Chapter 6 — Too Close to Stop
It didn't fade.
That was what Shane noticed first.
Whatever had started between them—whatever line they'd crossed and refused to uncross—it didn't cool down with time or distance or distraction. If anything, it settled deeper. Sharper. Like something that had been waiting for a long time and finally found a way out.
And now it was everywhere.
In the way Shane couldn't focus the same way anymore. In the way every shift on the ice felt tighter, faster, like he was chasing something just out of reach. In the way his body reacted before his thoughts could catch up every time Ilya was near.
Which was always.
"You're off," Marcus said bluntly during practice, tossing him a bottle.
Shane caught it easily. "I'm fine."
"You keep saying that."
Shane didn't answer. He twisted the cap, took a quick drink, then set the bottle aside harder than necessary. His patience felt thinner lately. Everything did.
Across the ice—
There.
Ilya.
Watching.
Not even pretending not to.
Their eyes met for half a second, and that was all it took. Something tightened low in Shane's chest, sharp and immediate, like a reflex he couldn't unlearn.
Ilya didn't look away.
Didn't smirk.
That made it worse.
Coach's whistle cut through the tension. "Again!"
They reset.
Drill after drill, shift after shift—it became obvious fast. They weren't just playing against each other anymore. They were reacting to each other. Anticipating faster. Adjusting quicker. Moving like they already knew what the other would do.
It should've been an advantage.
It wasn't.
Because it didn't feel like strategy.
It felt personal.
At one point, Shane pushed too hard into a play, cutting inside when he should've passed. Ilya intercepted cleanly, stick precise, body blocking him off with frustrating ease.
Too close.
Always too close.
"Still rushing," Ilya murmured as they passed.
Shane's jaw tightened. "Still talking."
But his voice wasn't steady.
And Ilya noticed. Of course he did.
That look again.
Not teasing.
Knowing.
Shane hated that look.
—
The game that night was worse.
Not because of the score. Not because of the pressure.
Because of them.
From the first drop of the puck, everything felt tighter than usual. Every movement carried weight. Every glance lasted too long.
Shane pushed himself harder, skating faster, hitting sharper, forcing his focus back where it belonged.
It didn't hold.
Midway through the second period, it happened.
A scramble near the boards—fast, messy, bodies closing in. Shane went for the puck at the same time Ilya did.
Impact.
Hard.
Controlled.
Familiar.
They hit the glass, the sound sharp, the crowd roaring—but for a second, everything else faded.
Too close.
Way too close.
Ilya's hand pressed briefly against Shane's side, steadying—then didn't move away right away.
Not accidental.
Shane felt it like a spark.
"You keep doing that," Shane muttered, breath uneven.
"Doing what?" Ilya asked quietly.
"This."
Ilya didn't move. "You don't stop me."
That landed harder than the hit.
Shane's grip tightened on his stick. "This isn't the place."
"Then where?"
That—
That was worse.
The whistle broke it apart before Shane could answer.
Probably a good thing.
Because he didn't have one.
—
By the third period, the game barely mattered.
Shane knew it should. The score was tight, the stakes high, his team depending on him—but his focus kept slipping. Not completely. Just enough. Just enough to matter.
Because every time he moved—
Ilya was there.
Not just blocking. Not just playing.
There.
Watching.
Waiting.
Like he was looking for something that had nothing to do with hockey.
Shane got the puck late in the period, fast break, clear lane—this was it. The shot. The play. The moment that should've cut through everything else.
And still—
He hesitated.
Just for a second.
Ilya closed the distance instantly.
Too fast. Too precise.
The chance was gone.
Turnover.
The crowd groaned.
Shane didn't even react to that.
Because Ilya didn't skate away right after.
He stayed close.
Too close.
"You're thinking about it," Ilya said under the noise.
Shane's pulse spiked. "Shut up."
"You are."
Shane turned on him, sharper now. "Play the game."
"I am," Ilya said, calm as ever. "You're not."
That hit harder than it should have.
And the worst part?
It wasn't wrong.
—
They lost.
Barely.
But it didn't matter.
Not to Shane.
Because the second the game ended, the noise came rushing back—but it didn't stay. It slipped away the moment he stepped off the ice, heading straight for the hallway without even thinking about it.
Like he already knew.
Like this was where it would end up.
Again.
He barely had time to stop before—
"You're getting worse."
Shane exhaled slowly, not turning right away. "You following me now?"
A quiet step closer.
"You keep coming here."
Shane turned then—and there he was.
Close.
Always close.
"This isn't a good idea," Shane said, but there was no weight behind it anymore.
Ilya tilted his head slightly. "You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
"Then why are you still here?"
Shane didn't answer.
Couldn't.
Because the truth was simple.
He didn't want to leave.
That realization settled heavy in his chest.
Ilya stepped closer, slow enough to give him time to move away. To stop it. To end it before it went further.
Shane didn't move.
Of course he didn't.
"You're thinking too much," Ilya said quietly.
"Someone has to."
"Why?"
Shane let out a short, frustrated breath. "Because this—whatever this is—it doesn't end well."
Ilya studied him for a second, something unreadable in his expression.
"Maybe," he said.
That wasn't reassuring.
"Not maybe," Shane pushed. "Definitely."
Ilya stepped closer anyway.
Now there was barely any space left between them.
"And you still came here."
Shane's breath caught.
That was the problem.
He had.
Every time.
Without fail.
Like it wasn't even a choice anymore.
"Tell me to stop," Ilya said, voice lower now.
That again.
That same question.
That same chance.
Shane knew what the right answer was.
Knew what he was supposed to say.
What he needed to say if he wanted to keep any kind of control over this.
He didn't say it.
Didn't even try.
That was enough.
Ilya's hand came up, slower this time, brushing lightly against Shane's arm before settling at his collar, gripping just enough to hold him there. Not force. Not pressure. Just… certain.
And then—
Closer.
Not rushed.
Not hesitant.
Just inevitable.
The kiss wasn't sharp this time.
It wasn't sudden or overwhelming like before.
It was slower.
Heavier.
Like they both already knew what it would feel like and didn't need to rush into it.
And somehow—
That made it worse.
Shane felt it immediately, the pull, the heat, the way everything else seemed to fall away too easily. His hand came up again, gripping Ilya's shirt, pulling him closer without even realizing it.
There was no hesitation left now.
None.
That line?
Gone.
Completely.
When they broke apart, it wasn't far. It never was.
"This is going to mess everything up," Shane said quietly, breath uneven.
"Probably," Ilya said.
No hesitation.
No denial.
Just truth.
Shane let out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh. "You don't even care."
Ilya looked at him—really looked this time.
"I do," he said.
That surprised him.
"Then why—"
"Because I don't want to stop."
That was it.
Simple.
Honest.
Dangerous.
Shane felt something shift in his chest at that—something heavier than before, something harder to ignore.
"…Yeah," he said quietly.
"Yeah?"
Shane didn't look away.
"I don't either."
Silence settled between them again—but this time it wasn't uncertain.
It was understood.
And that was worse.
Because now there was no pretending.
No denial.
No distance.
Just this—
Whatever this was.
And the fact that neither of them were walking away from it.
Even though they both knew—
They probably should.