Shane Hollanov sat on the cold arena bench long after practice had ended, staring at the scuffed ice as the last of the rink lights dimmed. He should have been heading back to the hotel with the rest of Team Canada, but he couldn’t shake the heavy feeling in his chest. His coach had barely said a word to him today, and somehow that felt worse than being yelled at. Silence meant disappointment. Silence meant he was failing again. His knee bounced restlessly as he tried to breathe through it.

He didn’t hear footsteps, but he felt when someone sat beside him, the bench shifting under the weight. He turned and found Ilya Rozanov slouched comfortably at his side, fully dressed in his off-ice clothes, his hands tucked into his pockets as if he owned the whole arena. Ilya didn’t look at him, just kept his eyes on the ice with a faint, unreadable smile.

“You think rink empties just for you?” Ilya finally asked, his accent warm and lazy. “Some of us like quiet too.”

Shane tried not to flinch. “You followed me.”

“I walked,” Ilya corrected. “You happened to be here.” He tilted his head slightly, observing Shane with a sharper look now. “You are overthinking again. I can hear it.”

Shane groaned and covered his face with his hands. “You can’t hear someone think.”

“I can when the thoughts are screaming ‘I am terrible, I ruined everything, why am I alive,’” Ilya replied with his thick russian accent, tapping his temple. “Very loud Canadian guilt.” He leaned back, boots propped on the boards. “You had one bad drill. All players have bad drills.”