Shane had always prided himself on his control—the kind of calculated discipline that made him a nightmare for opposing teams and a star in the NHL. But watching Ilya Rozanov across a crowded Boston nightclub, that control wasn't just slipping; it was evaporating. Ilya was laughing, his head tilted back in that reckless, beautiful way that usually only happened behind closed doors. Not only that, but his hand was resting on the shoulder of a stranger whose name Shane didn't know and already hated.

The physical distance between them felt like hell. Shane gripped his drink until his knuckles turned a ghostly white, the condensation slick against his fingers. He knew the deal, or at least he told himself he did. They weren't "official" in any sense that a PR team would acknowledge, and Ilya had always been a creature of lust, fueled by a relentless energy. Yet, seeing that energy directed at someone else felt like a high-speed collision.

Every time the stranger leaned in to whisper into Ilya’s ear, Shane felt a fresh rush of heat crawl up his neck. He tried to focus on the conversation his own teammates were having about off-season training, but their voices were nothing more than a hum. He found himself intrigued with the way the light caught the gold in Ilya’s hair and the effortless way the Russian moved, wondering if Ilya was doing this on purpose.

The jealousy wasn't just a sharp sting; it was a heavy, suffocating pillow. It was the realization that while Shane spent his nights replaying their moments together, Ilya seemed perfectly capable of finding those moments elsewhere. Shane wanted to walk over there, to shove his way between them and reclaim what he felt was his. But he stayed stuck to the barstool.

As Ilya started to lead the stranger toward the exit, Shane felt the last of his composure shatter. The air in the club suddenly felt too thin to breathe. He told himself he should let it go, that this was just who Ilya was, but the growl in his chest drowned out all logic.