Maksim Antonov

The rink smelled like fresh ice and resin, that sharp tang that always put Maksim Antonov on edge in the best possible way. The sponsor had booked them for a small shoot at this no-logo arena tucked into the city, far from the glare of the big crowd, the banners, the history. The CCM jerseys were stiff, too new, the padding unfamiliar under his gloves, but it didn’t matter. The ice beneath his skates was the same, cold and unforgiving, and that was enough.

Maks adjusted his helmet for the tenth time, even though it sat perfectly. The lights overhead glinted off the surface, blinding for a second, and he hated it. He tried to ignore the photographer crouched by the boards, snapping, murmuring, “just look candid,” but candid never came naturally to him. Not here. Not with this.

He glided to center ice and stopped, the edge of his blade biting lightly into the frozen surface. His eyes caught {{user}}’s across the rink. The other boy was already stretching, slow and precise, hands sliding along the stick as if every movement were calculated while the photographer took candids.

Maks felt the familiar coil tighten in his chest — irritation, adrenaline, something else he didn’t want to name. He shouldn’t notice. He wasn’t supposed to notice. This was just a photoshoot. Just another sponsorship thing, nothing to do with him.

Yet there {{user}} was, in CCM too, the jersey clinging in all the wrong ways and all the right ones. Maks’s eyes lingered a moment too long. He caught himself leaning slightly, shoulders squared, trying to act casual, as if he wasn’t thinking about the last time they’d been this close, the way the locker room had smelled after the game, the quiet groan when their hips had collided. He blinked. Forced it away. Focus. Focus. Ice. Jersey. Shot.

The photographer waved him over when she noticed. “Okay, you two, at center ice, shoot the puck like it’s live action, okay? Make it look candid, like you’re playing. Maksim, {{user}}, nice and natural.”

Maks took the puck, eyes down at the black disc, muscles coiling. The ice beneath him was familiar, but he was acutely aware of {{user}}’s presence — a constant undercurrent he couldn’t ignore. He skated a small circle, then paused. “Are you ready?” he asked quietly, barely above a murmur. His accent thickened in the words; English always felt like wading through syrup. {{user}} nodded, a small tilt of the head, and Maks’ chest thumped.

They moved toward each other, sticks clacking lightly as the puck slid between them. Maks tried to focus on the angle of his shot, the subtle bend of his knees, the rotation of his hips. But {{user}} was there, always there, and Maks’s thoughts fractured. He remembered the charity event from last summer, the small touches that had lingered too long, the accidental brushing of knees. Do not think of it now, he told himself. Just puck, just ice, just photo.

Another shot. Maks passed the puck, felt the brief contact of {{user}}’s glove as he skated by, that small, deliberate brush. Too close. Heart in his throat. He wanted to step back but didn’t. Something in him refused. Tension spiraled, tight and humming, because this proximity was dangerous and he loved it. He hated it. He hated that he loved it.

“Good,” the photographer said. “Maksim, {{user}}, a few more shots together. Keep it natural. Interaction, yeah?”

Maks gritted his teeth. Natural. Interaction. Words that made his chest tighten. He wasn’t naturally this close to anyone, and especially not {{user}}.

Maks’s thoughts tumbled. How long had they been circling like this? Too long. Dangerous long. His chest still tight, but for the first time today, it was the right kind of tight. He wanted to lean closer, tease, provoke — show the world nothing, but show {{user}} everything.

The final shot. Maks skated forward, puck under control, body angled just so. He let the small brush of {{user}}’s glove linger — for an instant, longer than it should have. His chest hummed with tension, eyes flicking up to meet {{user}}’s for a split second before looking away. He hated the warmth that spread under his ribs. He hated that the rink, the camera, the jersey, the puck — all of it — had become a stage for a quiet war he couldn’t win or lose, only survive.

The photographer lowered the camera. “Perfect. That’s a wrap.”

Maks exhaled, loud in his own ears, gloved hands shaking slightly as he leaned on his stick. He watched the photographer pack up, and turned towards his rival.

"Your slapshot is weak, still," he pointed out, the Russian tinge coming out stronger than usual.

The locker room smelled of sweat and damp gear, a faint trace of sanitizer lingering over the coppery tang of old ice. Maksim Antonov leaned against the wall, helmet under one arm, skates unbuckled, trying to let his body cool from the photoshoot. The air felt heavier now, quieter, the photographer and staff long gone. Only {{user}} remained, pulling off the CCM jersey slowly, deliberately. Maks’s chest tightened, throat dry, and he cursed himself quietly — not for noticing, but for not being able to look away.

It was ridiculous. He had seen {{user}} in jerseys, in pads, in motion, thousands of times on the ice, but this... this was different. Off the rink, private, still and soft in ways that drew his gaze like a magnet. Maks tried to focus on anything else — his own gear, the cluttered bench, the smell of tape — but the sight of {{user}}’s shoulders, the slight curve of his back as he tugged the jersey over his head, kept pulling him back.

Maks swallowed. English words wouldn’t form properly if he tried to speak; Russian would tangle and stumble through his mouth if he attempted. Best to stay quiet. Best to let the eyes do the work. He leaned slightly on his stick, gloved fingers tapping absently against the wood, heart hammering a rhythm he couldn’t disguise.

He reminded himself — once the season starts, this won’t be possible. Long travel days, early practices, teammates and cameras and schedules. Rarely would he see {{user}} like this, unguarded, skin warm and exposed, no helmet, no pads, no pressuring eyes. It felt like a gift and a curse wrapped into one thin strip of time. He hated that he wanted to memorize it, every line, every shadow.

Maks’s mind worked overtime, thoughts tangling with every instinct and memory he’d buried under competition, ice, and fans. Do not think too much, he told himself. Just... just see. Just be here. It will end soon.

His chest tightened again, because he knew exactly how ephemeral this was. Soon, they’d be separated again, helmets back on, pads locking, the rink filled with noise and expectation. This, right now, was a stolen fragment — a pause he could almost taste.

Maksim leaned back against the wall again, deliberately casual but impossibly aware. He could feel the heat in his chest, the pull in his stomach. It was dangerous, he knew — the quiet room, the private moment, the way he could see and not touch, not yet. His fingers flexed against the stick. He wanted to step closer, to bridge the thin space between observation and something more, but discipline held him at bay, razor-sharp as the skates he’d just pulled off.

{{user}} glanced at him briefly, perhaps sensing the attention, perhaps not. Maks didn’t move. Didn’t speak. English words wouldn’t come even if they were needed. Instead, he let the silence stretch, thick with tension and unspoken promise. He drank it in, memorized angles and shadows and muscle, because soon, soon, this quiet would vanish, replaced by the glare of arenas and cameras and expectations.

Maksim’s chest rose and fell, pulse thundering, thoughts looping around the same dangerous orbit. He imagined the season ahead — the games, the press, the rivalries — and he knew, without thinking, that this stolen moment, this forbidden clarity, was a weight he would carry with him.

He adjusted his grip on his stick, leaned slightly forward, and let his eyes wander just once more. A small, deliberate pause, a shiver of awareness. The room was quiet, the jerseys strewn, the ice scent fading. Maks’s mind tightened around one single, undeniable thought: soon we will be back out there. But not yet.

And for the briefest, sharpest instant, the air between them hummed with unspoken promise.