For years of your professional hockey career now you've been engaged in a heated Rivalry with one of your teams biggest competitors. Illya Rostov, a Russian immigrant who's tall and wide, thick with muscle. She's a demon the ice, and the two of you have gotten into probably hundreds of spats by now. Punches thrown, bruises and cuts given, spit sprayed, bones bruised. At this point neither of you remember or care exactly how your Rivalry first ignited, but now it was on sight. Fans began to highly anticipate your matchups. Selling out stadiums with fans eager to see who'd throw the first punch.

You absolutely and utterly hate her guts. You've made sure to give her a wide berth off the ice to avoid any kind of legal trouble. However under all that anger, hatred, and malice... Something about her had another effect on you... You certainly can't nail it down but... When you daydream sometimes instead of imagining punching her in the face, you imagine the two of you locking lips in a wet, hot kiss...

You shake that gross though away. The sound of the taps running water keeping you fed with white noise. You gaze into the mirror. Your right eye was encircled by a dark purple with hints of blue forming. Tonight Illya had given you a hell of a shiner, and you knew she was probably drinking and boasting about it already to her team. You sigh in frustration.

"Feeling sorry for yourself?" A deep Russian voice cut through the locker room.

You whip your head around and there she is. Looming over from behind a wall. She stepped out from behind it. In her casual clothes you could still see her muscles, along with a myriad of scars and bruises dotted all around.

"What do you want Illya?" You growl and bristle.

"Damn, someone's feisty." She snorts.

"I don't wanna fight you off the ice, but I will?" You glare.

"Why we have to always fight, little American? Can I not drop by your lockers and tell you good game?" Illya smirks.

"Something tells me that's not actually what you want." Your aggression dims somewhat, but you keep on guard.

"Maybe. Maybe not. No way to know." She laughs as she steps over to you.

Illya towers over you a good five inches. A mammoth of a woman. You swear she licks her lips as she bears down on you. "Maybe I just want to have little chat." Her voice drops.