It didn't slow down.
That was the first thing Shane realized.
Whatever this was—whatever they had stepped into without naming, without planning—it didn't settle into something manageable. It didn't soften or fade or become easier to carry.
It deepened.
It pressed closer.
It demanded more.
And the worst part?
Shane let it.
He felt it the moment he stepped onto the ice again. Not just awareness—not just that sharp instinct that had always existed between them—but something heavier now. Something that sat under his skin and refused to be ignored.
Because this wasn't just rivalry anymore.
This wasn't just tension.
This was want.
And it showed.
Every movement felt tighter. Every shift more deliberate. Shane played like he had something to prove—but not to his team, not to the crowd, not even to himself.
To Ilya.
That was the truth he didn't want to look at too closely.
And across the ice—
Ilya knew.
Shane could see it in the way he watched him now. Not just tracking, not just calculating, but seeing. Like he understood something Shane hadn't said out loud yet.
That look—
God, that look—
It got under his skin in a way nothing else ever had.
The whistle blew.
They moved.
The game started fast, but it didn't take long before it narrowed. Not into plays, not into strategy—into them.
Everything else blurred around the edges.
First shift—clean, controlled. Shane carried the puck forward, cutting through defense with precision, forcing space open—but before he could take the shot—
Ilya was there.
Always there.
Stick sharp, body angled perfectly, shutting him down before the play could finish.
Too close.
Always too close.
"You're forcing it," Ilya murmured as they passed.
Shane's jaw tightened. "Stay out of my way."
"I don't think you want me to."
That—
That hit differently.
Shane didn't answer. Couldn't. Because the worst part was—he wasn't sure it was wrong.
That hesitation followed him into the next shift.
And the next.
And every time they crossed paths, it got harder to ignore.
Midway through the period, Shane chased a loose puck into the corner, pushing hard, cutting tight against the boards—
Impact.
Ilya.
The hit was controlled, deliberate, but strong enough to press Shane fully into the glass. The sound cracked through the arena, the crowd roaring—but Shane barely heard it.
Because Ilya didn't move away.
Not right away.
Their bodies were still close, too close, breath uneven in a way that had nothing to do with the hit.
"Still saying this doesn't matter?" Ilya asked quietly.
Shane's pulse kicked hard. "Play the game."
"I am."
His hand—
Shane felt it before he saw it—just a brief pressure at his side, steady, grounding, not accidental.
Not part of the play.
Something in Shane's chest tightened sharply. "You're pushing it."
"You're letting me."
That—
That broke something.
Shane shoved off him harder than necessary, creating space, forcing himself back into motion.
But it didn't leave.
That feeling.
It stayed.
—
By the second period, the game wasn't clean anymore.
Not for Shane.
He was still playing well—fast, sharp, controlled—but there were cracks now. Small ones. Barely noticeable to anyone else.
But Ilya saw them.
Of course he did.
Because he was the one causing them.
"You're distracted," Ilya said during another close pass, their shoulders brushing just enough to linger.
Shane snapped back, "Focus on your own game."
"I am."
Always that answer.
Always that certainty.
Like this didn't throw him off.
Like this didn't affect him the same way.
That thought hit harder than anything else.
Because it wasn't fair.
Because Shane felt like he was unraveling in ways he couldn't control, and Ilya—
Ilya looked steady.
Calm.
Like he had already accepted this.
And that made Shane push harder.
Too hard.
Late in the period, he took a shot he shouldn't have, forced a play that wasn't there—and lost possession.
Turnover.
The crowd groaned.
Shane didn't react.
Because when he turned—
Ilya was watching him.
Not smirking.
Not mocking.
Just—watching.
And that look—
It wasn't about the mistake.
It was about him.
That was worse.
—
The third period hit like pressure finally breaking.
Tied game.
Final minutes.
Everything on the line.
And Shane couldn't separate any of it anymore.
He got the puck off a rebound, fast, clean, the kind of chance he never missed—
And hesitated.
Just for a second.
Just enough.
Ilya closed in instantly.
Blocked.
Gone.
The opportunity vanished like it had never been there.
Shane exhaled sharply, frustration cutting through him—but before he could push past it—
"You're thinking about me."
The words were low. Certain.
Shane turned on him, sharper now. "Don't."
"You are."
"Shut up."
Ilya didn't move back.
Didn't back down.
"Say I'm wrong."
Shane didn't answer.
Couldn't.
Because he wasn't.
The whistle cut through the moment, dragging them apart again—but it didn't fix anything.
Nothing could.
—
They lost.
Again.
Barely.
But it didn't matter.
Because the second the game ended, Shane already knew where this was going.
Where it always went.
The hallway.
Quiet.
Empty.
Waiting.
He got there first this time, pacing once before stopping, running a hand through his hair like that would settle anything.
It didn't.
Nothing did.
"You're getting worse."
Shane didn't turn right away. "You keep saying that."
Footsteps.
Closer.
"And you keep proving it."
Shane turned then—and there he was.
Too close already.
Always too close.
"This is messing with my game," Shane said, more honest than he meant to be.
Ilya didn't look surprised.
"Yeah."
That was it.
No denial.
No apology.
Just truth.
That should've made Shane step back.
It didn't.
"Then why are we still doing this?"
That question hung between them.
Heavy.
Real.
Ilya stepped closer instead of answering.
Slow.
Certain.
"Why are you here?" he asked instead.
Shane's breath caught.
Because that was the answer.
Because he didn't have one that made sense.
Because the only real answer was—
You.
And he wasn't ready to say that out loud.
"Tell me to stop," Ilya said again.
That same question.
That same choice.
Shane stared at him, his pulse loud in his ears, his thoughts slipping out of reach.
He knew what the right answer was.
He knew what he should say.
He didn't say it.
Of course he didn't.
That was all it took.
Ilya's hand came up, slower this time, brushing lightly along Shane's arm before settling at his collar, pulling him in—not forceful, not rushed, just… inevitable.
The kiss wasn't controlled anymore.
It wasn't careful.
It was everything they'd been holding back finally breaking loose.
Sharp.
Deep.
Unavoidable.
Shane reacted instantly, his grip tightening, pulling Ilya closer like he needed it—like stopping wasn't even an option anymore.
This wasn't a line anymore.
This was something else entirely.
Something they couldn't pretend away.
When they broke apart, it was only for air, breaths uneven, foreheads nearly touching.
"This is going to ruin everything," Shane said quietly.
Ilya didn't deny it.
"Yeah."
Shane let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. "You don't care."
Ilya's gaze held his.
"I do."
That surprised him.
"Then why—"
"Because I want you more."
That—
That hit harder than anything else had.
Shane felt it in his chest, sharp and immediate, like something had just been pulled into the open that couldn't be pushed back.
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
"…Yeah," Shane said finally, quieter now.
Because the truth was—
He felt the same way.
And that was the problem.
Because now there was no pretending.
No distance.
No control.
Just this—
And the fact that neither of them were walking away from it.
Even though they both knew—
They should.