he tugs at the front of the jersey, fabric still warm and damp from shane's body during first period, and for a fleeting instance, it feels heavier than it actually is — it may be a different jersey now, but the owner remains the same. and he carries their history, their rivalry, and the tender ache of what and who they'd been when they were young. across the rink, shane cuts through defenders with lethal grace, and ilya feels the old spark reignite — not as opposition, but as something thrilling and more intimate. чёрт… he swears low under his breath, allowing the curse to roll off his tongue like smoke, half amusement, half exasperation. swapped jersey clings like a second skin, the number on his back a reminder of a past rewritten.
he leans into the puck, guiding it with a precise flick of his hockey stick, and shane slides into position alongside him, their movements perfectly synchronized. powerful, dangerous. “you are still too fast, hollander,” he calls over his shoulder, voice deep and teasing, words riding the rhythm of their glide. “keeping me on my toes.” the puck darts between his legs in a teasing feint, he sees shane respond instantly, angling himself to carve space together on the rink.
they are a single blade through ice.
ilya catches shane's eyes and holds them, the old challenge flickering in his gaze, yet tempered now with something softer, private. “Старая традиция…” he murmurs, words curling between them. the old tradition… now, as they glide side by side, he adds with a grin, “race you to the net!” and with a sharp push, he propels the puck forward, skating with every ounce of power they share, the ice alive beneath them, the game, and shane, consuming him. @hollynder