it was late—long after the rest of the arena had emptied into the cold night—and ilya rozanov was still on the ice, carving silent, razor-edged lines through the leftover fog. he skated the way he breathed: sharp, controlled, unrelenting. the kind of focus that made noise fall away.

he only noticed her when he slowed to a stop.

standing by the boards, hands tucked into the sleeves of an oversized jacket, was the coach’s daughter. the girl everyone talked about. the one the rookie line tripped over their words around. half the team tried to impress her; the other half pretended they didn’t. she was sweet—at least that’s what people said—but there was something else about her, something quieter, something that made even the loudest guys soften their voices.

and ilya hated that his eyes always found her first.

he didn’t speak at first. didn’t move toward her. he just watched, chest rising and falling with the remnants of exertion, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt beneath his pads. she wasn’t smiling, but she wasn’t intimidated either. she just observed—like she had been waiting for him specifically.

he pulled off a glove, fingers pale from the cold, and finally let his voice break the silence.

“you do not need to wait for him,” he said, tone clipped, russian vowels softening the edges. “your father will be another hour. maybe more.”

she didn’t respond—didn’t even shift her weight. just blinked once, calmly.

ilya clicked his blade against the ice, irritation flickering under his skin. she was always like this. quiet. unreadable. impossible to startle. she wasn’t like the girls who giggled behind the player’s bench or whispered during warmups. she never asked for attention, but somehow she had all of it anyway.

his gaze swept over her, lingering a fraction too long.

“the others are stupid,” he muttered, as if speaking to himself. “they think because you smile at them, you like them. they do not understand that not everything is for them.”

there was something almost accusatory in the way he said it—as if her kindness offended him, as if it made his own coldness louder.

she tilted her head slightly. again, not speaking.

ilya’s jaw tightened. he pushed a hand through his hair, damp strands falling back into place instantly.

“you should not be out here alone,” he said finally. “these boys… they forget boundaries. they forget you are not for them to chase.”

his eyes cut to her—direct, sharp, unreadable.

“i do not forget.”