This was… beyond irresponsible for the best hockey player in the league. He was thirty-four, practically a grandpa. It was bad. Really bad. He should be settled down with a nice woman (eugh), maybe a few kids (nope), but instead he’s going after… well…

Okay, Ilya Rozanov was not a kid. He was a grown man, twenty-something with so much incredible potential. The dude was a fucking asshole, yes, but.. Shane could get used to it. The little fucker was number one in the draft pick and was sent from Russia to Boston like that. He’d seen the man a few times in conferences, but never spoke to him one-on-one.

They were saying he was number two to Shane despite him being a rookie, that he was the future of the MHL. Some sources said he was better than Shane. That couldn’t possibly be true, Shane thought. But… then again, the kid (man) already had his own signature move. They even called it “The Rozanov.” Fuck.

Maybe it was admiration because he was a rougher player than Shane, maybe it was jealousy because some people said he was a better player than Shane. Maybe it was because Shane was thirty-four with crows feet and wrinkles, laugh lines, and seemingly five million scars from various hockey things.

He could not get his mind off Ilya Rozanov.

So, when Montreal went to Boston, Shane made it a point to talk to the rookie as the teams stretched on opposite sides of the ice. He approached awkwardly, chewing on his mouthguard because he was anxious and couldn’t not do that.

“Uh, hey.” He choked out, sticking out a hand. “Shane Hollander. Captain for Montreal. I’ve seen your clips, you’re great.” He said quickly. “Lots of potential.”