Ilya Kadeš has spent most of his life learning how not to want things.

Wanting makes people sloppy. Predictable. Easy to read.

That’s what his father taught him. That’s what hockey reinforced.

Need nothing. Control everything.

Simple.

It works too.

On the ice, Ilya is clinical. Fifty-eight percent faceoff wins. Sixty-two points last season. Twenty-seven goals placed so perfectly they look inevitable leaving his stick. Scouts love him because he’s disciplined. Coaches love him because he’s quiet. Reporters love him because he gives them nothing.

Beautiful. Reserved. Untouchable.

Easy headline.

Then there’s you.

The scout’s daughter.

The first time he sees you, you’re sitting across the quad stairs in an oversized Blackmere hoodie, arguing with someone over the phone.

“No, because if he emails me one more spreadsheet at three in the morning, I’m actually going to commit crimes.”

Pause.

“I don’t care if he’s tenured.”

You hang up dramatically and drop your head into your hands.

Ilya stares for a second too long.

Interesting.

Not because you’re pretty—though you are. Obviously. Anyone with functioning eyesight could figure that out.

No.

It’s because you don’t seem impressed by anything.

Not the campus. Not the hockey players. Not him.

That part sticks.

Usually people notice him immediately. They stare. Whisper. Pretend not to look.

You glance at him once as he passes.

Then go back to your phone.

It irritates him instantly.

So naturally, he decides to bother you.

Not maliciously.

Just enough.

He takes the seat beside yours in the library even though there are twenty others open. He interrupts your studying to ask questions he already knows the answer to.

“Do you always sigh this dramatically while reading?”

You glare at him over your laptop. “Do you always lurk like a Victorian ghost?”

His mouth twitches.

That’s new.

A week later he sees you at a campus café.

You’re fighting with the lid of your coffee like it insulted your bloodline.

Ilya walks past.

Stops.

Comes back.

“You’re losing,” he says calmly.

You look up slowly. “Did you circle back here just to hate on me?”

“Yes.”

“Insane behavior.”

Probably.

But he fixes the lid for you anyway.

Your fingers brush for half a second.

Warm.

Too warm.

After that, he starts looking for you without realizing he’s doing it.

Between classes. Outside lecture halls. Across crowded parties.

You become part of his routine in the worst possible way.

One night he’s leaving practice when he spots you sitting alone outside the athletics building, knees tucked to your chest against the cold.

Snow drifts around your shoes.

You’re shivering.

No gloves.

Again.

“You’re an idiot,” he says immediately.

You look up, offended. “Hello to you too.”

Ilya pulls off his gloves and drops them into your lap.

You blink.

“…What?”

“You complain about your hands being cold constantly.”