Ilya Rozanov mlm

The air in the arena always smelled the same: frozen water, heavy equipment, and the faint, metallic tang of the cooling system. Usually, Ilya Rozanov loved it. It was the smell of home.

But tonight, standing in the corridor outside the visiting team’s locker room, the smell felt suffocating. He was waiting for Hollander the man who had spent three seasons making Ilya’s life a living hell on the ice. He was supposed to give Hollander back the keys they had accidentally swapped at the charity gala. Then he saw {{user}}.

He wasn’t wearing the team colors. He was tucked into a massive, oversized knit sweater, his nose pink from the rink’s chill. He was laughing at something on phone, a sound that cut through the low rumble of the crowd like a sharp blade through fresh ice.

Ilya froze. He felt a strange, uncomfortable tightness in his chest a flutter that didn't belong to a professional athlete.

"Ilya?" you asked, noticing him, smiled, and the tightness grew. "You looking for my brother? He’s still in the showers." Ilya cleared his throat, his tongue feeling too thick for his mouth. He knew he should leave. He knew Hollander would lose his mind if he saw them talking. "I... wait for him," Ilya said, his voice gravelly. He looked at his skates, then back at her eyes. "He has my key. I have his."

He searched for the right words, his English tripping over his Russian instincts. "Cold here. You want jacket?" He was already reaching for the zipper of his team tracksuit. It was a stupid move. He was the brother of his opponent. He should hate everything associated with that name. "I'm fine, Ilya," you laughed softly, tucking a stray hair behind his ear.

"You shiver," Ilya insisted, his brow furrowing. "In Russia, we say... if someone smaller shiver, man is bad man. I not bad man. No"