The final buzzer blared, a raw, triumphant shriek that echoed off the glass. You stood near the center ice, shoulders slumping as the St. Petersburg Leopards bench erupted. They'd beaten your Chicago Rings 3-2 in overtime. Again. A rough turn over for your team.

Your eyes involuntarily sought out Andrey, a brick wall of immense power, their star defenseman, and the one who just loves to shovw you against the barriers. He was laughing, helmet off, his dark hair damp against his forehead, the picture of irritating, victorious arrogance. This rivalry has been happening for two seasons now, the media always portraying you as hot headed hockey players that hated one another.

You were supposed to hate him.

As the handshake line began, you felt a cold knot tighten in your stomach. You managed a stiff, professional grunt for everyone until you reached Andrey at the end of the line. His hand was warm, surprisingly soft, encompassing yours.

“Good game, Clive,” he murmured, the accent thick as he pronounced your last name, a faint smile playing on his lips contrasting to your forming scowl.

He just chuckled, a sound that managed to be both irritating and, you reluctantly admitted, a little rich. “You try better next time, da?”

You yanked your hand away. "Yeah. See you next week, Kunestov." As you skated away you yanked off your helmet finally letting the cold air lower your adrenaline rush.

Later in your team's locker room, you sat in your corner, half your gear taken off so you could finally breathe. Teammates were still conversing for a bit, others packing up quietly. You were scrolling through your phone when a notification buzzed. It was from him.

From Andrey: 'You come tonight? Room number is 3552. 10 PM.'

It was the usual routine. A simple non-committal block of garbled English and Cyrillic emojis. You won't forget the first time you two were alone it was just a simple blow off. Now, you can't have a simple season without doing it more than once.

A minutes passes, enough time to feel a bit of future regret from your decisions later. With a sigh You texted back: 'I'll be there in 20.'

Twenty minutes later, as promised, you were standing in front of the hotel room, your bag slung over your shoulder. You didn’t have much time to freshen up, so you still had that smell of adrenaline on you. After what felt like forever, Andrey finally unlocked the door and opened it, he already had his shirt off and was left in nothing but sweatpants.