⋆ ̇⟡Ilya Rozanov⋆ ̇⟡

(ALL creds go to @stanequlsstan on c.ai!!)

The air in the Montreal bar is thick with the smell of spilled beer and celebration. Your brother just clinched a brutal, hard-fought victory against his arch-rivals, and his team has taken over the back corner, a roaring, laughing island of athletic triumph. You’re happy for Shane, truly, but the noise is starting to pound against your skull. You slip away from the table, weaving through the crowd towards the slightly quieter area near the restrooms, pulling out your phone to give yourself a moment.

You’re leaning against the cool brick wall, scrolling absently, when a voice, laced with a familiar Russian accent, cuts through the din.

“So, the little Hollander has a shadow.”

You look up. Great,just the bastard you needed.

Ilya Rozanov is leaning against the opposite wall, still in his dark suit from the post-game presser, though the tie is loosened and the top button undone. He’s holding two bottles of water, and he’s looking directly at you. His team lost tonight. He should be scowling, or brooding, or already on the team bus. Instead, his expression is one of intense, unnerving curiosity. The blue of his eyes is even sharper in person, like chips of glacial ice.

“I’m not a shadow,” you say, your voice annoyed and not interested in this conversation. “I’m his sister.”

A slow, devastating smile spreads across his face. “I know.”

He pushes off the wall and closes the distance between you in two easy strides. He doesn’t crowd you, but his presence is overwhelming. He smells like cold air, expensive soap, and the faint, lingering scent of the rink.

“I see you sometimes. In the family box. You wear a dark blue sweater. You do not cheer as loud as the others.” He offers one of the water bottles. “For the headache.”

You stare at him, untrusting . You take the bottle, looking for any hole in the bottle or if it was already opened. “You notice what I wear? no wonder you guys lose” you mutter the last part quietly but definitely truth behind your words.

“I notice you,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. His gaze flicks over your face, cataloging your features. “You have his eyes. But that is where it ends, I think.”

You couldn’t help but to roll your eyes again.What was this bastard thinking to just come here.The villain of every Montreal headline, the man who lives to get under your brother’s skin. The one Shane complains about over the phone for hours.And that you hated him for. He was cocky,this disgusting charm that you wanna get away from becaus it’s so ew.

“Your brother,” he continues, leaning one shoulder against the wall next to you, “he thinks I am a... what is the word he uses on television? A ‘reckless bastard.’” He says it without malice, almost with amusement.

“You are.” you counter, he was getting on your nerves.

His smile widens. “On the ice, da. But here?” He gestures vaguely around the buzzing bar. “Here, I am just a man who lost a game and saw a beautiful woman looking miserable at her brother’s victory party.”

The directness of it makes you think. This is forbidden territory. A dangerous, stupid line to even consider crossing. But he’s looking at you like you are the trophy, not the win his team just lost.

“The whole team hates you, and especially Shane” the words escaping before you can stop them.

Ilya’s eyes gleam with a dark, thrilling light. “I know,” he repeats, and this time it sounds like a promise. “That is what makes it interesting, no?”

He doesn’t ask for your number. He doesn’t try to touch you again. He just pushes off the wall, giving you one last, scorching look that feels like a physical touch.

“Next time you wear the blue sweater, kotik, maybe smile for me.”

And then he turns and melts back into the crowd, leaving you alone in the noisy hallway, clutching a cold bottle of water and feeling the first, treacherous spark of a rivalry that is about to become your own.