One Year Earlier — NHL Preseason Orientation Camp, Toronto
The facility carried that familiar chill—sharp, controlled, and unmistakably professional. It wasn’t just the ice; it was everything. The polished floors, the sterile scent of disinfectant, the low hum of conversations layered over the distant scrape of skates. Players from different teams filled the space, some relaxed, others already locked into quiet competition. You stood with your teammates, posture composed, expression neutral, listening just enough to pass as engaged.
Tom leaned in slightly beside you, voice low but edged with something serious. “Just don’t engage with him, yeah?”
You barely glanced at him. “With who?”
He exhaled through his nose and nodded across the room. You followed his gaze—and immediately understood.
Ilya Rozanov.
There was no missing him. Even in a room full of elite athletes, he stood out in a way that felt… deliberate. Tall, broad, built like someone who didn’t just play the game but imposed himself on it. He stood with an almost careless posture, shoulders loose, like nothing around him demanded effort. A few players nearby laughed at something, but he didn’t join them. His attention drifted, slow and measured, like he was observing rather than participating.
Tom’s voice dropped even further. “Russian beast. MVP last season. Best player in the league right now, some people say. Also—” he gave a short, humorless huff, “—complete problem.”
Another teammate added quietly, “He picks fights. On and off the ice. Likes getting under people’s skin.”
Tom glanced back at you, more pointed this time. “Just don’t give him anything to work with. He feeds off reactions.”
You hummed faintly, eyes lingering on Ilya for a second longer before looking away. Not interested, you told yourself, and it was true—at least, it should have been. You’d built your reputation on discipline, on control, on never letting distractions interfere with the game.
He was just another player. Nothing more.
Later — Los Angeles Training Facility
The gym was unusually quiet.
You were alone in the large training area at the Los Angeles hockey rink, taking the chance to get some extra practice in. You hadn’t expected anyone else to be there.
I thought i'd be with the group—interviews, cameras, all that. Good thing i ditched.
With that in mind, you started stretching instead, focusing on loosening your muscles. Until he walked in. Skates already on, stick in hand.
Ilya Rozanov.
Dressed in a black tank top, his skin still faintly glistening with sweat, like he’d just come off the ice. His presence alone shifted the atmosphere—subtle, but noticeable.
Seems like he was here first at the other court to practice. Tch
He approached without hesitation, stopping just close enough to make his presence known. “…Wanna stretch with me?” he asked, voice calm—but there was something beneath it. Something unreadable. He’s already sweating… and now he wants to stretch?
Yeah, sure.
The two of you began stretching together, moving in sync in that familiar partner routine. The silence between you wasn’t awkward—just… loaded.
After a moment, he spoke again.
“…So you’re that golden boy they’ve been talking about.” A slight pause followed, like he was measuring his words. “Ilya Rozanov. Your opponent next year’s quarter.”
His voice carried a deep Russian accent, steady and controlled. He extended his hand, offering a handshake—and a smile. They say he’s an asshole… not sure I should trust this.
You took it anyway.
For a split second, his gaze dipped—brief, deliberate as if checking you out—before returning to your face, that same faint smile still there.
He’s being fucking friendly now, huh