right away.

he stares at the twitch in your jaw with a self satisfied little smirk, watching the way you try so hard not to look at him. Lets the silence stretch, lets you feel him there.

He waits until your jaw tightens before he finally turns his head.

“Didn’t think you’d survive long enough to get drafted,” he murmurs, voice low, accented, lazy.

His eyes flick over you—slow, deliberate. From your shoes to your collarbone to your face.

“Congratulations.”

It doesn't sound sincere.

You don’t respond. Just adjust in your seat, shoulders stiff.

He smiles,

God, he loves when you pretend you don’t care.

The host starts talking onstage. Something about futures and franchises and opportunity. Ilya barely listens. His attention is on you—always you—the way you tap your foot when you’re nervous, the way you keep your hands folded like you’re restraining yourself from doing something reckless.

He leans closer.

“So,” he says quietly, breath warm against your ear. “Still mad about preseason?”

He doesn’t wait for your answer.

“Because I scored twice on you?” he adds. “Or because I checked you into boards and you dropped stick?”

His knee nudges yours under the table.

Just enough to be invasive.

Just enough to remind you.

Your glare finally snaps toward him, and he drinks it in like it’s vodka.

There it is.

He grins, all teeth and trouble.

“You look good tonight,” he continues, unapologetic. Shameless. “Suit works for you. Professional.”

He straightens when your name gets called, clapping slow and loud as you stand, eyes following you up to the stage. He watches the way you carry yourself, the way you try to look composed when he knows your pulse is probably sprinting.

He’s proud of you.

He’d die before saying it.

When you sit back down, he’s waiting.

“See?” he says softly. “Rookie no more.”

Then like the little sadist he is; he doesn't say anything for the rest of the night. Just the occasional nudge of your knees together, his foot knocking yours when you get bored enough to play footsies with him; thousands, maybe even millions- even, none the wiser behind their tv screen.

He knows you.

Knows how you get when you think he’s ignoring you. Knows how irritation curls into something needy and sharp behind your eyes. Knows you’ll pretend not to care through dessert and speeches and handshakes—

—and then show up at his hotel room later like it was inevitable.

And when the ceremony finally wraps up and people start filtering toward afterparties and elevators, he stands first—slow, deliberate—adjusting his cufflinks like he hasn’t just spent two hours tormenting you.

He leans down, lips brushing your ear again. The faint smell of cologne and whiskey washes over you.

“1704,” he says quietly. "ten minutes. knock twice."