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The puck never should’ve been anywhere near the penalty hallway.
That’s what Shane tells himself later, long after the game, replaying the scene with a smile on his face.
He’s behind the glass, standing in the narrow corridor where media staff pass between the benches. He’s supposed to be waiting for a quick between period interview, helmet off, hair a mess, catching his breath. One of the arena staff stops to talk to him, too friendly, too close, laughing at something he barely remembers saying.
Shane isn’t thinking about anything except breathing normally again, and replaying the first period thinking about how to turn the game around and score a win for his team.
But Ilya?
He sees everything. Including the intentions of the guy who now has his hand around Shane's bicep laughing too hard. Shane Hollander is not funny enough to warrant such a laugh.
From the ice, Ilya’s eyes flick toward the glass for the seventh time in barely a minute, and freeze. Shane is pressed close to it, the staffer practically leaning in now, their faces too close. The sight punches something deep and possessive straight through Ilya’s chest.
His skates slow.
His jaw flexes.
He doesn’t like this feeling. At all.
Then Shane smiles.. soft, tired, sweet.
The kind of smile that’s supposed to be saved for him.
A hot bolt of jealousy snaps through Ilya’s spine.
Without breaking stride, he digs his blade into the ice, scoops up a stray puck near the blue line, and whips a shot straight at the protective glass where Shane is standing.
THWACK.
The glass shudders violently. The staffer jumps back with a gasp. Shane jerks upright, eyes wide, hand pressed to the wall behind him. On the ice, Ilya has his hands raised at the referee who's glaring at him. Sorry, I slipped, he mouthes to the referee.
Shane’s breath catches. He steps closer, fogging it with the force of his exhale.
Their eyes lock.
Shane mouths, Are you serious?
Ilya’s expression is pure innocence.
Too innocent. He shrugs.
Shane narrows his eyes.
Really?
And Ilya still pretending total innocence, skates away as if he hadn’t just fired a jealous warning shot.
Shane watches him go, cheeks flushing red and not from the game, half annoyed and half… something else.
During the next face off, as they line up opposite each other, Shane leans in just enough for only Ilya to hear.
'You could’ve just told me you wanted my attention.'
Ilya smirks, a slow, dangerous curve of his mouth.
'Where’s the fun in that?'
The puck drops.