Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Seraphina Hendrix,” she says, a cocky grin already tugging at her mouth as she leans forward, coiled and ready. “Will you disappoint them?” 

Your mouthpiece hangs halfway out of your mouth, a small smile curling at the sound of her thick accent. The taunting doesn’t bother you, your heads already in the game. She won’t shake you. “No,” you answer simply, teeth closing around the guard as your ears tune in for the whistle. 

🥅🏒⛸️

The final buzzer still echoed in your skull when you peeled your gloves off.

Loss.

By one goal.

By her goal.

The locker room was loud in that hollow way teams get when everyone’s pretending they’re not crushed by the loss. Someone kicks a trash can. Someone else laughs too hard, too forced. You sit on the bench, elbows on your knees, staring at the scuff mark on your skate where Sevika had pinned you to the boards during the second period of the game. 

The scoreboard replayed itself behind your eyes no matter how hard you tried to blink it away. Tie game. Third period. Then not. Just like that. You lost. 

You rolled your shoulders, exhaling slowly, like maybe if you breathed right, you could undo the last six minutes of that game. You replayed every shift, every pass, every second you’d been on that ice.

If I’d backchecked faster. If I hadn’t hesitated. If I’d taken the shot instead of passing. It all flooded your mind at once.

Your fault. Somehow. It always found its way back to that. 

Your eyes dropped to the floor. And that’s when her voice came back to you. 

🥅🏒⛸️

The boards had rattled when Sevika leaned in close, skates carving the ice right beside yours. The noise of the crowd faded, like the world had narrowed to the space between you. And truly, it had as far as you were concerned. 

“Tied now,” she said, breath fogging the visor between you.

You scoffed. “Still plenty of game left for me to kick your ass.”

She chuckled, low and amused. Not angry. Almost fond, if you were hearing it right. “Is good,” she replied. “Means I beat you fair.”

You glared at her. “You’re real confident for someone who hasn’t scored once yet.” 

Her eyes gleamed, sharp and overly playful, like you were a fish taking her bait. “I will,” she said easily. “I always do.”

As she passed you again later during the game, shoulder brushing yours, she’d added quietly, “you good player. But I am better. No doubt.” 

It was teasing. You’d been sure of that then. 

🥅🏒⛸️

Now, sitting back in the locker room with the loss buried in your chest, it didn’t feel like teasing anymore. 

It felt like some sick prophecy. 

You press your palms into your thighs, nails digging through the fabric. Sevika had scored. Late, sure, but clean. Exactly when it fucking mattered. You’d been on the ice for it, lungs burning, legs heavy, just a half second too slow to close the gap. 

You swallow thickly. 

She told me she would. 

Your brain latches onto that like it was proof, like the loss had been inevitable, like you’d walked out onto the ice already beaten. Maybe you’d let it get to you. Maybe you’d played tight because you let her get under your skin.

So maybe it was on you.

Across the room, someone slams a locker, still holding onto the loss almost as tight as you were. You barely notice. All you can hear is Sevika's voice again. Calm, certain, not even cruel. And maybe that was the worst part. “You push so hard,” she told you once, almost thoughtfully, during a faceoff early in the game. “Like you afraid to lose.”

You’d snapped back with something sarcastic, but she’d only smiled. “Is okay,” she’d added. “Losing teach you things.” 

At the time, you hated her for it.

But now? 

Now the words sit heavy on your chest, mixing with the doubt you already have at being one of the youngest players in the league right now. You couldn’t tell where the rivalry ended, and the self-blame began; it was one in the same. 

Maybe if you’d played smarter. Maybe if you hadn’t let her get in your head. Maybe if you were actually as good as she said she was. But maybe doesn’t change anything, and you have to live with that. To some, this was just a hockey game, but to you, it was everything. This was your dream since you knew what it meant, nothing was more important to you than giving this sport you all. Nothing. 

The locker room chatter starts to wear down as people take their exit—ready to head back to the hotel and wallow in self-pity privately—you pull out your phone. Muscle memory. Something to fill this empty space. Something to drown out the looping replay in your head. 

Big mistake. 

The screen lights up instantly. 

FINAL: 3—2

ISKRA RYKOV STEALS IT LATE

Iskra. You’ve always wondered why she preferred her middle name. You were probably one of the few out there who actually referred to her as Sevika. 

You stare at the headline for a few beats longer, until the letters blur together. Below it, a clip auto-played. Sevika’s face fills the screen: helmet off, hair damp with sweat, breath still heavy. Someone had frozen the frame right as she lifted her stick, the crowd behind her a blur of both teams' colors. 

You scroll more. 

Rykov proves why she’s the best power forward in the league.

Rykov owns the rivalry.

Your jaw tightens. It’s all about her. Just how she’d want it. There was barely a mention of your team. No breakdown of plays, no analysis, no constructive criticism, just a throwaway line buried halfway down the article. 

The opposing side struggled to keep up the pressure. Great game for them to learn from.  

Struggled. You huff a humorless breath and keep scrolling, like picking at a healing scab. Another video. This one is grainy, clearly filmed from the stands. The caption read:

“POV: you witness the moment Rykov knows she won”

It was the final seconds of the game. The horn blaring, the ice exploding with cheers from her team. You recognize the angle immediately. Center ice. Just behind the boards. You watch yourself on-screen without meaning to. Your shoulders sag the second the clock hits zero. Your stick drops. You stand there for half a beat too long, staring at the red light behind the net like it might turn off if you wait long enough. 

Then the camera shifts. Sevika comes into frame, skating past her teammates who are already celebrating. She slows, just slightly, and turns her head. Turns it toward you. The video zooms in shakily, the fan apparently sensing something worth capturing. Sevika’s expression wasn’t the triumphant grin the captions all promised. Her mouth was set, eyes steady, fixed on you with an intensity that made your stomach twist. 

She didn’t smirk. Didn’t raise her stick. Didn’t say a word. She just watched you, for one second, maybe two if you really reach. Then she turns away, pulled into a hug by one of her linemates, swallowed up by jerseys and raised gloves. 

The comments were already brutal, guilt increasing tenfold; you let them all down. 

Cold as hell.

I bet you anything Rykov lives rent free in her head after this game. 

LMAO! she really stared her down as if losing wasn’t bad enough.

Your thumb hovers over the screen. Was that what it was? Rubbing it in? The rational part of your brain told you it made sense. Sevika was blunt, overly confident. She had told you she’d win. Maybe this was just her way of really sealing the deal, one last reminder of who came out on top. 

But there was something about her face in the video that didn’t line up. Or maybe you were just reading into it too much. Because no matter what that look meant—victory or guilt—you were the one sitting in an empty locker room, watching her win get celebrated in real time, wondering when you’d start believing she was right. And worse? Wondering why it mattered so much what she thought of you at all. 

…

After a loss like that, sleep is impossible. You lie on your back in the hotel bed, eyes fixed on the faint crack in the ceiling where the paint doesn’t quite meet. Only you would find that detail, but your eyes can’t avoid it afterward. 

Every time you close your eyes, the guilt presses harder, sinking in deeper instead of loosening its grip. It’s a weight you can’t shake, only add to. The clips play on repeat in your head. Stupid fan footage, comment sections full of noise, praise piled high and careless, feeding egos that were already full to bursting. 

They talk about Sevika like she’s untouchable. Like she singlehandedly dismantled your team. It makes your jaw clench. They only won by one goal. She only scored once. The other two came off perfect feeds, teammates finishing what she set up. None of that seems to matter to them. 

Five a.m. comes too fast. Your alarm cuts through the dark, shrill and unnecessary. You were already awake. You silence it with a sharp tap and sit up, chest tight, body buzzing with restless energy. 

You can’t lie here anymore. You pull on shorts and a thin, breathable t-shirt, and lace up your shoes. You don’t bother checking your reflection. You didn’t expect anyone to be up this early anyway. You just need to move. If you don’t burn this out of your system, it’s going to eat you alive.

The hotel gym is blessedly empty. Your gaze locks onto the row of treadmills like they’ve personally invited you in for a challenge. You take the one in the center, shove your earbuds in, and start slowly. Just long enough to feel your legs loosen. Then you push the speed up. And then again. Until the belt hums beneath your feet and your breath starts coming harder. 

Faster.

Harder.

Longer. 

You run like you’re chasing something you can still catch. Like you can outrun last night if you try hard enough. You tell yourself you’ll train until you're better. Until you never lose to her again. 

A shadow flickers in your peripheral vision. You glance sideways. Sevika. She’s already there, a treadmill away from you, like she’s just another part of the room. She doesn’t look over, doesn’t acknowledge you at all. Muscle tee clinging to her frame, biceps cut sharp under the gym lights. She looks even bigger here. Solid, intimidating, carved from work and pure discipline. 

The jealousy hits hot and immediately. 

She doesn’t ease into it like you did. She sets her speed to match yours without hesitation. The belt snaps into motion beneath her feet like it’s nothing. Your lips press together. Fine. You bump your speed up, just a notch. She mirrors you instantly. 

The competition ignites without a word exchanged. You push harder, legs burning, lungs working overtime. Every time one of you reaches for the controls, the other follows suit. Quick glances. Nothing more. Neither of you willing to break first. 

Your chest starts to ache. You hadn’t worn the right bra for this, not enough support for the intensity, too much movement, too much strain. It’s uncomfortable, borderline painful. You grit your teeth and keep going, one arm coming up instinctively to hold your boobs while your legs refuse to slow. You’re not stopping. Not for her. 

Your vision starts to blur at the edges, sweat slicking your spine. And then, just barely, you see it. Sevika missteps. It’s subtle. She could have covered it up, anyone else might’ve missed it, but you don’t. You react on instinct, turning your speed down hard and hopping off the treadmill before your body can betray you. You drop to the floor, on your hands and knees, braced against the mat, lungs dragging in air like they’re trying to catch up to your heartbeat. 

A few feet away, Sevika leans back against the wall, chest heaving, sweat darkening the collar of her shirt. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The silence is loud enough on its own. And somehow, even now, both of you wrecked and breathless, it still doesn’t feel like either of you has actually lost. 

The only sound is breathing. Yours ragged, hers deep and controlled. Sweat continues dripping down your spine, and your arms shake where they’re locked beneath you. You’re the first to lift your head. 

Sevika’s watching you now. Not smug. Something different. Her expression is unreadable, carved into something careful, almost restrained. She pushes off the wall, takes a step closer, then plops down like she’s thinking better of it than to get too close. 

“You did good,” she says finally. 

Her voice is rough from the run. Possibly from lack of sleep. Maybe from other things eating away at her too. You scoff weakly, eyes dropping back to the floor. “Didn’t feel like it.”

She huffs. A quiet sound, half amusement, half disbelief. “You run like you angry,” Sevika says. “Is same as on ice.” That makes your chest tighten. She hesitates, then adds, a little softer, English slipping just enough to feel authentic, “make up for your loss yesterday, yes?”

You look up at her again. There’s no edge to it. No mockery. If anything, she sounds tentative, like she’s trying to offer up a white flag without knowing how. You don’t bite. Your loss wasn’t from that. You’d pushed yourself to the point of no return for months. You did for every single game. “I didn’t lose because I didn’t train hard enough,” you say, voice sharp. 

Sevika’s jaw flexes at the cold shoulder you give her. “I know,” she replies simply. “But you run anyway.” She tilts her head, studying you the way she does before a faceoff. “Means you care.”

The words land heavier than they should. She scoots back, giving you space this time. “Do not break yourself,” she adds. “League need you healthy. For when I beat you.” That familiar flicker of teasing sneaks back in, but it’s gentler now, almost needed. 

Still, you’ve already beaten yourself up enough about it. She could tease you about your form, your pace, your temper. Anything else. But the loss is still raw. Thinking about another one, even jokingly, feels like a line crossed. 

You glare over at her. “Fucking Russians,” you mutter. “You’re all a bunch of antagonists who don’t know when enough is enough.”

Sevika snorts, the sound warm and wholly unbothered. She taps the toe of her shoe lightly against your shin. It’s annoying, and just invasive enough to get your attention. “Is better than being boring American, yes?” She teases. “Always serious. Always upset when lose one game.” She tilts her head again, eyes glinting. “We party. We drink Russian vodka.” A shrug. “What is better than this?”

You scoff despite yourself. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe not acting like losing is a personal failure every single time.”

Her expression softens, just a fraction. “In Russia,” Sevika explains, slower now, picking her words carefully, “losing is lesson. You do not cry. You fix.” She nudges your shin again, gentler this time. “You already fixing.”

You hate that your throat tightens. Who is she to talk nice to you? It feels like pity, though it doesn’t sound like it. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” you mumble.

Silence hums between you, thick and elastic. She reaches out then, just one finger, hooking it briefly under the hem of your t-shirt, tugging it back in into place like she’s fixing something that’s hers to touch. “Next time,” she adds casually, “wear better bra.”

Your breath stutters, eyes going wide. “You were looking?”

Her eyes gleam, nothing but pride there. “I look at everything.”

You shake your head, heat crawling up your neck. “Unbelievable.”

“Mm,” she agrees. “And you still sitting here.”

She stands and steps back at last, just far enough to make the loss of her warmth noticeable. “Shower. Cool down. Before you hurt yourself.”

You glare, though you can’t quite put as much disdain behind it as you’d like. “Bossy.”

She flashes you a grin over her shoulder as she turns away. “Is Russian charm,” she calls back. “You’ll learn to appreciate.”

…

The game against the Quebec Citadels stops feeling like hockey somewhere early in the first period. By then, the penalty boxes haven’t been empty once. Not for a single whistle. Bodies crash, tempers flare, gloves hit the ice faster than pucks. Every stoppage comes with shoving. The refs look exhausted already, like they know they’ve lost control and are just trying to keep the damage contained. 

Quebec is playing mean. Not smart-mean, there’s no strategy, just reckless. They’re finishing every check, late or not. Shoving after the puck’s gone. Digging elbows into ribs along the boards where the cameras don’t quite catch. Early in the second, one of their forwards plows straight through your goalie, clipping her pad hard enough to send her sprawling. 

That crosses a line. 

The whistle barely sounds before sticks are raised and bodies surge forward. You’re there without thinking, shoving a Citadels jersey back out of the blue paint, chest tight with fury. You don’t love getting involved, once you start, it’s hard to stop, but you’ll be damned if anyone touches your goalie and thinks they’re skating away clean after. 

And they don’t stop there. They keep ramming your teammates into the boards all night, the hits skating on the edge between legal and dirty. Some are clean enough to get away with. Others make the crowd suck in a breath and call for the ref. Late in the second, Jackie takes one from behind and doesn’t get back up. She’s helped off the ice, wrist cradled against her chest, face pale with pain. Possible fracture. 

You grind your teeth so hard your jaw aches. This team knows exactly what they’re doing. 

By the third period, the score sits at 5—2, and somehow that only makes it worse. Every goal you put past them tightens the Citadels’ aggression, turns it uglier, more desperate. They’re not trying to win anymore. They’re trying to hurt you. 

You feel it in the way they lean into checks. In the extra shove after the whistle. In the way a Quebec defender mutters something sharp and smiling as she skates past you. Your blood is already hot. You’re skating on instinct now, every nerve tuned tight, waiting. 

It happens midway through the period. You chase a loose puck into the corner, shoulder down, bracing for the contact. You feel her coming, but not like this. The hit slams you straight into the boards, high and hard. Your breath punches out of your lungs as your shoulder collides with the glass. Pain flares, white-hot and immediate. The puck is long gone by the time her body crashes into yours, all weight and momentum, no attempt to play it.

The crowd erupts. You stumble, barely catching yourself before you go down. Your vision swims for half a second. When you straighten, she’s right there. Her grin sharp and unapologetic. Something inside you snaps clean in half. You don’t think. You don’t hesitate. 

You rip your gloves off, helmet too, and throw them to the ice. The Citadels player’s grin falters, just a flicker, before she follows suit, gloves and helmet hitting the ice a heartbeat later. Sticks clatter away. Teammates back off instinctively, the circle opening around you like a held breath. Who’s gonna win? You know the crowds already thinking it. 

The refs shout, but it’s already too late. You grab her jersey and yank her in. This isn’t about the score, not about the standings, it’s not even about winning anymore. It’s about sending a message, and this time, you can’t hold back.

She throws the first punch. It’s fast, looping toward your jaw. You jerk back just enough that it clips your cheek instead of landing clean. Your hands fist in her jersey, knuckles digging into fabric and muscle as you haul her forward. You turn. Swing, driving your fist in her shoulder first, off-balance, but hard enough to make her grunt. She answers immediately, glove-less hand slamming into your ribs. Pain blooms sharp and slightly breath-stealing, but it only fuels you. 

The two of you stagger, skates carving rough arcs into the ice as you fight for footing. The glass rattles behind you, the crowd pounding on it, screaming for blood or justice, some for both. She gets a grip on your collar and yanks, trying to pull you down. You plant your skates and resist, muscles burning as you twist, dragging her with you instead of letting her take you to the ice. 

“You’re dead,” she spits, breath hot. 

You snarl back something incoherent and swing again, this time catching her clean across the side of her face. The impact jolts up your arm. She stumbles, but doesn’t fall, shaking it off with a wild grin like she’s enjoying this. Oh well, so are you. 

She lands two quick shots to your shoulder and chest, each one thudding hard. The second knocks the air from your lungs, and for half a second your vision sparks. Then you remember Jackie being helped off the ice. Your goalie sprawled in the crease. The way they kept hitting after the whistle. 

You grab the back of her jersey and slam her into the boards. The sound is brutal. The glass shudders. The crowd roars. She rebounds off it, swinging blindly, fist grazing your ear. You shove her again, forearm driving into her chest, keeping her pinned just long enough to land another solid punch to her shoulder, then one to her jaw. Her head snaps sideways. 

That’s when the refs finally close in. They hook arms around both of you, strong and practiced, trying to wedge themselves between your bodies. The Citadels player thrashes, still reaching for you, but you’re already being dragged back, chest heaving, adrenaline roaring in your ears. You don’t take your eyes off her as you’re pulled away. She glares back, lip split, chest rising fast as the blood trickles down her chin. 

Worth it.

🥅🏒⛸️

Your team wins the game. No surprise there. Still, by the time the final horn sounds, you’re wrung out. Muscles screaming, knuckles throbbing, anger still simmering just under your skin. You celebrate with your teammates for a minute, accept the helmet taps and grins, then slip away while the noise is still loud enough to cover your exit. 

The back hallway is empty and cool, concrete walls swallowing the sound of the crowd. You press your palms against the wall and breathe, slow and deliberate, trying to bleed off the rest of the adrenaline before it turns into something hideous. 

“Tonight,” a familiar voice says behind you, “you throw real bombs.”

You don’t jump. You just close your eyes for a second, then turn. Sevika stands a few feet away, hands shoved into the pocket of her hoodie, posture relaxed like she didn’t just sneak up on you. Like she was supposed to be here. Her eyes are bright, amused. “Where you learn to fight like this?” She asks. “Could be Russian with how hard you hit.”

She steps in and gives your shoulder a light, exaggerated jab, laughing under her breath. You try to scowl, but it doesn’t quite land. “What are you even doing here?” You ask. “This wasn’t your game.”

Her grin only widens. “I like good hockey,” she says. “And you make very entertaining.”

You snort. “They went after our goalie.” You shrug, unapologetic. “You know goalies are off-limits. That’s law.”

Her expression shifts, approving, almost proud. She nods slowly. “Da. Goalie is no no.” She taps her knuckles together, miming the motion of a fight. “You protect your team.” Then she cocks her head, eyes dancing. “Like mama bear.”

“Shut up,” you say immediately.

But you’re smiling now, and she sees it. Sevika chuckles. “Is compliment.”

“You’re impossible.”

She agrees easily, “and you still smiling.”

Sevika doesn’t move away. If anything, she leans in, crowding your space just enough to make it intentional. Her gaze flicks over you, still flushed, hair damp at the edges, knuckles red and swollen like proof of what you’re capable of. “You know,” she says casually, “you look good when you get aggressive.”

You blink. “That’s a weird thing to say.”

She hums, overly amused with herself. “Is honest thing.” Her eyes linger on your hands. “On ice, you hold back sometimes. Tonight?” She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Tonight you did not.”

“That’s because they deserved it,” you remind her. 

“Mmh,” Sevika smiles, slow and knowing, like there's more to the story than you're aware of. “I think you enjoy too.”

You grimace. “You’re projecting.”

“Maybe,” she agrees lazily. “But when you fight, you change.” She tilts her head, studying you like she’s memorizing something. “Eyes go dark. You stop thinking. Is very… attractive.”

Heat crawls up your neck, all the way up to your cheeks, maybe even the tip of your nose. “You’re such an asshole, Rykov.”

She steps closer again, close enough that you can feel the warmth rolling off her, smell her soap, and something sharper underneath. “I watch you,” Sevika admits, voice low now, meant just for you. “When you get mean. When you lose control.” A beat. “Makes me hot.”

Your breath hitches before you can stop it. “You really don’t filter anything, do you?”

“No.” Her mouth quirks. “Why should I?” She glances down the hallway, then back at you, eyes gleaming. “You scare people when you fight,” she adds. “I like that. Means you are dangerous. Mama bear, yes?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. But there’s a storm raging on inside you. You don’t understand what’s happening, and you certainly don’t know why you’re boiling, skin on fire by a mere glance of those soft, grey eyes. “You’re insane. Just shut the fuck up, would you?”

She leans in, just enough that her lips brush the shell of your ear. “And you like it.” Then she pulls back, already turning away like she hasn’t just completely unraveled you in under a minute. As she passes, she murmurs, barely audible, “four-one-seven, nine p.m.”

She doesn’t look back. You stand there for a long, long second, heart racing, replaying the sound of it in your head to make sure you heard her right. It couldn’t be. There was no way she just invited you to her apartment when she should be sleeping. When you should be sleeping as well. Nine p.m. it was an hour meant for nothing good, nothing friendly, nothing casual. It couldn’t be just an excuse for drinks, there had to be more. 

Four-one-seven.

And yet, you knew deep down, there wasn’t a chance you were missing it.

Chapter Text

You pace the length of the hotel room like it’s starting to shrink around you. Honestly, it feels like it is as your skin grows sweaty and your heart rate picks up. You’d started with a dress, something soft, stupidly flattering, and the second you saw yourself in the mirror you physically recoiled. Who were you trying to fool? You looked like you were going on a date. A real one. And the thought alone made your stomach flip in a way you absolutely did not have time for. 

You ripped it off almost immediately. 

Now you’re standing in your bra and panties, bare feet on the carpet, arms crossed tight like you might hold your thoughts in place for longer than a second at a time. Everything feels too loud in your head. Her voice, her smirk, the way she leaned in just enough when she gave you the room number. 

This is stupid. You’re being stupid. 

You grab a t-shirt, pull it halfway on, then yank it back off with a frustrated groan. Athletic clothes? Too casual. Jeans? Too hard to get off quickly. No, don’t think about that. Jeans were too intentional. You don’t want to look like you tried, but you definitely don’t want to look like you didn’t. 

“What is wrong with me?” You mutter to the empty room, dragging a hand through your hair. 

You can already hear her voice, teasing and smug, why you dress like this, hm? You come to business meeting? The thought makes your jaw clench. She’d say it like a joke, but her eyes would be sharp, knowing exactly how deep she’d gotten under your skin so quickly. 

That alone is enough to make you consider going out of spite. Showing up just to prove she doesn’t rattle you. Walking in like you’re unbothered, unimpressed, and so completely unaffected. 

Liar 

Because the truth sits heavy in your chest. You haven’t stopped thinking about the way she looked at you when she whispered her room number. Almost like it was a dare. What if it was nothing? What if she’s already laughing about it with someone else? What if you show up and it’s a joke, a complete strangers room. One more way she wins? You can’t lose again. 

The thought makes your stomach twist. You check the time. 8:47. 

Your pulse picks up. You exhale hard, drag on something simple, and stare at your reflection one last time. Not dressed to impress. Not— “Fuck it,” you mutter, grabbing your keycard. 

🥅🏒⛸️

The elevator ride is arguably worse than the spiraling in your hotel room ever was. Every stop feels like a judgment. Doors sliding open, strangers stepping in and out, staff with carts. The reminder that you’re not sneaking into some private fantasy, you’re in a very real hotel, full of very real people, all of whom could recognize you, her, this stupid mistake waiting to happen. 

Your teammates are scattered around in rooms, her teammates, the coaches, media presence and just about anyone else. You don’t know what rooms anyone resides in. Don’t know who her neighbor is. 

Your pulse hammers the entire ride. You keep your eyes on the glowing numbers above the doors, willing them to move faster and slower at the same time. Each floor brings a fresh wave of doubt. You could still turn around. You could still blame the elevator. Pretend you never made it this far. 

Fourth floor. 

The bell chimes. The door slides open. No one gets on. No one gets off. 

The hallway beyond is quiet, carpeted in dull patterns of red and brown, the lights dimmer than they should be for such a fancy place. It feels like the kind of silence that presses against your ears, makes them ring. Your feet won’t move. You stand there like you’ve been rooted to the floor, staring out at the empty corridor like it might bite. This is your chance to walk away. You know that. But your body doesn’t seem to care. Then the doors start to close. “Fuck.” You lunge forward, turning sideways at the last second, shoulder scraping the edge as you squeeze through. 

Your hand jerks out on instinct, and your keycard slips from your fingers, clattering once before vanishing down the narrow gap between elevator and floor. You freeze. Stare at the empty space. Of course. Of course that happens. A humorless laugh escapes you. Maybe it was a sign. A cosmic no. The universe physically taking away your exit strategy. 

You exhale slowly, fingers curling into your palm. You straighten. The hallway stretches out in front of you, doors lining either side, identical and anonymous. You count the numbers as you walk, heart pounding harder with every step. Each footfall sounds too loud. Your breath feels uneven. 

You stop in front of her door. Your hand lifts. Hovers. And then, before you can overthink it again, you knock. 

The door opens almost immediately. You both freeze. You probably look horrified. She looks… impressed, and just a little playful. 

“You come,” she says, voice pleased. “Did not think you would.”

Your throat works, barely. “Yeah, well. I’m full of surprises.”

She huffs a quiet laugh, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. “Mm. This I see.” Her gaze flicks down to your shoes, back up to your face. “You look nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” you snap back, way too fast.

“Liar,” she says, without heat. She tilts her head in that same way she always does when she’s about to read you. “You breathe like you run whole period.”

Your pulse stutters. “Maybe I did.”

“You run… straight to my door?” Her brow lifts, highly amused now. “Is very flattering.”

You swallow hard, internally debating on running away or not. “Are you going to let me in or not?” 

For a moment she watches you, really watches, like she’s deciding something. But it certainly can’t be the same thing you’re debating over. It just couldn’t. Then she steps back, opening the door wider with a slow sweep of her arm. “Come,” she murmurs. “Before someone sees you standing like lost puppy.”

Your cheeks burn. “I’m not—”

“Shh.” She gestures you inside, eyes gleaming without something you don’t want to name. “Is joke. Mostly.”

You step past her, the air in the room warmer than the hallway, smelling faintly of her cologne. The door clicks shut behind you, and the sound feels too final. You turn. She’s closer than you expected. “Why you come?” She asks softly, not mocking now, not smug, just curious. “You think about me all night?”

Your breath catches, face turning to the side, away from her watchful gaze. “I—”

“Is okay. I think about you too.”

Her words hang between you, thick and dangerous. You open your mouth to deny it, to say something stupid or sharp, because you couldn’t let her know you were thinking about her like that, but Sevika steps closer, and the thought evaporates.

She’s taller up close like this, you have to bend your neck to meet her eyes. Broader, too. Her presence hits you like a body check on the ice. “You stand so stiff,” she tells you, eyes dragging over your face. “Relax. I do not bite.”

You scoff, but it comes out thin. “I don’t believe that in the slightest.”

A slow grin. “Only if asked.”

Your breath stutters, almost choking on the air you take in. She notices, obviously. Her hand lifts, hesitates for half a second, like she’s giving you a chance to run, then hooks two fingers under your chin, tilting your face up further. The touch is barely there, making you wish stupidly that you could feel her more, but it still lights up every nerve you have. 

“Tell me,” she whispers, “why you come.”

You swallow thickly, the air in the room nowhere to be found between the two of you. “I don’t know.”

“Liar again.” Her thumb brushes your jaw, rough and calloused. “You know.”

You should pull back. You should say something cutting, something slightly mean, give her a taste of her own medicine. You should walk out before this becomes something you can’t take back. 

Instead, you breathe her in. Her eyes flick to your mouth. That’s all it takes. She moves first, or maybe you do, it’s impossible to tell. One second there’s space between you, the next your mouth crashes into yours, hot and hungry and nothing like the careful, terrified thing you expected. It makes it easier to deal with.

Her hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you in harder, like she’s been holding herself back for days and finally stopped pretending. You gasp against her lips, and she takes advantage immediately, deepening the kiss with a low sound that vibrates through you and her tongue licking behind your teeth like she belongs there. 

Your fingers bunch in the front of her shirt, dragging her closer, needing her closer. She tastes like mint and something darker. You hate how much you want more, but you can’t deny it even if you would like to. 

You moan into her mouth, too eager, too girly, and she pulls back to look at you. You can hardly meet her eyes, too embarrassed, too ashamed in a way that was so deep down and suppressed. Because you’d never done this, never snuck around with someone behind closed doors, never tried to deny the desire you had for someone. Never been with a woman. You grit your teeth at the thought. You didn’t want her to know.

Before she can read too much into your body language, you help her out of her shirt, hellbent on looking like you knew what you were doing. She surges forward again, mouth crashing into yours, hand cradling the back of your head. You let one of your hands rest on her chest, rubbing up and down lightly until you can feel her nipple stiffen underneath it. She groans in response, which gives you enough of a confidence boost to keep going. 

Once you start making more sounds as the heat of the moment gets to you, she pushes you back lightly into the wall, going for your shirt next. You try to pull down the waistband of her sweats at the same time, which you know makes you look too desperate, or too inexperienced. She chuckles slightly, waiting for you to let go so she can slip your shirt over your head. 

As soon as she whips it off, you’re back on her pants, hands trembling as you fumble around for her underwear and waistband, ready to bring them both down in one go. She stares down at your hands like she’s a bit surprised, but mostly impressed at the ambition. But you change your mind last second, too nervous about the fact you have no idea what you’re doing. You decide to slip your hand past the elastic of her sweats, eagerly rubbing her over her boxers as she places her hand against your cheek.

You expect another kiss, but the alternative has you clenching down around nothing, exposed and embarrassingly wet. She pushes her thumb past your lips, staring directly at you as you continue rubbing her, “fuck Hendrix,” she groans deeply.

You keep your head down, pretending to pay attention to what your hand was doing in her pants, even when you could see her looking at you so closely out of your periphery. She only pulls her hand away to quickly discard her bra on the floor in a pile with the other stuff. As she goes to kiss you again, you dodge her by lowering your head down to her chest. You lick around her nipple, then suck it into your mouth lightly. She makes a deeper sound, hands floating in the air as they look for purchase somewhere. 

Another small suck for her other nipple, then you’re kneeling on the floor in front of her, taking her pants down with you. She steps out of one side, but leaves the other be. You immediately shove your face between her thighs, eyes shut tight, praying to some higher power your mouth could figure out what to do. 

You part her lips with your tongue, happy to find her already wet. You lick all the way up, your nose tickled by the coarse hair on her mound. You thought you’d be one-hundred percent certain when you hit her clit, but now you’re not sure. A pit in your stomach forms at that knowledge. So you double back, starting all the way down at her entrance, moving your tongue through her folds slower this time. You expect a quick jerk of her hips or a louder sound when you find it, but still nothing. She just makes a deeper sound, bringing down one hand to grab a fistful of hair. 

You let her guide you, doing your best to keep your tongue out and flat for her to grind on. She breathes heavily, grunting on occasion when she pushes you harder. You curl the sides of your tongue, a trick you’d heard of online. 

An extra deep groan, followed by, “stop, stop, stop.” She pulls you back up her body and you stare at her, fearful. 

“Was that bad?” You ask, voice shaky, heart in your throat. 

She soothes her hands up and down your sides, “no. Opposite,” she pulls down on your bottom lip playfully, smiling at you, “too much. Too good.”

You don’t know if it’s true. You didn’t feel like you were doing that good. Still, you release a small, anxious breath, eyes flitting all over the room. She kisses you again, just a quick peck, then leans back to find your eyes. “Is first time with woman?”

You nod your head without a sound, nervous energy building further. She knew it. You were so bad she just knew you hadn’t done this before. “You?” You question right back, trying to get the attention off yourself.

“Not first time for me.” She tells you, dragging her thumb lazily across your bottom lip. “You are too careful. Too polite.” Her gaze flicks up. “I know difference.” 

You hate how exposed you feel. “Don’t—don’t make it a thing.”

“I do not.” She affirms. “But you should tell me. So I know how to touch. How not to scare you.”

“I’m not scared.” Though you sound terrified.

Something flickers across her face. It’s not softness, not pity, just an understanding that this was a lot for you. You both had a similar secret, something you would never tell the world, could barely admit to yourselves. “Then you listen to me,” she says, accent thickening with her desire. “You follow my lead. And you do not think too much.” Your heart slams against your ribs. She kisses once on your jaw, then your neck, going lower and lower until she finds your collarbone. Only then does she look back up at you, rubbing and squeezing your biceps. “Did you like eating my pussy?”

Your eyes damn near pop out of your head. Fucking Russians. Too blunt, no shame. Your face heats up more than ever, “wow, those English words just roll off your tongue.” You have to deflect, otherwise you might explode here on the spot.

“Yes?” She tries again, nodding her head as she already knows the answer. 

You nod back, “yes.” And your face falls, humiliation climbing back through your body. 

“Want me to lie on the bed, let you do it some more?” She’s far too cocky for a moment like this, but it makes you smile anyway. 

Your head rests against the wall behind you. You finally feel a bit better, like at the end of the day you knew it was still Sevika. She was a smug, self-assured Russian who loved to tease you, but she’d never been cruel. And she wasn’t being that way now. You were safe enough, here with her. “Let me?” You question, voice playful, smile still tugging at the corner of your lip.

She allows you to guide her backwards over to the bed. You push her down softly while you remain standing in front of the bed. The lamps on her nightstands glow softly, casting yellow shadows across the room. It feels too intimate. You focus on her, the way she kicks her pants and boxers off the rest of the way, then worries about her socks. 

“I want to see you,” she requests, removing her last sock. 

You hesitate, feeling like you’re in the spotlight as she sits on the bed watching you like you’re about to give her a strip tease. You’re not. You remove your pants carefully, folding them neatly and putting them on a nearby chair. You do the same with your underwear, then your bra. And to end it all, you nearly fall flat on your face removing your damn socks. 

Sevika moves further up the bed, motioning for you to climb in with her. You both lie flat on your backs, looking up, not at each other. “What you want to do?” She acts like it’s not obvious, like she wasn’t just grinding against your face minutes ago. 

You laugh nervously, keeping your eyes ahead, “I don’t know.” You tell her honestly, because you didn’t. This was all new territory. You didn’t know what the fuck you were doing. 

She doesn’t make you give her a further answer. But she does turn over on her side, kissing down your chest, stopping to pay attention to your breast closest to her. She licks around the areola, flicking your nipple with her tongue before taking it into her mouth. Then her hand comes up, traveling down a hot path to your cunt, fingers playing in your wetness before circling around your clit. “Is okay?”

You throw your head back into the pillow, nodding weakly as you bite the inside of your cheek to stop from whining. It doesn’t take long for her to make you pathetic. She alternates between both nipples, sucking harshly, biting much more gently, a perfect combination you weren’t even aware of. And her fingers never stop rubbing that sensitive bundle of nerves. They dip down every so often to gather more wetness, then come back up to press gently against your clit. 

You’re too close, too fast. If you cum this soon, you’ll never live it down in your own mind, so you push back on her chest, and much to your surprise, she falls back easily. She smirks down at you, spreading her legs wide to make space. You climb down the bed enough to line your head up with her cunt. 

You once again take her into your mouth, but her hand is on the back of your head right away. You find that you don’t mind it as much as you thought you would. You need to do things perfectly in all aspects of your life to make sure you get it right, you absolutely have to be in control to get it right. But here? Here all you have to do to get it right is let her show you. She knows what she likes best, so you offer up your tongue for her to keep sliding over. 

You watch her abdomen clench, and listen to the way her groans grow deeper and deeper as you suckle on her clit. It stands out now, hard and swollen, easy for you to find, not like she’d let you miss it. “Mm,” she lets go of your head, “fuck Hendrix.” She urges you up her body, and you look at her expectantly, waiting for another order. “Two fingers. Is good, you are very good girl.”

This time, you can’t help it, you let out a soft, little whimper. The praise did something inside you, had you stirring, awakening a beast you didn’t even know lay dormant. You listen, pushing two fingers deep inside her. Her facial features pinch together, chest rising and falling rapidly as you start to curl them at her request. “Da,” she grunts, clenching harshly around you. “You feel good.”

The arm she doesn’t have around your shoulders snakes down her body. She turns her head, silently asking for a kiss, to which you eagerly accept. She uses her fingers to rub quick circles on her clit as you keep curling inside. You can tell she’s close, even though she’s not overly loud, her face shows you everything you need to know. 

She cums less than a minute later, dropping down onto the sheets below dramatically. You keep your fingers still, resting your cheek against her sternum as you let her catch her breath. When she signals that it’s time, you remove your fingers slowly, careful not to cause too much overstimulation, not that she seems to mind too much. 

“You clean fingers,” Sevika teases. “Taste is good.” She motions her head down to your hand, where two slick fingers rest against your bare thigh. 

You can’t tell if she’s fucking with you or being serious, but before you read into it too much, she grabs your wrist and brings your fingers up to your mouth. You open without more prompting, sucking your own digits clean as she looks at you with something like awe. 

“Okay. It was fun.” She mutters, reaching over to her nightstand to look at her phone. 

You feel like you’re drowning. Your face is on fire. There’s no way she just used you like that. It wasn’t the type of person she was. Or so you thought. “Are you serious?” You ask incredulously.

Shame. Humiliation. The realization of what you just did setting in. You really shouldn’t have come here tonight. 

And then she’s rolling over, placing her body on top of yours. Your legs spread on instinct, giving her room. “You think I’m asshole?”

You scoff, frowning deeply, “I know you’re an asshole.”

She presses her nose against your cheek gently, kissing the shell of your ear. “I wouldn’t leave you like that.” 

You roll your eyes, irritation flaring hotter than it should. Her joking isn’t funny, not when you’re already strung tight from even being here. Meeting up with a woman. Her. The league's favorite rivalry, wrapped in skates and apparently some very bad decisions. It’s unfamiliar territory, the kind that makes every tiny thing feel like a tripwire, like one wrong word might send you sprinting back to your room to bury your face in a pillow. 

“No?” You ask, the word slipping out before you can stop it. You need the reassurance, need to know she isn’t about to leave you hanging after doing such intense things like that when your nerves are already shot. 

She smiles, “no.” Another soft kiss to your ear, then the tip of your nose. She’s still holding herself up above you, “let me show you how to do this,” she teases, kissing down your body until her face snuggles up between your thighs. 

You don’t know why you thought things would be different, that you’d somehow keep your composure the same way she did while you were pleasing her, but you were wrong. The minute she pushes her tongue through your lips, you’re already done. She’s only touched your body once, just tonight, but it feels like she knows it better than you do. She knows when to lay her tongue flat, when to point it, when she should suck, and when to back off a little. And she does it all so fast you can’t even wrap your mind around it. You simply lie there, whining her name pathetically as you try to push her head back, giving yourself more of a chance. 

She uses one hand to knead your breasts, alternating between both of them, giving equal attention. Her other hand grips your thigh, squeezing lightly. You place one hand over the one she has on your thigh, but the other still tries to get her to slow down. She’s having none of it. You try to warn her that you’re about to finish, you don’t know if she wants you to do it in her mouth or around her fingers like she had you do with her. 

But you don’t get to find out, because she pulls your clit into her mouth softly, sucking as she pinches your nipple, and you lose it. You throw your head back into the pillows, hands fisting the covers for something to bring you back to reality. You’ve never cum so hard, not by yourself, and certainly not with someone else. 

When she’s done letting you ride out your high, she climbs back up the bed and flops down next to you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—” But you stop, not quite sure what you’re apologizing for, maybe everything.

Sevika chuckles, which makes you laugh anxiously. “What? Didn’t think you’d cum so fast?”

“Fuck you,” you snap back. You’re not sure you could ever get over how blunt she was, like she wanted you to be uneasy. 

After a few minutes, the reality of what you’ve done starts to settle in your bones. The room feels too quiet, too warm, too real. You sit up on the edge of the bed with your back to her, fingers twisting into the sheets as you try to find the right words. Words that won’t sound pathetic. Words that won’t make her think you regret being here. 

“You’re not—” Your voice cracks, and you swallow hard. “You’re not gonna tell anyone about this, right?”

You keep your eyes fixed on the carpet. You can’t look at her. You don’t want to see amusement or pity or anything that might make this worse. Behind you, the mattress shifts. A slow exhale. Then her voice, rough around the edges. “Print it in newspaper, you think?” She says, a hint of dry humor in her accent. “Put big headline: Rivals fuck in hotel room?”

You wince. “I’m serious.”

“I know.” Her tone softens, barely, but enough that you feel it. “Turn around.”

You don’t. You can’t. Not yet. She moves instead, coming to sit beside you. Not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of her body as you start to grow cold. Close enough that hiding feels impossible. 

She tilts her head, studying your profile, your body language. “I am not idiot,” she tells you quietly. “You think I want team to know? League? Media?” A scoff. “They make circus out of nothing. This is nothing. We are good. I tell no one.”

Nothing.

Of course, this was nothing more than a heated fuck. Easy, your proximity makes it possible to do these things during game season, sharing the hotel for weeks. You should have known it was nothing more than a fun night for her. She was blunt, never mixing words, so how did you read more into nothing?

It doesn’t matter, though. Your sport came first. She’d be too big a distraction if things continued, and you couldn’t have that; nothing could jeopardize giving your team your all. So you nod, staring at your hands. “Right.”

“You do not worry. I keep secret. You keep mine.” She nods at her own statement, a neutral expression on her face. She wasn’t affected. This truly meant nothing to her. 

…

The room is too bright. That’s the first thing you notice. The lights are pointed straight at the long table where you and Sevika sit next to each other, her in her teams navy jacket, you in white. Cameras click like tiny insects infesting your peace. Reporters murmur. Every seat is filled. 

You’re not supposed to interact with her much, and you don’t care to after that night, but you feel her heavy presence anyway. The moderator clears his throat. “Next question. For Iskra.”

She shifts in her chair, jaw tightening just a little. You know that look. She hates these things. You can tell. Hates English questions asked too fast, slang thrown in, like she’s supposed to keep up with a language she learned under pressure. 

A reporter stands. “Iskra, do you feel like you have something to prove this season? Being the youngest on your roster, and new to the league?”

A simple question. For you. Maybe for anyone else. But you can tell she’s at a loss, though you don’t know why. Could be because she doesn’t feel like she has to prove herself, or possibly because she knows she needs to respond a certain way but can’t put the words together. 

Sevika leans toward the mic. “I…” She pauses, searching for the word. “Is… is hard question.”

A few cameras zoom in, the whirring almost too close to your ears. She exhales through her nose, eyes flicking briefly down, then up again. “I think… when you come young, everyone expect you to be loud. Big. To show.” Her accent thickens as she searches for the right phrasing. “I am not always… good with words. But I work hard. I play hard. I try to prove with—” She gestures vaguely, frustrated, “with play. On ice.”

There’s a beat of silence. Not unkind, but extremely heavy, like everyone is expecting more, some confident, cocky speech. She tries again. “I do not think I need to prove—” Her jaw tightens, teeth grinding. “I mean, yes, I do, but—” She exhales sharply, shaking her head in irritation. “Sorry.”

“Can I?” You glance at him. “Can I take this one?”

A ripple of surprise moves through the room. Even Sevika looks over at you, eyes narrowing like she’s trying to figure out your angle. Maybe you want to steal the spotlight, she doesn’t know. 

You keep your gaze forward. “I think what she’s trying to say,” you begin, steadying your voice, “is that being the youngest doesn’t mean you’re unprepared. Or unqualified. It just means you got here faster.” A few reporters nod. Pens scratch. “We’re both new,” you continue, “and yeah, that comes with pressure, of course. Everyone wants to see if we’ll crack. If we’ll fold. If we’ll live up to the hype surrounding us.” You shrug lightly. “But proving ourselves? That’s not about age. It’s about performance. And we both know how to perform. We wouldn’t be sitting here if we didn’t.”

You don’t look at her. You don’t dare. “But,” you add on a lighter note, “we’re not here to chase anyone’s approval. We’re here to play hockey. That’s it.”

The room goes quiet for a beat. The kind of quiet that means you actually said something that landed, not one full of confusion and disappointment. Then the moderator nods. “Thank you. Next question—”

But before he can move on, Sevika leans into her mic, “yes,” she agrees. “What she say.”

A few reporters laugh, easily charmed. They think it’s cute. They think it’s rivalry banter, you trying to one-up her fractured response. They have no idea. They don’t know the struggles she’s faced to get here, not that you do either, but you know she holds something heavy. You’ve known it since you heard them call her Iskra instead of Sevika. Something inside her is guarded, broken, and has been for a long time. 

She turns her lip at the mention of her first name, and that’s only one part of what lies beneath the surface. There’s so much more: teasing to overcompensate, hushed phone conversations in Russian, sad looks when she watches her teammates rush to their parents, the idea that she’s running from something in her past, and running toward a better future for herself at the same time.

But they don’t know your part either. They don’t know how hard you practice, how thorough your routine is, how you’d panic if someone broke it. They don’t understand the guilt you put on yourself after losing, what this sport means to you. It’s so much deeper than anyone understands. It’s quite possibly the only thing you’re good at, and when you lose, it’s not just the game, it’s a part of yourself you’d never have without hockey. Your identity doesn’t even exist without this.

You were still upset with her, obviously, but that doesn’t mean you’ll try to put her down in this aspect. Not poking fun at something so personal, or allowing the media to do it, even when she was your “rival.”

Under the table, her leg bounces. You nudge her foot gently with yours, a small gesture of goodwill. And lying against her thigh, you see her hand unclench. 

…

Tonight, the ice belongs to three teams. Yours. Sevika’s. And the Calgary Steelheads. 

It’s not a formal game. No standings, no pressure from the league, but it’s still a proving ground. A showcase. A chance for the rookies to remind everyone why they’re worth watching. The kind of night where records get chased, egos get bruised, and bragging rights linger far longer than the whistle. 

The stands aren’t packed, but the atmosphere hums with anticipation. Coaches linger near the boards, scouts scribble notes, teammates lounge along the benches pretending not to care while watching everything intently. 

It’s supposed to be fun. You know better. You can feel it in the way Sevika stretches at center ice, rolling her shoulders like she’s about to start a fight instead of a skills competition. In the way her eyes track you the second you step onto the rink. There’s no hostility there, but there’s too much serious energy. Expectation. Like she wants you to push yourself to the brink because she’s going to do the same.

She’s going to give everything she has. And so are you. This isn’t about winning or losing in the standings. It’s about pride. About showing who deserves to be talked about when the night's over. About proving that whatever spark flared between you off the ice didn’t change anything, that it was nothing like she said, that it could never dull your edge when skates hit the ice. 

You won’t lose to her. Not tonight. 

The endurance drill is simple in theory. Continuous laps at full speed until only one skater remains. No coasting, no slowing, you drop out when you can’t keep pace anymore. Simple doesn’t mean easy. You take your place at the line beside Sevika and the third rookie, Calgary’s golden girl, Heidi, all cocky grins and restless energy. The ref raises a hand. “On my whistle.”

You don’t look at Sevika. You can feel her there anyway. Heidi’s presence doesn’t even register. The whistle shrieks. You launch forward. The first few laps are easy. Adrenaline carries you, the ice smooth beneath your blades. The sound of skates cuts sharp and rhythmic, three sets, perfectly in sync for the first few laps. The crowd watches from the boards, murmurs rising and falling with every lap. 

By the fifth lap, your breathing deepens. By the tenth, your legs start to burn. The Calgary rookie glances sideways, sweat already dripping down her brow. “You two ever get tired?” She pants, half-joking.

Sevika doesn’t even answer. She doesn’t even look at her. You do. “Apparently not,” you say, forcing a grin even as your lungs protest. 

Lap after lap, the pace never drops. You catch Sevika’s reflection in the glass, jaw set, eyes focused forward, nothing soft about her. She skates like she’s chasing something she can’t afford to lose. Like she’s running to a new future that doesn’t include anything from her past, you included. Or maybe she’s outrunning something she doesn’t want to face. 

Your heart pounds harder in your chest at the thought. Another lap. Then another. The Calgary player stumbles slightly on a turn, regains it, but the damage is done. Her rhythm breaks. On the next lap, she falls behind. One more after that, she coasts to the boards, hands on her knees, gasping. The whistle blows once. “Out,” the ref calls. 

Now it’s just you and her. 

The crowd feels like they’re holding a breath, everyone on edge as the showdown continues. Even your teammates on the bench seem to lean in. 

Your muscles scream. Your lungs burn. It feels like that time on the treadmill all over again, where you both refused to give up until you nearly blacked out, but when you glance sideways, you see how composed Sevika looks. She’s still matching you. Matching your drive. Matching the part of you you’ve always believed no one else could reach. It feels wrong. Unsettling. Like she’s trespassing somewhere private. 

She finally looks over. Something flickers in her eyes. Challenge, irritation, something deeper you refuse to name. “Ah,” she says, breath warm in the cold air. “So is only us now.”

You huff a laugh you don’t have the oxygen for and ignore her. You have to. She’s already in your head every damn day. One night with her and you’re hooked like an idiot. She’s dangerous—to your focus, to your game, to your heart. 

“You ignore me?” She asks, still playful, because she knows exactly why you’re silent. 

It grates. The way she’s always composed. Always joking. Like nothing touches her. Like she doesn’t take anything seriously, not even this. Not even you. 

Another lap. Your legs feel like they’re tearing apart. Your lungs are pure fire. The world narrows to the scrape of blades and the steady, maddening sound of her breathing beside you. It’s too controlled, confident, and infuriating. “You should stop,” she says, slightly breathless. “Before you fall.”

“Fuck you!” You snap and surge forward, dumping everything you have left into your stride. 

It’s reckless. Stupid. But it pushes you ahead of her. You hear a small gasp. She’s surprised, but you don’t look. You can’t. You already let her get to you. You let her push you past your limit. If you crash now, that’s on you. “Stubborn,” she calls, but her voice has changed. Not cocky anymore, almost hesitant. 

Maybe she finally realized you’re actually upset. Maybe she doesn’t. It doesn’t matter. Not here. Not now. The ice is the only thing you can afford to think about.

The whistle slices through the air, long and sharp. “Enough! Games over!” They must have guessed this wasn’t going to end unless one of you was seriously hurt.

You both slow, coasting to a stop. Your chest heaves. Sweat drips down your temples. You brace your hands on your knees, lungs burning so hard it hurts to exist. Sevika stops too close, and it takes everything in you not to look at her. Normally, she’d tease you, and normally you’d let her. Maybe you even want her to. But not now. The more you think about it all, the more it aches. 

🥅🏒⛸️

The final game of the night is the accuracy shot challenge. The Calgary rookie already took her turn. She wasn’t bad, smooth release, decent aim, but she didn’t touch any of the standing records. No threat. No pressure.

Sevika’s up next. You already know she’s going to break something tonight. A record, a heart, your sanity. Take your pick.

Four targets sit in the corners of the net. Four pucks. One chance.

She skates out to the center ice with that same unreadable calm she always has, like pressure is something that happens to other people. She plants her feet, adjusts her gloves, and for a second you swear she looks bored. Maybe it’s a Russian thing. The whole, I do not feel fear, only ice vibe she’s made clear before. 

You sit on the bench surrounded by your teammates. Some are shit talking, but most are just waiting. They’re watching closely, holding their breath. 

The whistle blows. Sevika fires the first puck—crack—top right target shatters.

Second puck—crack—bottom left.

Third—crack—top left.

Beside you, Anita mutters, “fuck, she’s gonna beat my record.”

You glance at her, sympathy tugging at your mouth, but the buzzer sounds before you can say anything. Sevika beat her record by one second. One second. Just like that, she’s the one to beat. 

And you’re up next.

She skates past your bench on the way back to hers. The team player in you wants to congratulate her. A nod, a tap of the stick, something. But the competitor in you clamps your jaw shut. You’re not rivals, not really, but right now? You might as well be. 

Your teammates erupt around you as you climb over the boards. “Beat her ass, Rook!” Jenna hollers. 

“You gotta win! Don’t let the Ironclads take the record!”

Their voices pile on top of each other, a wall of expectation pressing against your ribs. Your nerves spike. They’re counting on you, not just to score, but to reclaim something Sevika just took. 

You skate out to center ice, heart pounding for a different reason. Did you really want to beat her? Of course you did. Nonsense. The rink feels too big and too small at the same time. The targets stare back at you like they’re daring you to miss. 

The whistle blows.

You fire the first puck—crack—top left.

Second—crack—bottom right.

Third—crack—top right.

The crowd noise swells, but you don’t hear it. You’re locked in. Tunnel vision. Fourth puck. You inhale, steady your shoulders, and release before you can think about it too much. 

CRACK!

The final target explodes. The buzzer blares a heartbeat later. You blink, chest heaving, waiting for the number. Then the announcer calls it out:

“New fastest time, by one second!”

Your bench erupts. Sticks slam against the boards. Someone screams your name. Someone else grabs your helmet and shakes you like a rag doll. You broke Sevika’s record by the exact margin she broke Anita’s. Perfect symmetry. Perfect damn chaos. 

…

You win Rookie of the Year. The ceremony had been tense. Three contenders, one trophy, a room full of watchful eyes. You were sure they’d call Sevika’s name. You’d braced for it. But the announcer said yours instead, and the whole place erupted. 

Your parents looked proud in a way you weren’t used to. Real pride, not the tight smiles or the quiet “next time” pep talks. They walk beside you now, urging you to hold your plaque up as you descend the stairs, and for once, you let yourself enjoy it.

The crowd cheers. Cameras flash. You grin so wide your cheeks hurt, one hand gripping the skirt of the dress your mother insisted on. You would’ve preferred sweats or your gear, something you could breathe in, but she’d lit up when she saw you in this long, prom-style gown. You didn’t have it in you to argue.

Your eyes scan the room before you can stop yourself. You shouldn’t be looking for her. But you are. Sevika should’ve been the one up there. She beat you in almost everything this season. Maybe this loss hit harder than she expected. Maybe she needed space. Still… a small congratulations would’ve meant something. You would’ve given her that much.

Before you can think too long on it, a teammate loops an arm around your shoulders and pulls you away from your parents. “Shots for the rookies!” She declares, already flagging down the bartender. “I might be old, but I can still hang.”

You laugh, letting yourself get swept into the chaos. Someone drags over the Calgary rookie, and the bar top fills with tiny glasses and louder voices. You keep glancing around, searching for a familiar tall silhouette, but Sevika is nowhere in sight. The shots arrive before she does. So she doesn’t get one. Probably wouldn’t drink it unless it was Russian vodka anyway.

After a few rounds and more congratulations than you know what to do with, the room starts to feel warm. Your cheeks burn, your balance tilts, and the noise presses in from all sides. You slip away, weaving through the crowd toward the balcony door.

It clicks shut behind you, muting the noise of the celebration. Cool air hits your flushed skin, and you exhale, grateful for the quiet. 

Then you see her. Sevika stands at the railing, cigarette between her fingers, shoulders tense beneath her suit jacket. The ember glows as she inhales, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the city below like she’s trying to stare a hole through it.

You freeze. She doesn’t turn. But you know she heard you. For a moment, you consider slipping back inside. Pretend you never saw her. Pretend you didn’t spend the last hour scanning the room for her face. But it’s not worth it. Your teams would play each other next season, you’d have to be around her, whether it was now or later. 

You step forward. “Didn’t think you’d be out here,” you say softly. 

She flicks ash over the edge, still not looking at you. “Too loud inside.”

You swallow. “Yeah. I needed air too.”

Silence stretches between you, thin and brittle. You wait for her to say something, anything. A nod, a smirk, a quiet congratulations. Something to show she saw you win, that she cared even a little. But she just drags on her cigarette again, shoulders rising and falling with a slow, controlled breath. 

It stings more than you want to admit. “You know,” you start, “you could’ve said something.”

Her brow twitches. “About what?”

You laugh, but it comes out small. “About the award. Rookie of the Year. I thought maybe—I don’t know. I thought you’d say congrats.”

She finally turns her head, just enough to look at you. Her eyes are unreadable, dark, and tired. “Is nothing.”

The words hit you like a slap to the face. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “It mattered to me. And I thought maybe it mattered to you, too. I would have celebrated your win.”

She scoffs under her breath, looking away again. “Is stupid award.”

Your heart grows heavy, sitting tight in your chest. “It wasn’t stupid to me. You wouldn’t think it was stupid if you won.”

“Good for you,” she says, flat. “You win.”

“That’s it?” Your voice cracks before you can stop it. “That’s all you have to say?”

She shrugs, jaw tight. “What you want? Hug? More party? I do not do this.”

You stare at her, stunned by the cold shoulder. “I didn’t ask for a hug. I just thought you’d at least look at me.”

She flicks ash over the railing, cigarette burning down to almost nothing. “I look at view.”

It’s cruel in its simplicity. Cruel because she means it. You swallow hard, fighting back the tears, the burn in your throat. “You know, that night… I thought it meant something a little more to you. I know you said it was nothing—But I thought maybe we’d become a little more, even just during game seasons.”

Her expression doesn’t change. “Was fun.”

Your chest caves in. “Fun.”

“Da. I told you this. Was quick fuck.” She tosses the rest of the cigarette down to the streets below. “Doesn’t mean I pick you up and carry you around to celebrate. You not my wife.”

You take a step back, breath shaking. “Right. Okay.”

She finally turns toward you, a stupidly fake grin on her face. “Do not make big thing. You win. Be happy.”

“I was,” you whisper. “Until now.”

Something flickers in her eyes, something almost like regret, but she crushes it instantly as she spits over the rail. “You should go inside,” she tells you. “People wait for you.”

You nod, even though it feels like your throat is closing. You turn to leave. She doesn’t stop you, doesn’t say anything. The door clicks shut behind you, and the sound feels final. 

Inside, the celebration swallows you whole, but none of it reaches you. And out on the balcony, Sevika lights another cigarette with shaking hands, staring at the spot where you stood, saying nothing at all. 

Chapter Text

You haven’t seen her in person since Rookie of the Year. Weeks passed before your phone buzzed with her name. A short apology, stiff and clipped, like she’d typed it with her jaw clenched. It wasn’t enough to undo what she said on that balcony, but you accepted it. It felt like the closest thing to vulnerability she was capable of giving. 

Still, the coldness stuck with you. Was fun. Nothing more. Nothing less. 

Summer gives you too much time to think. Too much quiet. Every time your mind drifted back to that night in the hotel room—and it always did—you forced yourself outside. A mile for every thought of her. Sometimes two. You’d never been this fit in your life, which was its own kind of pathetic victory.

Your phone buzzes mid-jog.

Ivan:

You enjoy summer?

You slow to a walk, wiping sweat from your forehead as you type back.

Shawn: 

Ready to get back on the ice, you?

Her reply comes fast, faster than you expect. 

Ivan:

To get ass kicked?

Summer good

Russia better than boring America

You roll your eyes, but the smile won’t leave your face. Her texts are always like this, fractured, blunt, unintentionally funny. You shouldn’t think it’s cute. It still is. 

But then you picture her somewhere in Russia. Training, skating, living her life without you. The jealousy creeps in before you can stop it. You have no right to feel it. It was one night. She owes you nothing. Nothing except an apology for the balcony.

You pick up your pace again, adding another mile just to burn off the feeling. You don’t bother with a response, not until you can clear your head from all the spiraling thoughts first. She didn’t need to know how down bad you were for her. It was pathetic. Your phone buzzes again after she realizes you aren’t texting back.

Ivan:

No text

I must upset

America is ok, that better?

You laugh under your breath. Breathless from running and from her. You shouldn’t feel this warm over someone who hurt you. But life is funny like that sometimes.

…

Even if the two of you didn’t talk much, you always exchanged at least one text a day. Sometimes it was nothing like an emoji, a thumbs-up, a link to a dumb article, but it was consistent. Predictable. A fixed point in your day you could rely on, and you needed that.

So, when the first day passed with nothing from her, you felt the shift immediately. A tiny crack in the routine. You couldn’t stop checking your phone, just waiting for her to say something, anything that might bring back that routine. By day two, the crack widened. Your brain kept circling it, poking at it, trying to make sense of the missing piece. You checked your phone too often, refreshing the screen like poor internet connection was the problem. You tried to tell yourself she was busy, or asleep, or training, but the thoughts kept looping anyway, because no matter what, she would still have been able to send an emoji, or a simple good morning text.

By day three, you were entirely spiraling. Your chest felt tight. Your focus was shot. Every part of your day felt slightly misaligned, like a picture frame tilted just enough to drive you insane. You kept replaying the same thought over and over. 

She’s distracted by someone else. She doesn’t want to talk to you anymore.

You hated how selfish it sounded. You hated that you cared. But the routine was broken, and once something broke, your mind couldn’t let it go. Not until it was fixed, and she was the only one who could remedy this, yet the only one you couldn't get ahold of.

You’re halfway through a run, your go-to coping mechanism, when your phone buzzes with a notification. It’s not a text. A social media alert. Someone had posted an “exclusive” training video of Iskra. 

You almost don’t click it. Almost. But you have to. You have to see what she’s been up to, what’s been so important she couldn’t bother with a short text back. And there she is. Sevika, skating drills on a pristine sheet of ice, hair tied back, expression sharp and focused just like always. She looks good. Too good. Stronger, faster, like she’d been training nonstop, and you don’t doubt she has been. Your stomach twists. 

Then you see it, in the background, sitting on top of her purple duffel bag, clearly visible. Her phone. Perfectly intact. Perfectly fine. It even lights up at one point during the video, so you know it works. You stare at the screen until your vision blurs. She didn’t text because she didn’t want to text you. Not because she couldn’t. It’s clear to you now. 

You finish your run with a kind of frantic determination, pushing yourself harder than you should, trying to outrun the feeling that video just gave you. She was an asshole, whatever, you could get over that with some time and a lot more exercise.

Three more days pass. No texts. No more social media alerts. 

On the fourth day, she breaks the radio silence.

Ivan:

Phone break

I fix now

You stop in your tracks, breath catching in your throat, almost choking on your orange juice at the dinner table. A lie. A bad one at that. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, but nothing comes out. You don’t trust yourself to respond without sounding hurt, or angry, or both. And she needs to stop knowing how much she affects you. You can’t keep letting her win, not on the ice, and certainly not here, in the comfort of your own apartment.

Your phone buzzes again a few hours later.

Ivan:

You quiet

You mad?

You swallow hard, staring at the screen. You weren’t supposed to care this much. It was one stupid night almost six months ago now. But it was also kinda more. Teasing remarks, a fun competition on the ice, another rookie that felt just as determined as you to make something of herself, something to look forward to during game season when you were away from your home. You didn’t know how to fix yourself, how to make it all stop.

Once the sky grows dark and you’re tucked into bed, surrounded by your pillows and a fuzzy blanket, you respond. 

Shawn:

Okay.

A full minute passes. You think you might have lost her again. Then—

Ivan:

You busy?

Shawn:

Not really

Another pause. Longer this time, like you’re heading straight toward another ghosting.

Ivan:

You sound strange

You exhale sharply. You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to open up to her. You don’t want to spill your guts and then have her be so cold again. Or worse, give her things to use against you if you were to argue. So you don’t.

Shawn:

Just tired

It’s not a lie. It’s late. It’s also not the truth she thinks it is. Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. 

Ivan:

You mad at me

Not a question. A statement. 

Shawn:

No

The word sits on your screen like a shard of ice. It’s the coldest thing you’ve ever sent her, this whole conversation has been. It’s clipped, fast, stripped of every soft edge you usually give her. But you can’t bring yourself to dress it up. Not after days of silence, not after watching that training video and seeing her phone sitting perfectly fine on her duffel bag, not after lying to you like you weren't worth the truth.

You send the text anyway, you have to. And Sevika, who has never been good at nuance, who only understands words that hit like blunt force, reads it exactly the wrong way. Or maybe it’s the way you meant it, hard to tell. 

Your phone vibrates.  

Ivan:

Good

I think maybe you want space

So I give

Your stomach drops so fast it feels like the floor disappears beneath you. She thinks you’re pushing her away, she thinks that you want distance, she thinks your hurt is anger. It feels like ignorance, and it fucking hurts, because she should know better.

You type before you can stop yourself.

Shawn:

Do whatever you want

The moment you hit send, regret slaps you across the face. It’s sharp, stinging, but it’s too late. You watch the typing bubble appear almost instantly. It’s too fast, too eager, like she’s been waiting for permission to vanish. You feel like this was her trying to get you to distance yourself first, so she didn’t have to feel guilty for wanting to leave. 

Ivan:

I do that

Then nothing. No follow-up. No joke to soften the blow, no emoji to show she’s still there, no attempt to explain the days of silence. Just her absence. A familiar one. One she doesn’t seem to realize guts you every time. 

She left you high and dry again. Like you meant nothing, like the night you shared meant nothing, like the texts, the teasing, the softness, all of it, meant nothing. It must be true, has to be considering how easily she just let go. 

And the worst part? She acts like she genuinely doesn’t understand what she’s done. She must think you’re stupid, that you didn’t see the video, that you didn’t know her phone was never broken. 

…

You’ve decided you’re fine. It’s easy really. You wake up one morning and realize you didn’t check your phone first thing for a message from her. That must mean something. Maybe you’re over it. Maybe you’re cured. 

You almost laugh at the thought. Downright proud. You’d fixed yourself without the help of anyone else. Not that you could tell other people about the situation anyway. But that was neither here nor there. 

🥅🏒⛸️

The first game of the fall season is against the Massachusetts Ironclads.

All the progress you made over the summer—the running, the routines, the careful mental scaffolding you built to keep yourself steady—evaporates the second your phone buzzes in the top of your locker. 

Your teammates are loud, chirping the Ironclads, chirping Sevika, chirping anyone who isn’t wearing your colors. You try to tune them out. You need your pre-game order. Your sequence, routine, things that keep you sane. Tape, stretch, hydrate, breathe. In that order. Always. You didn’t break routine, you wouldn’t dare risk it. Your brain was your biggest enemy, so you had to follow everything to a T in order to feel just slightly normal.

The notification throws everything off. You grab your phone, pulse already climbing because nothing should be interrupting you this close to puck drop.

Ivan:

Excited to see you naked after game tonight

Your eyes go wide, stomach dropping, heart rate spiking so hard it feels like a penalty call. She has to be messing with you. Trying to get in your head. There’s no other explanation for her texting you now of all times, and inappropriately at that. 

Your fingers fly across the screen.

Shawn:

WE’RE ABOUT TO PLAY A GAME AGAINST EACH OTHER!

Her reply comes instantly. Too fast, too eager, and extremely her. 

Ivan:

I brought toy

Think you might like it

You stare at the message like it’s written in another language. She’s doing this on purpose to fuck with you. She has to be. So you set your phone down in your locker, count to five, then pick it back up because your brain won’t let you leave it alone. 

Shawn:

We are NOT meeting after the game tonight. 

Fuck off!

Another immediate reply.

Ivan:

You no good at sexting

You choke on your own breath. Sexting. She said sexting. You scoff, cheeks heating. Who taught her that word? It definitely wasn’t Russian slang. Someone on her team must’ve mentioned it, dirty bastards. You type the only thing that won’t make you combust in front of your entire roster. 

Shawn:

Focus on the game

You hit send and shove your phone deep into your locker like it’s radioactive. Your face is burning. Your pre-game routine is wrecked. Your brain is a scrambled mess of adrenaline and irritation and something else you refuse to name for fear of what it means. 

You’re captain now. You’re supposed to be composed, supposed to lead. But all you can think about is the way she wants to see you naked after the game tonight, and how she said it like it was nothing, like it’s just a casual pre-game talk. Like she didn’t leave you hanging over the summer, or like she didn’t break your routine and your heart in the same damn week. 

You take a breath. Then another. Trying to force your mind back into alignment. Game first. Always. You have to start the season off right. Everything else later. 

Even her.

But when you hit the ice, everything goes back to how it was before. Because there she is. Sevika. Watching you. And she’s not pretending she doesn’t care. No. She’s looking at you. Her gaze locks onto yours across the rink, unreadable, like she was trying to decide something. 

She doesn’t smile, but she also doesn’t look away. And suddenly you know, with a sinking certainty, that whatever you thought you’d gotten over—

You were wrong. You never stood a chance.

You don’t want to make the first move. You want her to come to you, apologize with the most sincere, heartwarming thing you’ve ever heard. If it wasn’t that, then you wouldn’t even listen. 

Lies. You’d turn your head so fast you’d get whiplash if she offered a simple hey.

🥅🏒⛸️

Warmups are always chaos with your team, and the first one of the season is usually worse. Stretching, skating, half-serious drills, half superstitions that everyone pretends aren’t superstitions. 

You drop into the frog stretch near center ice, knees wide, skates splayed out, palms pressed to the ice. It’s miserable and necessary and you hate every second of it. It helps target your inner thighs and hips, which you all need for mobility and injury prevention. Right on cue, you feel a tap to your backside. Then another. You sigh. “Of course.” 

Anita skates past you, grinning like she’s done something holy. “Good luck charm,” she tells you, tapping you again with the end of her stick before gliding off toward the net. 

You roll your eyes but smile despite yourself. It’s stupid. It’s tradition. And nobody—nobody—wants to be the one who breaks it and jinxes the game. 

You’re still down there when you feel eyes on you. Not the casual glances of other players stretching. Not the friendly attention of teammates. Something heavier. You lift your head just enough to see her. Sevika stands a few strides away, helmet off, hair pulled back into a short ponytail, arms loose at her sides. She’s watching you with open curiosity, dark eyes tracking your every move. The corner of her mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile. 

Of course she’d watch you, and of course she’d be amused by such a compromising position. She nudges a puck with her skate—too hard, deliberately—sending it sliding toward you. It bumps your shin and rolls to a stop. She skates overly slowly, like she knows exactly how distracting she is. “Why they hit you with sticks?” She asks, voice low and full of mirth. “You lose bet?”

You push yourself upright, dusting off your gloves. “It’s a thing for good luck,” you say flatly.

Her brow lifts. “A thing?”

“Yes. A thing.” You shoot her a look. “Don’t ask.”

She hums, eyes flicking to where your teammates are still dutifully delivering ritualistic taps to the ones down on the ice. “So… if I do it, is good luck too?”

You snort before you can stop yourself. “Absolutely not.” 

“Why not?” She presses, coming closer. “You say is tradition.” 

“You’re not on my team,” you reply, sharper than you mean to. You immediately regret the edge in your voice, but you don’t take it back. She deserves as much. 

Her smile softens. She’s not offended, just thoughtful. “Ah,” she says. “So only for people who belong.”

You stiffen, realizing too late how that sounded. You didn’t need to be so cold. She may have done you dirty, but that doesn’t mean you need to stoop to her level. “It’s not—” You stop, exhale. “It’s just something we do. A superstition.”

She quirks her brow, studying you like she’s trying to read something you left for her in invisible ink. “You have many strange rules. Superstition? I don’t understand.” 

“Yeah,” you mutter. “I see that.” 

She watches you a moment longer, then smirks. “Still,” she says, tapping her stick once against the ice between your skates, “if you play bad tonight, I will say it’s because you did not let me give you luck.”

You furrow your brows with a scoff. “You’re not touching me with that thing.”

Her eyes glint with mischief. “We’ll see.” She pushes off skating backwards toward her side of the ice, never breaking eye contact with you. 

You exhale, rubbing your hands together, trying to shake the feeling she always leaves behind. You tell yourself it’s just nerves, but these days you often find that you lie to yourself for no reason. You knew the truth. That damn smile, it’s addicting.

🥅🏒⛸️

Your team takes home a close victory. It’s not that it was a hard game, but it was intense because Sevika was on the ice with you.

It starts early, little things. A shoulder check that lasts a second too long. A stick tapping your skate just hard enough to be deliberate. You return the favor by riding her into the boards, leaning in close enough that your helmets knock together.

“Careful,” you mutter under your breath. “You keep skating that close, people might think you like me.”

She grins, breath warm against your cheek. “Maybe I do,” she says sweetly, before twisting out of your grip and stealing the puck.

Later, she cuts across the ice and you collide, hip-to-hip, the impact rattling your teeth. You catch yourself on the boards and hear her laugh as she glides past. “Too slow, sweetheart.” 

You chase her down the ice out of pure spite, catching her just before the blue line, knocking her away from your goalie as you whisper, “just not as good as me, too bad.” And you take the puck from her, racing down the ice to her side to score a goal for your team. 

Neither bench intervenes as you keep increasing how rough you’re being. The refs don’t either. It never quite crosses the line. You don’t drop gloves and no whistles are blown. It’s just tension stretched thin as you slowly start understanding that this is something else entirely between the two of you. 

By the third period, it’s basically just a private game between the two of you layered on top of the real one. Every check is too intentional. Every glance lingers just long enough that you start to feel it in your lower belly, a heat simmering just enough to make you sweat. Your teammates start giving you weird looks, hers only encourage the violence, probably waiting for gloves to hit the ice and a real showdown to start. None of them hear the sly, flirty remarks you make to each other. They think the rivalry is real.

When the final buzzer sounds and your team takes it by one, the rink erupts. What a way to start off the season. But you barely notice. All you can think about is how Sevika should look more upset about their loss.

🥅🏒⛸️

Later that night, once you’re back in your high-rise apartment, shoes kicked off, workout clothes halfway stripped off, adrenaline still humming quietly under your skin, your phone buzzes. A small bundle of texts.

Ivan:

In bed?

Without invite me over

Is not nice

You stare at the screen longer than you should. A smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it. You shouldn’t want to play along, you shouldn’t want anything from her until she apologizes properly, but the chemistry between you two is a living thing. Not even her Russian ignorance can deny that. 

You type back anyway. 

Shawn:

Wouldn’t you like to know

She reads it immediately, but doesn’t respond right away. Those few seconds stretch out, slow and electric. Your chest tightens, worried that she’d take it too seriously, not in the playful way you meant. Your fingers twitch. You get up without thinking, pacing your living room, straightening things that are perfectly aligned. A habit you can’t break when your nerves spike.

Ivan:

I could keep company?

Your breath catches, mind running wild with possibilities, very explicit possibilities at that. You’re already typing a yes—already recalling your moments from the first night you spent together last season—when your phone rings.

Anita.

You freeze, thumb hovering over the keyboard. You answer, and she’s shouting over bar noise, telling you she, Jackie, and a handful of the other girls on the team are on their way to your place. They’re dragging you out to celebrate that win whether you like it or not. 

A wave of disappointment hits you so fast it almost knocks you off balance. You wanted to see where this would go. What she would do to you. What you would do to her. But you know your teammates, once they decide something, it’s happening. You swallow the feeling and head to your closet. 

Shawn:

Change of plans

Going out tonight

Anita will be here soon, sorry

Her reply comes fast.

Ivan:

Uh oh

You pause halfway through pulling your pants up, brow furrowing. Why uh oh? You text back. 

Shawn:

You’ll still be here tomorrow, right? You could come then

Her response is unbelievable, typical of her, but it makes you hot just the same. 

Ivan:

Already here

Russian charm

Old lady let me in on way out

You blink. Then laugh, a startled, shocked sound. Russian charm. Sure. More like some sweet old lady saw a tall, lost woman and assumed she needed help getting back in the building. Still, she’s here. In your building. 

Your pulse spikes. 

Shawn: 

You can’t be here

Anita will be here any minute

Plus, you don’t know my room number anyway

A small beat, then another unbelievable comment from her. 

Ivan:

I ask desk

They already tell me

Your stomach drops. You rush to the front door, outfit half-adjusted, hair barely fixed, and yank it open. The hallway is empty. Silent. But you know it won’t be that way for much longer. 

Anita:

We’re here! Elevator going up now!

You stare at the screen, mind reeling. They’re about to arrive at the same damn time. And Sevika is somewhere on your floor, or about to be. 

These two worlds cannot collide. 

🥅🏒⛸️

Everything happens at once. 

At the far end of the hall, the stairwell door creaks open. Sevika steps through, tall and broad-shouldered, hood up, hair messy from the friction. She freezes the moment she sees you, one foot still on the last step, like she’s been caught mid-crime. 

At the same time, the elevator dings.

The doors slide open. Anita, Jackie, and two other teammates spill out, loud and laughing, until they see her. The laughter dies instantly. Anita’s face twists into something sharp. Jackie narrows her eyes. The others exchange looks that aren’t subtle at all, though you know they’re not meant to be.

Sevika straightens, shoulders tensing, expression flattening into that cold, unreadable mask she uses when she feels like she’s about to be beat. It’s the same look you’ve seen on the ice while watching her play other teams, when the scores are too close. She flicks her gaze from your teammates to you, then back again, calculating her next move. 

You can practically hear the gears turning in her head. Anita steps forward, chin lifted. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Sevika doesn’t flinch at the cruel tone, doesn’t blink, she’s used to it. Aggression doesn’t bother her, and you have a sneaking suspicion she deals with more than you know behind the scenes, hence why she’s so calm and collected when people raise their voice. She just slips her hands into her jacket pockets like she’s bored. “Laundry,” she says, accent thick, tone clipped. “Machine in basement broken. I use one on this floor.”

It’s the worst lie you’ve ever heard. Jackie crosses her arms. “You don’t even live in this building.”

Sevika shrugs. “Friend does.”

Your heart stutters. Your teammates all look at you like you’re supposedly that person. You force your expression into something neutral, something that doesn’t scream panic. You aren’t the friend she’s referring to and they need to know that. 

Anita scoffs. “Right. And you just happened to be on this floor?”

Sevika’s jaw clicks. “I take wrong stairs.” Another terrible lie. 

You can feel the tension tightening like a wire between all of you. Sevika’s eyes flick to you again, quick and almost apologetic, before she looks away. “Is problem?” She asks, like she’s daring Anita to continue.

Anita steps closer, not backing down. “Yeah. Problem is you creeping around on our Captain’s floor like you’re trying to get in her head or taunt her.”

You try to chime in, get this to end now before feelings get too hurt. “Anita—”

But Sevika cuts you off, inhaling deeply like she’s trying to hold herself back. “I am not creeping,” she says. “I am leaving.”

She turns toward the stairwell again, like she truly was just lost on the wrong floor, like she didn’t get the receptionist to give her your exact room. But she hesitates, just for a heartbeat, like she’s waiting for you to say something. Anything. 

You don’t. You can’t. And maybe it’s better that way considering how cruel she was to you before.

Your teammates are right there, watching every micro-expression on your face. So Sevika swallows whatever she was about to say, pushes the door open, and disappears down the stairs without another word. The door slams shut behind her. Anita exhales sharply. “God, she’s such a dick. Seriously, why would she even go out of her way to do that.”

Jackie nods. “That’s what I’m saying. I mean, I know the rivalry is still hot, but stalking you like this is insane.”

You know exactly what she was doing up here. You know she was only here for you, that you were getting ready to invite her over before she did it for herself. But you just force a smile, step out of your apartment, and say, “come on. Let’s go celebrate. She’s just taking the rivalry too serious, the media is getting to her.”

You ache in a way that has nothing to do with hockey or rivalry. You pretend the coldness you sent her way was intentional. You dismissed her. You made her feel small. You acted like her out on the balcony. It wasn’t fair. You know it wasn’t, but you didn’t know what else to do. Because this—whatever is going on between you and her—is dangerous in ways neither of you can afford to name out loud. Not in locker rooms with teammates. Not in arenas in front of fans. Not in a league where every camera could be waiting for a slip, a glance, a rumor. 

No one could know you liked women. No one could know you liked her. You’ve spent years building walls around that truth, burying it so deep you hardly remember what you are. You’ve watched it happen to other players. The headlines. The comments. The fans who turn on them overnight. You’ve seen careers end before they even had a chance to begin. 

So you did what you always do when something threatens the life you’ve built: you shut it down. You shut her down. Even if it meant hurting her. Even if it meant hurting yourself. Because the secret you’re carrying is bigger than you, bigger than her, bigger than any cute moments you’ve shared together. And you won’t risk your sport. Not for a truth that could cost you everything.

…

It’s bound to happen eventually. Playing a sport at this level without ever getting injured either means you’re superhuman or you’re not pushing hard enough. You tell yourself it’s the latter, because you’re always in that constant, exhausting state of needing to do better. So when you tweak your shoulder during practice, your trainer doesn’t even hesitate. “PT facility. Today.”

The league’s shared facility. Which means not just your team. Everyone currently playing in the area who is injured comes here, too. You try not to think about that as you walk in, greet the receptionist, and follow her down a hallway that smells faintly of eucalyptus and disinfectant. The place is nicer than you expected. There’s warm lighting, soft music, nothing like the sterile medical rooms you’d imagined. It helps you relax, just a little. Mostly, you can’t believe you’re here. You always considered yourself above injuries, that you were somehow superhuman because you pushed yourself past your limits every day, but clearly, the truth was less than appealing to you now.

You step into the main PT room and nearly walk right back out. Sevika is there. Alone on one of the treatment tables, an ice pack strapped to her knee, hood pulled low over her brow. She’s scrolling on her phone with that bored, half-focused look she gets when she’s trying not to think too hard. You didn’t know she was injured, though you’re not surprised, because like you, she pushes herself too hard and keeps it hidden. 

But she senses you instantly, oddly enough. Her head snaps up. Her eyes widen, just for a heartbeat, before she smooths her expression into something unreadable. You freeze, stomach dropping down to your ass. Your shoulder suddenly hurts a lot less than the rest of you. The PT guy steps forward, oblivious to the emotional landmine he’s just escorted you into. “Hey there,” he says warmly. “Come on over. We’ll start with some easy stretches, then ice, then reassess. Your trainer said it’s nothing major, so you should be good after a session or two.”

You nod, forcing your attention onto him. Because if you let yourself look at her, you’ll lose the thread of everything else. You won’t have a single interest in healing your shoulder if you turn your head to face her again. 

He guides you to the table across from hers, chatting casually about shoulder mobility, range of motion, and what you should avoid for the next few days. You try to listen. You really do, but you can only do so much, the force of her presence was too strong to deny or avoid.

“Alright,” Greg says after a few minutes, patting your knee. “I’m gonna grab a different resistance band from the supply closet. Don’t move that arm too much while I’m gone.” He walks out, the door closing softly behind him.

Silence settles over the room like a heavy weight. You stare at the floor, trying to regulate your breathing, trying to keep your thoughts in order the way you always do. One thing at a time, one step at a time, routine, routine, routine. It always came down to that. You need it in order to survive, everything in your life would crumble if it changed too much, and this PT session was already pushing it. And at the same time, her presence scrambles everything in your brain, so now you’re double fucked. When you’re not around her, you’d like to consider yourself a fairly normal person, with small quirks, but nothing major. However, the second she enters your proximity, you’re acting as if you’ve never had any human interaction in your life. It was just sad, really sad.

You can feel her watching you, the heat of her gaze prickling across your skin until your cheeks burn. You’re alone, truly alone. No teammates, no coaches, no cameras. Just the two of you together, and that’s somehow much worse than the alternative. 

“What happened?” Sevika finally asks, pulling her hood down. Static lifts strands of her ponytail, making her look softer than she probably wants to. 

You shift carefully on the table, angling your body toward her without jostling your shoulder. “Put too much force into my swing during practice. Tweaked it. Nothing major.”

Her expression flickers. Hints of worry, annoyance, something in between the two, but it’s gone too fast to read. “You come here. That’s good,” she says, setting her phone aside like she’s forcing herself to focus and be present. 

You scoff under your breath. “Only because my trainer made me. I could’ve worked through it.”

Her eyes narrow, like she’s not impressed in the slightest. “You push too hard. Always. Is no good. You get hurt for real one day. You are good player. You do not need to prove anything.”

You’ve heard variations of that your whole life, from coaches, teammates, even your parents, but it never sticks. It never changes the way your brain works. Still, something about the way she says it lands differently. Maybe because she means it, since you know she doesn’t have to say it. “If I’m not giving it everything, then what’s the point?” You mutter. “But… thanks. I guess.” You don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but it’s hard when you hear things over and over even though you can’t force yourself to believe it. 

She stands abruptly, dropping her ice pack onto her table with a soft thud. For a second, you think she’s leaving, but instead she crosses the room and sits beside you. Close, but not touching. She’s careful to avoid your bad shoulder. “The point,” she says quietly, “is you are already good. So rest. Listen to trainer.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Her warmth beside you is comforting in a way you don’t want to examine too closely. “Thanks, Sevi—”

“Iskra.” She cuts you off sharply, the word tight, almost pained. 

You blink. “Right. Sorry. I forgot.”

She doesn’t respond. Her jaw works, eyes darting between you and the door Greg disappeared through, like she’s bracing for someone to walk in and ruin this fragile moment. You worry you crossed some invisible line, touched a nerve you didn’t know was exposed. Whatever the name Sevika belonged to, whatever history it carried, she clearly doesn’t want it spoken aloud. 

But she doesn’t pull away, and she doesn’t leave. Instead, after a long, tense pause, she exhales. Like she’s shoving all negative ties to that name to the side and trying to remain in the present with you. “I was wrong,” she says, voice low and rough. “On balcony. I say bad things. I was… angry. Angry because my father was angry with me for not winning. And when I am angry, I say worse things. I push people away. Is easier.”

Your chest tightens. She swallows hard, eyes fixed on the floor. “I hurt you because I was hurt. Is stupid. Is not fair. I am sorry.” The words sound dragged out of her, like they cost something to say. “I hope,” she hesitates, breath catching. “I hope one day you can forgive.”

You don’t answer right away. You can’t. Your brain is still trying to reorder itself around the fact she’s here, apologizing, letting you see the vulnerable side she hides from everyone else. And with no prompting as well, completely on her own accord.

You sit side by side on the table, close enough that your knees almost touch. The room feels too quiet, too warm, too full of everything you haven’t said yet. You clear your throat, trying to sound casual even though your pulse is hammering. “Well… maybe I could forgive you. But remind me,” you tilt your head, pretending to tease, “that night was ‘just fun,’ right?” It comes out lighter than you feel, half-joke, half-plea for reassurance.

Sevika’s lips press into a thin, guilty line. She looks down for a second, like she’s bracing herself, then back at you. “Was fun,” she admits softly. “But,” her hand lifts, slow and extremely hesitant, like she’s afraid you’ll flinch. She brushes the back of her fingers along your cheek. “Was more than that too.” You feel your stomach clench at her touch. “You are beautiful, talented woman,” she murmurs, accent thickening with sincerity. “I like night we spent together. And I like talking to you.”

You lean into her touch before you can stop yourself, warmth blooming under your skin. “That’s a start,” you say quietly, trying to keep your voice steady so you don’t give yourself away. “But I still expect a lot more if I’m supposed to forgive you.”

When you look up, she’s already watching you, closely, eyes flicking down to your mouth and back again. She doesn’t move in, not yet, and somehow the waiting is hotter than the act itself. 

She nods once, slow. “Is okay. I make it up to you.” Her fingers slide gently to your chin, holding it with surprising care. “I do whatever you want before I leave for game.” There’s a smirk there, yes, but underneath it, something real that she’s not saying out loud.

And you melt. You always fucking melt when it comes to her. It’s the one part of your life where losing control doesn’t terrify you. Where letting someone else take the lead doesn’t feel like failure. She seems to know that, not to use it against you, but simply to hold it. 

“We’ll see,” you whisper, vision softening as you wait for her to close the distance before Greg returns and shatters the moment. 

Sevika hums, low in her chest, and finally leans in. Her lips meet yours gently, carefully, like she’s afraid of hurting your shoulder or pushing too far too fast. You brace your good hand on her hip, awkward but determined, refusing to break away even for a better angle. 

She pulls back first, not far, just enough to look at you. Her expression is warm, and slightly playful, which makes you smile back at her. You feel floaty, like today is turning out to be a really great one. “I come over tonight,” she tells you. “Take care of you.” Her mouth twitches into something more suggestive, but still sincere. “Poor broken woman. You need me.”

You can’t tell if she’s joking. You’re not sure she knows either. But the idea of someone taking care of you—of her taking care of you—sends a warm, dizzy feeling through your stomach. You’ve always been independent to a fault, always held everything together yourself, yet with her, it feels different. And that scares you almost as much as it thrills you.

🥅🏒⛸️

By the time the PT guy returns, Sevika is already back on her table, ice pack abandoned beside her like she forgot it existed. She’s hunched over her phone, hood half-fallen, pretending to scroll, but the only thing she’s doing is texting you. 

Your screen lights up beside you.

Ivan:

Your face always so red when I touch

Is cute

Your breathing changes, and not from the intensity of the stretches. You can’t reach for your phone, your arm is pinched in a stretch, so you just stare at the glowing message until it fades, cheeks burning even hotter than before. 

Greg works through the last few mobility tests, nodding approvingly. “Not bad. Come back in a few days so I can check again once the inflammation goes down some.” 

You nod, trying to look normal, trying not to think about the woman ten feet away who just texted you about your face turning red when she was the cause. When Greg finally waves you off, you grab your phone, another message already waiting. 

Ivan:

Cold plunge room. Come before you leave.

You don’t even pretend to hesitate. You head straight there. The cold plunge room is dimmer, quieter, the air thick with the sharp scent of chlorine and cold metal. When you push the door open, you freeze momentarily. 

Sevika stands on a rubber mat, dripping from the plunge pool, hair slicked back, tank top clinging to her shoulders. She looks like she walked out of a training montage, muscles glinting from the water, pure sex appeal. 

You shut the door quickly, too quickly, and plant yourself in front of it like you’re guarding a vault. And in a way, she is something like expensive goods to you, not meant to be touched or seen by others. She laughs under her breath. “Why scared. No one is here.”

You swallow. “Just, making sure.”

She tilts her head, eyes dragging over you in a way that makes your pulse jump. It almost makes you say to hell with keeping this thing between you a secret, you’re ready to jump on her right here, but you know you can’t. “You come fast.”

Your eyes damn near bust out of your head, a choked sound falling past your lips as you watch her face remain completely serious, making you feel stupid from how you interpreted her words. You roll your eyes, trying to cover it up, trying to hide how breathless you feel. “You told me to.”

“Yeah,” she says, stepping closer, water dripping down her arms. “You listen good.”

You open your mouth to retort, but she reaches out first, not touching you, just hooking a finger under the strap of your gym bag and tugging you one step closer. “Shoulder feel better?” She asks, voice playful now.

“Yeah,” you manage. “Greg said it’s fine.”

“Good.” She nods, satisfied. “I do not want you broken before I beat you next game,” she pauses to smirk at you, “and before I ruin you tonight.”

You gasp, then force a laugh at the sheer bluntness of her statement. “You’re impossible. I wonder if you do that on purpose, just to get a rise out of me, or if you really just like to be so blunt.”

“You like impossible, and I like to be blunt.”

You do. Gods, you really do. Especially when it’s her. 

She steps back, grabbing a towel from the bench and rubs it over her hair. “I go shower. You go home. Rest shoulder.”

You blink, thrown off by the complete change up from flirty behavior. “That’s it? You told me to come in here just to say that?”

She shrugs, tossing the towel over her shoulder. “Maybe.”

You narrow your eyes, unable to read her. “Maybe?”

She walks past you toward the door, and just as she reaches for the handle, she pauses, turns, and looks at you with that unreadable, dangerous softness she only shows when no one else is around. Then she flicks a single droplet of cold water at your cheek with her fingers. 

You gasp, mouth slightly agape. “Did you just—?”

She grins, a real grin, amused and wicked. “You look cute when surprised.”

You swipe at your cheek, overly flustered, and entirely unsure of what the hell you’re getting yourself into with her. “You’re ridiculous.”

She opens the door halfway, then glances back one more time. “Tonight,” she says, more sincere this time. “I come take care of you, in all ways.”

Your heart stumbles, picking up speed in your chest as you imagine all the ways she might take care of you tonight. Maybe she’d even cook you dinner. You kinda liked the thought of that. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” Simple, direct, absolutely no room for misinterpretation. 

Then she slips out the door, leaving a trail of wet footprints and your pulse racing in your throat like you just spent the whole night skating on the ice. You stand there for a long moment, staring at the empty doorway, trying to gather your thoughts back into something resembling order. Routine, control, predictability. It all went out the door when she showed up in your life. And you still don’t know whether you should love it or hate it.