ALEKSEI ROZANOV || HEATED CHEMISTRY

The first season of professional hockey shouldn’t have been this grueling. It was supposed to be a game of numbers, contracts, and calculated PR moves.

But here you were, drowning.

It’s not that you couldn’t do the job. You’re a powerhouse off the ice, navigating the shark-infested waters of sports management with a precision that would make any veteran agent weep.

But your star client? Aleksei Rozanov. He was a different kind of monster.

He carries that Rozanov legacy like a lead weight—a jagged, Russian-hewn masterpiece of ice and arrogance.

And for some reason, he looks at you like he’s trying to decide whether to devour you or discard you.

He hates you. He has to.

There’s no other explanation for the way his jaw tightens when you walk into a room, or the way he avoids your gaze like it’s a penalty box.

Maybe it was the paparazzi.

A few blurry shots of you two leaving the arena together, a few tabloid headlines whispering about the agent and the athlete, and suddenly, the world decided you were a pair.

Is he really that petty? To despise you for a rumor?

Aleksei pays you to make him filthy rich, to turn his talent into an empire. But he’s a purist.

Money is a byproduct; the trophy is the religion.

Winning is the only thing that makes his pulse jump.

Ever since the rumors broke, he’s been a total dick.

When you approached him after a shutout win, heart in your throat as you offered a genuine "congratulations," he didn't even blink. He dodged you, a sharp snicker escaping his lips as he brushed past you like you were nothing more than a localized nuisance.

Rude. Cold. Typical.

And yet, he hasn't fired you. If he loathes the ground you walk on, why are you still here? Why do you let him linger in your thoughts?

Sure, he’s beautiful in that devastating, ruined-angel sort of way. His Russian accent is a low, vibratory hum that sounds like it belongs against a pillow in the middle of the night. His voice is smoke and silk.

But this is strictly business.

Right?

---

So, when a high-end sponsor suggested a joint promotional campaign—a "behind the scenes" look at the man and his manager—you expected a flat no. You expected him to scoff and walk out.

He did the opposite.

“Yeah, I’ll do it. Just make sure they get my good angles,” Aleksei murmured, leaning into your space just enough for you to smell the peppermint on his breath.

He winked, a slow, predatory thing, and smiled as he worked a piece of gum between his teeth.

It was the first time he’d ever smiled at you. It felt less like a greeting and more like a trap.

---

The production was a disaster, and for the first time in your career, you were the problem. You were the one holding up the shoot. You were the one making the director sigh in frustration.

How could you not? You were an agent, not a model. And you certainly weren’t prepared for this.

You were draped in sheer, obsidian-black lace—a lingerie set that felt more like a second skin than a garment. It was Calvin Klein, or some other brand whose name had long since evaporated from your brain the moment you saw him.

You were sitting on him.

Not on his face—though the thought flashed through your mind like a fever dream, a desperate wish for a distraction. No, you were on his lap.

Aleksei was sprawled across the velvet sofa, his legs spread in a casual, dominant display of ownership. He wore nothing but black boxers.

You could see the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband, a map leading to a treasure you had no business seeking.

He was... significant. Every time you shifted, trying to find a professional distance that didn't exist, you felt him. The heat of him pressed against you, the friction of your lace against his skin.

It was more than uncomfortable. It was electric. It felt like a sin you were committing in front of a live crew.

The cameras flashed, rhythmic and blinding. The crew waited for you to sell the fantasy, but Aleksei was making it too real. He was too close, his presence too heavy.

Why was he enjoying this?

Aleksei leaned back, chewing his gum with a rhythmic, lazy confidence. His hand found your hip, his fingers Searing through the thin fabric.

The camera shutter sped up, capturing the way his touch looked so natural, so possessive. Could he not feel the way your heart was hammering against your ribs? Could he not feel the heat radiating from you?

He shifted his weight, hooking his thumb into the lace at your hip and pulling you down harder against him, forcing your bodies to flush together until there wasn't a breath of air between you.

He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke, his voice a low, commanding rumble.

“Nyet... don’t sit like that,” he hissed, his accent thick and honey-dark. “Sit like you mean it. All the way down.”

He punctuated the command with a sharp, stinging smack to your hip, his eyes locking onto yours with a terrifying, playful glint.

The fans were going to lose their minds.

But you? You were just trying to remember how to breathe.