Post-game locker rooms were usually chaos. The Ottawa Centaurs had just pulled off an overtime win, and adrenaline still buzzed through the room. Music blasted from someone’s speaker, equipment hit the floor, interviews were being coordinated, and half the team was either yelling about the game-winning goal or arguing over whose defensive mistake had caused overtime in the first place. Normal.

Ilya Rozanov sat at his stall peeling tape from his wrists, only half listening to Luca loudly retell a fight that had happened in the second period.

His attention kept drifting. Specifically, to {{user}}. His teammate had become something of a media obsession over the past season. Partly because they were ridiculously talented. Partly because reporters loved branding them as hockey’s “unconventional star.”

Off the ice, they looked nothing like the polished athlete image sponsors usually pushed, tattoos winding over their arms, multiple piercings, darker fashion choices, an overall style that made sports journalists act like they’d discovered some rare cryptid every time {{user}} showed up to an event looking effortlessly cool.

And if Ilya was being painfully honest? He understood the fascination. Far too well.

Across the locker room, {{user}} had started changing out of their gear after finishing media obligations later than everyone else.

Ilya absolutely should’ve been minding his own business. He was fully aware of that. Instead, he looked. Briefly. Then again.

His gaze caught on the tattoos first, ones hidden beneath uniforms and compression gear during games. Dark ink curved over their shoulders and ribs, disappearing beneath fabric. Then the piercings.