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Ilya Rozanov knew he was destined for greatness. 

He’s known it since he was 16, and Duke University’s legendary coach, Brad Wilson, showed up in a freezing, half-lit gym in Moscow that smelled like rubber and stale sweat baked into the floorboards.

He knew the prominent coach would be there, and his own coach pulled him aside days before, looking at him intently and with the look he had grown to know as his “game face.”

“Play like this decides your life,” he said in Russian. “Not just the game. Your life.”

Ilya did.

He played that game like it was a ticket to heaven, as if he’d be immediately thrown to hell if he didn’t do his fucking best. 

He dropped twenty points that night like it was nothing, moving faster than the other boys could think, cutting through them like they were barely there. Every shot felt inevitable right off his fingertips. He made it look easy—effortless, even—as if gravity didn’t quite apply to him, the way it didn’t seem to apply to LeBron James when Ilya used to watch him on a cracked laptop at three in the morning.

Of course, he was thrilled when Wilson approached him and his coach after the game, and Ilya could hear the slight hysteria in his voice even with the limited English he knew. 

Still, when his coach called him over, Ilya wiped his hands on his jersey and forced himself to walk, not run.

“…hell of a game… unbelievable footwork… sixteen, right?”

Ilya nodded, swallowing, his heart pounding harder now than it had during the game.

“Yes. Sixteen.”

“You ever thought about playing in the States?”

Ilya hesitated for half a second, just long enough to be polite. “Yes,” he said, his accent thick but steady. “I will.”

Wilson let out a quiet laugh at that, glancing briefly at Ilya’s coach before looking back at him.

“Confident. I like that.”

Later, his coach told him what he didn’t understand because of the rapid English.

“He wants you,” he said simply. “He will push for you.”

That's when Ilya knew it was a done deal. He was going to play for Duke University, one of the best college basketball teams. He would turn eighteen, move to North Carolina, and everything would fall into place exactly the way it was supposed to. He would win a championship in his freshman year. He would be a hero to them, and he’d have his name up on a plate somewhere. 

He would declare for the draft immediately after, and would be the number one pick.

He would be rich: he would collect fast cars, live in a glamorous city, get girls, buy diamonds just because he could, and go on lavish vacations surrounded by beautiful women.

He would terrorize the league. The commentators and fans would make up a stupid nickname for him, like “the Russian terror” or something, and he would become a legendary Hall of Famer in the NBA.

Yes, he could see it.

Ilya Rozanov, next to the greats of basketball.

Ilya Rozanov, the basketball legend, no longer just the son of an abusive asshole and a beautiful woman who died being sad. 

He was going to leave Russia behind in his rearview mirror with a fucking smile on his face. He’d be independent. 

That was the plan. 

He woke before sunrise to run drills in empty gyms and outside, breath fogging in the cold, fingers numb before they warmed up around the ball. He trained with his coaches, who rode him hard. He played through injuries because no one could tell him to stop. 

Not even Svetlana, his childhood best friend and the only bright spot in his life after his mom died, could stop him from his obsessive training. She always frowned when he talked about it, but he knew she was supportive. They had planned to head to Duke together, but that was impossible because Svetlana would have to wait until her second year to transfer. 

It was his plan going into signing a contract with Duke that had a clause that he could declare for the draft anytime he wanted, and he could sign endorsement deals as long as it was approved by Duke. 

It was his plan when he packed his suitcases, leaving behind a cramped apartment, a broken kitchen chair, and a life he had already decided didn’t belong to him anymore. 

Leaving behind his father, who looked at him with displeasure, and his brother, who looked at him with jealousy. 

It was his plan when he arrived in North Carolina and at Duke. 

Duke was different in a good way.

The gyms were spotless, the floors polished to a shine, and training was easy for Ilya. Everything was bigger and better. He had weight rooms that never closed, athletic trainers who applied KT tape to his knees and shoulders just right, assistant coaches who catered to his every need, and equipment that actually worked for him. 

People knew his name before he even introduced himself. By the end of his first week, local and student reporters from Duke were already writing about him.

By the end of his first month, they were saying he might be the missing piece that brought Duke everything.

He got invited to parties he didn’t bother remembering, made friends easily without trying, and learned quickly how people looked at him here, like he was already something important. 

Girls loved him, and he loved them too. Everyone loved him, and he let them—because it was part of the plan. Everything was all going according to plan. 

But what was that saying? 

Something about man planning and god laughing.

But he should’ve known that planning something didn’t guarantee it would happen. It didn’t account for other variables. Other people. For his feelings changing, for his heart, for anything that could derail his plan. 

For someone like an upperclassman named Shane Hollander.

 __________________

October 2023

The team has been practicing every day since late September, and Ilya’s thriving. He can feel it in the way the offense shifts when he has the ball, in the way plays bend around him, and just how well he plays during scrimmages. 

Coach Wilson likes him, and he can tell he even favors him a little more than the others, even the upperclassmen. Wilson runs sets through him more often than not, even when upperclassmen are on the floor. He lets Ilya bring the ball up, call adjustments, and take the last shot.

Technically, he is a shooting guard, but in reality, he plays wherever he feels needed.

If the possession needs a point guard, he becomes one. He controls the pace, directs traffic, and snaps orders that people actually listen to. If it needs a shooting guard, he is already cutting through defenders before they can react, already setting himself up for the shot. He blocks shots on breakaways or deflects passes when the opportunity presents itself. 

It was easy for him. Too easy.

His teammates were also pretty chill. They got along well. Most of them were fine with the freshman who came in like he owned the court because they knew Ilya was not just any freshman; he was a generational talent that was going to lead the team back to the National Championship. 

They joked with him in the locker room, passed him the ball without hesitation, and trusted him to make something happen when plays broke down.

There were a few who didn’t like him, whether for his arrogant attitude or his smirks, his flirty ways, his basketball skills, or the way their coach favored him, or the fact that they all knew he was planning to be one-and-done.

But there is no one who hates him more than Blake Ryan. The junior spent years working toward being a leader on the team, someone the coaching staff could rely on, someone the younger players were supposed to look up to.

He is a good player, Ilya can admit that. He understands systems, executes plays as drawn up, and rarely makes careless mistakes. 

But since day one of practice, it has been clear as day that Ryan is not on the same level as Ilya. Not even close. 

Everyone knows it. Especially Ryan. 

Ilya knows Ryan is bitter that a freshman eclipsed him before the season even began. Ilya can see it in the way he played tighter when they were matched up, in the way his jaw set when Wilson called a play for Ilya instead of him.

Still, none of it bothered him. He didn’t feel threatened, and he didn’t feel guilty. As far as he was concerned, this was exactly how things were supposed to unfold. 

Ryan was a good player, but Ilya was a generationally talented player. So the team naturally shifted around him. That was how basketball worked. That was how everything worked.

He isn’t going to step back to make someone else more comfortable. He isn’t going to pretend that Ryan deserves something he can’t earn for himself. Not even if Ryan glares at him and tries to leave him out of team activities.

Ilya knows what he is capable of, and he knows what this season is going to look like. He is going to take Duke further than they have been in years, and he is going to do it in a way that makes it impossible for anyone to ignore him. By the time the season ends, there won’t be any question about who is the most important player on the team, or who carried them when it mattered.

With that in mind, Blake Ryan doesn’t feel like an obstacle to him.

Ilya takes a sip of his water as sweat drips down his body onto the polished wooden court. The air in the gym is thick, humid from hours of drills. His ears are ringing from the sounds of practice—sharp whistles, squeaking sneakers, and percussive basketballs—as he tries to catch his breath.

Glancing around the court, he sees his teammates are also trying to recover with hands on knees, heads tilted back, some already laughing, others too tired to speak.

“Great practice, everyone,” one of the assistant coaches, Hunter, claps his hands. “We’ll see you all tomorrow. Get outta here.”

“Rozanov, wait up.” 

Ilya looks up as Hunter turns toward him.

“Coach wants to speak with you,” Hunter barks. “Give it about ten minutes, yeah?” The assistant coach has a look of amusement on his face, meaning it’s most likely about something unrelated to basketball. 

Ilya pauses. “About what?”

The assistant coach gives him a knowing look. “About your lifestyle, I think,” he says as he reaches him.

“Lifestyle?” He frowns. He isn’t that great at English, but he knows more than enough. He still has a lot to study, though.

“Yes, Coach is not happy with your choices,” Hunter says.

“What choices?” Ilya questions carefully. “You are not clear.”

Hunter lets out a small breath, rolling his eyes like he doesn’t feel like explaining. “Just stay after. He’ll tell you himself.”

Ilya shrugs once, accepting that.

He stays on the court as his teammates begin to filter out, one by one. A few of them call out to him on their way to the locker room, some giving him quick nods, others tossing him casual remarks about practice. He responds easily, without thinking much about it.

Ilya is dribbling a basketball, letting his mind wander, when he hears a voice coming from behind him.

“Er, excuse me?”

Ilya turns around and palms the basketball. For a second, words escape him.  

He feels his heart do little skips that he ignores for the moment. 

The guy standing a few feet away from him looks out of place in the gym. He’s wearing a soft green sweatshirt, khakis, and a white backpack slung over his back like he just came from the library. He looks like he actually came to Duke to study. 

His expression is a little uncertain, like he isn’t sure if he is interrupting something.

But it’s his freckles that catch Ilya’s attention. They are scattered around his cheeks like faint little stars. That’s not something Ilya usually stops to notice.

He swallows lightly before answering. “Yes?”

“Is basketball practice over?” the guy asks.

Ilya replies. “Yes. Is over.” He tilts his head slightly, studying him more openly now. “You are looking for someone?”

“Yeah,” the guy says, glancing past him to look around the court before his gaze returns to Ilya’s face. “But, um… It’s okay. Sorry for interrupting. I’ll just wait outside.”

He gives Ilya a small, slightly nervous smile, then turns and hurries back out of the gym.

Ilya watches him go for a second longer than necessary before turning to attempt a three-pointer. The ball flies wide left and bounces to the corner of the gym.

Shaking the interaction from his mind, he heads to Wilson’s office. 

The coach is already waiting for him. “Rozanov,” he says gruffly.

Ilya smirks faintly, completely unbothered by the tone. He isn’t afraid of his coach—not even a little. If anything, their dynamic always leaned more toward something relaxed, almost informal. Wilson trusts him, favors him, and Ilya knows it. The man took him under his wing from the moment he arrived, guiding him, pushing him, even connecting him with agents who could help him later on if he ever wanted to do endorsements. 

“Yes, yes. Am here,” Ilya says casually as he walks in and drops into the chair across from him without waiting to be told.

Wilson exhales slowly, studying him for a moment before speaking. “Ilya,” he starts, his tone more measured now, “you know I have a lot of faith in you.”

Ilya leans back slightly, one arm resting on the chair, already expecting where this is going.

“But your off-court conduct is already concerning, and the season hasn’t even started.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow.

As far as he is concerned, nothing he is doing is unusual. He goes to parties. He drinks. He sleeps with whomever he wants, whenever he wants. Sometimes that means different girls every weekend, sometimes it means keeping a few around longer. It’s college. It’s expected.

“My conduct?” Ilya repeats, expecting his coach to elaborate. 

“You’re going too hard,” he says. “I get it—you’re the new guy, you’ve got the cool accent, everyone knows who you are, people want you at every party. I understand that. I was in college once, too.”

He leans forward slightly. “But you can’t be getting blackout drunk every weekend. And you definitely can’t be missing weekend practice because you’re hungover. That’s not acceptable.”

Ilya listens carefully, focusing on each word as it comes. The English is fast, but he follows well enough.

“And on top of that,” Wilson continues, “you’re not even allowed to be drinking. You’re 18. Technically, I should be reporting that.” He pauses, letting that settle. “I’m not going to. But you need to rein it in.”

Ilya nods slowly, processing.

“Okay,” he says. “No blackout drunk. No missing practice on weekends. I understand.”

Wilson holds his gaze for a second, making sure his message sticks, then nods once. “Good.”

There is a brief pause before he adds, “And you need to start listening to your captain more. He’s already come to me about you—said you’ve been too mouthy.”

Ilya lets out a quiet huff at that.

Ethan Crowley, the team captain, is a senior and, in Ilya’s opinion, painfully boring. He takes everything too seriously, talks too much about discipline and structure, and seems to think it was his personal responsibility to correct Ilya every time he steps even slightly out of line.

“He is captain for a reason,” Wilson continues.

Ilya doesn’t respond right away, but the look on his face says enough.

Wilson exhales again, shifting direction. “You need to be a little more like some of the other guys.”

Ilya leans back in his chair. “Like who?”

“Like Colin,” Wilson says. “He’s solid. Reliable. He shows up, does his job, and doesn’t cause problems. He’s already a junior.”

Ilya makes a face without even trying to hide it. “Colin is not good,” he says bluntly. “I do not want to be benchwarmer like him.”

Wilson fights off a chuckle because he doesn’t want to encourage the young star. “No, I mean his behavior,” he says. “He’s hardworking, he shows up to all the practices, and as far as I know, he doesn’t party at all.”

“You know this how?” Ilya asks. “You stalk us?”

“What do you think Hunter does?” Wilson raises an eyebrow. “He tells me everything he hears about the team.”

Of course, boring old Scott Hunter is Wilson’s spy. Ilya can’t help but scoff.

“Ok, so you want me to be boring Colin,” he says.

“Not exactly like him, just be a little more tame,” Wilson says. “Maybe find a partner like him to ground yourself?”

“Partner?” Ilya frowns. “Like class?”

“No, no like um… girlfriend?” Wilson says tentatively. “Or boyfriend! Whatever you’re into. We don’t discriminate. Colin has a boyfriend, if what Hunter told me is true.”

Ilya’s eyes widen. “Boyfriend? He is gay?” He blurts out.

Wilson shrugs. “I don’t know. Hunter thinks so. Doesn’t matter either way.”

He waves it off like it’s irrelevant.

“Point is—just be smarter about what you’re doing. You’re too important to this team to be messing it up over something like this.”

Ilya nods. “Yes, coach.”

_____________________

“Hey, Ilya, wanna go to a party with me on Halloween?” Troy Barrett, his roommate, asks him later that night. 

Ilya looks up from where he is stretched out on his bed, one arm behind his head. He considers it for a moment instead of answering right away.

Troy has become a good friend of his. He is a freshman like him, an economics major, and is on the football team. Ilya was given the option to have a room to himself, but he turned it down. He didn’t want the silence, didn’t want to come back after long practices to an empty space. 

He knew he could rely on Sveta for some company, but the time difference was atrocious, and he didn’t want to burden her with the responsibility of making him feel less lonely.

So he chose to room with someone. He was initially wary of sharing a room, but Troy has made it easy.

He is respectful of space, keeps things clean, and knows when to talk and when not to. He is also fun, in a relaxed, uncomplicated way. Also, he never complains when Ilya brings girls back.

“Party?” Ilya asks, raising an eyebrow.

 Ilya heard about Halloween, even if it wasn’t commonly celebrated in Moscow. Something about satanic rituals. If what he’s seen in movies is true, Halloween parties are a completely different beast from the usual parties. 

After the conversation with Wilson earlier, he finds himself thinking a little more carefully than he normally would. Not enough to say no, but enough to pause.

“Yeah,” Troy says, already grinning. “One of the frats my teammate is in. They throw these huge Halloween parties every year, like, actually insane ragers.” 

Wilson’s voice lingers faintly in the back of his mind—you can’t be blackout drunk every weekend—but Ilya brushes it aside just as quickly. He wasn’t being told not to go. Just to be smarter.

He can manage that.

“Okay, yes, I will go,” he says. “You dress up?” 

“Mhm, I’m going to be Indiana Jones,” Troy says with a smirk. 

Ilya nods slowly, evaluating the idea. “Indiana Jones? Movie where Russia is villian? Ok.”

Troy laughs. “Cmon, man. It’s not like that. I just want to carry around a whip,” he winks. “What about you?”

Ilya shrugs slightly. “Did not think about it yet.” He tilts his head a little. “You have ideas?”

Troy thinks for a second, then snaps his fingers. “Actually, you should come shopping with my boyfriend and me. We’re going this week anyway.”

Ilya blinks. “Boyfriend?” he repeats, sitting up a little more. “You have a boyfriend?”

Troy pauses, clearly thrown off by the reaction. “Yeah…?” he says slowly. “Harris. He’s been here a bunch of times.”

Ilya frowns slightly as he thinks about it.

He knows Harris. He’s seen him around the dorm often enough—usually talking, always animated, always with something to say. He is a sophomore journalism major and is easy to get along with. Ilya didn’t know him well, but he liked him well enough.

He had just never made that connection.

“I thought he was just a friend,” he said. “You did not say—” He paused, then shook his head faintly. “I did not know.”

Troy’s posture shifted almost immediately, his expression tightening just a little. “Do you have a problem with it?”

The question came out sharper than before.

Ilya straightens slightly. “No. No, I do not,” he says quickly. “Is not a problem.”

He hesitates for a moment, trying to find the right words in English.

“I am just… surprised,” he admits. “You are very open about it.”

Troy’s expression eases, but he still watches him carefully.

“My coach tell me one of my teammates also has boyfriend,” Ilya continues. “Is surprising. In Russia, is not something people say openly, very dangerous. Here, I also think maybe athletes would have difficult time.”

Troy lets out a small breath, the tension leaving his shoulders.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah. I get that.” He leans back slightly, more relaxed now. “But dude, you’re in the US now. I mean… It’s not a big deal. At least it shouldn’t be.”

Ilya listens intently, waiting for him to continue.

“It’s kind of lame to hide it, in my opinion,” Troy goes on. “It’s 2023. If someone is homophobic, it’s just easier to fight back. Like, what are we supposed to do—pretend we don’t exist? Hide?”

Ilya doesn’t answer right away. He is still thinking about it, turning the conversation over in his mind more carefully than he lets on.

He has known for a long time that he liked boys, too. It isn’t something he questions anymore, and it isn’t something he feels ashamed of. It simply has always been there, something he accepts the same way he accepts everything else about himself.

Growing up in Russia, he didn’t dream of ever exploring that side of him; he knew he risked his life if he were found out. His father would personally kill him, and his brother would be all too happy to help him do it.

But in America, he knows it is more open. People are more willing to let others exist as they are. It isn’t literally illegal to be gay. He had understood that much even before he arrived.

But there’s a difference between what a place allows and what people actually do.

And in his mind, being an NBA prospect means being constantly watched, constantly judged, and that means there are still limits. Certain things he couldn’t say out loud. Certain things he couldn’t risk, no matter how normal they supposedly are.

But seeing Troy and maybe one of his own teammates have boyfriends makes him feel a little better about his bisexuality. 

“Hmm,” he says finally. “This makes sense.”

Troy smiles a little. “Yeah. So—shopping with us?”

Ilya glances back at him, a small, easy smirk returning to his face.

“Ok,” he says. “I will go.”

_________________

Ilya is feeling really fucking good about himself.

He looks hot as fuck in his gladiator costume, and he knows it. The leather sits right on his shoulders, the gold details catching the flashing lights every time he moves. It isn’t subtle, but he doesn’t do subtle.

He could feel people staring the moment he walked into the frat house with Troy and Harris. Mostly girls. Some not. It doesn’t matter. He notices it all the same, the way conversations dip slightly as he passes, the way heads turn just a little too fast, pretending they hadn’t been looking.

He is used to that by now.

Some of his teammates are supposed to show up later, but for now, he stays with Troy and Harris as they move through the crowded house. The music is loud, the bass heavy enough that he can feel it in his chest, bodies are packed together under flashing lights that make everything blur at the edges.

His goal is simple.

Don’t get blackout drunk. Maybe go home with someone worth it. Show up to practice the next morning without looking like shit.

They make their way over to where the drinks were, pushing through people until they find a small pocket of space.

“I think I see my friends,” Harris shouts over the music, leaning closer so they can hear him. “Can I wave them over?”

Troy nods immediately. “Yeah, go for it.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t really care much for Harris’ friends. He mentioned that they were going to be there too, but they are all probably nerds writing for the student newspaper. The reporters at the student newspaper have been asking him to do another profile, but he really didn’t want to do it yet. He let them do one back in August, just a quick blurb. 

He doesn’t mind the attention—in fact, he likes it—but he also understands the value of holding something back. He wants to have a little mystery, too. He doesn’t want to give them everything before he even plays a real game.

Still, he can’t complain.

Things are going exactly the way he wanted. Practice is going well. He is getting better every day. People are noticing him. His life feels easy in a way it never had before.

Yes, sometimes he skips classes, but a C is a passing grade, and as long as he has that, he doesn’t care.

Harris waves his friends over, and Ilya glances up, more out of habit than interest.

Two people walk over, and at first, Ilya can’t make out their faces clearly. The lighting in the frat house keeps shifting, flashes of neon and shadow cutting across them as they move through the crowd, making it difficult to focus on anything for more than a second.

Still, something about one of them catches his attention almost immediately. The recognition comes before he can fully place why, a subtle familiarity settling in before the details come into focus. As they get closer, it becomes obvious.

It is the guy from the gym. The one who came in after practice a couple of weeks ago, asking if they were done.

Ilya straightens slightly without meaning to, his attention sharpening. He can’t see the freckles he remembers so clearly from before, not with the lighting constantly shifting, but he doesn’t need to. He knows it is him.

Something about the guy just makes Ilya more aware and maybe makes his insides trip a little. 

This time, though, his focus shifts almost instantly to something else. His costume. 

He has no idea what he is dressed up as, but he looks hot.

“Shane! Rose! I’m so glad you guys are here!” Harris shouts over the loud music. 

Shane and Rose smile widely as they greet him back enthusiastically. Ilya knows Rose, too. She is one of the reporters who is hounding him for a profile.

“Oh, this is Ilya Rozanov,” Harris goes on, clearly enjoying himself. “But you guys probably already knew that. Especially you, Rose.” There is a teasing edge to his voice. “Ilya, this is Shane, and this is Rose.”

Rose laughs at Harris’s teasing. “Yeah, I think everyone knows who he is at this point.”

Ilya gives a small, polite nod in acknowledgment, but his attention snaps right back to Shane.

“I think we have met before,” he says, his tone calm, like it isn’t something he has thought about more than once. “In the gym.”

Shane blinks for a second, clearly trying to place it, then his expression lights up slightly.

“Oh, yeah. After practice, right?”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “You look for someone?”

Shane nods. “Yeah, I think I had the wrong time or something. I didn’t realize you guys would still be in there.”

Ilya tilts his head slightly, studying him. “You come to games?”

“Sometimes,” Shane says. “Mostly when I have time, and it’s a home game.”

“You should come a lot this season,” Ilya replies, the faintest hint of a smirk pulling at his mouth. “We are going to be very good.”

Troy lets out a short laugh beside him. “He means he’s going to be very fucking good.”

Ilya doesn’t even glance at him. “That too,” he smiles.

Shane laughs, shaking his head a little. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Rose jumped in before anyone could say something else. “You should let me interview you again, actually. You’ve been dodging me for weeks.”

“I am not dodging,” Ilya says, finally shifting his attention to her. “I am just… what’s the word… selective.”

“Selective,” she repeats, clearly amused. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I do not want to say everything before the season starts,” he adds. “It is better if people are curious.”

“That’s annoyingly smart,” she admits.

“I am usually very smart,” Ilya says without hesitation.

Troy snorts quietly at that, while Harris just shakes his head like he expected that answer.

Shane smiles again, more to himself this time, like he is entertained but not particularly invested in the back-and-forth. He doesn’t seem affected by Ilya’s tone at all, which, if anything, makes Ilya pay more attention to him.

Most people react to him enthusiastically, but Shane doesn’t.

“So what are you supposed to be?” Ilya asks, gesturing lightly toward his costume.

Shane glances down at himself, as if he had almost forgotten about it. “Oh—uh, kind of a last-minute thing. It’s not really anything specific.”

“It works,” Ilya says, his voice lower now, more deliberate. “You do not need something specific.”

Shane looks back up at him, a little surprised, but then just smiles, clearly taking it as a casual comment rather than anything more. “Thanks.”

Before the moment could stretch, Shane’s attention shifts suddenly past Ilya’s shoulder.

“Oh—there he is,” he says softly, but Ilya could hear it because he was paying attention to him too closely.

His entire expression changed slightly, “I’ll be right back,” he said quickly to Harris and Rose, already stepping away.

Ilya turns instinctively, following his line of sight.

Across the room, weaving through the crowd, is someone he recognizes immediately.

It's Colin, and it takes less than a second for the connection to settle into place for Ilya.

Shane moves toward him easily, without hesitation, and when they reach each other, the familiarity between them is obvious before they even kiss.

Ilya watches them for a moment, his expression unreadable.

So that’s it.

Shane is Colin’s boyfriend, the boyfriend his coach mentioned. 

Of all the people.

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose, amusement flickering in his eyes, before reaching for his drink again. 

_____________

November 2023

Ilya does not think about Shane much after their brief run-in at the party.

Whatever he felt in that moment—the brief flicker of interest, the way his attention sharpened unexpectedly—he dismissed it easily. It was nothing more than the atmosphere, the noise, the alcohol, and the way everything felt heightened during his first taste of “Halloweekend.”

It was a fluke.

He is too damn busy with everything else. He doesn’t have time to wonder about a junior he barely knows. 

The season is starting soon, and the hype on campus is palpable. Their practices have intensified tenfold with sky-high expectations for the team and even higher for him. Duke hasn’t been living up to their Blue Blood reputation in the past few seasons, and Ilya intends to set the tone for the season in their first game against Dartmouth.

Total Rozanov takeover. 

He isn’t here to ease into anything. He came here to dominate from the beginning.

Outside of the court, things are moving just as quickly.

Coach Wilson set up a meeting for him with the Associate Director of Player Branding to connect him with an NIL agent to manage his brand deals, someone who could handle the business side so Ilya could profit from his inevitable stardom and focus on playing. It was a smart decision, and Ilya recognized that immediately.

He likes his agent.

Melody Stones is sharp, direct, and completely in control of every room she walks into. She doesn’t waste time, doesn’t over-explain unless necessary, and most importantly, she understands exactly what Ilya is worth. She wasn’t going to let Duke or any brand take advantage of him. 

She also knows how to get things done.

Because, of course, Ilya Rozanov is everywhere at this point. Duke’s Head Video Coordinator is completely smitten with him, and he’s featured heavily on the team’s TikTok and Instagram accounts. His signature “wink and dunk” compilations have gone viral several times just from practices. 

Every analyst, every outlet, every early draft prospect conversation includes his name, and they all rank him in the top three. They talk about his athleticism, his vision, and his ability to take over a game as if it is inevitable.

Outside of the Duke fanatics and college basketball fans salivating over his basketball prowess, everyone wants a piece of him.

Brands are knocking on his door every day, and that’s where Melody comes in.

He is sitting in her office in downtown Durham. An agent with one of the biggest agencies based in LA, she worked with many athletes coming out of Duke and built a strong relationship with the coaching staff. Wilson was entrusting his top recruit with her, and she knew she couldn’t mess it up. Rozanov was going to be a star, and she was the first step toward building his brand.

“So,” Melody says, leaning slightly forward in her chair, a sharp, satisfied smile forming on her face, “I finalized a deal with Nike.”

Ilya’s attention sharpens immediately, though his expression barely changes.

“They’re offering you a freshman-year NIL deal worth $750,000,” she continues. 

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Okay,” he says. “Is lot of money. What I need to do?”

Melody launches into a detailed explanation—including exclusivity terms, restrictions on wearing other brands (especially his beloved Adidas), required social media posts, scheduled photoshoots, appearances at events like youth camps, and a clause granting Nike the right of first refusal on future deals.

Ilya listens carefully, processing it all without interrupting.

When she finishes, there is only a brief pause before Ilya blurts out, “They give me free Nike and $750,000 and I just play?”

Melody smiles slightly. “And represent them well, yes.”

Ilya reaches forward without hesitation. “Give me pen.”

She slides it across the desk. “Thought you’d say that.”

Ilya signs his name carefully.

He is aware that 15% of what he made would go to Melody, but he doesn’t question it. He thinks she earned it.

After all, she just secured him nearly a million dollars, and he hasn’t even played a real college game yet.

________________

Brand deals are just one of the things he has to worry about.

Another is making sure that when he steps onto the court for his first game of the season, he plays so well that no one could question the hype around him. He doesn’t just want a good game; he wants to leave an impression so strong that by the end of the night, there is only one thought in everyone’s mind: Ilya Rozanov is the future of the league.

So, he trains hard. He trains more than anyone. 

He wakes up at five every morning, long before his first class and long before most of campus is even awake. The alarm usually pisses Troy off, who groans and shoves his head under a pillow while Ilya moves around the room without much concern for noise. He doesn’t bother trying to be quiet. If Troy wants more sleep, he can go to bed earlier.

By 5:20, he has already eaten his usual breakfast, and he’s out the door, dressed in training gear, earbuds in, barely paying attention to anything around him as he makes his way to the bus stop. 

Yes, he still takes the bus.

He has only been in America for three months, and he hasn’t gotten his learner’s permit yet, which, in his opinion, is more of an inconvenience than anything else. But it doesn’t matter. The bus gets him where he needs to go, and it gives him time to think (or not think, depending on the day).

The November air is cold, but that doesn’t bother him. He’s Russian, and if anything, the cold feels familiar. It wakes him up properly, sharp and clean, before he even steps into the gym.

Once he is there, he goes straight into his routine. An hour of conditioning and strength work, no shortcuts and no wasted time. His body is his temple, and he takes care of it as such. 

After that, he moves to the court, where he runs his own drills without needing anyone to tell him what to do. Shooting, footwork, ball handling, variations of moves he already knows, and then the ones he is still perfecting. He pushes himself through all of it with the same focus, the same expectation.

He knows he’s talented, but talent can only take him so far. 

His father once told him, “Talent without hard work is failure.”

It wasn’t a heartwarming moment of a father encouraging his son because he followed it up with, “And you are as lazy as your mother was, so you need to work even harder!”

It was those words that made 13-year-old Ilya promise himself and Mama he wouldn’t be lazy. He could be anything—arrogant, annoying, overconfident, mean, cruel, even—but never lazy. 

No one here knows he carries that kind of weight. They see what he allows them to see—the arrogant, stupidly hot college athlete who makes everything look easy and acts accordingly.

It is easier that way because he doesn’t want anyone to question him. Sometimes, though, the act gets tiring.

So on nights where things get a little too lonely or too hard, he is glad to have the one person he doesn’t have to pretend with.

“How is it over there?” Sveta, his best friend, asks him on an international call from Moscow. 

It is the night before his first game. He is sitting by the window in his dorm, a cigarette between his fingers, its faint glow lighting up the dark room. Sveta woke up early just to talk to him, her voice still a little rough with sleep.

She always did things like that for him. He appreciated it more than he said out loud.

“Good, really good,” he says. “I feel good about basketball. I signed my first deal. I have a lot of sex. I have access to good vodka. My coach favors me. People love and hate me. I’m good.”

Sveta laughs immediately, and Ilya can’t help but smile in response. He misses her. More than he would ever admit.

“Sounds exactly like you,” she says. “I saw your Halloween pictures. You looked hot, Ilyusha. Can anyone resist you at this point?”

“Mm, no,” he starts automatically, but then something flickers in his mind. “Well… maybe.”

Sveta catches that instantly. “Maybe?”

“There’s this guy,” Ilya says, exhaling slowly. “His name is Shane. He’s a junior. He’s friends with my roommate’s boyfriend. I’ve seen him twice. The second time, I flirted a little.”

“And?” She prompts him.

“And nothing,” Ilya says, a hint of annoyance slipping into his voice. “He didn’t react at all.”

Sveta lets out a soft, amused hum. “Maybe you’re losing your touch.”

“No,” Ilya says quickly. “He has a boyfriend. My teammate. Colin.” He pauses, then adds, “Boring Colin.”

“When has that ever stopped you, you big manwhore?” Sveta asks him. “You haven’t slept with any of your teammates’ girlfriends, have you?”

“Not yet, at least,” Ilya laughs, then shrugs slightly even though she can’t see it. “But seriously, you know that’s not what I care about.”

And it isn’t.

Ilya is what people would call a “bisexual menace.” He is the embodiment of the biphobic stereotype that bi people can’t commit to one person and easily cheat with the other gender or jump at the chance to be a homewrecker. 

He does what he wants, when he wants, and if that makes him difficult or toxic in other people’s eyes, he won’t lose sleep over it.

He’s done it all. He’s cheated. He’s been the side dick, and everything in between. 

Of course, he didn’t have much experience with men, but since he’s been to Duke, he’s proud to admit that he’s topped some twinks. Maybe those twinks had boyfriends, but he doesn’t really care. But, he’s definitely fucked sorority girls who had boyfriends, which he knows because they loved to shout how much better he was in bed when they came.

He’s extremely good in bed, and he’s not ashamed of it. He has people coming back for more, and all he has to do is flirt a little. It’s worked every time until Shane. 

“So what is he, then?” Sveta asks.

“A fluke,” Ilya says immediately. “He’s too loyal. I don’t want him.” He pauses, then adds more casually, “I just thought he was cute.”

“Ah,” Sveta says, clearly entertained. “A fluke.”

“Yes.” There is a brief silence before Ilya exhales, flicking ash out the window. “Can we stop talking about my sex life?” he says. “We can talk about my Nike deal or my first game.”

Sveta laughs again. “Okay, okay. Sorry.”

Just like that, she shifts and launches into a detailed breakdown of what his first game might look like.

She always does that.

Sveta knows basketball better than almost anyone. Her father was a decorated player in Russia, and she grew up around it, studying it, understanding it in a way that went beyond just watching. 

They even met because of basketball. When they were eleven, Ilya joined a junior team her father helped coach, and she has analyzed his playing style ever since.

Ilya listens to her closely, actually focusing now, letting her voice ground him because he knows she can help him with his game.

By the time the call ends, his mind is exactly where it needs to be.

And again, he forgets about a certain freckled junior.

_______________

Another thing he has to concern himself with is the media. 

Local, national, and school. Melody is taking care of most of the national and local media, which isn’t much yet, because he isn’t doing any interviews. 

But the school’s media is something he constantly has to deal with. 

“Hi, I’m Rose from The Chronicle, Duke’s only student-run news source, and I’m here with freshman Ilya Rozanov before tonight’s first game against Dartmouth,” Rose begins, holding the mic steady as the camera focuses in.

Ilya is on his way to get ready when the video crew stops him just outside the locker room.

For a second, he considers brushing past them. He doesn’t particularly care for interviews, especially not ones that feel unnecessary before he even plays a real game. Still, he understands what it did for him. Exposure and image mattered. If this helps build that, then he could spare a minute.

“Hello,” he says to the camera, a smirk perpetually on his lips. 

“Ilya, first game of the season, and there’s been a lot of buzz around you already,” Rose says, angling the mic toward him. “What can we expect from you tonight?”

Ilya tilts his head slightly, like the answer is obvious. “Ah… I think, maybe twenty points,” he says. “I will carry team.”

Rose blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Twenty points on your own? Against Dartmouth?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, stepping a little closer to the mic. “I am very confident. Is good to be confident.”

There is a short pause from Rose, and then she laughs lightly, trying to keep the tone professional. “Okay, so where does that confidence come from? You haven’t played a college game yet.”

Ilya shrugs one shoulder, unconcerned about her implication. “Does not matter. I play basketball my whole life. Is same game, just more people watching.”

One of the camera guys lets out a quiet snort, and Rose tries not to laugh.

“Fair enough,” she says. “You’ve already been projected as a top draft pick by some analysts. Do you feel any pressure coming into tonight because of that?”

“No,” Ilya says immediately. “Pressure is for people who are not ready, but I am ready.”

Rose nods, clearly trying to keep up with him. “What about Dartmouth specifically? Have you looked at their roster, their defense?”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “I watch them last season. If they play same way…” He gives a small, dismissive shake of his head. “They have no chance.”

Rose’s eyebrows lift again. “No chance?”

“They do not have me,” Ilya says simply. “That is problem.”

Rose bites her lip because she can’t laugh right now. Her editor would really have her head. “Okay, so what part of your game are you most excited to show tonight?”

Ilya rubs the side of his nose with his thumb, like he is thinking about it for the first time, even though he already knows his answer.

“I shoot,” he says. “I score. I move faster. I see things before other players.” He glances at the camera. “I do not miss chances.”

Rose smiles. “That’s a bold claim.”

“Is true,” Ilya replies easily.

“Alright,” she says, shifting slightly. “Last question—what would you say to Duke fans who are coming to watch you play for the first time tonight?”

Ilya’s smirk spreads into a cocky grin.

“Watch carefully,” he said. He leans in just slightly toward the camera, just enough to make it deliberate. “You will remember this game.” 

Rose lets out a small laugh, clearly a little flustered now. “Yes—we definitely will.”

She steps back. “Okay, I’ll let you go. Thank you for stopping by for a quick interview, Ilya. Good luck tonight!”

“Is no problem,” he says, already reaching for his headphones again.

He slips them on without another glance, turning and walking away as if the conversation has already left his mind.

_______________

The game against Dartmouth is very intense, and so are the fans. 

There are only a few universities in America that take basketball more seriously than Duke fans, so of course, the arena is packed for the first game of the season, especially because it’s a home game.

Ilya is in the zone as he does his warm-ups. There is no room for mistakes tonight, not even the tiniest ones that he would usually overlook. He can already imagine what the commentators are saying about him—about the hype, about whether he can live up to it, about whether he is actually as good as people think he is.

Dartmouth isn’t a bad team at all. They are disciplined and organized, but Ilya knows they will win this easily. 

But it matters how he does. What matters is how he plays, how many points he puts up, how easy he makes it look. It matters because this is the first real impression he will make on people who have only heard about him.

As a Russian recruit, he has not actually been seen by most of the American audience. They have read about him, watched clips, listened to analysts talk, but that is not the same. Some of them probably think the hype is exaggerated. He knows that.

He is ready to prove them wrong.

He’s ready for the headlines in ESPN to shift from: “Hype rises around Ilya Rozanov” to “Ilya Rozanov dominates.” 

He doesn’t pay attention to the stands packed with Blue Devils fans, the cheerleaders rustling pom poms, or the band blaring as the game begins. 

The moment the ball is tipped, everything else fades out.

Ilya wins the tip-off, passing it back to his guard. The preseason practices shine in the crisp passes between teammates until the ball finds its way back into Ilya’s hands. He doesn’t rush it; he studies the defender in front of him for half a second, then shifts his weight, takes one step to the side, and pulls up. The shot is clean, smooth, a perfect swish as it drops in.

“Rozanov wastes no time,” one of the commentators on TV says. “Freshman comes in with a lot of hype, and that’s a confident first look.”

A few possessions later, he easily drives past his defender and finishes with his signature wink-and-dunk move. The crowd erupts, and Ilya soaks it in.

It feels simple and natural. He’s in his natural habitat, basking in the adoration of the fans.

“Early signs here,” the other commentator adds, “this kid is comfortable. Doesn’t look like a freshman at all.”

By the end of the first half, he’s already dropped 13 points.

In the second half, Dartmouth tries to lock him down with a double team. But it’s no help. Ilya baits them into fouls, and he’s 4-for-4 on free throws. Coach Wilson claps, nodding his head, trying to keep his expression neutral.

Ilya easily adapts to the extra attention without hesitation, shifting into more of a playmaker for a few possessions. But the moment he sees an opening again, he takes it. 

“Seventeen points now for Rozanov,” the commentator says. “And he’s doing it in a variety of ways—outside, inside, off the dribble. This is exactly what Duke fans were hoping to see.”

Dartmouth responds with a brief 8-0 run, tightening up the game slightly, but it never feels like it is slipping. Not really, not with the way Ilya is playing.

“... ball to Rosanov, game clock winding down, step back, he’s going for the three… he drains it! And that’s twenty points for Ilya Rozanov!” the commentator shouts, excitement breaking through. “And this is his first college game!”

Ilya gives himself a moment to breathe as the final buzzer sounds. The scoreboard reads 80–60, Duke on top, and the noise inside the arena swells overwhelmingly, and it almost feels physical as it crashes down over the court.

They just won their first game of the season, and he did exactly what he said he would do. He dropped twenty points, led in rebounds, assists, and controlled the pace of the game cleanly.

The energy in the stadium is loud, electric, and restless. Fans are on their feet, talking, shouting, and no doubt replaying moments in their heads.

His teammates swarm him, ruffling their hands in his hair and shouting his praises.

“Straight buckets.”

“Natty bound baby.”

“Beast mode.”

“Let me suck your dick so some of your greatness might rub off on me.”

Okay, no one said the last one, but the point stands.

He smirks to himself as he pulls away, the adrenaline still running rapidly through him.

Then he makes his way toward the bench, where Coach Wilson and the assistants are already waiting.

“Great fucking job, kid,” Wilson says, clapping a heavy hand down on his shoulder with enough force to push him forward half a step.

Ilya barely reacts, just lifts his water bottle and takes a long drink before answering.

“You should not be surprised,” he says, the corner of his mouth pulling up slightly.

Wilson lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “I’m not surprised,” he says. “I’m proud.”

Ilya lets himself take in the praise because he appreciates Coach Wilson's pride in him. It’s something he always wanted from his father, and it’s something he looks for from his coaches. 

“Go change,” Wilson adds. “Celebrate with your team.”

Ilya nods once. He has no problem doing that.

There’s already a party later, something at one of the players’ frat houses to celebrate the win, and he knows exactly what that will look like. He’ll go with Troy and some of their friends. He’ll drink, probably more than he should. He’ll let the night carry him wherever it goes.

He’ll find someone. That part is easy. He’ll take her home, fuck her thoroughly, let her stay the night, and then kick her out. 

It’s routine by now, and tonight, he’s earned it.

He shifts slightly, turning back toward the court, letting his gaze sweep across the arena one more time, taking it in now that the pressure is gone. 

That’s when his attention catches on something across the court. Colin. Of course, next to him is Shane.

Ilya’s gaze lingers without him realizing it at first.

Shane looks good. Better than he remembers from Halloween, or maybe it’s just the lighting, the atmosphere, and the way his senses are hyperaware of everything at the moment. 

His freckles are more noticeable under the arena lights, scattered across his face in a way that draws attention without trying to. His eyes—those same soft brown eyes—are fixed entirely on Colin.

He’s dressed simply, comfortably in Colin’s jersey, and somehow that makes him stand out against the sea of blue face paint in the student section.

Ilya watches as Shane talks to him, his expression open, animated, like whatever he’s saying matters. There’s something adoring in the way he leans in slightly, the way he looks up at Colin in the softest way possible. 

Meanwhile, Colin just nods along.

He looks almost bored. Not rude or dismissive, but like he could not care less about what Shane is saying. Like he’s listening, but not really hearing. Like Shane’s attention is something he expects, something he doesn’t have to work for.

Ilya’s grip tightens slightly around his water bottle as he keeps watching, taking it in without meaning to analyze it, but doing it anyway.

It doesn’t make sense to him.

Shane is smiling, still talking, still gazing at Colin like he’s the only person in the room, and Colin is just… there.

He’s not matching Shane’s enthusiasm and energy. Not earning it.

And it bothers him.

Even though he can’t exactly pinpoint why he cares so much about someone who’s effectively a stranger.

Shane must feel it then—the weight of being watched—because his eyes flicker away for just a second, scanning the court before landing directly on Ilya.

For a brief moment, they hold eye contact before Ilya turns away, as if he hadn’t been watching at all.

He starts walking without another glance, pushing past the noise and towards the locker room.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

There it is again.

The fluke. Or whatever.

_________

By the time Ilya even steps into the party, there are articles up on ESPN, clips circulating across social media, and commentators dissecting every move he made like it meant something bigger than just a solid first game performance.

Rozanov dominates in debut.
Freshman phenom overpowers Dartmouth.
Is Ilya Rozanov already Duke’s best player?

He hasn’t read them yet, but he knows they’re there. 

When he walks into the frat house, it becomes obvious that the articles are not just articles. It’s an article that shows what everyone is feeling.

The music is loud, bodies packed together, the usual chaos of a post-game party, but the moment he steps inside, everyone is all over him. 

Someone near the entrance claps him on the back as he passes. Another guy raises his drink toward him like a silent acknowledgment. It’s nonstop. 

“Rozanov!” someone shouts from across the room. “That was insane, man!”

Another voice follows right after. “Twenty points, yeah? Called that shit!”

Ilya lets it all wash over him, accepting it easily, like it was always going to happen this way. He nods here and there, offers a quick grin when it suits him. He doesn’t need to chase attention; it comes to him.

By the time he finds Troy and Harris, he already has a drink in his hand.

An hour goes by like that. Drink after drink makes its way to the trio, but Ilya doesn’t feel tipsy yet. He couldn’t say the same for Troy. 

“You were a fucking beast tonight, Roz,” Troy says, swaying slightly where he stands, his words thick and loose from how much he’s had to drink.

Harris groans beside him, reaching out like he’s about to steady him but giving up halfway through. “Babe, you are too drunk,” he says, laughing despite himself. “You’ve said that like five thousand times tonight.”

“No, no, I like,” Ilya says, clearly entertained, lifting his shot glass before knocking it back without hesitation. The burn barely registers anymore. “Troy, say more. Say I am best at basketball in world.”

Troy blinks at him, trying to focus, then nods very seriously like he’s about to deliver something profound. “You’re not the best in the world,” he says slowly, dragging the words out, “but you’re the best at Duke.”

And then, almost immediately after, he fumbles his grip and spills the rest of his drink straight onto the floor.

Ilya laughs at him. “Dumbass,” he says. 

He’s grateful for Troy. The guy has made things simple for him from the start by befriending him instantly. Troy also introduced him to people and pulled him into circles unrelated to the team, which mattered more than Ilya expected.

Because the truth is, his teammates aren’t really his friends.

They are friendly enough, sure. They joke, they train together, they trust each other on the court. But there is always an undercurrent of competition, comparison, and jealousy. The constant awareness that they are all fighting for the same thing.

It makes things shallow, and Ilya, despite everything people assume about him, knows the difference. Aside from Sveta, he finds it hard to make genuine friends without all the toxicity, but Troy offers him that.  

So yeah, Troy’s friendship matters to him.

“Ugh…” Harris suddenly mutters, pulling his phone away from his face with an annoyed expression.

Ilya glances at him. “Problem?”

Harris hesitates for a second before shaking his head. “It’s stupid. You probably wouldn’t care.”

“I am human,” Ilya says, tilting his head slightly. “I like drama. Pour the tea.”

Harris doubles over laughing. “You mean spill the tea?”  Wiping tears from his eyes, he exhales like he’s already halfway into the decision to talk about it.

“I probably shouldn’t be saying anything,” he admits, leaning in and lowering his voice just slightly, “but I need to get it out.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything, just watches him expectantly.

“You remember Shane?” Harris asks.

Of course he remembers him. The pretty guy with the freckles, the pretty guy who makes his heart go thump thump thump every time he sees him, the pretty guy with the shit boyfriend. 

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Shane. From Halloween. He is dating my teammate, yes?”

Harris nods. “Yeah. They’ve been together for like… a year, I think.” He pauses, his mouth twisting slightly. “I just don’t like Colin.”

Ilya doesn’t react outwardly, but he perks up. He is suddenly sober; the slight tipsiness from before is gone. 

“He always looks so disinterested,” Harris continues, shaking his head. “Every time I see them, it’s like Shane is putting in all this effort, and Colin is just… there. Like he doesn’t even realize what he has.”

Ilya takes another sip, slower this time. “And Shane?”

“God, Shane is—” Harris lets out a breath, almost exasperated. “He’s too nice. Like, painfully nice. I swear, he’s either completely blind or just choosing to ignore it. I don’t know what he sees in Colin.”

Ilya hums quietly, like he’s only half-listening and not hanging on Harris’s every word.

“He could do so much better,” Harris adds. “I mean that seriously. Anyone can see it.”

Ilya’s gaze flickers briefly, just enough to show interest before he smooths it over again. “So Shane does not like Colin too much?” he asks, carefully keeping his tone neutral.

“No, no—that’s not what I’m saying,” Harris says quickly, backtracking. “I’m just saying… It’s not balanced. You know? Like, Shane actually tries for their relationship, but Colin just expects it. But weirdly, I actually think Colin likes him more than Shane likes him.”

Oh. OH! 

Ilya likes hearing that, and he wants Harris to talk more. 

Harris shrugs, frustrated. “Actually, Shane was just texting me about him. Complaining. Same stuff as always.”

That catches Ilya’s attention more than anything else.

He feels the urge to ask more—to press, to get details, to understand exactly what that means and how far it goes.

Only because he’s very curious. But before he can say anything, Troy suddenly lurches forward and throws up violently all over the floor.

“Jesus—” Harris yelps, jumping back immediately. “Oh my god, Troy—”

The people around them react almost instantly, groans and shouts breaking out as they scramble away from the mess. Someone nearby starts yelling about the floor, about shoes, about how disgusting it is.

Ilya exhales sharply, already stepping forward. “Come on,” he says, grabbing Troy under the arm as the guy groans miserably.

Harris scrambles to help, slipping under Troy’s other side. “We need to get him out—now—before someone kicks us out.”

Too late for that.

A group of frat guys are already making their way over, looking very, very annoyed.

“Yeah, we’re leaving,” Harris says quickly, not waiting for them to say anything.

Between the two of them, they manage to drag Troy toward the door, his feet barely cooperating as he stumbles along, still muttering something incoherent under his breath.

The cold air outside hits immediately, sharp and sobering. Ilya adjusts his grip slightly, steadying Troy as he exhales.

The conversation about Shane and boring Colin lingers in the back of his mind because he’s curious.

That’s all. 

__________

December 2023

“No, Papa, I can’t visit right now,” Ilya says into the phone, his voice already edged with frustration as he pinches the bridge of his nose. He paces a little as he talks, the cord of tension in his shoulders tightening with every second the call drags on.

Troy looks over at him with concern because he’s aware that Ilya has some issues with his family. He doesn’t understand Russian, but if the constant sighing when talking with his dad and the frustrated tone when he talks with his brother are to be believed, then he doesn’t have anything good to say about Ilya’s relationship with his family. 

“I can’t come just because it’s Christmas, Papa,” Ilya says. There’s a pause on the other end, and he exhales slowly through his nose.

 “I’m not abandoning you. I have games, and I can’t miss those. It is not easy to fly to Russia, stay for a few days, and come back ready to play. It does not work like that.” 

Another pause, and Ilya closes his eyes, swiping his tongue over his lips nervously. 

“Yes, Papa,” he says finally, quieter now. “I will send it tomorrow.”A beat. “No, of course not.”Another beat, and then, “Okay. Goodbye.”

He hangs up his phone and slams himself onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. 

Troy doesn’t say anything right away. He watches him for a second, then pushes himself up from his desk, grabbing his jacket with an exaggerated casualness.

“Uh… I’m gonna go grab some lunch,” he says, even though it’s not quite lunchtime yet. “You want anything?”

Ilya shakes his head without looking over. “No.”

“Alright,” Troy replies, already moving toward the door. “I’ll be back.”

He leaves quietly, closing the door behind him without another word.

Ilya appreciates that Troy knows he needs some alone time right now, some time to look at the ceiling and think about his life. 

He isn’t going to Russia. He made that clear weeks ago—to his father, to his brother, to Sveta. They have known for over a month that his schedule wouldn’t allow it, that the season comes first, whether anyone likes it or not. His father was angry when he told him, but he accepted it. 

But the genuine surprise, disappointment, and anger in his father’s voice just now have him thinking. 

He wonders if his father is showing signs of being sick. Signs of his mind slipping away. 

He presses his palms into his eyes as he shakes the thought away. He can’t worry about this right now; his brother would tell him if something was wrong with their father. Alexei might be an asshole, but he’s not that bad. 

Ilya also has way too many other things to concern himself with, like his upcoming games and going over new contracts with Melody. 

His contracts are how he makes money, good money, too. It’s how he takes care of his family. It’s not like his family is poor, but Ilya still sends a portion of his earnings. Filial piety or whatever. 

Taking care of his family is how he takes care of himself in America, really. He might not have time to visit his family in Russia, but he sure as hell has time to play around.

A trip with his friends, parties, alcohol, a new respectable starter car (he’s working on his license), hooking up girls (and guys, sometimes), and whatever else he wants to spend his money on. 

He’s not being irresponsible; he saves more than half of whatever he makes from his contract with Nike, and he keeps track of it carefully, even if it doesn’t look like it from the outside. 

Besides, in his mind, he has earned the right to play hard because he works harder than anyone else when it comes to basketball.

He doesn’t let up on his training. He shows up early to every practice, every lift session, every film session, and he treats each one like it matters, always looking to improve. 

By the end of December, Duke played eleven games, and Ilya dropped at least twenty points in every single one of them, whether they won or lost. It’s not just the scoring, either. 

He pushes the pace, demands more from his teammates, forces them to keep up with him even when they are tired, even when they would rather coast through a possession. On the court, he is relentless, difficult to guard, difficult to ignore, and increasingly difficult to play against.

Ilya’s the center of the team, and because of it, Duke is off to a strong start with only one loss and rising momentum that’s directly tied to him. 

Even just two months into the season, there is no real debate anymore about whether the attention around him is deserved. He has already proven to analysts, commentators, and fans that it was not just hype.

He’s capable of carrying Duke and winning them the championship. He’s proved that he is, without a doubt, a top draft pick, maybe even #1. 

Duke fans show up to games expecting something from him now, and he always delivers. ESPN keeps putting his name in headlines because they know people will click, watch, and argue in the comments. Behind the scenes, brands continue to reach out, trying to secure something before his value climbs even higher.

Everything is moving exactly according to plan.

__________

February 2024

Everything does not move exactly according to plan. 

It doesn’t start innocently, not really, because if he’s being honest with himself, he should have seen the signs long before the dominoes started to fall. He just chose to ignore them.

He went the entirety of December and January without thinking about Shane.

Really. 

The last time he properly thought about the junior was sometime in November, and even then it wasn’t anything serious—just a few brief moments, small flashes of recognition whenever he happened to see him in passing at home games. 

Nothing that lingered. Nothing that mattered. 

He has his own life to focus on, his own schedule, his own priorities, and there isn’t any real space in it for someone like Shane.

But then something innocuous happens. It is so small at first. 

It’s after practice on Friday, and it was a great one too. Everyone is in a great mood because they played their 23rd game yesterday and won it easily. Ilya dropped 30 points, and he was happy with himself. 

He’s changing and joking around with his teammates, and the locker room is still buzzing with leftover energy from both the game and practice. Towels are being thrown around, someone’s music is playing off a speaker in the corner, and the air still smells of sweat and a lot of body spray.

“You’re already a star, bro,” his teammate, Anthony, says, playfully swatting his ass with a towel. Anthony is a sophomore and a decent player. “I saw you on a poster for Nike when I went to Dick’s to get a new pair of shorts.” 

Ilya grins at that, the memory coming back easily. 

He remembers the campaign well, not just the shoot itself, but everything that came with it. It was fun and effortless. The campaign itself was for Nike’s new line of athleisure wear, and they sent him everything—multiple sets, different colors. There was a bonus on top of it, too, which he appreciated even more. He was getting used to this part of his life, the part where he had sets, cameras, and people moving around him as if he were already someone important. 

There was a model there too, part of the campaign, and she was beautiful, the kind of girl that would make anyone’s head turn if she were at the mall. The average guy would’ve been too shy to talk to her, but not Ilya. He got her number without much effort and spent the night with her before she flew back to New York.

It was simple. 

“Yes, yes, I am star,” Ilya says, leaning back against his locker with an easy smirk. “I will leave you all for the draft.”

Anthony laughs, shaking his head. “Lucky you,” he says. “I wish my spot were that secure.” He pauses for a second before asking, “You gonna get an agent for the draft or what?”

“Yes, I think so,” Ilya replies with a small shrug. 

He has been considering it carefully, weighing his options. He’s already talking to a few different agents, trying to figure out who would be the best fit, who would actually understand and advocate for his needs instead of just seeing him as another name to profit from.

Someone like Melody. 

He is already asking her a lot of questions about it, too, more than she probably expected. At the same time, he is relying on Sveta to look into things from her end. She already sent him long, detailed breakdowns of different agents, their clients, their reputations, everything he might need to know.

(She did not do this for free. Ilya sends her a tennis bracelet for each agent evaluation.)

He is leaning toward choosing a woman to represent him. It isn’t something he feels the need to explain out loud, but it makes sense to him. He trusts women more in that space, feels more comfortable knowing a woman is handling something as important as his career.

So far, aside from his coach, most of the people guiding him have been women.

And it has worked out very well for him so far.

“Isn’t it a little presumptuous of you to hire an agent so early on?” The very jealous Ethan chimes in from his locker. 

Ilya raises an eyebrow at his captain, not bothering to hide the faint amusement on his face. “I do not think so,” he replies. “People say I am number one draft pick. Agents call me all day and night. Is not difficult to understand I will need one.”

Ethan rolls his eyes, clearly unimpressed. “Just don’t let it get to your head, yeah?” he says before slamming his locker shut a little harder than necessary and walking away.

Ilya watches him go for a second, disinterested, before turning back.

“Ignore him,” Anthony says, shaking his head. “He’s just… you know.”

“Jealous,” Ilya supplies easily.

Anthony doesn’t disagree. “Anyways,” he continues, shifting the topic, “you going to the watch party tonight? We’re all watching the UNC game at Ryan’s place.”

“Ah, no, I was not invited,” he shrugs.

“You don’t need an invite to a team activity,” Anthony says. 

“You are sure? I do not think he wants to see me after I sleep with his friend’s girl,” he smirks. 

Anthony glares at him for that, and Ilya raises his palms defensively. 

“Too soon,” Anthony says.

Meanwhile, Ilya chuckles lightly to himself. 

Here’s the situation. 

Last week, the team celebrated their win at a bar over the weekend. Some of his teammates’ girlfriends showed up to celebrate with the team, and what happened—no one should blame Ilya, because Ilya is not the one in a relationship, and he was drinking way too much. 

He was on his fifth shot of vodka of the night, so he wasn’t even that drunk. But one of his teammates’ girlfriends was making eyes at him all night, and he tried to ignore it at first because he didn’t want to create any rifts in the team’s chemistry, not because he cared about his teammate. He didn’t want anything to get in the way of winning. 

But he could only hold out for so long. 

They ended up talking and flirting towards the end of the night, and it wasn’t long before his teammate, who also happened to be Ryan’s friend, found out that his girlfriend gave Ilya a blowjob. 

His teammate, understandably, was pissed as hell. 

There was shouting, a near fight at practice, but Coach Wilson stepped in before it escalated. Ilya was told to apologize privately, which he did with little resistance, even though he didn’t fully believe he was at fault.

“Was nothing serious,” Ilya says to Anthony. 

“Bro, he found your dick pics in his girlfriend’s phone and found out she sucked your dick,” Anthony deadpans. “I don’t blame him for wanting to beat you up.”

Ilya groans. “Was not my fault! She was so willing,” he says. “I am not in relationship, she is. Not my fault she cannot resist me.”

Anthony rolls his eyes hard. “Whatever,” he says. “Just come tonight. It’ll be fun, and just avoid Ryan and his friends. Don’t make it weird for the rest of us.”

Ilya considers his teammate’s words. “Fine, I will go.”

A small smirk pulls at his lips as he finishes getting dressed.

He’s already not liked by some of them. At this point, showing up isn’t going to change that.

Ilya doesn’t know it then, but that’s when the first domino falls. 

__________

The watch party is chill.

Or as chill as it could be. 

They’re watching UNC completely destroy their opponent with ease, which isn’t shocking. 

Ilya takes a slow sip of his beer, sitting closer to the back of the room, deliberately keeping some distance between himself and the center of things. It isn’t his usual move, but he isn’t stupid. He doesn’t feel like dealing with unnecessary confrontation tonight, especially not in someone else’s space and especially not when the host and his friend hate him.

“Fuck,” one of the guys mutters as UNC sinks another shot. “They’re really good this year.”

“Yeah,” someone else adds, shaking his head. “They’re gonna be tough to beat.”

There is a low murmur of agreement around the room, a mix of respect and frustration.

“Well,” Anthony’s voice cuts in from somewhere closer to the TV, “at least we got Rozanov.”

That is enough to shift the mood. The reactions split almost immediately.

Some of the guys laugh, nodding, throwing quick, reassuring glances back at Ilya. 

Others don’t react at all. Or worse, they do, but subtly exchanging looks that say a lot more than words would have.

Ilya picks up on all of it. He always does, that’s what makes him so good on the court, reading his opponents and anticipating their next move. 

He takes another sip of his beer, leaning back slightly, completely unfazed on the surface.

He knows exactly what he is on this team. To some of them, he is the reason they can win it all. To others, he is the problem they have to tolerate.

To Ilya, neither of those opinions really matters because he is the star, and they aren’t, so nothing they say or do matters. 

So, he doesn’t say anything.

He watches the game quietly, his expression unreadable, his mind already breaking down UNC’s play. He analyzes the way they move and their rhythm—their offense is good, yes, but he can already see cracks in their defensive scheme; he can’t wait to exploit. 

It’s finally halftime when Ilya pushes himself up from the chair he’s sitting in, rolling his shoulders back slightly as he stretches. He wants to move, to get the stiffness out of his legs, and more importantly, to grab another drink before the second half.

He doesn’t pay much attention to what is happening around him as he makes his way toward the kitchen. The room is still loud, conversations overlapping, people arguing about plays and matchups, and he lets it all fade into the background as he opens the fridge and reaches for a beer.

It isn’t until he hears someone speaking that he realizes he isn’t alone in the kitchen.

He looks over and sees it’s Colin. His eyebrows furrow involuntarily as he recalls his conversation with Harris last fall. The things Harris said about Colin’s relationship with Shane were still stuck in his mind all these months later. Not that he thought about it regularly, but something he remembered word for word.

To be honest, he doesn’t think about Colin much. 

There isn’t much to think about. Colin is unremarkable. A decent player, sure, but nothing special. A benchwarmer most nights, someone who blends into the background both on and off the court. If it weren’t for the pretty boyfriend, Ilya probably wouldn’t have registered his existence at all.

It isn’t like Ilya thinks about Shane often, either. Not in an obsessive way, not in a way that would actually mean something. He doesn’t lie awake at night thinking about him, and doesn’t go out of his way to look for him. He has too much going on for that—games, training, sponsorships, everything else. 

Still, there are moments when Ilya thinks about him in some capacity. 

Like whenever he catches a glimpse of Shane at a home game, wearing Colin’s jersey—which makes him feel a little something he can’t (won’t?) name—or when Harris mentions him in passing. He can’t help that something in his mind pauses, lingering just long enough to notice before moving on. 

It isn’t intentional; it just happens. He is pretty, and Ilya really likes his freckles. 

Which is exactly why he finds himself shifting slightly now, positioning himself just enough so that he isn’t immediately noticeable as Colin picks up his phone with an exasperated sigh.

Ilya doesn’t look directly at him. He just leans back against the counter, pops the cap off his beer, takes a sip, and pretends to scroll on his phone.

Colin’s tone gives away his irritation almost immediately.

“Whaaaaat,” he groans into the phone, not even bothering with a greeting. “I told you I’m at Ryan’s. It’s just the team watching the game.”

There’s a pause, and Ilya can practically hear the other side of the conversation even if he can’t make out the words.

“No, I didn’t forget,” Colin snaps, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe you forgot. I just told you I was busy tonight.”

Ilya frowns at his increasingly irritated tone. 

Does this guy even like his boyfriend at all? 

He remembers Harris saying that Colin doesn’t really try in their relationship and that he’s a shitty boyfriend. 

“Shane, ugh, you always overreact to everything. It’s not a big deal,” Colin says, his voice flattening slightly. “Why are you making it into one?”

Ilya’s grip tightens just a little around the bottle, though his expression stays neutral as he takes another sip. He’s heard enough of Colin’s irritability for one night.He quietly slips out of the kitchen, making sure he doesn’t make his presence known. 

Pretty boy with a bad boyfriend. 

What a shame. 

As Ilya sits in his chair, he doesn’t realize it, but another domino has just fallen. 

_________

“I'm talkin' all around the clock
I'm talkin' hope nobody knocks
I'm talkin' opposite of soft
I'm talkin' wild, wild thoughts-”

“Hey! I was listening to that,” Troy protests as Ilya powers off his Bluetooth speakers. 

“Please, Troy, I cannot listen to garbage for one more second,” Ilya whines. 

He just got back from practice, and it was not a good one. He needs Troy to stop listening to the songs Harris recommends. They hurt his ears and lessen his will to live.

“Garbage?” Troy shoots back, sitting up straighter, clearly offended in a playful way. “How dare you? Sabrina Carpenter is not garbage. Take that back.”

“No, is garbage,” Ilya says. “I am too tired to listen to this tonight. I have to go over agent list.” 

Troy snorts. “Do you ever worry about your homework?” he asks, half-laughing.

Ilya smirks faintly as he pulls up the document on his laptop, not even glancing in Troy’s direction. 

“Homework? I do not know what is homework,” he says.

He makes himself comfortable at his desk with his iPad propped up, not bothering to change out of his sweatpants and hoodie. He already showered in the locker room, and that’s more than enough for him. Right now, all he cares about is getting through this list without falling asleep.

“Yeah, yeah,” Troy mutters, shifting so he’s propped up on one elbow, watching him. “So you’re actually serious about the draft this summer?”

Ilya nods, his eyes scanning the second list of agent profiles that Sveta sent him earlier. “Yes, of course,” he says, like the answer is obvious. “There is no reason for me to stay.”

“Wow,” Troy says, pressing a hand to his chest dramatically. “Not even for me?”

Ilya glances over at him briefly, unimpressed. “No,” he says, then adds, “but do not worry, I will let you come to my games for free.”

“How generous of you,” Troy replies dryly. “So, who are you thinking of?” 

Ilya’s attention is already back on his screen. “I have top three,” he says after a moment, licking his lips slightly as he reads. “I will talk with them soon. I ask Coach Wilson and Melody to be there.”

“Oh, so it’s actually getting serious,” Troy says, sitting up a little more now. “Have any teams reached out yet?”

Ilya shakes his head. “No, is not allowed. I see their recruiters at our games, but that is all. I talk a little with them too, but nothing about draft.” 

“Makes sense,” Troy says. “Well, this is exciting. I’m kinda bummed I’ll have to find another roommate.” 

“Oh, your boyfriend will not room with you?” Ilya asks. 

“I don’t know, depends on if Shane—”

Ilya perks up immediately, like he always does when he hears Shane’s name. Troy continues, but Ilya doesn’t catch what he says. 

“What?” Ilya asks.

“I said, it depends on if Shane is going to live alone or with Colin or if he wants to live with Harris again,” Troy says. 

“Oh, he lives with Harris?” Ilya asks.

“Yeah,” Troy says. “That’s why Harris can’t stand Colin half the time. He sees everything. Like, all of it.”

“Hm.” 

Troy doesn’t think much of his friend’s reply. He just grabs his phone again and resumes scrolling. 

“Yeah, it’s kind of a whole thing,” he adds after a second. “Harris vents about it all the time. Says Shane is way too patient for his own good.”

Ilya doesn’t respond immediately. He leans back further in his chair, one arm resting lazily against the side, but his attention isn’t on the screen anymore.

“Shane is nice, yes?” he asks eventually, his tone even.

“Too nice,” Troy says, still scrolling. “Like, it’s actually a problem at this point. Colin’s just… not great. Not a bad guy, but definitely not a good boyfriend.” He pauses, then shrugs. “But I don’t think Shane’s breaking up with him anytime soon. They’ve been together for like a year.”

Ilya tilts his head slightly, considering that.

“He can probably do better,” he says after a moment, his voice casual, like it’s just an observation.

“He could,” Troy agrees easily, not really invested in the conversation beyond surface level.

Ilya shifts slightly in his chair, resting his chin briefly against his hand. “He is part of the newspaper, yes?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Troy replies. “He writes for it. Harris says he’s actually really good.”

Ilya nods once, slowly.

“You have his Instagram?” he asks, like it’s an afterthought.

That gets Troy to look up. He narrows his eyes slightly, studying him for a second. “I do,” he says. “And it’s private. Why?” 

Ilya shrugs lightly, his expression unreadable as he leans back again. “Just curious,” he says nonchalantly. 

Troy drops the subject, and Ilya goes back to his iPad.

But his brain doesn’t concentrate on the list of agents. His brain goes into overdrive. 

He finds himself chewing lightly on his lip as he leans forward, staring at the screen without actually processing anything.

And of course, it’s about Shane.

He already knew certain things.

He knew that he thought the junior was stupidly pretty. That part was obvious from the beginning, from the first time he saw him in the gym. He knew that whenever he caught a glimpse of him at games, his heart went thump thump thump. Even when he was on the court. A look at him in the stands, and he felt it for a second. Or two. Or three. 

He knew he liked his freckles, like really liked them. 

And even though he doesn’t actively think about Shane, not in a meaningful way, he can’t deny that every time his name comes up, every time he sees him somewhere, his attention sharpens just slightly. He wants any scraps of information, and just to look at him. 

That, on its own, he could’ve dismissed as sexual attraction. Like he told Sveta, “I just want to fuck him.” Even if it isn’t true.

But there is something else.

He doesn't like Colin.

Not just in the vague, indifferent way he feels about most of his teammates, but in a specific way. 

He doesn’t like Colin because he is Shane’s boyfriend, and that is increasingly clear since that night at Ryan’s. Ever since that night, just the sight of the very boring, very unassuming junior irks him in a way that brings a scowl to his face. 

He doesn’t like the way Colin carries himself around Shane, the way he speaks to him, the way he seems to treat him like something that would always be there, something that doesn’t require effort, something to take for granted.

He doesn’t like the imbalance of it.

Even though he barely spent any real time around them, even though his interactions with Shane could be counted on one hand, there is something about it that bothers him more than it should.

Shane deserves better. He can do better than Colin.

Just like that, another domino falls.

_________

Ilya is confused as hell.

It has been a week and a half since his brain decided to connect everything for him without asking, and he hates it more the longer it lingers. At first, he thinks it will pass the way everything else does, just a brief distraction that fades once something more important takes its place. 

But it doesn’t. It stays, and it makes everything feel just a little off.

The team has been on the road for the past few games, traveling from one arena to another, walking into hostile crowds, and then beating teams on their own court. It is his favorite part of the season. He likes the tension, the noise, the way the energy shifts when they start pulling ahead. He likes silencing people.

In his free time, he creates social media posts for his brand deals.

Normally, that would be enough to keep his mind occupied.

But now, he finds himself doing something he never does.

He lies in bed at night, staring at the ceiling of whatever hotel room they are in, and his thoughts drift in a direction he cannot control. They circle back, again and again, to a particular junior with freckles, and it irritates him more than he wants to admit.

This is not how he operates. He does not fixate on people like this. Even when he is attracted to someone, it stays simple. He gets their number,  sleeps with them, and then it’s over. 

This is not that.

That is what bothers him the most.

The thoughts are not even sexual, and that makes everything feel stranger. Instead, they are softer and more emotionally intimate. He finds himself thinking about Shane in situations that have nothing to do with him, wondering what he is doing, how he is being treated, and whether he is still putting up with the same things Troy and Harris always complain about.

Every time his thoughts go there, they drag something else along with them.

Colin. 

Ilya does not like him. 

What he felt a week and a half ago does not fade. If anything, it becomes stronger. He starts noticing things he didn’t before—the way Colin carries himself during practice, the way he talks, and even the way he fucking walks. 

It all starts to aggravate him in ways that feel disproportionate and unnecessary, yet completely unavoidable.

Annoyingly, he also catches himself thinking that Shane deserves better.

And then he has to stop himself, because what the fuck does that even mean?

He barely knows the guy.

The awareness of that makes it worse. It makes him feel ridiculous, delusional, like he is crossing into something he always looked down on. He feels like one of those fans who get too attached to people they don’t actually know, building something in their head that has no real foundation.

It is absurd.

Shane probably knows who Ilya is, but only in the way everyone recognizes him now, and there is no reason to think he has ever given him a second thought.

Meanwhile, Ilya is lying awake thinking about him.

At some point, it gets to a level he cannot ignore. He tells himself it is just curiosity, that if he satisfies it, it will go away. It is a simple solution. 

He creates a second Instagram account.

He keeps it plain with a neutral username and a few random landscape photos pulled from his camera, so it does not look suspiciously empty. There is nothing that connects it back to him, nothing that would make anyone look twice. He follows a bunch of random accounts related to the university, trying to pass it off as just another student. 

He requests to follow Shane with that account, and it works. Shane accepts him within a few hours. 

Ilya watches all of Shane’s stories: a coffee cup, a movie ticket, Colin, Harris, Rose, a random guy named Hayden, food, computers, study rooms, libraries, journalism stuff, and political stuff, too.

He’s boring but fascinating at the same time. Everything he chooses to show in his stories and posts points to a structured, normal life. Ilya has never been more captivated by something so ordinary. 

Yes, Ilya feels fucking crazy, because he is. 

__________

A week later, Ilya finally has his dorm to himself and decides to call Sveta because at this point, she is the only person he trusts enough to say all of this out loud to.

He doesn’t ease into it because he never does with her. The second she picks up, he starts talking, pacing across his room, one hand running through his hair as he tries to explain something he doesn’t even fully understand himself. 

He tells her everything. He tells her about the Instagram account, the stories, the way his thoughts keep returning to Shane, no matter how much he tries to shut it down. He talks about how it makes no sense, how it’s not like him, and how much he hates feeling like this. 

“I do not understand it,” he whines, frustration slipping into his voice. “It’s not even a normal attraction. I’m not thinking about him like I want to fuck him. I just—” He stops, trying to find the right words. “I think about him all the time, and it’s annoying.”

There is a pause on the other end of the line, and he can already tell she is smiling.

“You’re an idiot,” Sveta says finally, her tone completely unimpressed.

Ilya scoffs. “I’m serious.”

“I know you are,” she replies, and he can hear the smirk in her voice now. “You like him. No, actually, this is worse. You are fucking infatuated with him. You sound like you’ve gotten your first crush, Ilyusha.”

Ilya stops pacing.

“A crush?” He repeats, like the word itself is offensive. “No. That’s not what this is.”

“It’s exactly what this is,” Sveta says easily. “You’re thinking about him when you shouldn’t be, you’re checking his social media like some obsessive idiot, and you’re getting emotionally invested in his relationship with someone else. That’s not just attraction.”

Ilya presses his lips together, annoyed, but he doesn’t interrupt her.

“You don’t do this,” she continues. “You don’t care about people like this. So if you suddenly do, then it means something.”

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand over his face. “I don’t like this,” he mutters.

“I know,” she says lightly. “That’s why it is funny.”

“It is not funny,” he snaps. 

There is a small pause, and then her tone shifts just slightly into curiosity.

“So what is he like?” 

Ilya leans back against his desk, staring at the floor. “He’s pretty and kind.”

Sveta hums. “That already sounds dangerous for you.”

“He’s too kind,” Ilya continues, ignoring her comment. “Everyone says it. He’s patient, and he…” He exhales again, frowning slightly. “He deserves better than what he has.”

“And you think that should be you,” Sveta says simply.

Ilya doesn’t answer right away.

“Wow,” she says after a second, clearly entertained by her best friend’s turmoil. “You’re gone.”

“Am not,” he says quickly.

“You are,” she insists. “You’re already imagining a better life for him. That’s not normal behavior for you, Ilya. That’s feelings. That’s love.”

He groans quietly under his breath. “I do not want feelings, and I absolutely do not love him!”

“Too bad,” she says. “You have them anyway, and you do.”

He pushes himself upright again, restless. “This is stupid,” he mutters. “He has a boyfriend. This isn’t something I should even think about.”

“And yet you are,” Sveta replies.

Then, like she always does, she shifts the conversation just enough to ground him again. “How is your father?” she asks casually.

Ilya stiffens slightly at that, the change immediate but subtle. “He is… fine,” he says after a moment.

“You talked to him recently?”

“Not really,” Ilya admits. “I talk more with Alexei.”

“And?”

Ilya shrugs, even though she can’t see it. “He says everything is normal. He would tell me if something is wrong.”

Sveta hums thoughtfully, but she doesn’t push further. She knows when to leave things alone.

“Okay,” she says. “Good.”

There is a brief silence before she brings it up again, because of course she does.

“So,” she continues lightly, “back to your little situation.”

“It’s not little,” Ilya says immediately.

“Oh, I know,” she says, amused again. “It’s big. Very big. You, Ilya Rozanov, who doesn’t care about anyone, suddenly cannot stop thinking about one guy.”

He exhales slowly, closing his eyes for a second.

“This is bad,” he says.

“This is normal,” she corrects. “You just don’t have experience with it.”

“I have experience with people,” he argues.

“No,” she says. “You have experience with sex. This is different. You really like him, obviously. Are you going to do anything about it?”

Ilya swipes his tongue across his lips.

The second-to-last domino falls, and his carefully planned future is unraveling right before his eyes.

__________

March 2024

It’s early March, and Ilya can feel the pressure from everywhere. 

He feels it from his coach, from the entire Duke program, from the expectations that have been building all season. March Madness is almost here, and every game feels like a test he cannot afford to fail. There is no room for mistakes anymore, no room for an off night, no space to be anything less than what everyone believes he is. He is expected to carry them, to lead them, to deliver, but, more than anything, he does not want to disappoint Wilson.

At the same time, there is everything else. The constant pressure to finalize his decision on an agent for the draft, the endless meetings and expectations from the brands he is working with, and the persistent reminders from his professors that he should, at the very least, appear in class occasionally. 

It all stacks on top of each other, layer after layer, until it feels like there isn’t a moment when he is not thinking about something he has to do next.

And then there is his father.

His father has started calling him regularly again, and every call follows the same pattern. Either he is criticizing him, picking apart something Ilya has done, or he is asking for more money, his tone sharp and demanding, as if it is owed to him. Either way, Ilya listens, because he feels like he has to.

He tells himself not to care, not to let it affect him, but it does anyway. He knows his father’s health is slipping, even if no one will say it directly.

Alexei is no help.

His brother never tells him anything useful, never gives him a clear answer when he asks how things are at home. All he does is talk about money, like that is the only thing that matters, and Ilya finds himself growing more and more frustrated with him every time they speak.

On top of everything he has going on, he also has to deal with his feelings for Shane. 

The feelings he has been trying to ignore have not gone away. If anything, they have become more persistent and more difficult to manage as everything else in his life intensifies. It makes him feel exposed, and he hates it, so he lashes out.

Not in a bad way— well, scratch that. 

Yes, in a bad way.

He had a threesome (yes, a fucking threesome) with two of his teammates’ girlfriends. 

They were at a frat party, and it became boring. He had a copious amount of alcohol that only managed to make him a little drunk, barely buzzed. Then, someone offered him weed, which was harmless at first, but then he became high and drunk. 

Usually, this wouldn’t be an issue because Ilya was good at handling himself even when cross-faded, but then, he saw Shane out of the corner of his eye. 

And fuck— he looked beautiful, standing in the kitchen of the frat house. He immediately noticed what he was wearing: a loose white shirt and jeans. Ilya must be gone because he could also clearly see those freckles he thought about obsessively, even under the dark lights, and he could clearly see his huge brown eyes. 

Ilya hadn’t known he would be here, and he was happy to see him. It was the first time he’d seen him outside of glimpses since October. Since last month, when his brain figured it out for him. 

He was going to make his way over there, introduce himself again, and strike up a conversation with Shane. That was his plan. But before he could take any steps towards his plan, Colin came into view. 

Ilya watched as Colin wrapped an arm around Shane, who smiled dopily up at him, and he watched as Colin leaned down to kiss him. 

And Ilya could not stand watching the person he had been yearning for, to the point of watching him through social media, kissing another person. Especially not someone like Colin. 

The reaction was immediate and visceral. His stomach turned from all the alcohol, and a sharp wave of something ugly rose up his throat before he could stop it. It felt like jealousy, raw and unfamiliar, and it made him feel ridiculous, childish even, because he knew he had no right to feel that way.

But knowing that did not make the feeling go away.

He was in that state—buzzed, floaty, with a stomach full of feelings he didn't want—when one of his teammates’ girlfriends approached him, closing the distance like it was the most natural thing in the world. Under normal circumstances, maybe he would have stepped back, maybe he would have thought about the consequences for longer than a second. Or, maybe he wouldn’t because Ilya was not one to care about boyfriends. 

But that night was not normal, and his judgment was already impeded by the weight of everything he was trying desperately not to feel.

One thing led to another, and before Ilya knew it, he made a bad decision and woke up the next day with two girls. Not just any girls, but two of his teammates’ girlfriends. 

He rushed out the door before they woke up because he didn't think he could handle anything else that morning.

But it didn’t stay contained to that night because the next thing he knew, there was a video. It was a short one, only ten seconds long. 

They weren’t on camera for more than 5 seconds, and even then, it was only a flash of blond curls, long brown hair, and long blonde hair. It was dark in the room, but the noises made it easily identifiable. It was clearly Ilya with his heavy Russian accent, and it was obvious there were two girls with him. 

Two girls who were thoroughly enjoying themselves with Ilya. 

It spreads faster than he expects, passing from phone to phone, group chats to social media, until it becomes something people are whispering about across campus.

For the average student, it is hard to tell who the two girls are, but not for their boyfriends. The boyfriends don’t need more than a few seconds to recognize what they are looking at.

So, here he is, in another altercation with his teammates. The two corner him, and each get a punch in before Coach Wilson steps in. Now, he has a bloody nose, and he is in his Coach’s office again. 

“Ilya, you’ve got to stop this,” Wilson says with a long sigh, running a hand over his face like this is the last thing he wants to deal with.

“Is not my fault,” Ilya replies, his voice steady even as he pulls the blood-soaked napkin away and replaces it with a clean one.

“I don’t care whose fault it is,” he says. “You don’t get involved with your teammates’ girlfriends. That’s not up for debate.”

Ilya exhales quietly, leaning back in his chair, his expression tight but controlled. “Okay. Fine. I say sorry to them. Privately,” he says, like he’s offering a solution just to move past the conversation.

Wilson watches him for a second, clearly not satisfied.

“This isn’t just about apologizing,” he says. “You need to reel it in. You’re pushing limits that you cannot afford to push.”

Ilya doesn’t respond immediately. He just presses the napkin back to his nose, listening.

“You think this stays here?” Wilson continues. “It doesn’t. Stuff like this follows you. You carry it with you to the next level.” He leans forward slightly. “You can’t act like this in the NBA. You can’t be crossing lines with teammates, not like this. They won’t tolerate it. They will make your life hell.”

Ilya’s jaw tightens slightly at that, but he doesn’t argue this time.

Because he knows Wilson isn’t wrong.

He just doesn’t want to hear it. 

__________

Later that day, smoke curls into the air as Ilya exhales slowly, watching it disappear into the cold afternoon.

He stands in the parking lot outside Melody’s office, leaning lightly against his car, the cigarette resting between his fingers as he tries to quiet his mind. There are too many things stacked on top of each other right now, too many decisions that all feel like they matter more than they should for someone his age.

Nike wants to extend. Other brands are circling. He has to choose an agent for the draft soon, someone who will shape the next stage of his life. Everyone expects him to know exactly what he’s doing, to move forward without hesitation, like everything is already planned out.

But it isn’t.

He’s not entirely sure he knows what is best for himself. His head feels too much, too big. 

His hand moves unconsciously to the chain around his neck, his fingers brushing against the small cross pendant resting there. For a moment, he just holds it between his fingers, grounding himself in something familiar.

His mama would have known what to say.

She would have listened, would have understood the weight of it without making it feel heavier. She would have guided him through it in a way that made sense.

But she isn’t here.

Instead, he has a father who calls to criticize or demand, and a brother who only reaches out when he wants something.

Ilya exhales again. There’s no point in dwelling on that part of his life; it doesn’t change anything. No matter how much he wishes for it, his brother and father will remain the same— the only constant in his life, yet the only constant he doesn’t want. 

He flicks the cigarette butt and crushes it under his shoe, then pushes himself off the car. He pulls his baseball cap lower over his face as he walks toward the building, hands tucked loosely into his pockets.

He shouldn’t be driving yet, not without his license, but at this point, it feels like the least important rule he’s breaking.

When he steps inside her office, Melody is at her desk, mid-conversation on the phone, but the second she sees him, she wraps it up quickly, her tone smooth as she offers a brief goodbye before hanging up.

“There’s my favorite client,” she says, her smile easy but sharp in the way it always is.

Ilya returns it as he walks over and drops into the chair across from her desk. “Of course,” he says lightly.

Her expression changes almost immediately as she gets a better look at him.

“Oh my god—what happened?” she says, leaning forward slightly. “Why do you have a black eye?”

Ilya doesn’t react much, just shrugs faintly. “Fight with teammates,” he says.

“What?” Her voice lifts, surprise cutting through her usual composure. “What happened?”

He looks away for a second, then back at her, his expression tightening just a little. “Is long story,” he says. “But was my fault.”

That’s all he offers.

He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t give her the details, because even thinking about it now feels embarrassing. It makes him look reckless and immature, not like the adult he wants to appear to be. He’s already had to deal with Wilson’s disappointment. He doesn’t want to see it mirrored here, too.

Melody studies him for a moment, clearly sensing there’s more, but she doesn’t push immediately.

“Violence is never the answer for personal issues,” she says instead, her tone firm but not harsh. She stands up, already moving. “I’m getting you ice. Sit.”

Melody comes back a moment later with a pack of ice and steps close to him without hesitation, her movements careful as she lifts his chin slightly to get a better look at the swelling. “Hold it here,” she says, pressing the ice gently against his eye before guiding his hand into place. “Don’t move it around too much.”

He does as he’s told, his grip steady even as the cold seeps into his skin.

She watches him for a second longer than necessary before stepping back and returning to her seat behind the desk. “I hope you don’t get into something like this again,” she adds, her tone softer now but still firm.

Ilya only nods.

At this point, he has come to understand that this is just how she is with him. At first, he assumed it was just professional, that she was only keeping him in line because his image mattered, because he was valuable. But over the past few months, after everything he’s put her through—missed meetings and calls, reckless nights, situations she could have easily harshly scolded him for and didn’t—he has realized it is something else.

She treats him like a kid who doesn’t have anyone else to take care of him. 

“Anyway,” Melody says after a moment, shifting back into business, “have you made any decisions about what we talked about last time?”

Ilya shakes his head slightly, still holding the ice to his eye. “Is a lot,” he says. “Too much at once. I am not sure what to do.”

Melody nods like she expects that answer. “That’s okay. We can go through it together,” she says. “But first, we need to be clear on one thing. You’re still declaring for the draft soon, right? The deadline is April 27th.”

Ilya opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out.

For a second, he just sits there, staring at her, the silence stretching longer. Before, the answer would have come easily, without hesitation. It had always been part of the plan, something he decided long ago and never questioned.

“Yes.”

That’s what he should say, but he doesn’t.

Melody’s brows draw together slightly. “Ilya?” she says. “You’re still declaring, right?”

He swallows, his grip tightening slightly on the ice pack. “I… I do not know,” he says finally, the words coming out slower than he intends. “I feel like…” He exhales, frustrated with himself. “I do not know.”

Melody closes her laptop quietly, her attention fully on him now. “Ilya,” she says, more gently this time, “what’s going on? Did something happen?”

He shakes his head immediately. “No,” he says. “Nothing happened.”

But that’s not entirely true.

“I just feel… weird,” he adds, struggling to explain something he doesn’t fully understand himself. “I think I need to think about it more. I want to declare, but…” He trails off, frowning slightly. “I have to think.”

Melody studies him for a moment, clearly confused but not pushing too hard. “Okay,” she says slowly.

Ilya leans back again, staring at the ceiling now, the ice still pressed to his eye.

This had always been his plan.

Declare after freshman year. Leave Duke. Go to the NBA. Everything lined up, simple, clean, exactly how it was supposed to happen.

Nothing about that has changed, and yet, something is different.

But now there is something inside of him that is making him hold back. He can’t name it, can’t explain it, but it is enough to stop him from saying the one thing he was always certain of.

For the first time, he cannot confidently say he wants to leave.

_______

April 2024

After that confusing day, Ilya moves forward like nothing is wrong, like his head doesn’t feel too full, like there isn’t something sitting inside him that he cannot name. He keeps the routine intact, keeps showing up, keeps performing, because that is what he knows how to do. Still, underneath all of that, it remains the most confusing time of his life.

On paper, everything is exactly how it was supposed to be. Duke makes it to the Elite Eight, and the noise around him only grows louder with each game. Even in March Madness, under pressure that breaks other players, he keeps delivering—twenty points, more than twenty, again and again, like it is expected, like it is inevitable. He plays the best basketball of his life, controlled and dominant, which leaves zero room for doubt. 

Analysts dissect his performances on every major platform, commentators talk about him like he is the next big legend in the making, and his name becomes a constant presence in headlines. 

ESPN runs piece after piece about him with headlines like: 

Rozanov Continues to Dominate as Duke Advances to Elite Eight.
Freshman Phenom Ilya Rozanov Looks Like a Lock for No. 1 Pick.
Is There Anyone in College Basketball Who Can Stop Rozanov?
From Moscow to March Madness: The Rise of Ilya Rozanov.

His highlights go viral; TikTok is littered with edits of him; his jersey sells out; and every time he steps on the court, the cheers grow overwhelmingly loud. 

But with all of that comes expectation.

Everyone is waiting for him to declare for the draft. It’s the question that follows him everywhere, asked in every interview, brought up in passing conversations, speculated about endlessly online. 

But as the days pass, and he still doesn’t say anything, it starts to feel strange.

It is already early April.

He should have declared by now.

Other players have. Some of his own teammates, the ones expected to go in later rounds, have already made their announcements, posting statements, thanking the program, and preparing to move on. But, Ilya—who is unanimously projected to be the #1 pick—has said nothing.

His coach asks him about it more than once, reassuring him that it’s okay to move on to the draft, that he has made his mark at Duke. His teammates look at him, too, some curious, some confused, some clearly wondering what he is waiting for.

Ilya doesn’t tell anyone anything. 

The conversations with agents don’t stop. If anything, they become more frequent, more insistent, each one trying to lock him in before he makes a decision. Melody keeps things organized, keeps him grounded as much as she can, but even she can only do so much when he won’t commit to anything.

Because the truth is, he doesn’t know what he wants to do anymore.

He feels lost. 

The draft, the brands, the social media, the media, the fans, the pundits, basketball, his dad, his brother— blah, blah, blah. 

All of those things should be enough to occupy him completely.

But they aren’t, they’re all overpowered by his infatuation with Shane. 

He checks his second Instagram account religiously, watching every story, reading every post, paying attention to details that should not matter to him. He reads the articles Shane writes, even when he doesn’t fully care about the topic, just to get a window into how he thinks, how he expresses himself.

At games, when Shane is there, Ilya finds himself looking for him without meaning to. His gaze lingers just a second longer than it should, and every time he catches sight of him, it irritates him and makes his heart jump at the same time.

He always sits in the same area with one of his friends, not looking at Ilya. Only looking at Colin. He sits there so prettily with that fuckass, boring guy’s name on his back, even though his boyfriend is a benchwarmer. 

He can’t complain about it, because that’s the only time he sees him in the flesh. Any other time, it’s through a screen. When he hears about him, it’s usually through Harris. 

When Harris starts talking about them, complaining about Shane and Colin’s relationship to Troy, Ilya just leaves the room because he can’t bear to hear about it anymore. 

He tells all of this to a very patient Sveta. 

“...I’m confused as hell, Sveta,” he says, his voice dropping into a whine that he would never allow with anyone else. 

He’s pacing in his dorm again, phone pressed to his ear, his free hand running through his hair as if he can physically untangle the mess of thoughts in his head.

“I’ve asked you so many times why you haven’t declared yet,” Sveta replies, her tone steady. “You know the deadline is coming up.”

“I don’t want to talk about the draft right now,” he says quickly, cutting her off before she can get any further. “We talk about it too much.”

“But it’s important, Ilyusha,” she points out. “This is your future.”

“I know,” he says, dragging the words out like he’s tired of hearing them. “But is it weird that I feel like my… my thing with Shane is taking over more?”

There’s a pause on the other end, and when she speaks again, there’s a smile in her voice.

“Your thing?” she repeats. “You mean your very obvious crush?”

Ilya exhales sharply. “It is not—”

“Oh, honey,” she cuts in, almost laughing now. “You are in love with him. I have told you this from the start.”

“I am not,” he says immediately, but it comes out weaker than he wants it to. “And you are not helping.”

“I am helping,” she insists. “You just don’t like the answer.”

He opens his mouth to argue again, but she beats him to it, her tone shifting suddenly, lighter, more excited.

“Wait, wait, wait—did I tell you my good news?” she asks.

He frowns slightly, thrown off by the abrupt change. “What good news?” he asks. “What happened?”

“I’m officially transferring to Duke next semester!” she says, the excitement in her voice impossible to miss.

For a second, Ilya just stands there, completely still.

His brain doesn’t catch up right away.

Because this—this is something he has wanted for so long that it almost doesn’t feel real hearing it out loud. Back when they first talked about coming to the U.S., about playing at Duke, about everything that would come after, it always included her. They planned it together in that careless, hopeful way they used to plan things, assuming it would all fall into place.

But it hadn’t.

Her father had shut it down immediately, kept her in Moscow, citing her age and how America would corrupt her, and Ilya had come here alone.

“You are serious?” he asks, his voice quieter now. 

“Yes,” she says, laughing a little. “It took a lot of convincing, but it’s done. I’ll be there next semester.”

Ilya lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, something in his chest loosening for the first time in what feels like weeks.

“You are finally coming,” he whispers, almost to himself.

“Of course I am,” she replies. “You think I would let you ruin your life alone over there?”

He huffs out a small laugh at that, shaking his head. “I am not ruining my life.”

“Debatable,” she says lightly. “You are spiraling over a boy and avoiding one of the biggest decisions of your career.”

He groans, dragging a hand over his face again. “You were doing so well,” he mutters. “Why do you bring it back to that?”

“Because it matters,” she says simply. “And now I will be there to witness it in person.”

“Wait,” Ilya says slowly, the thought forming as he straightens a little, his grip tightening slightly around his phone. “If I declare for the draft… I won’t be here.”

There’s a small pause on the other end. “It’s okay,” she says. “At least we’ll be in the same country. You’ll still be close to North Carolina, probably. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

He lets out a quiet breath, but he doesn’t respond right away.

Because his mind is already moving ahead of him, pulling at the thread she just gave him and unraveling it faster than he can stop it.

If he declares, he leaves.

But now, for the first time, he’s forced to look at what he’s actually leaving behind.

Sveta keeps talking, filling the silence, reassuring him in the way she always has, but he barely hears her now. His thoughts are too loud, too tangled, circling back to the same point again and again.

Whatever this is—whatever he feels when he thinks about Shane, whatever has been building over the past few months—it disappears the moment he walks away from Duke. There’s no room for this in the next stage of his life; it’s just going to be basketball, living the high life, and empty hookups. 

No real feelings, no freckles, no heart that thumps at the mere sight of someone, nothing. No possibility of ever being with Shane, kissing him the way he wants to, feeling his skin against his. It would all be gone. 

It isn’t just Shane; now, he would be leaving behind Sveta, too. 

He would be leaving just as she was arriving. They hadn’t been able to see each other at all since he came to Duke. Would it be the same if he were in some city, traveling all the time while she was a student? 

He knows Sveta wouldn’t come here solely for him, but he was a big part of why she chose Duke. He wanted to play at Duke, so they made plans around Duke. But now, they would be like two ships in the night. She'd be all alone at Duke, like he was. Actually, it would be worse because at least he had Coach Wilson at the beginning, then Troy, and then Melody. 

“Ilyusha?” Sveta’s voice cuts back in, softer now. “You still there?”

“Yes,” he says automatically, though his voice sounds distant even to himself.

“You’re thinking too much again,” she says gently.

He huffs out a quiet breath, but there’s no real humor in it this time.

“Maybe,” he admits.

He stands there, phone pressed to his ear, staring at nothing as everything lines up for him.

And just like that, the last domino falls.

_______

Duke wins the national championship on April 8th.

It becomes the best night of Ilya’s life so far.

The final buzzer, the roar of the crowd, the feeling of the game ending exactly the way it is supposed to—it all crashes over him at once, and for a moment, he lets himself feel it fully.

He’s done it.

Not just as part of the team, but as the center of it. He carried them through the tournament, played every game like it was a matter of life or death, and now there was nothing left to prove.

The celebration starts immediately and doesn’t slow down.

By the time they make it to the club later that night—a place that very conveniently doesn’t check IDs—everything is already blurring together. Music pulses through the walls, people crowd around them, and drinks appear in his hands before he can even think to ask for them. Everyone wants to be close, to be part of it, to be able to say they were there the night Duke finally won the championship.

He drinks more than he should, and the alcohol goes down easily. He moves through the crowd, and everyone cheers as he does so because he’s the man of the night. Girls press close, voices in his ear, hands on him, and he doesn’t bother to keep track of how many faces blur together as the night goes on. He kisses whoever is in front of him.

He also posts the championship trophy on his story right after the game. He holds it high, his teammates shouting in the background. Another story follows from the club with the music too loud, faces too close, his own grin wide and unfiltered as he leans into the camera.

His notifications explode almost instantly.

Messages, tags, reposts. His name is everywhere after the game, louder than ever now that the season ended the way it did.

Earlier, right after the game, he gave interviews, standing under bright lights with microphones pushed toward him, cameras catching every word.

“How does it feel to win a national championship in your freshman year?” A reporter from ESPN asked him. 

Ilya smirked slightly, the answer coming easily. “Is good,” he said. “I say it before, yes? We will win.”

“People are calling you the likely number one pick, but you haven't declared it. Meanwhile, your teammates and many others have. Do you have a comment on that?”

“I am thinking,” he said, his tone still confident and steady. “I will decide soon with my agent and my close people, then everyone will know.”

Now, hours later, with the music pounding and the night spinning around him, it’s the last thing on his mind. 

Everything else feels exactly how it should.

________

The headline goes live on ESPN.com on April 13th. 

BREAKING: PROJECTED NUMBER 1 PICK ILYA ROZANOV NOT DECLARING FOR NBA DRAFT; WILL RETURN TO DUKE FOR SOPHOMORE SEASON AFTER MARCH MADNESS WIN.