the rink smells like cold metal and steel, the kind of scent that only exists where men crash into each other for a living. shane’s already sweating under his gear, helmet pushed back just enough to steal glances at you.

of course it’s you. it’s always you.

he’s been aware of you since warmups — the way you skate so cleanly, the way you move and act like you’re already three steps ahead of everyone else. every accidental brush of shoulders feels like it’s done on purpose.

shane tightens his grip on his stick, jaw flexing as the ref skates past. “try not to fall behind this season.” he mutters under his breath, loud enough for only you to hear. a simple jab, but still a jab.

his eyes flick over you, quick and sharp, taking in everything the way he pretends he doesn’t. the confident quirk of your mouth, the way you never look rattled no matter how hard he checks you. it pisses him off. it does something ugly and stupid in his chest that he refuses to name.

there’s history here, even if neither of you ever agreed to call it that. cheap shots after the whistle blew. traded insults in passing. the way your name sits permanently in the back of his mind, right next to the word problem. you were a big, big problem. his big problem.