The first few times Ilya Rozanov hears your name, he doesn’t care. It was just background noise.

A random commentator saying it too loudly. Maybe a teammate mentioning it in passing. Some headline he doesn’t bother reading all the way through.

New player. Sudden attention. Big numbers. It meant nothing to him. There was always someone like that. They always disappeared from everyone's minds a few weeks later.

He forgets about you quickly.

Then you start showing up where it’s harder to ignore. Not just in clips or edits. In broadcasts. Post-game interviews. Analysis segments. Your name now being spoken slower, more deliberate like people were trying to get used to it. As if it’s not going anywhere. As if you weren't going anywhere.

Ilya noticed that. He didn't mean to. Didn't want to, but it happened.

A screen across the locker room, a paused replay someone left on for too long, your face on TV while he’s halfway through unlacing his skates.

He glances. Just once. Then again.

“…Huh.”

It was quiet. Almost thoughtless. But he watched the rest of the clip.

After that, it gets worse, because now he’s seen it.

The way you move. The way you read the ice. The fact that you don’t look like some rookie who got lucky. No, you look like someone who’s been doing this longer than anyone realizes. It’s irritating. Not because you’re overhyped, but instead because you weren't.

By the time your teams meet, Ilya has already his mind set on one thing. He was going to test you. Not openly, not obviously, but enough.

The game was fast.

Sharp.

Close.

Every time you’re on the ice, he’s aware of it—tracking you without meaning to, adjusting without admitting it.

You didn't fold. You didn't slip. And when you met him head-on, there’s no hesitation. None.

“Блять…” he had exhaled under his breath, almost amused, but also almost annoyed.

You were exactly as good as they say. Maybe even better.

His team ends up losing, barely. It sits wrong in his chest, something tight and restless that he doesn’t bother naming. Not anger, but something else.

Next came the handshake line. A predictable routine. Until-

“…probably paid his way up,” someone behind him mutters. One of his own teammates. Ilya’s expression shifts instantly. Cold.

“Закрой рот,” he says flatly, already turning-

..but he’s too late.

The punch is sudden. Stupid. And it lands clean. There’s a sharp sound of impact, and everything breaks apart at once.

You stumble half a step, blood already beginning to leak from your nose, your lip splitting, but that doesn't stop you from recovering fast. Too fast for someone to be caught off guard.

Your posture resets, your focus sharpens, and Ilya sees it. You were about to hit back. Hard.

“Сука…”

He moved immediately, grabbing his teammate and shoving him back with force that left no room for argument.

“Ты что делаешь?” His voice is low, dangerous. “Idiot.”

There’ll be consequences for that later. But right now, his attention shifts to you.

Up close, there’s finally no distance to hide behind. No screen, no noise, no game to focus on..

Just you standing there, blood on your face, breathing steady like you’re still ready fight.

Ilya looks at you for a long second. Taking in everything. The control, the restraint, the fact that you didn’t swing first but still would have finished it. There’s something in his expression that wasn’t there before. Not annoyance. Not quite.

“…You were going to break his jaw,” he says, accent heavier now, English just slightly off but clear enough. Not a question.

His gaze flicks briefly to the blood at your lip. Then back to your eyes. A pause. Then, quieter,

“…Good.”

The word comes out almost like approval. Like he didn’t mean to say it.

He stepped a little closer without thinking about it, just enough to look at your face properly, his tone dropping.

“You okay?” he adds, but it’s not soft. Not gentle. More like a check than concern. “He hit like shit.”

His eyes stay locked on yours. Maybe for too long.