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The game felt wrong before the puck even dropped.
Not hostile. Not poisonous. Just charged.
The air inside the Canadian Tire Centre buzzed with the particular hum that followed Montreal into every building, that mix of arrogance and history, of blue jerseys clustered together in visiting sections like they owned the place. The ice looked brighter under the lights, almost reflective, and when the Ottawa Centaurs skated out in black and red, the contrast felt deliberate. Sharp. Modern. Loud.
Shane Hollander tapped his stick once against the boards before stepping onto the ice for warmups, eyes already searching for familiar shapes in blue.
He found them quickly.
Comeau near the red line, stretching his neck lazily. Andropov flipping a puck to himself. Drapeau skating tight circles, restless. Hayden Pike at the far end, adjusting his gloves with the same methodical precision he’d had since he was nineteen.
Hayden glanced up and caught Shane’s eye.
No nod. No wave.
Just a small, knowing look.
It wasn’t their first game against each other since Shane had left. It wasn’t even the most recent. The anxiety that had once twisted low in his gut before Montreal games had dulled over time, replaced by something cleaner.
Personal, but not raw.
A stick hooked around Shane’s waist from behind, tugging him slightly off balance.
“You stare too much,” Ilya murmured into his ear.
Shane didn’t even jump anymore. He just shifted his weight and glanced sideways.
“You’re the captain,” he said evenly. “Act like it.”
Ilya grinned, teeth flashing beneath the visor. “I am acting like it.”
He leaned closer, his voice dropping lower. “You look good in black.”
Shane snorted. “You’ve said that every home game.”
“And I am correct every home game.”
On the far end, Hayden had clearly noticed the proximity. His mouth flattened into a line of long-suffering irritation.
“Jesus,” Hayden muttered, skating closer. “You two can’t even make it through warmups?”
“We are discussing strategy,” Ilya said solemnly.
“You look like you wanna eat him.”
“That is also strategy, for our bed.” Ilya smirked, “Special reward for after we win, Da?”
Hayden made a sound that hovered somewhere between disgust and resignation. “Shane. Buddy. I’m begging you, Jacki has this super hot friend, also super gay and not Russian.”
Ilya smirked like a shark, “No Pike, Shane is super gay, he likes them bisexual…and Russian.”
Shane sighed and tapped the side of his helmet against Ilyas, “Behave.”
“I hate you.” Hayden ground out.
“You tolerate me, we are best friends” Ilya corrected, nudging Shane lightly with his hip. “Your children adore me.”
“They do not adore you.” Hayden spat, and then he shook his head like he remembered something, “And we are not best friends!”
“They call me Uncle Ilya.”
“They call the mailman Uncle Dave,” Hayden shot back. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
Shane pushed off toward the blue line before this spiraled any further. “Can we focus?” he said, though there was no real bite in it. Ilya smirked and waved at Hayden as they both skated away into their staring positions.
The puck dropped for the opening faceoff.
And the tone shifted instantly.
The first check came less than two minutes in, a heavy shoulder from Andropov that rattled Tanner Dillon against the glass. Legal. Hard. Intentional.
Ottawa answered in kind.
Boodram finished every hit with a little extra force, skates digging into the ice as he drove through contact. Barrett chirped constantly from the wing, voice carrying easily over the scrape of blades.
“Skate faster!” he called after Wilson once, laughing.
Wilson didn’t respond verbally. He responded by slamming Luca Haas into the boards mid-rush.
The hit wasn’t dirty. But it was unnecessary.
Luca hit the glass with a sharp crack and scrambled back upright quickly, nodding once like he was apologizing for existing.
Shane saw the way his shoulders tightened.
“Watch him,” Shane muttered under his breath to Ilya as they circled back.
“I see,” Ilya replied calmly. Too calmly.
They rotated lines.
Five minutes later, Bood took a stick to the ribs that earned a warning from the ref but nothing more.
Three minutes after that, Comeau leaned into Barrett after a whistle, shoving him square in the chest.
Barrett laughed in his face.
The tension thickened.
The crowd felt it. The benches felt it.
Every shift grew sharper. Faster. Heavier.
Shane took a hit from Drapeau that knocked the wind from his lungs and tasted metal at the back of his throat. He didn’t react. Just skated through it.
Midway through the period, Ilya intercepted a pass cleanly at centre ice and accelerated, cutting through two defenders like they were cones. He snapped a shot just wide of the post.
As he looped back, Comeau clipped his stick deliberately.
“Careful,” Comeau muttered with a smirk. “Don’t trip.”
The words were quiet, but they were deliberate.
Shane saw Ilya’s head turn slowly.
He didn’t respond.
He just smiled. Honestly, Shane thought it was worse than if he’d snapped back.
Across the ice, Luca nearly scored on a rebound, skating hard to the net and jamming at the puck until the whistle blew. He looked almost startled by his own aggression afterward. Wilson bumped him again on the way out of the crease.
“Watch it,” Wilson said, voice low.
Luca swallowed.
Didn’t answer. Skated away.
Shane noticed the way Ilya watched that, too.
The first period ended 1-1.
No fights. No penalties. Not yet, atleast.
In the hallway toward the locker room, Ilya leaned close again.
“Next one,” he said casually.
Shane glanced at him. “Next what?”
“You’ll see...”
Shane rolled his eyes. “You planning something?”
“I am always planning something.”
Shane shook his head as they reached the locker room doors.
“Just play hockey,” he said.
Ilya tilted his head slightly.
“I am playing hockey.”
He leaned in one more inch, just enough that Shane could feel the warmth of him even through sweat and gear. “And if someone touches my line again,” Ilya added softly, “I will handle it.”
Shane exhaled.
He knew that tone.
The period had been controlled chaos.
The next one? Surely wasn’t going to stay that way.
*****
The second period opened faster. Like both benches had come back out with the same unspoken understanding that something had been left unfinished in the first.
The puck barely had time to settle before bodies were colliding again. Ottawa came out aggressive, forechecking hard, sticks active, forcing Montreal to turn quickly and often. The Voyageurs answered with heavy contact, shoulders digging into ribs, hands riding up backs just a fraction too long along the boards.
Shane felt it building like static under his skin.
He won a faceoff clean against Andropov and sent the puck back to Chouinard, pivoting immediately to screen the goalie. A Montreal defender cross-checked him sharply between the shoulder blades.
“Fuck off,” Shane muttered without turning.
“Make me,” came the reply.
Across the ice, Boodram was already grinding in the corner, digging for the puck like it owed him money. Barrett hovered near the slot, stick ready, talking nonstop under his breath, a steady stream of commentary designed to irritate.
Ilya circled high, watching everything.
The puck came loose along the boards and Bood corralled it first. He tried to roll off the wall, shoulder lowered, but Comeau stepped into him with a hit that cracked like a rifle shot.
This one was different from the others.
It wasn’t technically illegal. The shoulder made contact. The timing was close enough to defensible.
But Comeau drove through him with unnecessary force, lifting slightly at the end, finishing with a shove that sent Bood sprawling hard onto his side.
Bood didn’t get up immediately.
That was all it took.
Shane felt Ilya move before he saw him.
A shift in air. A coiling release.
“Oh, Jesus-” Shane started, reaching out instinctively.
His glove caught fabric for half a second.
Then nothing.
Ilya was already accelerating.
He didn’t glide in.
He slammed straight into Comeau chest-first, sending both of them skidding sideways across the ice.
“What the fuck was that?” Ilya snapped, shoving him again.
“Clean hit,” Comeau shot back, already bracing.
“You finish him like that again, I finish you.”
The gloves hit the ice.
Comeau swung first, a quick right that glanced off Ilya’s visor. Ilya responded with a sharper hook that snapped Comeau’s head sideways and ripped his helmet loose.
The crowd erupted instantly.
Shane stopped skating. He lifted both hands, palms up, staring at the ceiling like he was asking for patience from a higher power.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered.
Hayden coasted over from the opposite side, keeping a comfortable distance from the growing cluster of chaos.
“You tried to stop him?” Hayden asked mildly.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“Look at him.”
On the ice, Ilya had Comeau’s jersey bunched in his fist, yanking him forward and landing two more heavy punches before the linesmen finally wedged between them. Comeau was shouting something in French now, furious and breathless.
Ilya’s lip split on the next swing. Blood smeared across his teeth.
He grinned anyway.
Boodram was upright now, skating in hot. “I’m fine!” he barked, even as Andropov grabbed him from the side. That turned into its own separate scuffle immediately, Bood laughing as he shoved Andropov backward. Barrett barreled into that pile without hesitation, because of course he did.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Shane muttered as Hayden snorted beside him.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking you look tired.”
“I’m not tired.”
“You look like someone who’s about to have to apologize for their boyfriend again.”
Shane rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t quite hide the small upward twitch at the corner of his mouth.
On the ice, it took three officials to pull Ilya fully free. He resisted just enough to make it inconvenient.
“You hit him again,” Ilya called over the linesman’s shoulder, still glaring at Comeau, “I remember your face.”
Comeau spat a string of profanity back.
“Romantic,” Hayden murmured. “Really poetic.”
Shane huffed a breath.
Ilya was escorted toward the penalty box, blood streaking down his chin. He passed Shane on the way, slowing just enough to angle his head.
“You see?” he said quietly, voice rough but pleased. “He is fine.”
“He could have handled it,” Shane replied evenly.
“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “But I wanted to.”
He flashed a smirk that showed red between his teeth.
Shane’s stomach did an annoying, involuntary flip.
“You’re bleeding,” Shane said flatly.
“Is attractive, no?”
Hayden gagged audibly. “Can you not.”
Ilya glanced at him without breaking stride. “You are jealous because no one bleeds for you, Mr 15th best Montreal Hockey player.”
“I don’t need anyone bleeding for me.”
“Sad.”
Shane shook his head and skated back toward centre as Ilya stepped into the box beside Bood and Barrett.
The three of them sat shoulder to shoulder like men on a mildly inconvenient train platform.
Barrett leaned over first. “You look feral.”
“I am feral,” Ilya replied.
Bood touched the side of his own eyebrow where a thin line of blood had started to trickle. “Worth it.”
“Obviously,” Ilya said.
Barrett elbowed him lightly. “Stop looking so proud of yourself.”
Ilya tilted his head, considering. “I am not proud.”
“You are.”
“I am satisfied.”
Bood snorted. “He’s been waiting all game for an excuse.”
“I do not wait,” Ilya corrected calmly. “I observe.”
On the ice, Ottawa killed the penalties cleanly. Wyatt made two solid saves in quick succession, gloving a rising shot from the slot and holding it long enough to let the tension reset.
The next shift was tighter. Faster. Every player skating like they were one insult away from ignition.
Shane lined up for another draw against Andropov, crouching low.
“Keep him on a leash,” Andropov muttered.
Shane didn’t blink but he smirked a little, “Tried it already…he likes it too much.” Andropov looked at him in shock and disgust.
The puck dropped. Only Shane noticed as he flicked it to Hass on the wing and skated after him.
Play resumed.
But something had shifted.
And it had only sharpened the edges of everything that came after.
The second period didn’t so much continue as it accelerated, as if the fight had cracked something open and now the game was spilling through the gap.
Ottawa’s bench was louder, bodies leaning forward, sticks tapping in a restless rhythm. Montreal’s side answered with that stiff, tight posture that always looked like restraint until it wasn’t. The officials were sharper too, eyes flicking between players like they were counting down to the next explosion. Shane could feel the tension in the way every whistle lingered half a beat longer than usual, in the way shoulders stayed squared and hands stayed up even after the puck had moved on.
Ilya, Bood, and Barrett were still in the penalty box, sitting shoulder to shoulder. Ilya’s lip was split, blood dried dark at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes tracked the ice with a predator’s patience. Bood looked like he was enjoying himself despite the welt forming along his eyebrow, chin lifted proudly as if getting hit was just another way to contribute to the team. Barrett kept rolling his shoulders as if he wanted to be anywhere else, but his gaze kept darting to the far end of the ice, checking the flow, checking the matchups, checking like he couldn’t help it.
Shane’s attention kept snagging on Luca.
Not because Luca was doing anything dramatic. That was the thing. He was just…being Luca. Smart routes, quick little stick touches, working the boards with that careful, eager intensity he brought to everything, like he could earn approval through sheer correctness. He took contact and didn’t retaliate, absorbed checks with tight shoulders and that polite, maddening habit of nodding as if he’d inconvenienced the other player by being in the way.
Wilson had been on him all night. Not constant, but it sure was persistent. The kind of focus that was less about the puck and more about the person wearing it.
Twice now, Wilson had taken the extra half-step into Luca after whistles. Twice now, Luca had skated away without engaging. Once, Wilson had said something low and ugly, Shane hadn’t heard the words, but he’d seen Luca’s ears go pink, seen the way he swallowed and stared straight ahead as if he could pretend his body hadn’t reacted.
Shane had played long enough to recognize that kind of targeting. It was a test, and the tests only escalated.
The puck rimmed around the end boards and Luca went after it, skating hard, stick extended, chin tucked the way Shane had watched him do in video review a hundred times. Wilson closed on him at the same time, shoulder lining up with Luca’s ribs.
The hit itself was clean.
The follow-through wasn’t.
Wilson pressed him into the glass and held him there a fraction too long, face close enough that Shane could see his mouth moving. Luca shoved back, not violently, not aggressively, more like a reflexive refusal to be pinned, then the whistle blew for an offside at the line and the sound of it cut through the moment.
Normally, Luca would have peeled away.
Normally, he would have done the polite thing and reset.
Instead, he turned.
It was abrupt enough that Shane’s brain snagged on it for a second, like a record skipping. Luca’s gloves were still on. His chest rose once, sharply, like he’d been punched somewhere deeper than the ribs.
Wilson grinned, leaning in again.
Shane didn’t hear the first words. All he saw was Wilson’s mouth too close to Luca’s ear and Luca’s expression, tightening, sharpening, changing in a way Shane had never seen on him before. It wasn’t embarrassment this time, it was anger.
Wilson’s grin widened, clearly pleased with himself, and he said something else, something that made Luca’s eyes flare.
Then Luca’s gloves hit the ice.
It happened so fast the sound barely registered before the visual did, black leather dropping, bouncing once, skidding over the white.
Shane stared.
No. Not Luca.
Luca Haas didn’t fight. Luca Haas apologized when other people bumped into him. Luca Haas carried a sketchbook in his backpack like it was a life support system.
Luca Haas grabbed Wilson by the front of his jersey and yanked him in so hard their helmets clicked.
“You wanna run your mouth again?” Luca snarled, voice cracking on the anger. “Go on. Say it again. I fucking dare you.”
The entire arena seemed to suck in a breath.
Wilson’s face hardened instantly, rage flaring as if he’d been waiting for this too. “Oh, look,” he snapped back, shoving Luca, “the baby’s got teeth.”
“Fuck you,” Luca spat, and the profanity landed sharp, clean, like he’d sharpened it on his tongue all night. “You don’t know me. You don’t know shit.”
Wilson grabbed him right back, hauling him closer, and Shane saw the flash of Wilson’s eyes, the sudden, furious recognition that the kid wasn’t just posturing. He was furious. Wilson yanked Luca in and snarled words right back. “What, you mad because I said your captain’s gonna get tired of babysitting you? Or is it because you’re trying to be his little side bitch? His little toy?”
Luca’s head snapped up, eyes blazing.
And then he swung.
It wasn’t pretty, it was pure emotion, shoulders tight, fists clumsy in gloves that weren’t there anymore.
But it was violent enough that Wilson’s head jerked and the smirk on his face vanished.
“Oh, you wanna talk about my captain?” Luca yelled, and the volume of it cracked through the noise, making heads snap toward them. “You wanna say his name like you didn’t spend the whole fucking first period trying not to piss yourself when he looked at you? You wanna act like you’re somebody? You’re nothing, you cheap-ass discount defenseman-”
Wilson swung back, catching Luca high on the shoulder, and Luca stumbled but didn’t go down.
Instead, he laughed, a sharp, disbelieving sound.
“Oh my god,” Luca barked, breathless, “that’s your punch? That’s what you’ve got? I’ve been hit harder by a fucking automatic door!”
That got a roar out of the Ottawa bench, half shock, half delighted disbelief.
Shane’s feet moved before his brain fully caught up.
He vaulted the boards and skated hard toward them, jaw clenched, eyes flicking once to the officials as they rushed in from the sides.
Luca and Wilson were still chirping nonstop, words colliding as often as their fists.
“You’re a fucking baby!” Wilson snarled.
“I’m nineteen, asshole!” Luca screamed back, and then, like the words were a weapon he’d just discovered, he leaned into it. “You’re the one getting your shit rocked by a teenager! How’s that feel? You gunna cry? You gunna call your mommy? You gunna ask your coach to tuck you in with a fucking bedtime story?”
Wilson’s face went red with anger. “You think you’re tough because Rozanov lets you hang around? You’re his little mascot. His little-”
Luca cut him off with another swing and a snarl that sounded nothing like the shy kid who apologized for holding up the line at coffee shops. “Finish that sentence and I’ll finish your fucking career. Say it. Go on. Say it again. ‘Little what?’”
They crashed together, jerseys twisted in fists, skates scraping grooves into the ice.
Wilson tried to yank Luca down, but Luca fought it with stubborn strength, and for a split second, Shane saw it, Luca’s face twisted with fury, but there was a wicked little curve to his mouth, a brief, dangerous smirk that looked so much like Ilya’s that Shane’s stomach dropped in a completely absurd way.
On the Ottawa bench, someone actually choked out a laugh like they couldn’t believe it. In the penalty box, Ilya went still in a way that was almost reverent.
Bood leaned forward, eyebrows climbing. “Oh my god.”
Barrett’s hand slapped Ilya’s thigh. “Stop it.”
“I am not doing anything,” Ilya said softly, without looking away.
“You’re looking proud.”
“I am not proud.”
“You’re practically glowing,” Barrett hissed.
Bood let out a delighted wheeze. “He’s got your smirk.”
“He does not,” Ilya said automatically, but his mouth twitched like he couldn’t stop it.
On the ice, the linesmen finally got hands on them, arms wedging between bodies, but Luca was still straining, still shouting over shoulders and through grips.
“Yeah, hold me back!” Luca screamed at Wilson, voice raw with adrenaline. “Hold me back because if you don’t, I’ll put you through the fucking glass! You hear me? I’ll staple you to the boards and sign it with my skate you fucker!”
Wilson bucked against the official restraining him, furious. “You little prick!”
“Say it louder,” Luca shot back instantly, still straining in Shane’s direction as Shane wrapped an arm around his chest and hauled him back. “Say it louder so everyone hears you gettin’ your ass beat by the team’s rookie!”
Shane tightened his hold. “Luca, enough!”
Luca’s head snapped toward him, eyes wild. For a second Shane thought Luca might swing on him too. Then Luca blinked, like Shane’s voice was the only thing that cut through the adrenaline, and he sucked in a harsh breath that trembled.
“Get off me,” Luca rasped, but he didn’t mean it the way he sounded. “He’s-he’s-”
“I don’t give a fuck what he is,” Shane snapped low, close to Luca’s ear, because Shane had learned how to do this, how to anchor someone with tone alone. “You’re not throwing your rookie season away because some asshole can’t keep his mouth shut.”
Wilson was still shouting, blood on his lip now, eyes locked on Luca. “Your captain’s gunna get tired of babysitting you, Swiss boy! He’ll chew you up and spit you out!”
Luca lurched forward again, and Shane felt Wyatt arrive, big goalie hands grabbing Luca’s arm from the other side like a clamp.
“Hey,” Wyatt barked, voice deep and steady. “That’s enough, kid.”
Luca twisted, still trying to look at Wilson. “He called me-”
“I don’t care,” Wyatt said, hauling him back another step. “You can murder him later when the refs aren’t watching.”
That made Luca jerk out something that might have been a laugh if it wasn’t drowning in rage.
“I will,” he hissed viciously. “I fucking will.”
The officials finally separated them fully, steering Wilson toward Montreal’s box and Luca toward Ottawa’s.
Luca didn’t stop talking the whole way. He kept his eyes locked on Wilson like a laser.
“Yeah, go sit down old man!” Luca yelled, pointing with a shaking finger. “Go think about what you said, you mouthy bastard! You wanna talk about ‘babysitting’? You need fucking daycare! I’ve seen toddlers with better balance than you!”
Wilson slammed his glove against the glass on his side, snapping back like a cornered animal. “You’re a baby. You’re a little fucking baby. You gunna cry for your captain? For your mommy?”
Luca hit the glass on Ottawa’s side so hard it rang, then leaned in close, teeth bared, and the smirk flickered again, brief and unmistakable, a little flash of Ilya’s cruel delight.
“Oh, I can be a baby!” Luca said loudly, venomously sweet, and the contrast in his tone made even Shane’s eyebrows jump. “And what then? You still couldn’t handle me? What does that make you, huh? A washed-up loser getting embarrassed on national television by a teenager who still gets carded at the bar?”
The Ottawa bench erupted, half laughter, half horrified delight.
In the penalty box, Bood covered his mouth with his hand, shoulders shaking.
Barrett stared at Luca like he was seeing a ghost. “Holy shit.”
Ilya’s eyes gleamed.
Barrett jabbed him again. “Stop. Looking. Proud.”
“I cannot help it,” Ilya murmured, completely unrepentant. “He is…how you say…blossoming.”
“You’re not his dad,” Barrett repeated.
Ilya tilted his head, considering the idea like a scientist. “I could be.”
Barrett’s mouth fell open. “You could not be.”
“I was young and wild in Switzerland once.”
Bood blinked slowly. “You were ten, nineteen years ago, Rozy.”
Ilya’s expression collapsed into genuine disappointment, like someone had just informed him the laws of physics were personally inconvenient.
“Time is cruel,” he said quietly, mournful. Ilya’s gaze flicked to Shane briefly, just a quick glance, like he could already picture it, and then back to Luca, who was still leaning toward the glass, eyes burning, chest heaving.
“We have discussed adoption,” Ilya said, voice perfectly calm.
Bood wheezed. “You and Shane are not adopting your nineteen-year-old rookie because he learned how to swear.”
Ilya’s mouth twitched. “He swears very well.”
Wilson leaned in to shout again through Montreal’s glass.
Luca didn’t wait. He slapped the glass once more and shouted over him, voice cutting, bright with adrenaline and that awful, brilliant confidence he’d apparently unlocked. “Hey! Hey Wilson! When you get out of there, you wanna try again? Or you gunna go back to being brave only when your teammates are nearby? Because you’re real loud for a guy who just got tuned up by the team’s rookie? No, sorry, it was ‘the teams baby’ right?”
Wilson’s face twisted with rage. “You don’t even know what you are, do you?”
Luca’s smile sharpened. He leaned closer, letting the words drip like poison. “I’m the guy who’s gunna make you regret opening your mouth tonight.”
Shane stared at him.
The kid’s hands were shaking. He was breathing hard.
And Shane realized, with a strange mix of shock and reluctant amusement, that Montreal hadn’t rattled Ottawa at all.
They’d just accidentally introduced Luca Haas to the concept of retaliation.
And now the whole rink had to deal with the consequences.
*****
Luca was still breathing hard when he finally dropped onto the narrow wooden bench inside the penalty box.
The door had barely slammed shut behind him before the reality of where he was seemed to settle in. His chest rose and fell rapidly, shoulders tight beneath his pads, fingers flexing like he wasn’t sure what to do with them now that he wasn’t trying to punch someone.
Across from him, Ilya, Bood, and Barrett were staring.
Not in disapproval.
Just staring.
Luca blinked at them, the fury still sparking in his eyes, but now threaded with confusion.
“What?” he snapped, defensive already.
Barrett opened his mouth, closed it again, and then shook his head slowly. “Nothing,” he said. “Just…processing.”
Bood leaned forward, elbows on his knees, grinning so wide it looked painful. “You’ve been holding out on us, rook.”
Luca’s brow furrowed. “He said-”
“We know what he said,” Ilya cut in gently. His tone was calm now. Almost clinical. The blood at his lip had dried to a dark line, but his eyes were bright with something dangerously close to delight.
“You fight very badly,” Ilya continued, tilting his head as if assessing technique. “But with impressive commitment.”
Luca stared at him. “That’s not helpful.”
Barrett barked a laugh.
Bood clapped Luca once on the shoulder, firm and approving. “You sounded like you’d been waiting your whole life to call someone a beer league clown.”
“I don’t even know where that came from,” Luca muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face. His hand was still shaking slightly. “He just-”
“Yes,” Ilya said again, voice softening just enough to matter. “He just.”
For a moment, the noise of the arena felt distant. The glass separating them from the ice fogged faintly with their collective breath. Then Ilya leaned back slightly, studying Luca with exaggerated seriousness.
“Where was your mother nineteen years ago?” he asked thoughtfully.
Luca blinked.
“What?”
Bood choked.
Barrett turned slowly toward Ilya. “Oh no.”
Ilya didn’t look away from Luca. “I am asking important question.”
Luca’s confusion deepened. “Why?”
Bood let out a sharp, helpless laugh. “Ten years old, Rozy. Ten.” He reminded with a smirk.
Ilya’s face fell again with theatrical disappointment.
Barrett rubbed his forehead. “You are not suggesting you fathered our rookie. Again.”
“I am simply exploring possibilities,” Ilya replied with dignity. “But was definitely in Russia when I was 10. Not fathering small Swiss child with a dirty mouth”
Luca looked between them like he’d stepped into a conversation already in progress. “What is happening?”
“Nothing,” Bood said quickly, still laughing. “Ignore him. He gets weird when he’s proud.”
“I am not proud,” Ilya insisted once again, frown on his face.
Barrett gave him a look. “You are glowing.”
Luca stared at Ilya, trying to read him, and for the first time since the fight something flickered across his expression that wasn’t rage.
It was a small, reluctant smirk.
It looked dangerously familiar.
Barrett noticed it too. “Oh my god,” he muttered. “There it is.”
“There’s what?” Luca demanded.
Bood pointed at his face. “That.”
Luca’s smirk vanished instantly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mm,” Ilya hummed, unconvinced.
On the ice, the officials were waving players back into position. The penalties were nearly up.
Wilson stood in Montreal’s box across the rink, eyes locked on Luca through the glass.
He smirked.
Luca saw it and answered. He leaned back casually against the boards, lifted two fingers, and tapped the side of his helmet twice.
Just wait.
It wasn’t shouted, and that somehow made it worse.
Across the rink, Wilson’s smirk tightened.
Shane saw all of it.
From the bench, he watched the silent exchange and felt a slow, incredulous amusement spread through him. It was sick, he knew it was sick, but it was there all the same.
He blamed Ilya. This was absolutely Ilya’s influence.
Hayden skated past him on a change and muttered, “You see what happens when you let Rozanov raise your rookies?”
Shane huffed. “He’s not raising anyone.”
“Kid just threatened death on national television.”
“That was in the heat of the moment.” Shane muttered, “I hope…and he’s not a kid…he’s nineteen” Shane added on, cringing at his own excuse
Hayden shot him a look. “He waved at me e-before we started and he carries around coloured pencils. This is your maniac of a boyfriend’s fault.”
Before Shane could respond, Ilya stepped out of the penalty box, skates hitting the ice with smooth, predatory ease. Bood and Barrett followed behind him.
As he passed Hayden, Ilya gave him a light nudge with his hip.
It was subtle. It was perfectly timed so that the no one on the ice with a ref whistle could see.
Hayden’s balance shifted just enough that his skate clipped awkwardly against the ice, and he went down flat on his ass.
The crowd laughed. Shane closed his eyes briefly.
“Accident,” Ilya called mildly over his shoulder without even slowing.
“You absolute asshole!” Hayden started, pushing himself back up.
Shane bit back a laugh and shook his head at the antics. On the ice, Wilson stepped out of his own box at the same time.
He and Luca locked eyes immediately.
Luca’s smirk returned.
Wilson’s sharpened.
The puck dropped.
The next shift came fast.
Luca hopped over the boards with a kind of coiled energy that made Shane’s stomach tighten slightly. He didn’t look nervous. He looked focused. Wilson received a pass along the boards in Montreal’s zone and turned up ice, head slightly down as he gathered speed.
Luca tracked him.
One stride.
Two.
Three.
Then he hit him.
It was clean.
Brutal.
Shoulder square to chest, legs driving through contact, timing perfect. Wilson went down hard, skidding across the ice as the puck popped loose and the arena erupted.
Shane couldn’t help it, he rolled his eyes as he heard the unmistakable sound of Ilya clapping once, sharply, from somewhere behind him.
“Of course,” Shane muttered.
Ilya didn’t even pretend to hide it. “Textbook,” he called approvingly.
Bood laughed from the wing. “He’s learning.”
Barrett shook his head but couldn’t suppress his grin.
Wilson scrambled back to his feet, furious, but Luca was already skating away, not looking back this time. He didn’t chirp back this time, he just tapped his stick once against the ice and reset into position.
Shane watched him and felt something settle.
The kid wasn’t spiraling, he was proving a point, and it was a damn good one.
Ottawa capitalized on the momentum minutes later. A sharp passing play between Barrett and Boodram ended with Ilya snapping a shot past the goalie’s glove side, clean and decisive. The bench exploded.
Luca was the first off the ice on the next change, chest heaving, eyes bright but controlled. Wilson avoided looking at him this time. By the time the final horn sounded, Ottawa had pulled ahead by two. The building roared as black and red swarmed the ice in celebration.
Shane skated toward the handshake line with a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
As they peeled away toward the locker room, Shane glanced once more at Luca, who was laughing now, flushed and alive with adrenaline.
And across the ice, Ilya was watching him again with that insufferable, unmistakable pride.
Shane shook his head.
Unbelievable.
Absolutely unbelievable.
But as Ottawa filed down the tunnel with another win behind them, Shane couldn’t deny the truth.
Montreal had come looking for blood.
They found it…but unfortunately it was on their own players face, courtesy of a 19 year old rookie, who had a bit of a weak right hook, but one hell of a sharp tongue.
*****
The locker room was a riot before the door had even fully swung shut.
Helmets thudded into stalls. Someone kicked their skates off so hard one of them slid halfway across the concrete floor. The music came on too loud, got shouted down, came back on slightly less loud. The air was thick with sweat and adrenaline and that sharp metallic tang of victory.
Luca didn’t make it five steps in before Barrett and Dillon hooked him from behind.
“What the hell was that?” Barrett demanded, dragging him sideways.
“I-” Luca tried, already red.
Boodram appeared on his other side and clapped him hard between the shoulder blades. “You’ve been sitting on that mouth this whole season?”
Wyatt leaned against the nearest stall, still half in his goalie pads, staring at Luca like he’d just seen a small dog flip a truck. “You threatened to staple him to the boards. You made me come out of my crease!”
Luca’s face deepened from pink to violent crimson.
“I don’t even know where that came from,” he muttered. “And I didn’t ask you to do that!”
Wyatt laughed with a disbelieving look on his face, “I had to rook! You were either gunna get yourself killed or kill him!”
“Oh, we know where that came from,” Dillon said. “That came from you finally realizing you can swear.”
“It was impressive,” Bood added seriously. “Unhinged. But impressive.”
Luca scrubbed a hand down his face and accidentally smudged a streak of someone else’s blood across his cheek. He didn’t even notice, it wasn’t his…probably. Across the room, Ilya was peeling off his jersey slowly, like he was enjoying every second of the noise.
“You fight like a Russian,” he said evenly.
The room paused.
Luca blinked. “Is that…good?”
“It means you stop thinking,” Ilya replied, tossing the jersey aside. “And start swinging.”
“That sounds bad,” Luca said weakly, “You told me it was bad in the box.”
“It is bad, but also…efficient!”
Barrett barked out a laugh. “He’s basically saying you were chaotic and violent.”
“Chaotic,” Ilya agreed nodding. “Violent. Passionate. Like angry kitten who got wet.”
The way he said passionate and compared the rookie to a kitten made three different people snort.
Luca swallowed with a blush on his face, “I’m not a kitten! And I was just angry.”
“Yes,” Ilya said. “I noticed.”
Shane was unlacing his skates when Bood wandered over and leaned one elbow casually against his locker.
“So,” Bood said mildly, “congratulations.”
Shane didn’t look up. “On the win?”
“No,” Bood replied. “On your sudden expansion into parenting.”
Shane’s hands stopped mid-lace.
“…What?”
Barrett immediately lost it. Luca froze halfway through removing his elbow pads.
“What?” he echoed faintly.
Shane and Luca turned their heads in perfect sync.
Slowly.
Toward Ilya.
Ilya did not look up.
He was examining his reflection in the small metal panel of his locker, dabbing at his lip with a towel like this conversation had nothing to do with him.
Bood tilted his head. “You two just out here collecting teenagers now?”
“We aren’t collecting anyone,” Shane said flatly.
“I’m nineteen,” Luca added defensively.
“Exactly,” Barrett said. “Still counts as a teenager.”
Luca looked like he might spontaneously combust.
Shane pointed at Ilya without taking his eyes off him. “Explain.”
Ilya glanced over finally, completely unbothered.
“Explain what Moya Lyubov?”
“Why they think we’re adopting our rookie.”
Ilya’s mouth twitched, “I do not know why they think this,” he said smoothly. “But mama Yuna would like grand baby, yes? This one’s already toilet trained and can curse out our enemies!”
Barrett made a choking noise.
Luca’s eyes widened. “We’re not-I mean, I’m not-”
“No one is adopting anyone,” Shane snapped, now fully red.
Luca looked between them helplessly. “Can we stop talking about this?”
Ilya stepped out of his skates and stretched lazily, completely enjoying the chaos, “He defended himself,” Ilya said calmly. “And did it loudly.”
“That’s not the part we’re focused on,” Barrett muttered.
Shane shot them all a warning look before remembering something, “And you,” he said, turning back to Ilya. “What was that with Hayden?”
Ilya blinked innocently. “What?”
“You knocked him over.”
“I did not.”
“You nudged him.”
“I brushed him.”
“You absolutely shoved him.”
Ilya shrugged. “He is unstable. And weak”
“He has four children.”
“Which is mystery seeing as he has no stamina, poor Jacki.”
The room snickered.
Shane rubbed his forehead. “They’re coming over Sunday.”
“Yes.”
“And he is going to mention it.”
“No. Probably. Yes”
“And I’m not explaining why you can’t skate in a straight line.”
“I was distracted,” Ilya said.
Shane narrowed his eyes. “By what?”
Ilya’s gaze shifted.
Slowly.
From Shane’s face…
Down his chest…
Across his stomach…
And lower.
Lingering.
Unapologetic.
The smirk that followed was devastating.
“You had very nice positioning,” Ilya said mildly. “And ass”
The room exploded.
Shane went scarlet.
“Don’t,” he warned.
Barrett nearly fell over laughing. “He said positioning and then ass. Rozy you dog”
“I was observing form,” Ilya continued, unbothered.
“The form of his ass!?” Wyatt asked, wheezing.
“The form, the shape, the way it looks in criminal tight hockey pants…all the same” Ilya said with a shrug of the shoulders and shit eating grin.
Luca made a strangled noise somewhere between horror and fascination.
Shane pointed at Ilya. “You are unbelievable.”
“I appreciate strong stance,” Ilya said, eyes glinting. “Good hips. Great recoil”
“Stop,” Shane hissed as the room burst out laughing.
Bood leaned back, delighted. “You cannot flirt in front of the innocent children.”
“I’m not innocent!” Luca protested automatically.
The entire room turned to look at him.
He froze.
“Fuck you guys,” he amended weakly. The team laughed at him, teasing that they’ve now unlocked a new level for Luca Haas.
Ilya finally started toward the showers, towel slung over his shoulder, completely at ease in his own chaos.
“Shane,” he called casually without turning around.
Shane didn’t answer.
“You should hurry,” Ilya added a teasing lint to his voice.
“Why?” Shane demanded.
A pause.
Then, lightly, “Because I would like to discuss and observe your…positioning and form…as soon as we get home, Da?”
The sound that left Shane’s throat was somewhere between outrage and humiliation.
“Shut up Asshole!”
"You love me!"
"Unfortunately!"
The locker room roared again.
Barrett was clutching the bench to stay upright.
Wyatt had his mask off and was wiping tears from his eyes.
Luca looked like he desperately wanted the floor to swallow him.
“I am never fighting again,” he muttered.
“Oh no,” Bood said immediately. “You are absolutely fighting again. I’m putting this in our weekly newsletter.”
Luca buried his face in his towel. “Please don’t talk about me.”
Barrett leaned close to him and stage-whispered, “Too late.”
From the showers, Ilya’s laughter echoed faintly.
Shane stood slowly, still red, still refusing to look at anyone.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath as he made his way to the showers
But there was a smile he couldn’t quite suppress, he snapped his towel against Ilyas bare ass as he walked past the Russian and laughed quietly when a loud yelp was heard throughout the showers.
“Dorogaya…this is how you treat me? After I just got us tall and cute Swiss baby?” another towel snap was heard from the locker room and the rest of the team couldn’t contain their laughs as they heard cursing in Russian echo through the room.