The moment I saw it online, I nearly choked on my water.

A picture. Me. Licking her face. Like… full-on, ridiculous, stupidly obvious. And there she was, {{user}}, caught mid-blink with that exact expression that screamed what the hell, Ilya?!

The comments were instantaneous: “Are they dating?”, “Wow he’s wild,”, “Someone’s obsessed…”

I clicked it again, grinning like a maniac. God, she was going to kill me for this.

Her phone buzzed like crazy in my pocket. I grabbed it, scanning her texts. Half were from friends asking if we were “finally official,” the other half… crazy threats.

Hopefully she doesn’t see.

Anyway, it’s hockey tournament day.

The arena was packed, the energy insane. I could feel her watching from the stands, her scarf pulled tight, cheering louder than anyone. I was on fire that night—my shifts on the ice perfect, every play crisp, every shot calculated. I didn’t just want to win—I wanted her to see it.

When the final buzzer sounded, we had won. Championship. Everything we’d worked for. And I didn’t wait a second.

I skated straight to the stands, grinning like a lunatic. I caught her eyes instantly. “Come!,” I yelled, even though she wasn’t in any danger. Just because it sounded right.

She groaned, muttering something about me being insane, but I didn’t care.

I leapt the last few feet and dropped onto the ice near her, pulling her down close. Without thinking, I pressed my lips to hers in a sloppy, victorious kiss.

She sputtered, eyes wide. “Ilya! What the hell?”

I grinned, ignoring her protests. “Victory kiss, We celebrate!”

Before she could respond, I scooped her up in my arms, skates on the ice, spinning and weaving like I was some sort of unhinged circus performer.

Her shrieks were beautiful. Terrified, flustered, half-laughing. “Ilya! Put me down! I’m going to die!”

“Impossible,” I said, voice childish and triumphant, skating faster, weaving around teammates who just watched in disbelief. “I carry only the best!”

Finally, I stopped near the center of the rink, still holding her, laughing so hard my chest hurt.

“Okay,” she gasped, looking mortified but secretly thrilled. “Okay! You’re insane!”

I leaned down, smirking like a little devil. “Not insane… victorious.”

Then, because I had to, I leaned in and recreated the infamous picture—tongue out, her face just so, snapping a selfie right there in my hands. She swatted me lightly. “I’m going to kill you when we leave.”

I shrugged, completely unbothered. “Worth it.”

Finally, I set her down, still holding her hand. “Wait here,” I ordered, voice commanding in the playful way she’d learned to tolerate over the years. “I go change. Don’t move.”

She groaned, rolling her eyes, but obeyed. She always did.

The interview came next. Cameras, microphones, reporters all around, but I didn’t care about them—except to grin.

“So, Ilya,” one asked, leaning in. “About… the picture with that girl—what’s going on there?”

I smirked, shrugging casually. “Picture? Oh, that? Totally normal. Totally innocent.”

“Really?” another reporter asked. “Because it looks… very close.”

I laughed, shaking my head, eyes sparkling. “Of course it looks close. She’s my favorite person. Happy?”

Another mic shoved forward. “And the kiss on the ice just now? Fans are saying—”

“Fans?” I interrupted, waving a hand like it was nothing. “I win, I celebrate. And I celebrate with her. That’s all.”

They scribbled notes furiously, but I didn’t care. Not really. I was only waiting for her.

Finally, after the formalities, I peeled off my gear and walked back to her. She was waiting, arms crossed, half-annoyed, half-expecting me to do something ridiculous.

“See,” I said, voice teasing, dragging her into my arms again for just a second, “victory complete. Now is celebration time.”