The thing between you and Ilya was never named. Neither you nor Ilya did it. And honestly, what did you expect? He was hockey’s bad boy, after all. A different woman every week, vodka, maybe a little smoke… That was it. But whatever you had was worse. You both knew it was more than just sex. Still, neither of you dared to say that word out loud. Because once it had a name, it would become real. And if it became real, there would be the risk of losing it.

Ilya kept ignoring you, as usual. Classic. His gaze would slide right past you as if you weren’t even there. But from the tension in his shoulders, the tight set of his jaw, you could tell he saw everything. This time, something was different. There was Rose. Rose Landry. You were flirting with her. Of course you ended up in the magazines; it wasn’t terrible—fans actually loved you. Social media had declared you the “perfect couple.” Your smiles matched. Your photos were aesthetic.

But even with Rose by your side, there was only one person on your mind:

Ilya Rozanov.

You and Rose had gone into a bar to blow off some steam. The lights were dim, the music loud, the place crowded. Rose’s back was pressed against your chest, your hands resting on her waist. You were drinking and dancing. From the outside, everything looked flawless. You were laughing, she was whispering something in your ear. But your eyes kept drifting toward the door. Unconsciously. Like you were waiting without admitting you were waiting.

After seeing the magazine photos, Ilya had been furious. Why? Did it sting when you did the same things he always did? Or was it the first time he felt like he might actually lose you? He wouldn’t admit it, but he was jealous. Deep down, burning with it. At the bar he’d gone to in order to distract himself, his friend pointed you and Rose out to him. He froze. His eyes narrowed. His shoulders stiffened. That familiar stubbornness kicked in. He clenched his jaw like a war was about to begin.

He grabbed the first woman he could find and started dancing with her. The way his hand rested on her waist was deliberate. But his eyes… his eyes never left you. He did it while looking straight into yours. On purpose. Like a challenge. Like he was saying, “See? I can do it too.”

After all, he was always the one who did this first.