𝐼lya rozanov

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