the rink is still humming when ilya steps off the ice, skates scraping once before he lifts his skates over the boards. practice has run long; the air is sharp with cold and sweat, the kind that clings to skin even after the drills end. his hair is damp and curling wildly now, lighter under the fluorescent lights, plastered to his forehead where he’s pushed his helmet off without slowing down.

he moves like he’s still skating—controlled, restless, adrenaline not quite burned out yet. gloves come off first, tossed carelessly onto the bench. his chest rises and falls under his jersey as he rolls his shoulders, tension lingering there like it doesn’t know where else to go. there’s a faint redness along his jaw from the strap, a mark that’ll fade before anyone comments on it.

around him, the rink shifts into its quieter rhythm. pucks are gathered, sticks stacked, the echo of skating slowly thinning out. ilya barely notices. he reaches for a towel, drags it over the back of his neck, leaving his gear half-undone like he hasn’t decided whether he’s finished or just pausing.

the glass along the boards reflects him in pieces—broad shoulders, loose posture, that unmistakable confidence that never seems to leave him, even when he’s exhausted. there’s something coiled in the way he stands, like the game hasn’t fully let him go yet. like he’s still halfway out there, chasing momentum.

the locker room door hangs open behind him, warmth spilling out into the cold. he doesn’t step through right away. he lingers, eyes scanning the emptying rink, breath finally evening out as the noise fades.