An art student on the verge of giving up meets the one person who sees her work more clearly than she ever has.
Habit
Jimin x Reader | 1214 | ❤️🔥
They keep finding each other in the same fight, the same kiss, the same lie they both pretend not to believe.
After Midnight
Yoongi x Reader | 411 | 💞
Alone in the dim studio, playful tension between Yoongi and you builds
Just for the Weekend
Yoongi x Reader | 39,732 | 💞❤️🔥
When a chance encounter at a music festival turns into something deeper, you find yourself pulled into a whirlwind with Yoongi—a stranger who feels too familiar. Between stolen moments, electric chemistry, and a bond that feels effortless, you're left questioning everything you thought you knew about love and connection. With the festival winding down and the last day creeping closer, one thing is certain: what started as unexpected might just be the most thrilling, dangerous, and real thing you never saw coming.
Suck It
Hoseok x Reader | 31,979 | 💞❤️🔥❤️🩹
What starts as lingering glances and offhand touches turns into something neither of you can ignore. You're not supposed to fall for someone on tour, especially not him. But between stolen moments and rising tension, it's only a matter of time before everything changes.
Route 613
Route 613 Extras
Namjoon x Reader/Yoongi x Reader/Vmin x Reader | 71,362 |💞❤️🔥❤️🩹
Reader wants to be the very best Pokémon trainer there ever was. Her first stop in that journey is Paldea University home to a myriad of higher education. Still working to get over her ex boyfriend, Yoongi, reader forms new connections while making a few questionable decisions along the way. Each battle bringing her closer to the glory she's always dreamed of. Will she succeed in becoming champion or will outside forces stop her from achieving her goal?
Lessons in Love Making
Namkook x Reader | 5,564 | ❤️🔥💞
Jungkook lost his virginity but thinks he must've done a bad job by the person's reaction. He seeks out his two best friends, Reader and Namjoon, to help him learn how to make love. They gladly accept the challenge.
Moon Over Flower
Seokjin x Reader | 3,973 | ❤️🔥
Reader finally decides to lose her virginity and hires someone from the internet. Said person, unbeknownst to her, happens to be her favorite regular at the coffee shop she works at and her favorite spicy content creator.
Daylight
Taehyung x Reader | 4,003 | ❤️🔥❤️🩹
After years apart Taehyung and Reader spend a night together and finally confess their truest feelings.
Bad Decisions
Jungkook x Reader | 4,009 | ❤️🔥
After years of wondering what it would be like to be with Jungkook you finally have the chance. Things are a little different then what you imagined.
Stress Relief
Hoseok x Reader | 1,266 | ❤️🔥
Reader is having a hard time doing their choreography and needs a little special help to finish strong.
Club Nabi
Jimin x Reader | 1,604 | ❤️🔥
Reader meets a stranger at the club and ends up in a compromising position in the bathroom.
Lucky Night
Yoongi x Reader | 3,753 | ❤️🔥💞
Reader gets a very special night with Min Yoongi after a BTS concert where they learn more then they could have ever hoped for.
To Be Loved By
Yoongi x Reader | 865 | 💞
Reader takes the day off because of period pain and Yoongi leaves work to comfort and take care of her
What Happens in Vegas
Yoonminjoon x Reader | 2,687 | ❤️🔥
In a Vegas hotel reader has fun with her husbands to be
Wildflower, Fingertips On Me
Yoonminjoon x Reader | 24,124 | 💞❤️🔥
For their anniversary Yoongi, Namjoon, Jimin and reader take a glamping trip far into the woods where no one can hear their screams
Daegudrama's Spicy Festa Special
Member x Member:
Don’t Overthink It
Namkook | 24,967 | ❤️🩹💞❤️🔥
Jungkook thought Coachella would be about the music, the pressure, and proving himself under the brightest lights of his career. Instead, it becomes about stolen nights, bracelets worn like secrets, and the risk of a love too big to keep offstage. Between chaos that makes headlines and quiet moments that steady his heart, Jungkook learns that with Namjoon, some things aren’t meant to be hidden—and maybe the only rule is don’t overthink it.
Not Yours
Namkook | 978 | ❤️🩹
Jungkook confesses his feelings for Namjoon.
Suchwita 7
Yoonmin | 487 | ❤️🔥
After filming Suchwita Jimin really wants to suck Yoongi’s dick
The Summer Of Ferris Wheels
Namkook | 88,001 | ❤️🩹💞
⚠️: mentions of past drug use, active alcoholism, minor character deaths
When Jungkook Jeon is forced to work with Namjoon Kim, someone he believes is responsible for an accident their mutual friend was in, tensions rise. Jungkook just wants a calm summer with his best friends he has rarely seen over the past year because he attends college 3,000 miles away from home. Namjoon wants to find the kind of love worth writing songs about and for his parent’s to accept him as he is. Working with someone you despise is not easy and it’s even harder when all you want is for them to listen to you. Will find each other and finally get to the bottom of the accident or will they fall back into old patterns? Will this be a summer of late nights and memories or sorrow and sadness?
TXT
Member x Reader:
No Rules Just Rewards
Soobin x Reader | 1,842 | ❤️🔥
Soobin wins his first solo music show award and gets a special reward from you.
This Friday Night
Yeonjun x Reader | 2,691 | ❤️🔥
Reader finally gets Yeonjun where she's been thinking about being with him for the last three years.
Member x Member:
Heather
Soogyu/Yeonbin | 29,190 | 💞❤️🩹
Heather is the girl everyone wants except Soobin. He wishes he was Heather because he loves Yeonjun, or does he? Performing a song spilling all your feelings is bold, but will it work in his favor? What of Soobin’s best friend, Beomgyu, suppressing his feelings to allow Soobin to work out his own feelings?
The One That Got Away
Yeonbin/Soogyu | 16,010 | ❤️🩹💞
In which Yeonjun reminisces about his first love, Soobin, only for him to come work at the same company while engaged to the spring fling they once joked about.
You Belong With Me
Tyunning | 4,413 | 💞
Sweet high school Kai and Taehyun navigating a change in their relationship.
Together Tomorrow As Well
Yeonbin | 3,045 | ❤️🩹💞
In which Soobin never debuted due family tragedy and is trying to regain the friendship and relationship he once had with the other members.
Superstar In The Snow
Yeonbin | 5,750 | 💞
World pop sensation, Choi Yeonjun, gets stuck in a snowy small town on Christmas Eve and befriends a local boy. Soobin and his friends are throwing a party and are delighted to give Yeonjun a taste of being a normal teenager for a moment.
MULTI
Member x Reader:
Spilled Soju and Steamy Showers
Namjoon x Soobin x Reader | 2,913 | ❤️🔥
The dimpled leaders spill a drink resulting in soiled clothes. They decide to take a shower together where manager reader finds them and joins in the fun.
HOCKEY
Death to All Penguins
Macklin Celebrini x Will Smith | 3,388 | 💞❤️🩹
Macklin would protect any teammate. It just means more when it’s Will.
Second Shift
Macklin Celebrini x Will Smith | 1,784 | ❤️🔥
A bad loss and a selfish teammate have Macklin ready to put a hole in the wall. Will has three minutes for the ranting before he offers a better way to burn off the adrenaline. Macklin might be the star on the field, but at home, Will is the one calling the plays.
Only Home
Macklin Celebrini x Will Smith | 12,659 | ❤️🩹❤️🔥💞
Macklin is done picking up the pieces of Will’s performance. He’s ready to lie to everyone else if it means he finally gets to keep the real version of Will Smith.
Hat Trick
Macklin Celebrini x Will Smith | 4,028 | ❤️🔥
One game, two teammates, and a bet: first to three goals wins three rounds of whatever he wants. When the final buzzer sounds, the competition shifts from the ice to the bedroom for a night of high-stakes surrender and bruising intensity. In this game, winning is only the beginning of the ruin.
Breaking the Streak
Macklin Celebrini x Will Smith | 14,676 | ❤️🔥❤️🩹💞
First overall, generational talent, and the face of the franchise. Macklin is tired of the titles. He’s ready for the only one that matters: Will’s.
Habit and Heart
Macklin Celebrini x Will Smith | 21,037 | ❤️🩹💞❤️🔥
After a summer of ghosting and stone-cold silence, Will and Macklin return to San Jose with the league’s eyes on them and a wall of glass between them. What was once a "telepathic" bond on the ice has shifted into a tense, agonizing grind of shared hotel rooms and unaddressed longing. As their secret world begins to bleed into the locker room, they must navigate the fragile line between being the faces of a franchise and being the only thing that’s real to each other.
Always Yours
Igor Chernyshov x Luca Cagnoni | 19,714 | 💞❤️🔥
"Tell me the word for when you want to put your mark on someone." Luca came for a tutoring session. Igor came for everything else.
Taped
Igor Chernyshov | 1,663 | ❤️🩹💞
In a sea of teal and pride, Igor’s plain black blade feels less like a hockey stick and more like a gag order.
Spirit
Igor Chernyshov/Micahel Misa | 8,005 | 💞❤️🩹❤️🔥
In Saginaw, they were magic. In San Jose, they’re lethal. But between the teal jerseys and the Russian whispers, some things are getting harder to translate.
Pregame Protocol
Macklin Celebrini x Will Smith | 1588 | ❤️🔥
Messy, quiet, and absolutely effective. Will Smith finds out exactly what goes into a Macklin Celebrini hat trick.
Summary: A beach bonfire, a heavily spiked fruit punch, and a very long, very quiet twenty-minute ride home. Will takes advantage of the loud radio to push Macklin straight over the edge, right under their teammates' noses.
Word Count: 1.9K
The salt air is thick and biting, but the heat from the towering bonfire keeps the chill at bay. The fire crackles with a rhythmic, heavy snap, sending a fountain of orange sparks swirling up into the black California sky. Macklin and Will are currently hovering over a portable grill, the smell of charring burgers and hot dogs mixing with the sweet, sharp scent of burning cedar. They’re laughing about something, their voices loud and loose as they jostle for space over the flames.
Nearby, the big blue cooler is a graveyard of melted ice and aluminum. Condensation drips off frosted cans of local IPAs and stray bottles of ginger beer, while a suspiciously bright red fruit punch sloshes in a gallon jug, heavily spiked and dangerously sweet. Eky is the life of the party, currently using a piece of driftwood to flick a crushed beer can across the sand in a makeshift game of beach hockey. He’s shouting instructions in Swedish, his blonde hair windblown and messy, looking like he hasn't a care in the world.
Other teammates are scattered around the glow, huddled over a smaller pit dedicated to s'mores. There’s a chaotic assembly line of dark chocolate slabs and giant marshmallows that are being toasted to a precarious, gooey golden-brown. Half the graham crackers end up in the sand, but nobody seems to care. They just shake them off and keep eating, their faces lit by the flickering amber light.
Colin sits a few feet back from the main heat, leaning his shoulders against a sun-bleached log. He’s the anchor of the group, nursing a single can of lemon sparkling water. He watches with a quiet, amused smirk as Macklin abandons the grill to lean heavily into Will’s space, gesturing wildly with a plastic cup of punch. Macklin is already at that stage where his personal bubble has completely evaporated, his arm draped over Will’s shoulder as he explains, with extreme gravity, why a specific teammate has the worst celebratory dance on the roster.
The music from a half-buried Bluetooth speaker thumps a steady bassline against the sound of the crashing Pacific waves. For a while, the world is just this small, warm circle of light. But as the fire begins to settle into a deep, glowing bed of embers and the wind turns sharper, the high-energy shouting starts to mellow into sleepy, drunken chuckles. Colin finally stands up, brushing the sand from his jeans and jingling his keys—the universal signal that the night is winding down.
The interior of the SUV is a sharp contrast to the wild wind of the beach. It’s warm, smelling of leather and the lingering scent of smoke clinging to their hoodies. In the front, the glow of the dashboard illuminates Colin’s face as he keeps his eyes locked on the dark road, his jaw set in focused concentration. Beside him, Eky is a blur of motion, his silhouette bouncing as he cranks a high-energy Swedish pop track, his voice filling the cabin with loud, rhythmic lyrics that provide a perfect, noisy shield.
In the backseat, the world has narrowed down to the small, shadowed space between Will and Macklin. Macklin is heavy with drink, his head lolling against Will’s shoulder, his movements loose and clumsy. Will, eyes dark and glazed with a sudden, sharp intent, leans in until his lips are brushing against the shell of Macklin’s ear. He whispers something low—short, jagged, and filthy—that cuts right through Macklin's drunken haze.
Macklin bolts upright, his spine snapping straight as he stares at Will with wide, shocked eyes. His breath hitches, his heart hammering against his ribs. Will doesn’t give him a second to recover; he just watches him with a steady, commanding gaze. "Open," Will murmurs, the word barely a breath.
Like an obedient puppy, Macklin’s jaw drops open. Will slides two fingers past his lips, and Macklin’s eyes flutter shut. "Suck on them," Will instructs, his voice a velvety, honest hum that vibrates in the small space between them. "Swirl your tongue around. Make them wet for me, Mack."
The sound of Eky hitting a high note in the front seat drowns out the wet, rhythmic sounds Macklin makes as he obeys, his tongue working frantically over Will’s knuckles. Once the skin is slick with saliva, Will draws his fingers out with a slow, deliberate tug. Before Macklin can even draw a fresh breath, Will’s hand is moving, disappearing beneath the waistband of Macklin’s sweatpants.
Macklin gasps, his body arching instinctively. He leans heavily into Will, seeking the friction, seeking the heat. Will’s hand works with a ruthless efficiency, his fingers sliding between the firm heat of Macklin’s cheeks. When he finds the tight entrance, he doesn't hesitate. He presses one slick finger inside, then another, the lubrication from Macklin’s own mouth making the entry seamless.
"Shh," Will breathes, his face inches from Macklin’s as he starts to move his hand. "You have to be quiet, Macklin. Colin is right there. Eky is right there. You don’t want them to hear how much you like this, do you?"
Macklin’s head falls back against the headrest, a strangled moan building in his throat as Will begins to curl his fingers, stretching him out with slow, grueling precision. The sensation is overwhelming with the vibration of the car, the thumping bass of the music, and the invasive, stretching heat of Will’s hand. Macklin begins to shift, his hips stuttering in an attempt to ride the rhythm of Will’s fingers.
"That's it," Will whispers, his voice a dark, encouraging lure. "Just take it. Relax for me."
As Will picks up the pace, his fingers working deep and insistent, Macklin’s composure begins to fracture. A loud, sharp sob of pleasure threatens to break out, but before it can escape, Will’s free hand comes up, clamping firmly over Macklin’s mouth.
Macklin’s eyes fly open, meeting Will’s in the dark. He’s pinned, silenced, and completely undone. He can only breathe through his nose, his hot, frantic exhales puffing against Will’s palm as he bears down on Will’s hand, his body shaking with the effort. In the haze of his arousal, Macklin reaches out, his hand trembling as it finds the hard, heavy ridge of Will’s cock through his jeans. Will is clearly struggling to keep his own composure, his breath hitching as Macklin’s fingers clumsily try to curl around him.
But Will doesn't let him. He catches Macklin’s wrist with a firm, bruising grip, pulling his hand away and pinning it back down onto Macklin’s own lap.
"No," Will breathes against his ear, his voice dropping into a dark, commanding rasp. "Don't worry about me. Good boys stay still and let themselves be taken care of. You just focus on what I'm doing to you."
Macklin lets out a muffled whine into Will's palm, his head thumping back against the seat as he surrenders to the instruction. He can only endure the rhythmic, stretching friction deep inside him, his world narrowing down to the heat of Will’s touch and the desperate, quiet struggle to stay under the radar while the streetlights flicker past in a rhythmic strobe.
The SUV hits a bump on the highway, sending a jolt through the backseat that only pushes Macklin harder onto Will’s hand. Will doesn't slow down. If anything, his fingers become more demanding, hook-curving deep inside to find the friction that makes Macklin’s entire body go rigid.
"You’re so tight, Mack," Will murmurs, his lips practically sealed against Macklin's ear, his hot breath making the younger player shiver. "Are you trying to hold onto me? Is that it? You’re doing such a good job being quiet. Such a good, obedient puppy."
Macklin is vibrating, his eyes rolled back as he focuses entirely on the sensation of Will’s hand working inside him. The Swedish pop music in the front is peaking, a frantic beat that matches the frantic pace of Will’s fingers. Every time Macklin feels a moan bubbling up, he bites down hard on the meat of Will’s palm, his teeth sinking into the skin as a desperate substitute for a scream.
In the front seat, Eky’s exuberant singing suddenly falters. He shifts in his seat, the blue light of the dashboard catching the sudden, sharp realization in his eyes as he glances back. He sees the way Will is hunched over Macklin, the tension in their bodies, and the rhythmic, hidden motion of Will’s shoulder. The dots connect instantly in his drunken, hazy mind. A mischievous, blurred grin spreads across his face, and he begins to reach a hand back over the center console, his fingers stretching out to join the fray and touch Will's arm.
Before he can make contact, Colin’s hand shoots out from the steering wheel with lightning reflexes. He catches Eklund’s wrist mid-air, his grip like a vice.
Through the thumping bass of the radio, Will thinks he hears Colin’s voice, low and warning. "Eklund, no. We’ve talked about this. Eyes forward."
Eky lets out a small, huffed laugh but doesn't fight it. He allows Colin to guide his arm back to the passenger side. He turns around in his seat, slumping back down and staring out the windshield, though the smug look doesn't leave his face for a second.
"That's it, bite down," Will continues, his voice a dark, encouraging lure as he brings his focus back entirely to the boy underneath him. "Take it all. I can feel you shaking. You're right there, aren't you? Go ahead. Do it for me, Mack. Ruin those clothes."
The tension in the back seat reaches a breaking point. Macklin’s hips give a sudden, violent jerk, and he lets out a muffled, high-pitched whine that is smothered entirely by Will’s hand. He cums hard, the heat of it blooming through the fabric of his grey sweatpants as he weeps silently into Will’s skin, his body sagging as the climax crashes over him in waves.
Will watches, fascinated, as a dark, damp circle spreads across the front of Macklin’s sweats in the dim light of the passing streetlamps. He leans in one last time, nipping at Macklin’s earlobe. "Good boy," he whispers and plants a light kiss to his neck.
Slowly, deliberately, Will withdraws his fingers. Macklin lets out a pathetic, broken whimper at the sudden emptiness, his head lolling back against the seat. He doesn't even have the energy to adjust his clothes. Within two minutes, the combination of the alcohol and the come-down wins. His breathing evens out into a deep, heavy sleep, his head eventually sliding down to rest on Will’s shoulder.
Will sits back, adjusting his own position and exhaling a long, shaky breath. He looks out the window, convinced the loud music and the dark night had given them total cover.
They finally pull into the driveway of the house. The music cuts out abruptly, leaving the cabin in a deafening silence. Colin doesn't turn the engine off immediately. He just sits there, hands still at ten and two on the wheel, staring straight ahead at the garage door.
"Eky, go inside and start the coffee," Colin says, his voice flat and clinical.
"Got it, Grafer," Eky chirps, stumbling out of the car and tripping slightly on the curb as he heads for the front door.
Once the door to the house clicks shut, Colin finally shifts the car into park. He doesn't turn around, but his eyes catch Will’s in the rearview mirror. They are cold and knowing.
"Will," Colin says, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register. "You owe me dinner. A very expensive dinner. For every single thing I just had to hear for the last twenty minutes."
Will freezes, his hand still resting on the sleeping Macklin's arm, the realization hitting him like a bucket of ice water that the SUV’s acoustics weren't nearly as forgiving as he’d hoped.
Summary: Messy, quiet, and absolutely effective. Will Smith finds out exactly what goes into a Macklin Celebrini hat trick.
Word Count: 1.5k
The silence in the apartment felt heavy, almost clinical, as Macklin stared at the glowing screen of his phone. The text was brief, an apology about a flat tire or a last minute shift—it didn't really matter. What mattered was the sudden, jagged spike of anxiety vibrating under his skin.
He threw the phone onto the sofa and began to pace the length of the hardwood floor. To anyone else, he looked like a focused athlete centering himself, but internally, the gears were grinding. His pre-game ritual wasn’t about ego. It was more about the release. Without that specific moment of physical decompression, his brain felt like a browser with fifty tabs open, all of them screaming for attention. He needed the fog to clear so he could see the ice.
"Shit," he hissed, glancing at the clock. The drive to the SAP Center was looming. He checked his contacts, scrolling past names he hadn't called in months, feeling the desperation claw at his throat. It was too late to bring someone new over.
He stopped in front of Will’s bedroom door. Through the wood, he could hear the faint, rhythmic thud of a hockey puck being toyed with. Will was probably just sitting on his bed, stick-handling a green biscuit to pass the time.
Macklin took a breath, his fingers hovering over the handle. He and Will were close—bonded by their experience, the city, and the massive expectations on their shoulders—but this was a line they hadn't crossed. Yet, the pressure in his chest was winning over his pride.
He pushed the door open. Will was exactly where he expected, perched on the edge of his mattress. He looked up, a lopsided grin forming. "Ready to head out, Mack? You look like you're vibrating."
"I'm stuck," Macklin said, his voice lower than usual. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click that made the air in the small space feel suddenly pressurized.
Will set the stick aside, his expression shifting to something more attentive. "Stuck how? Equipment? If you forgot your lucky socks again—"
"No, it's the ritual, Smitty," Macklin interrupted. He didn't dance around it. He knew Will knew he usually had company before games. "The girl bailed. I’m wired, man. I can’t go out there with my head feeling like this. I need...I need a favor."
Will blinked, his brows knitting together as he processed the directness of it. There was a beat of silence where the only sound was the hum of the AC. Macklin expected Will to laugh it off or maybe get hit with that sudden, awkward realization of what was being asked.
"A favor," Will repeated slowly. He leaned back on his hands, looking Macklin up and down. He wasn't recoiling. If anything, he looked like he was evaluating a play on the fly. "You're asking me to step in?"
"I'm asking you to help me clear my head," Macklin corrected, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Straight up. No weirdness after. Just...I need to get this out of my system before we hit the locker room."
Will let out a short, dry breath that wasn't quite a laugh. He looked at the floor, then back at Macklin. "You think I'd be any good at it?"
"I think you're a fast learner," Macklin countered, the tension in his jaw beginning to ease just a fraction as he saw the hesitation in Will’s eyes start to melt into a focused, competitive curiosity.
Will stood up, closing the distance between them. The height difference felt more pronounced in the quiet of the bedroom. "Alright," Will said, his voice steadying. "If it gets you on the board tonight, Mack, I'm in. Show me what you need."
The shift in the room was instantaneous. The air, once filled with the mundane scent of hockey gear and laundry detergent, suddenly felt thick and electric. Will didn’t back down. He just nodded, his eyes tracking Macklin’s movements with a focused, analytical intensity—the same look he had when breaking down film.
Macklin grabbed a spare pillow from the bed and tossed it onto the hardwood, the dull thud echoing in the quiet apartment. He didn’t hesitate, his fingers working the drawstring of his sweats and pushing them down. As he settled onto the bed, he leaned back on his elbows, legs spread wide. He felt exposed, but the familiar spike of pre-game adrenaline was already starting to transmute into something much more visceral.
"Get down here, Smitty," Macklin rasped.
Will sank onto his knees on the pillow. Up close, the reality of the situation hit him. He’d had plenty of girls do this for him, and he’d wondered, in late-night passing thoughts, what it would be like from the other side. Now, looking at Macklin—flushed, tensed, and waiting—he realized he wanted to know.
He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he guided Macklin toward his mouth. When he first took him in, it was unpracticed. Will’s teeth grazed him, and a stray thread of saliva escaped the corner of his mouth, slicking the base of Macklin’s shaft. It was messy and uncoordinated, but the heat of Will’s mouth was incredible.
"Easy, easy," Macklin groaned, his head falling back. He reached down, his fingers burying deep into Will’s short hair. He wasn't forcing him down; instead, he was grounding himself, his knuckles white as he gave a firm, steady pull that forced Will to tilt his head back and take more. "There...yeah. Use your tongue, Smitty. Just like that."
Will found a rhythm, his confidence growing with every low, broken sound Macklin made. He liked the weight of Macklin’s hand in his hair, the way it felt like an anchor. The messiness of it—the wet sounds of friction and the heat pooling between them—didn't gross him out. Instead, it was an ego trip. He was the one doing this to the team’s golden boy. He was the one clearing Macklin's head.
"Fuck, you're...you're doing so good," Macklin panted, his hips beginning to twitch in a sharp, rhythmic stutter. He was talking Will through it now, his voice a series of strained commands and appreciative moans. "Right there...don't stop. Faster, Will. Please."
The tension in Macklin’s thighs corded like steel cables. He felt the familiar, rolling wave of release crashing toward him, sharper than usual because of the person at his knees. His grip in Will’s hair tightened, pulling him flush against his lap as his body bucked.
"Fuck, Smitty!" Macklin cried out, his voice cracking as he came.
Will didn't flinch. As the heat filled his mouth, he didn't pull away or reach for a towel. He swallowed, his throat working in a slow, deliberate gulp that sent a fresh shockwave through Macklin’s cooling nerves.
Macklin slumped back against the bed frame, chest heaving, his eyes blown wide as they landed on Will. "You...you swallowed?"
Will wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb, a dark, satisfied glint in his eyes. He realized, with a start, that he wasn't just doing this for the team. He liked the taste, he liked the control, and he liked the way Macklin was looking at him right now—like he’d just discovered a whole new side to his teammate.
"Yeah," Will said, his voice husky but steady. "I did. Let’s go win a game, Mack."
—
The energy inside the SAP Center was electric, a jagged wall of sound that didn't let up for sixty straight minutes. On the ice, Macklin played like a man possessed. Every movement was fluid, every decision instantaneous. The heavy, clouding fog of pre-game nerves had been replaced by a razor-sharp clarity that felt almost like a superpower.
By the time the final horn blared, the ice was littered with hats. Macklin had netted three, and the Sharks had secured a dominant shutout.
Back in the locker room, the atmosphere was chaotic. Music was blasting, and teammates were shouting over the noise, shoving Macklin in celebration. Through the crowd of sweating bodies and shedding gear, Macklin’s eyes found Will’s. Smitty was sitting at his stall, peeling off his socks, looking remarkably calm for someone who had just helped orchestrate a clinic on the ice.
They didn't speak until the media had cleared out and the room had thinned, leaving only a few players lingering near the showers. Macklin was leaning against his stall, still buzzing from the adrenaline, when Will wandered over, throwing a towel over his shoulder.
"Hell of a game, Mack," Will said, his voice low enough to stay between them. "I’d say you seemed pretty...relaxed out there."
Macklin let out a short, breathless laugh, looking down at his skates. "Yeah. I felt good. Best I've felt in a long time. Everything just clicked."
Will stepped a little closer, the ghost of a smirk returning to his face. He leaned in, his shoulder brushing against Macklin's as he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Well, looking at the scoreboard, it's hard to argue with the results," Will teased, his eyes flickering with a sudden, playful intensity. "Maybe we should make that a permanent part of the routine. If it's going to get you a hat trick every night, I think I can handle the sacrifice."
Macklin looked up, caught between a grin and a flush of heat that had nothing to do with the game. "You're serious?"
Will just winked, heading toward the showers. "Check the stats, Mack. Results don't lie."
i’m real shit at giving any updates but know this is approximately four things i’m working on at the same time. maybe when i have a moment of peace i will make a list 
Summary: In Saginaw, they were magic. In San Jose, they’re lethal. But between the teal jerseys and the Russian whispers, some things are getting harder to translate.
Word Count: 8k
Release Date: The next time Cherny or Misa get a point 🩵 04.13.2026
Read on Ao3
note: any italicize dialogue is being spoken in Russian
The locker room was emptying, the heavy thud of gear bags and the hiss of the showers fading into a hum. Michael sat on the bench, his chest still tight from the morning skate, trying to focus on the tape in his hands. He was methodical, or trying to be, but his pulse was a frantic, stuttering beat against his ribs.
Then came the weight. The bench groaned as Igor sat, the heat radiating off his frame hitting Michael like a physical wall. Igor didn't say anything at first. He just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his broad shoulders encroaching on Michael’s space until their jerseys brushed.
Michael’s fingers slipped. The tape tangled.
"Misa."
Igor’s voice was a low vibration that seemed to settle right in the marrow of Michael’s bones. He didn't wait for Michael to look up. He reached out, his hand large and calloused, and simply covered Michael’s hands where they clutched the stick.
Michael froze. He could feel the individual ridges of Igor’s fingerprints pressing into the backs of his hands. The air in the room suddenly felt too thin, too recycled.
"Still so fast," Igor murmured. He didn't pull the stick away. Instead, he slid his palm down, his fingers forcing their way between Michael’s until their hands were fully interlaced over the blade. He squeezed, a slow, heavy pressure that made Michael’s breath hitch. "In Saginaw, you are fast. Here, you are...frantic. Why?"
Michael swallowed, his throat dry as sandpaper. He looked down at their joined hands—pale Canadian skin disappearing under the scarred knuckles of the Russian. Igor leaned in closer, the scent of cold rink air and citrus-sharp soap clouding Michael’s head. His lips were inches from the shell of Michael’s ear.
"It’s just...the coffee," Michael managed, his voice a breathless thread. "I had too much. You’re just—you’re confusing the words, Igor. You mean I’m 'energetic.' You don't know what you're saying."
Igor didn't laugh. He let out a slow, hot exhale that ghosted over Michael’s neck, sending a violent shiver down his spine. He tilted his head, his gaze dropping to Michael’s mouth with a devastating, quiet focus.
"I know the words," Igor said, the English deliberate, his thumb tracing a heavy, rhythmic circle over Michael’s pulse point. He didn't let go. He leaned in until their foreheads almost touched, his blue eyes darkened to the color of deep water. "I know 'want.' I know 'stay.' You think I am stupid, Misa?"
Michael’s heart slammed against his teeth. He wanted to bolt, but he also wanted to pull Igor’s head down and bridge the last inch. He was certain Igor was just being…european…just being too comfortable, too blunt without realizing how it translated. He had to be.
"You're just...messing around," Michael choked out, finally wrenching his hand back. His skin felt cold the second the contact broke.
Igor’s gaze lingered on Michael’s mouth for a heartbeat too long, the quiet intensity in the locker room turning the air thick and heavy. He finally straightened up, the movement fluid and powerful, his silhouette cutting a sharp line against the rows of empty stalls.
He didn't walk away immediately. He took a step back, just enough to let the cool air rush back in between them, though the phantom heat of his hand still burned against Michael’s skin. Igor reached out, his fingers grazing the collar of Michael’s practice jersey, smoothing the fabric with a slow, deliberate tug.
"Don't be late for the bus, Misa," Igor murmured, his voice dropping into that low, resonant register that Michael felt in the base of his spine.
He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and headed toward the showers, his stride easy and confident. Michael sat there, paralyzed, watching the way Igor’s shoulders moved under his gear until he disappeared around the corner.
The silence that followed was deafening. Michael looked down at his hands—they were still trembling. He gripped the bench until his knuckles turned white, trying to convince himself that Igor was just being a supportive teammate, that the word 'want' was just a fluke of a developing vocabulary.
"He doesn't know," Michael whispered to the empty room, his voice sounding small and unconvinced. "He definitely doesn't know."
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The ice at Sharks Ice was scarred and gray by the end of the second hour, but the air felt electric. Warmer, somehow.
Coach had blown the whistle ten minutes ago, shifting the magnets on the whiteboards. Igor had been pulled from the top-line rotation with Macklin and Will—a powerhouse unit that usually ate up all the oxygen in the room. Now, he was skating toward the second-line circle, his long, powerful strides bringing him right into Michael’s orbit.
"Misa," Igor said as he glided up, his breathing steady, his eyes locked on Michael’s face. He didn't say anything else, just tapped his stick once against Michael’s shin guards. A quiet, heavy acknowledgment.
On their right was Graf, looking back and forth between the two of them with a curious, analytical squint.
"Alright, boys," Warso barked from the bench. "Let's see if the Saginaw magic still works. Full speed. Go."
The puck dropped, and the world narrowed.
It was more than clicking; it was a haunting, muscle-memory reflex. Michael didn't even have to look. He knew the exact moment Igor would peel off toward the back post; he knew the specific weight Igor wanted on a saucer pass into the high slot. They moved in a lethal, synchronized dance, cutting through the defensive pairing like they were back in the OHL, playing against teenagers instead of NHL veterans.
Michael zipped a blind, backhand pass through a defender’s legs. Igor was already there, his blade hitting the ice a millisecond before the puck arrived, Redirecting it into the top corner with a violent, satisfying thwack against the netting.
"Holy shit," someone said from the bench.
They ran it again. And again. It was effortless. It was a secret language written in skate edges and peripheral vision. Every time they finished a rep, Igor would skate back toward the center circle, hovering just a little too close to Michael, his shoulder clipping Michael’s in a way that felt like a claim.
"You are still where you belong," Igor murmured as they lined up for the final drill, his voice a low, rough rasp through the air.
Michael felt the heat flare up his neck. "I’m just...I'm just playing center, Igor. Don't get weird."
"I am not being weird," Igor countered, his gaze burning through the mesh of his visor. "I am being...precise."
The whistle blew, ending the session. As the team huddled at center ice, Coach was nodding, scribbling furiously on his clipboard. "Misa, Chernyshov...that’s staying. I don't know why we waited three weeks to try that, but I’ve seen enough."
As they began the slow skate toward the gate, Macklin Celebrini pulled up alongside Michael, a mischievous, knowing grin plastered on his face. He nudged Michael’s shoulder with his elbow.
"Damn, Mikey," Macklin chirped, loud enough for a few other guys to hear. "I thought me and Will had chemistry, but you and Igor? That’s not hockey. That’s like...soulmate stuff. You guys even breathe at the same time."
"Shut up, Mack," Michael snapped, his face turning a shade of red that clashed horribly with his teal practice jersey.
"No, seriously," Macklin continued, glancing back at Igor, who was trailing just half a step behind Michael’s left shoulder. "Igor, what’s the secret? How do you know exactly where he's going?"
Igor didn't even blink. He reached out, his heavy, gloved hand coming down on the nape of Michael’s neck, a brief, possessive squeeze that made Michael’s knees go weak.
"I have been watching Misa for a long time," Igor said, his English thick and dangerously steady. "He is easy to read. Especially when he is...frustrated."
The locker room was going to be a nightmare. Michael could already feel the 'soulmate' chirps coming from the veterans, but all he could focus on was the ghost of Igor's hand on his neck and the terrifying thought that Igor might actually know exactly what he was saying.
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The locker room was a hum of receding noise—the heavy clack-clack of skate guards on rubber mats, the rhythmic thud of stall doors, and the fading echoes of Gaud’s relentless chirping. Michael took his time, meticulously unlacing his skates, his head down as he tried to let the heat in his face die down.
"Misa."
The voice was closer than he expected. He looked up to find Igor already dressed in a charcoal hoodie, his damp hair pushed back, leaning against the wood of the stall next to Michael’s. The locker room was nearly empty now, just the two of them and the distant sound of a vacuum in the hallway.
"You are hungry?" Igor asked. It wasn't really a question. It was an observation, his blue eyes tracking the way Michael’s shoulders finally dropped an inch. "I know a place. Good fish."
Michael felt that familiar, traitorous skip in his chest. He should say he had errands. He should say he was meeting Sam. "Yeah," he said instead, his voice a little too quick. "Yeah, I’m starving. Let’s go."
The ghost of a smirk played on Igor's lips. "Good."
Igor’s car was a sleek, dark beast that smelled like leather and that same sharp citrus cologne Michael could never quite get out of his head. As they pulled out of the Sharks Ice parking lot, the midday San Jose sun hitting the windshield, the silence between them wasn't awkward. It was heavy. Igor drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the center console, his fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat that Michael found himself hypnotically watching.
They ended up at a small, sun-drenched spot near Santana Row. The table was small, forcing their knees to occasionally brush under the wood—a contact Michael tried to ignore but felt like a live wire every time it happened.
"So," Igor said, leaning back after the plates were cleared. He wasn't talking about the power play or the forecheck. "You like it here? Truly? Not just the hockey."
Michael blinked, surprised by the shift. "I do. The weather is...I mean, coming from Ontario, the sun is a bit of a shock. But I like the pace. It feels like everyone is building something here."
"It is like us," Igor murmured, his gaze dropping to the glass of water he was turning between his fingers. "In Saginaw, we were kids. Now..." He looked up, his eyes locking onto Michael’s with a sudden, searing intensity. "Now we are men. We can build something real."
Michael swallowed hard. He reached for his own drink, his hand brushing Igor’s in the process. He didn't pull away immediately this time. "It’s different," Michael agreed, his voice a low breath. "Everything feels...higher stakes."
"High stakes is good," Igor said. He stood up, tossing a few bills on the table before Michael could even reach for his wallet. "Makes the win better."
As they walked back to the car, the air was warm, smelling of jasmine and exhaust. Igor didn't head back toward Michael's place or the rink. Instead, he pulled up his GPS.
"I have the film from this morning," Igor said as he shifted into drive, his profile sharp against the California light. "The transition plays. I want to see how we look from above. You come to my place? We watch together."
It was a professional request. It was about hockey. But the way Igor said together—slow and deliberate, his tongue clicking against his teeth—made Michael’s heart hammer a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"Yeah," Michael said, staring out the side window so Igor wouldn't see the way he was biting his lip. "Yeah, let’s look at the film."
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The drive to Igor’s apartment was shared in silence. In the car, the afternoon sun slanted through the windows, catching the sharp line of Igor’s jaw and the focused, quiet way he handled the wheel. Michael kept his gaze fixed on the passing palms of San Jose, his mind a messy loop of Saginaw highlights and the heavy, lingering heat of Igor’s hand on his neck from the rink.
When Igor pushed the door open, the apartment didn't feel like a high-end rookie's landing pad. It was warm—surprisingly so—and smelled of cedar and the faint, clean scent of the tea Igor brewed by the gallon. It was lived-in in a way that felt permanent. A heavy, cream-colored wool throw was tossed over the back of a deep leather sofa that had seen better days, and a stack of books—some with Cyrillic spines, others dog-eared English paperbacks—crowded the coffee table.
"Sit, Misa. I get the laptop," Igor said, his voice dropping into that low, resonant frequency that always seemed to vibrate in Michael's marrow.
Michael sank into the sofa. The leather was soft, cool against his jeans, but the cushions were deep enough to swallow him. He felt exposed in the quiet of the room, far from the white noise of the arena. When Igor returned, he didn't take the armchair. He sat right next to Michael, his heavy frame dipping the cushions and pulling Michael toward him by sheer gravity. Their thighs pressed together, a long, burning line of contact that Michael tried—and failed—to ignore.
Igor clicked through the frames of the morning skate. The blue light of the screen washed over them, casting long shadows against the warm walls.
"Look," Igor murmured. He paused a clip of Michael cutting through the neutral zone. "Your edges here. In Saginaw, you are fast because you have to be. Here, you are...dangerous. You see Klinger? He is playing back because he knows you will embarrass him."
Michael looked at his own image on the screen, feeling that familiar, nagging doubt. He picked at a loose thread on his hoodie, his head ducking. "I don't know, Cherny. I almost fumbled the transition. I’m just...I’m just trying to keep up with you and Reggie."
Igor didn't scoff. He turned, the movement slow and deliberate, until his broad chest was inches from Michael’s shoulder. "Keep up?" he repeated, the word sounding rough and foreign. "Misa, you are second overall. You are the heart of this line. But you act like you are still the 15-year-old kid with the 'exceptional' tag, afraid to make a mistake."
"It’s not that," Michael whispered, his voice catching. "It’s just a lot of pressure. I don't want to let anyone down. Especially not you."
The room went completely still. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and the frantic, quiet thud of Michael’s heart.
Igor didn't answer with words. He reached out, his hands large and calloused, and took Michael’s face between his palms. His thumbs traced slow, heavy arcs over Michael’s cheekbones, his grip firm enough to ground him but soft enough to make Michael’s breath hitch. Igor leaned in until their foreheads were almost touching, his blue eyes searching Michael’s with a searing, quiet intensity.
"You could never let me down," Igor said, his English perfect, his voice a low growl. "You are Michael Misa. I am still here because I wanted to play with you. Remember that."
Michael felt his eyes sting, a rush of shy, overwhelming heat flooding his chest. He felt small in Igor’s hands, but for the first time, he didn't feel like he had to hide.
Igor let his hands linger for a heartbeat longer before slowly pulling away, though he didn't move an inch back. He settled his weight against the sofa and draped his arm over the back, his hand dangling just inches from Michael’s shoulder. It was a silent invitation, a bridge built out of shadows and cedar-scented air.
Michael took a shaky breath and leaned. He let his head fall against Igor’s shoulder, his heart hammering so hard he was sure Igor could feel it through the layers of their clothes. He waited for the joke, for the teammate like pat on the back.
It never came. Instead, Igor’s arm tightened, his hand hooking around Michael’s shoulder and pulling him flush against his side. He tucked Michael into the hollow of his frame, his chin resting lightly atop Michael's head.
They went back to the film, the silent highlights of their magic flickering on the screen. But Michael wasn't watching the goals. He was listening. Pressed against Igor’s ribs, he could hear it—the rhythmic, frantic, and undeniably fast beat of Igor’s heart.
It was racing, matching Michael’s beat for beat, a secret language that didn't need a single word of English to understand.
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Toronto in mid-winter was a stark, biting contrast to the perpetual spring of San Jose, but inside the hotel, the air was still and climate-controlled. For the first time on a road trip, there had been no pretension of separate rooms. No late-night hallway treks or "forgetting" a phone charger just to have an excuse to knock on a door. Their bags were side-by-side in the suite, their shared space a silent acknowledgment of the shift that had happened between them.
Michael stood in front of the full-length mirror, struggling with the silver cufflinks his mother had given him for his draft day. He could hear the low hum of Igor moving in the bathroom, the sound of a comb clicking against marble.
When the door opened, Michael’s breath hitched. Igor was in a deep navy wool that made his shoulders look impossibly broad, a crisp white shirt open at the collar. He looked expensive, lethal, and entirely too composed.
Igor walked up behind him, his reflection looming over Michael’s in the glass. He didn't say anything at first, just reached out and took Michael’s wrists, his large fingers steadying the erratic shaking of Michael's hands to slide the cufflinks into place.
"You are staring, Misa," Igor murmured, his eyes meeting Michael’s in the mirror. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of Michael’s ear as he whispered in Russian, "You look so beautiful."
Michael felt the heat ignite at the base of his spine. "What...what was that? Is that about the tie? Because I can change it."
Igor just smirked, a slow, devastating pull of his lips that didn't reach his eyes. They stayed dark, fixed on Michael’s flushed face. "It is about the view," Igor said in English, his voice a low gravel. "Let’s go. I am hungry."
The restaurant Michael had chosen was a hidden gem in Yorkville, tucked away behind an unassuming heavy oak door. Inside, it was a cathedral of old-world luxury: dim amber lighting, velvet banquettes the color of spilled wine, and the low, sophisticated murmur of Toronto’s elite. The scent of truffle, woodsmoke, and expensive bourbon hung heavy in the air.
They were seated in a corner booth, the shadows shielding them from the rest of the room. A bottle of vintage Barolo arrived, the deep red liquid catching the candlelight as the waiter poured.
"To Toronto," Igor said, lifting his glass. "To your home."
"To the road trip," Michael countered, his heart performing a slow roll in his chest.
As the meal progressed—rich wagyu carpaccio followed by handmade agnolotti—the wine began to loosen the tight coil of professionalism that usually held them together. Igor was in a mood Michael hadn't seen before: playful, sharp, and relentlessly flirty. He spent the entire dinner leaning across the small table, his forearm resting dangerously close to Michael’s, his fingers tracing patterns on the white linen.
They talked about the city, about the pressure of the upcoming game against the Leafs, but the conversation kept veering into deeper waters.
"I used to watch you play," Igor said, his voice dropping as he swirled the last of the wine in his glass. "In the OHL. I would sit on the bench and think, this boy plays like he is haunted. I wanted to know what you were thinking when you scored."
Michael felt exposed, the warmth of the wine making his skin feel too tight. "I was just thinking about the next shift. I didn't know you were watching me like that."
"I was always watching," Igor corrected. He reached out, his hand finally bridging the gap, his thumb grazing over Michael’s knuckles. The touch was heavy, intentional. He leaned in, the candlelight dancing in the blue of his irises. "I could never take my eyes off you."
"Igor," Michael breathed, his head spinning. "The Russian...you know I don't know what you're saying. You’re doing it on purpose."
Igor’s smirk widened, showing a hint of teeth. He didn't pull his hand away; instead, he turned Michael’s hand over, tracing the lines of his palm with a slow, agonizing deliberation.
"Maybe," Igor whispered, his English perfect and sharp. "Or maybe I am saying the things you are too scared to hear in English yet."
He signaled for the check, his gaze never leaving Michael’s. The air between them was thick, charged with the kind of electricity that precedes a massive storm. Michael followed him out into the biting Toronto night, the cold air hitting them like a physical shock, but as they climbed into the back of the waiting car, all Michael could feel was the burning heat of Igor’s side pressed firmly against his own.
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The gold-toned lights of the Toronto hotel felt too bright, cutting through the comfortable haze of the Barolo as they retreated into the suite. The door clicked shut, sealing out the hallway and leaving them in a silence that suddenly felt heavy, stripped of the restaurant’s velvet distractions.
Michael kicked off his shoes and sank onto the edge of the nearest bed. The mattress dipped, and a moment later, Igor sat across from him. He had shed his jacket, his white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled up to reveal the powerful, corded muscle of his forearms. In the dim glow of the bedside lamp, he looked like a shadow Michael had been chasing since Saginaw.
"You are thinking too much, Misa," Igor murmured. His voice was a low, resonant frequency that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of Michael’s bones. He didn't move away; he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his physical presence encroaching on Michael’s space until their knees were inches apart.
Michael looked up, his head swimming just enough to make him feel reckless. "I was just thinking about...before. Before San Jose. Before we were like this."
Igor tilted his head, his gaze steady and unreadable. "Before?"
"You never talk about it," Michael said, the words tumbling out a little too fast. "Home. Or girls. Or...anyone. I know you’re not seeing anyone now, but I don't actually know anything about your history. Was there someone back in Russia?"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Igor didn't flinch, but his expression flattened, the playful, flirty spark from dinner vanishing behind a shuttered, stoic mask. He looked down at his own hands, his large fingers interlacing over his knees.
"History," Igor repeated, the word rolling off his tongue with a low, cold resonance. "There is not much to tell. In Russia, you play hockey, you go home. There were...distractions. Girls for the photos, for the parents. But nothing that stays. It was empty. All of it was a sham."
"What does that mean?" Michael whispered, leaning in, desperate to bridge the sudden gap.
"All fake," Igor translated after a moment, his eyes snapping back to Michael’s with a searing, quiet intensity. He shifted, his jaw tightening until a small muscle jumped in his cheek. "And you, Misa? You ask because you have a long list? You were the star in Ontario. Everyone wants the second overall pick."
Michael swallowed hard, the warmth of the wine turning into a leaden weight in his stomach. The sudden frost in Igor’s tone made him pull his shoulders in.
"It wasn't a list," Michael muttered, looking down at the carpet. "But yeah. Before Saginaw...there were people. High school. A few girls. A guy I saw for a few months back in eighth grade. I wasn't exactly hiding away."
Igor’s gaze didn't flicker, but his posture went rigid. The air between them, once thick with shared heat, was now brittle. He looked at Michael as if he were seeing a stranger—someone with a life and a past that didn't involve him.
"So you are the expert," Igor said, his English sounding clipped and dangerously formal. "You know how these things go. You have your...experiences."
"I didn't say that," Michael snapped, the defensive edge in his voice cutting through the quiet. "I just...I haven't really seen anyone since I started with the Spirit. There hasn't been time."
"Because of hockey?" Igor asked, leaning back just enough to break the shared warmth between their knees. "Or because you are waiting for someone better than what you found in Saginaw?"
Michael felt a flush that had nothing to do with the wine. He gripped the edge of the mattress, his knuckles turning white. The secret was burning in the back of his throat, the name he had been carrying for the last few years, but the coldness in Igor’s eyes made it impossible to let out.
"There is someone," Michael said, his voice barely a breath. "Someone I like. A lot. But it’s..it’s complicated. I don't talk about it and I don’t know how they feel."
Igor stared at him for a long, agonizing beat. The silence was heavy, punctuated only by the distant, muffled siren of a Toronto ambulance. Igor’s expression didn't soften; if anything, he looked more distant than he had in the locker room months ago.
"Complicated," Igor echoed, a faint, bitter trace of a smile touching his lips. "Certainly. Of course."
He stood up abruptly, the mattress bouncing with the sudden loss of his weight. He didn't look back at Michael as he walked toward the bathroom, his movements stiff.
"I am tired, Misa," Igor said over his shoulder. "We have morning skate. Do not stay up late thinking about your...complicated person."
The door clicked shut, leaving Michael alone in the dim light. The validation he’d felt earlier was gone, replaced by a hollow ache. He stared at the closed door, wondering if the language barrier was finally working in Igor’s favor—allowing him to shut Michael out the moment the truth got too close.
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The morning skate at Scotiabank Arena was a disaster class of missed connections. The magic that had been their trademark for weeks had vanished, replaced by a clumsy, stuttering rhythm. Michael felt like he was skating through slush, his head spinning with every cold, monosyllabic response Igor gave him. He couldn’t understand it. He’d been honest—mostly—and yet Igor was treating him like a stranger he was forced to work with.
The game against the Leafs was worse. Michael sent a pass to where Igor should have been, but Igor had already peeled away. They finished the night with a minus-two rating, and the air in the locker room afterward was suffocating.
"Rough night, boys?" Macklin asked, his voice uncharacteristically quiet as he looked between the two of them. "You guys looked...disconnected."
"We’re fine," Michael snapped, his voice sharp and defensive as he tore at his laces. "Just a bad game. It happens."
Igor didn't even look up. He just grabbed his towel and headed for the showers without a word, his shoulders a rigid, frozen line.
When they finally let themselves into the darkened suite that night, the tension was a physical weight. Michael moved to his bed, his heart heavy, expecting another night of the cold shoulder.
He was sitting on the edge of the mattress, head in his hands, when the bed dipped.
Igor didn't stay on his own side. He sat down right behind Michael, and before Michael could even breathe, a heavy, warm arm reached around his waist and pulled him backward. Igor didn't let him go; he settled against the headboard and tucked Michael firmly into the crook of his arm, his chest a solid, steady heat against Michael’s back.
"Misa," Igor murmured, his voice no longer cold, but rough with a quiet, exhausted vulnerability.
Michael didn't fight it. He let himself go limp, leaning his head back against Igor’s shoulder, the scent of cedar and hotel soap finally grounding him. "You’ve been a jerk all day," Michael whispered, his voice trembling just a little.
Igor let out a long, shaky exhale that ghosted over Michael’s temple. He tightened his grip, his hand splayed flat over Michael’s stomach. "Fuck," he breathed. "I am sorry. I was...jealous. It is a bad word in English, but a worse feeling in the heart."
Michael blinked, his heart stuttering. "Jealous? Of what?"
"Of the people before," Igor said, his English slow and deliberate. "Of the 'complicated' person you like now. As your best friend...I like being the most important person in your life. When you talk about others, I feel...Useless. Unnecessary."
The honesty of it stripped Michael bare. He turned slightly, snuggling deeper into the curve of Igor’s arm, his face hidden against the soft cotton of Igor’s shirt. He didn't have the words to tell him that he was the complicated person, that there was no one else, but the closeness felt like enough for now.
"You’re an idiot," Michael said softly, his hand coming up to rest over Igor’s forearm. He felt Igor’s heart start to pick up speed again, that frantic, rhythmic beat he’d heard on the sofa in San Jose.
Igor didn't pull away. He just tucked his chin over Michael’s head, his hold possessive and steady. "Maybe," Igor agreed.
"You can tell me anything, Igor," Michael added, closing his eyes and letting the warmth of the room finally wash away the chill of the day. "You don't have to be weird about it. Just tell me."
Igor didn't answer with words. He just squeezed Michael tighter, a silent promise held in the dark of a Toronto night, while outside, the city continued to freeze.
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The charter flight back to San Jose was a low-humming vacuum of dimmed lights and exhausted athletes. Michael was slumped in his seat, his shoulder serving as a permanent headrest for Igor, who had crashed out some time ago.
A few hours in, the quiet was broken by a low, gravelly mumble. Michael looked down, expecting Igor to be waking up, but the Russian’s eyes were shut tight, his lashes casting long shadows over his cheekbones. He was talking—fast, rhythmic, and entirely in his mother tongue.
"Asky! Hey, Asky!" Michael hissed, waving frantically at Yaroslav Askarov a few rows up.
Askarov grinned, unbuckling his seatbelt and vaulting over the back of his chair to crouch in the aisle next to them. Michael already had his phone out, the recording light blinking red. "Blackmail," Michael whispered. "Translate for me."
Askarov leaned in, his head tilted as Igor muttered something that sounded like a disgruntled grocery list.
"He is talking about...pelmeni," Askarov whispered back, stifling a laugh. "He says his mother makes them better than the place in San Jose. Now he is saying the skates in Saginaw were too stiff. Very boring, Misa."
Michael grinned, keeping the camera steady. "Keep going. This is gold."
Igor shifted, his head rolling slightly so his forehead was pressed into the curve of Michael's neck. He let out a long, shaky exhale, his voice dropping into a soft, melodic cadence that sounded nothing like hockey. He spoke a short sentence, his tone heavy with something aching and old.
Askarov froze. The smirk slid off his face, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated shock. His eyes went wide, darting from the sleeping Igor to Michael’s confused face.
"What?" Michael whispered, his heart starting to rabbit against his ribs. "What did he say?"
Igor spoke again, the same phrase, but this time he added a final word, clear and unmistakable even through the Russian vowels: "Misa."
Askarov scrambled back, nearly tripping over a stray gear bag in the aisle. He shook his head frantically, his hands up as if to ward off a blow. "No. No, I am not translating that."
"Asky, come on! You said you would!" Michael hissed, reaching out to grab the goalie’s sleeve. "What was it? Was it about the game? Was he chirping me?"
"It is nothing," Askarov said, his voice uncharacteristically high and tight. He looked at Igor’s sleeping form with something like pity, then back at Michael. "It is not something I should say. Not my words to give, Mikey. Delete the video."
Before Michael could argue, Askarov was gone, retreating to the back of the plane with a speed that felt like a flight response.
Michael sat in the semi-darkness, the phone heavy in his hand. He looked down at the recording. He could easily go to one of the other Russians—Mukh or Orlov—but a sudden, sharp wave of vulnerability hit him. Askarov’s reaction hadn't been funny. It had been...heavy.
An hour later, the plane began its descent into San Jose. Igor stirred, blinking awake with a confused groan, his hair a mess of blonde spikes. He rubbed his eyes and looked at Michael, who was staring at him with an unreadable expression.
"You talk in your sleep," Michael said, his voice a little forced, trying to reclaim the "blackmail" vibe. "I got it all on video. Asky was here. He translated everything, Igor."
The blood drained from Igor’s face so fast it was like he’d been hit with a puck. He went pale, his grip tightening on the armrest. He knew his own mind; he knew the thoughts he kept under lock and key during the day often tried to escape the moment he closed his eyes.
"Everything?" Igor asked, his voice a ghost of itself.
"Everything," Michael lied, though his chest felt tight. He didn't show him the video. He couldn't. Not after seeing Asky's face.
Igor stared at him for a long beat, the silence between them ringing with the things they weren't saying. Finally, Igor looked away, staring out the window at the flickering lights of the Bay Area below.
"I hate you, Misa," Igor muttered, though there was no heat in it, only a raw, jagged exhaustion.
Michael felt a strange, bittersweet ache behind his ribs. He reached over, bumping his shoulder against Igor’s. "No, you don't."
Igor closed his eyes, leaning back into Michael’s space just as the wheels hit the tarmac.
"Yeah," Igor whispered, so quiet it was almost lost to the roar of the engines. "I know."
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
They had been back from Toronto for less than an hour when Askarov caught Igor’s eye in the hallway of the Sharks’ training facility. It wasn't the usual manic, grinning Asky. His face was uncharacteristically sober, his eyes darting toward the locker room where Michael was likely still unzipping his gear bag.
"Igor. We talk? Privately?"
Igor felt a cold prickle of dread. He followed the goalie into a small, windowless video room, the door clicking shut with a finality that made his pulse spike.
The training facility felt too small as Igor followed Askarov into the darkened video room. The heavy click of the door lock sounded like a gavel. Igor paced the small space, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs while Asky leaned against the desk, his expression uncharacteristically somber.
"Michael has a video," Asky began, his voice low and private. "From the flight back. He recorded you talking in your sleep, Igor. He called me over to translate for him while you were out cold."
The blood drained from Igor’s face so fast he felt lightheaded. He gripped the back of a rolling chair, his knuckles white. He knew his subconscious was a traitor; he knew that in the silence of sleep, his guard finally dropped.
"What did I say?" Igor’s voice was a ragged whisper. "How much did I expose? Was it about the team? The systems?"
Asky shook his head slowly. "You talked about food. You talked about Saginaw. But then you said something else. I told Michael it was nothing—told him it was just gibberish—and I told him to delete the video. But he’s Michael. I don't think he deleted it."
"Asky, tell me," Igor hissed, the desperation bleeding through. "What did I say?"
Asky took a breath, meeting Igor’s eyes with a look of pure honesty. "'I love you, Michael.' Twice. You said it like it was the only thing keeping you breathing."
Igor slumped into the chair, burying his face in his hands. The secret he’d guarded like a state treasure—the reason he’d crossed an ocean and stayed up late studying a new language—was now a digital file on Michael’s phone. He was spiraling, the stress making his skin feel too tight. Michael would be uncomfortable. The "Saginaw magic" would turn into an awkward memory. He’d lose his center, his best friend, his everything.
"He knows," Igor groaned into his palms. "He has to know now."
"He doesn't have the translation yet," Asky reminded him gently. He sat on the edge of the desk, looking down at the powerhouse winger. "But Igor... when did you know? When did this start?"
Igor looked up, his blue eyes raw and full of a jagged, terrifying vulnerability. "Since the OHL. Since the first time he looked at me in that locker room and told me my English was terrible. I thought it was just respect for his talent, but then I couldn't stop watching him. I would be on the bench, supposed to be focused on the play, and I was just looking for the way his hair curled under his helmet or how he adjusted his gloves."
Asky stayed quiet, letting the dam break.
"It’s everything," Igor continued, the words tumbling out in a rush of desperate Russian. "The way he bites his lip when a power play goes wrong. The way he tries so hard to stay humble when the whole world knows he’s the best person on the ice. He is so... pure. He makes me want to be more than just a hockey player. I see him and I feel like I am finally home, even if we are in a hotel in a city I don't know. My history starts and ends with him."
Igor trailed off, his chest heaving as he realized he’d just confessed more in a few minutes than he had in the last three years. He waited for Asky to laugh, to make a joke about soulmates or chirping him in the locker room.
Instead, Askarov just gave him a long, knowing look. He reached out and clapped a heavy, supportive hand on Igor’s shoulder.
"Igor," Asky said softly. "I think you will be okay. I think you are the only person in this entire building who doesn't see that he looks at you the exact same way."
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The week leading up to the annual gala was a fever dream of late-night Google searches and repetitive audio clips. Michael sat in the dark of his room, the glowing screen of his phone illuminating the frantic set of his jaw as he replayed the five-second snippet of Igor’s sleep-talking. He’d isolated the audio, cross-referencing the phonetic sounds with Russian translation forums until the syllables finally clicked into place.
Ya lyublyu tebya, Misa.
When the meaning finally hit him—I love you—the air had left Michael’s lungs in a violent rush. He didn’t delete the video. He kept it like a talisman, a secret fuel that burned in his chest every time he caught Igor looking at him across the locker room.
The night of the Sharks Foundation Gala arrived with the kind of high-society fanfare that usually made Michael want to hide. The SAP Center had been transformed, the ice covered by a polished black floor and the rafters draped in shimmering silk. Because of their separate media obligations earlier that day, they arrived at different times.
When Michael finally stepped into the room, he froze. Standing near the champagne tower was Igor, looking devastating in a custom-tailored suit. It wasn't black or navy; it was a deep, iridescent teal that caught the light with every movement. Michael looked down at his own sleeves, a slow heat rising to his cheeks. He was wearing the exact same suit.
"Look at the twins!" Sherwood barked, appearing out of nowhere to throw an arm around both of them. "Did you guys call each other, or is the telepathy just getting weird now?"
The team's photographer swarmed them immediately. Michael felt Igor’s hand settle on the small of his back—a heavy, grounding weight—as they posed for a dozen photos. Amidst the camera flashes and the roar of the crowd, Igor leaned in, his breath warm against Michael's ear.
"You look...magnificent," Igor whispered, his eyes raking over Michael’s suit. "Very handsome, Misa."
Michael smiled, his heart performing a frantic rhythm. "You too. The teal suits you better than the jersey."
They spent the next two hours playing the part of the perfect NHL ambassadors—shaking hands, signing jerseys, and making polite small talk with donors. But Michael could feel the string between them pulling tighter with every passing minute. Finally, during a break in the program, Michael caught Igor’s eye and tilted his head toward the darkened tunnel leading away from the main floor.
They slipped away, their dress shoes echoing on the concrete as they navigated toward a secluded balcony overlooking the darkened rink. The muffled sound of the gala's orchestra was a distant hum.
"Dance with me," Michael said, his voice quiet but steady.
Igor blinked, a soft, surprised look crossing his face. "Here? There is no music."
"Pick something," Michael challenged, pulling out his phone and handing it over.
Igor took it, his fingers brushing Michael's as he scrolled. A moment later, a slow, melancholic Russian ballad began to play—strings and a deep, soulful male vocal that felt like heartbreak and hope all at once. Igor tucked the phone into his pocket and stepped into Michael’s space, his hands finding Michael's waist. Michael draped his arms over Igor’s broad shoulders, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.
They swayed in the shadows, the teal of their suits blending into the darkness. Igor looked down at him, his expression more open than Michael had ever seen it.
"Misa," Igor breathed, the music swelling behind them. He looked like he was standing on the edge of a cliff. He took a shaky breath and spoke the words he’d only ever said in the safety of sleep. "I love you, Michael."
Michael didn't hesitate. He leaned in until their foreheads touched. "I love you too, Igor."
Igor stiffened, his entire body jerking in shock. He pulled back just an inch, his eyes wide and disbelieving. "How...how do you know? You do not know Russian."
Michael let out a soft, breathless laugh, his thumbs tracing the line of Igor's jaw. "Does it really matter? I've been waiting for a long time for you to say that in a language I could understand. And honestly? I’d really like to kiss you now."
The shock on Igor’s face melted into something fierce and hungry. He didn't wait. He crashed his lips against Michael’s, a tender, desperate kiss that tasted like the last three years of pining and the bright, certain future of San Jose. Igor pulled him closer, his arms wrapping around Michael until there was no air left between them, both of them swaying slowly to the fading notes of the ballad in the quiet heart of the Tank.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
After the final notes of the Russian ballad faded into the rafters of the SAP Center, the drive to Igor’s apartment was a blur of high-tension silence and white-knuckled anticipation.
The cabin of Igor’s car was thick with the scent of leather and the electric charge of their mutual confession. Igor didn't let go of Michael’s hand for a single second, his thumb tracing obsessive, grounding circles over Michael’s knuckles—a physical tether keeping them both anchored as the city lights streaked past.
The moment the door to the apartment clicked shut, the restraint they had maintained all evening snapped. Igor didn't even turn on the lights; he shoved Michael against the heavy wood of the door, his body a solid, overwhelming weight. His mouth crashed against Michael’s, tasting of the drink he’d snuck earlier and a years-long starvation.
"Misa," Igor rasped, his voice a low vibration that settled in Michael’s bones. "You are so beautiful tonight. I could never take my eyes off you."
Igor’s hands were hot as they stripped the matching teal jackets away, the expensive fabric hitting the floor in a discarded heap. Michael’s breath hitched as Igor dropped to his knees. The sight of the powerhouse winger—the man who had been watching him since Saginaw—looking up at him with such raw hunger made Michael’s knees go weak.
Igor took him into his mouth with a focused, agonizing deliberation, his tongue swirling around the head of Michael’s cock while his blue eyes remained locked on Michael’s face. He used his hands to stroke the length, his calloused palms a searing contrast to the wet heat of his mouth. Michael let out a jagged, broken moan, his fingers burying deep into Igor’s hair as Igor hummed against him, the vibration radiating through Michael's entire frame.
"Good boy, Misa," Igor murmured against his skin, sensing the way Michael shivered at the praise. "You taste so good for me."
Igor rose and carried Michael to the bed, the mattress dipping under their combined weight. He settled between Michael’s knees, his large hands mapping Michael’s thighs. To prepare him, Igor slid a finger inside, the slow, heavy pressure making Michael’s breath hitch. Igor watched Michael’s face with a devastating, quiet focus as he added a second finger, then a third, stretching him with a rhythmic, methodical pace.
"You are perfect," Igor whispered, his English deliberate and low. "So tight for me. You are doing so well, Michael. Such a good, beautiful boy."
The praise hit Michael harder than the physical sensation, fueling a fire in his gut that made him arch off the sheets. He was overstimulated but somehow wanted more, his heart slamming against his ribs as Igor’s thumbs traced heavy arcs over his hip bones.
"Please, Igor," Michael choked out, his voice a breathless thread. "I want you. Now."
Igor hovered over him, his blue eyes darkened to the color of deep water. "Tell me what you want, Misa. Tell me who you belong to."
"You," Michael gasped, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the sheets. "I want your cock. Please, Igor, I'm yours."
Igor didn't wait any longer. He moved with a focused, agonizing patience at first, his gaze locked on Michael’s as he finally bridged the gap. The first stretch was a deliberate, heavy invasion that made Michael let out a sob of relief. As Igor began to move, he kept up the litany of praise, his voice a low growl that grounded Michael even as the world narrowed to the friction between them.
"You are where you belong," Igor groaned, his chest heaving as he drove deeper, his movements fluid and powerful. He littered Michael’s face and neck with slow kisses. "My heart. My center. You take me so well, Misa. Good boy."
The rhythm grew frantic, a lethal, synchronized dance of skin and sweat. Igor was a force of nature, his muscles rippling under the dim light as he chased the win. When they finally shattered, Igor collapsed against Michael’s chest, his heart racing and matching Michael’s beat for beat—a secret language that finally needed no translation.
Summary: In Saginaw, they were magic. In San Jose, they’re lethal. But between the teal jerseys and the Russian whispers, some things are getting harder to translate.
Word Count: 8k
Release Date: The next time Cherny or Misa get a point 🩵
Summary: In a sea of teal and pride, Igor’s plain black blade feels less like a hockey stick and more like a gag order.
Word Count: 1663
Read on ao3 here
The arena is a kaleidoscope of neon and glitter, a stark contrast to the utilitarian cold of the ice. But as Igor glides through the familiar rhythm of warm-ups, his eyes aren’t on the crowd. They are fixed on the flick of wrists and the flash of blades.
Nearly every stick on the ice is a streak of vibrant color. Macklin, Will, Dickie, Eky—they all have that rainbow tape wrapped tight around their blades or shafts. He knows, intellectually, that they made a choice. He knows they likely discussed it, weighed the optics, and decided to stand in solidarity. But to Igor, it feels effortless. It looks like a freedom so casual it stings.
He looks at his own stick. Plain. Black and white. Silent.
He is proud of where he comes from. He carries the weight of his home in his stride and his strength. But it is a heavy inheritance. It’s a home that demands a specific kind of silence, a home that follows him across oceans through digital footprints and family ties. He can’t just reach for a roll of tape. He doesn’t have the luxury of a choice when the ramifications aren't just a headline, but a shadow over his life and the lives of those he loves back home.
Then there is Misa.
Misa cuts across the zone, his blade a blur of pride colors. It’s beautiful, and it’s a knife to the chest. Michael is his anchor, his partner in every sense that matters behind closed doors, yet here, the distance between them feels like a physical chasm. Michael can wear his heart on his sleeve—or at least on his equipment—while Igor has to keep his buried under layers of Kevlar and reinforced plastic.
Igor veers toward the crease, pulling up beside Yaroslav. He needs the safety of his own language, the sharp, percussive sounds of home that act as a shield.
"Look at Leddy," Igor mutters in Russian, his voice tight with a bitter kind of envy he can’t quite place. "At least he has the freedom to say no and have it mean nothing. He just stands there like he doesn’t look like a piece of shit."
Asky doesn't miss a beat, though his eyes stay tracked on an imaginary puck. "Leddy? You're worried about him?" he says back in the same tongue, a dry edge to his tone. "The man has left me hanging on the backdoor more times than I can count this season. If he’s not going to support the play, don't expect him to support the cause. Forget him."
Asky glances at Igor, the humor fading into something softer, more perceptive. He nudges his glove toward the glass. "Look past the glass, Igor. Not the guys. The support for us is there."
Igor follows the gesture. Among the sea of teal jerseys, the bisexual pride flags stand out—pink, purple, and deep blue. They are small, defiant beacons in the stands. A lump forms in his throat, tight and hot.
He thinks back to a few nights ago. The light in Sam’s apartment was low, the only real illumination coming from the massive flat screen and the blue-tinged LED strips Sam had installed behind the entertainment center. Outside, the San Jose fog was rolling in, but inside, the air was warm and smelled of spicy Thai takeout and the rich, nutty scent of the Dubai chocolate Will had spent three hours tempering in the kitchen.
They were a tangle of limbs across the oversized sectional. Macklin and Will were half-submerged in a beanbag chair, Sam was sprawled on the floor leaning against the couch, and Asky had claimed the armchair, his legs draped over the side. Igor was tucked into the corner of the sofa, Misa’s head resting firmly on his shoulder, their fingers occasionally brushing under the edge of a shared throw blanket.
They had been there since noon. The Heated Rivalry marathon seemed like more than just a binge-watch. It was this sort of rare moment where the armor of being a professional athlete was stripped away.
"I’m telling you, the skating doubles are actually decent," Sam muttered, looking up from the floor as Hollander and Rozanov traded chirps on screen. "But that locker room scene? Way too clean. Where’s the stray tape and questionable jocks?"
"Shut up, Dickie, it’s TV," Will chimed in, passing around a plate of his homemade chocolate. The crack of the pistachio-filled center was loud in the quiet room. "Just enjoy the romance for once. Look at them."
Igor took a piece of the chocolate, but his eyes drifted from the screen to Sam. He watched the way Sam’s expression tightened during a scene were the characters are discussing how no one else can ever know. Igor knew that for Sam, this wasn't just a plot point. Sam was navigating a minefield of his own, dating a forward on a division rival team. Every “accidental" run-in in the tunnel and every scrubbed-clean social media post was a calculated risk. Sam was living the Hollander-Rozanov dynamic in real-time, just without the gloss of TV.
Igor felt a nudge against his knee. He looked over to see Asky watching him.
Asky was the oldest among them, the one who had already navigated the pressures of a traditional life. He had a wife he loved deeply, a home, and a public image of stability. But Igor remembered the late-night conversations they’d had in Russian—low, urgent whispers about the fluidity of attraction and the specific, quiet ache of being bisexual in a world that demanded you pick a side or stay silent. Asky’s marriage didn't erase his identity. It just changed the shape of the cage he had to maneuver within.
"It’s a mirror, isn't it?" Asky murmured in Russian, so low the others wouldn't catch it over the TV audio.
"A cracked one," Igor replied, his voice thick. "But a mirror nonetheless."
As the series reached the final episodes, the room fell into a heavy, respectful silence. They watched Rozanov struggle with the weight of his home country’s expectations—the same weight currently sitting like a lead vest on Igor’s chest. When the characters finally reached that point of messy, terrifying honesty, the tension in the apartment snapped.
Misa shifted, his hand finding Igor’s and squeezing hard. Igor didn't pull away. Not here. Not with them.
Will was uncharacteristically quiet, staring at the screen with misty eyes. Macklin let out a long, shaky breath, looking at his teammates and realizing that while their struggles weren't identical, the fear was the same.
By the time the credits rolled on the season finale, there wasn't a dry eye in the room. Even Asky was wiping his face with the back of his hand, a small, tired smile on his lips.
"So," Macklin said, his voice cracking slightly as he reached for the last piece of Dubai chocolate. "We’re all cooked, huh?"
"Completely," Sam laughed, though it sounded a bit wet. He looked around the room—at Igor and Misa, at Asky, at the young guys who were still figuring out how to carry themselves. "But they made it work. In the show...they made it work."
Igor looked at Misa, then at the rainbow-colored light reflecting off the TV screen. For the first time in weeks, the "Rozanov" part of his identity didn't feel like a death sentence. It felt like a roadmap.
"Yeah," Igor said, his English clear and steady. "They made it work. Maybe we do, too."
The sadness was still there, lingering in the corners of the room like the smell of the Thai food, but as they started cleaning up the takeout containers, there was a new, fragile thread of hope woven between them—a secret they all shared, and a future they were finally brave enough to imagine.
But today, the reality of the "outside" world has reasserted itself.
He’d read the articles on his phone earlier—quotes from the media scrum. He saw Misa’s name, Sam’s name, Ned’s. The reporters had asked them all about the show, about how it was growing the game. The guys had handled it with grace, talking about inclusivity and how "if you can play, you can play."
But no one had approached Igor. The reporters had skirted around him, their eyes sliding past him as if he were a ghost. He knew why. It wasn't his English—he’d been interviewed a dozen times about his part on Mack’s line. It was the collective, silent understanding of the danger. The journalists didn’t want to put him in a position where a "wrong" answer could be tracked back home; his teammates didn't want to force him into a spotlight that could burn.
They were protecting him, but out here under the bright lights of the SAP Center, that protection felt like a different kind of exile. They got to be the faces of a new, inclusive era of hockey. They got to speak for the characters in the show they’d all watched together.
Igor, however, had to remain the silent Rozanov—the one who exists, who loves, and who plays, but who can never actually say the words out loud.
He skates toward the boards, his gloves hovering over a pile of pucks. If he can’t use his stick to speak, he’ll use his hands.
He gathers a puck, his eyes locking onto a teenager holding a handmade sign draped in those same pink, purple and blue hues. With a flick of his wrist, he tosses the puck over the glass. Then another. And another. Each one is a silent message, a secret handshake across a barrier he isn't allowed to cross.
As he turns back to the center circle, watching Misa laugh at something Macklin said, the yearning is a dull ache in his ribs. He is here, he is seen, and he is loved—but he is still a ghost in his own story, waiting for a day that feels like it may never arrive.
