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  1. Public Bookmark *

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    The NHL's power couple has a new hobby: using Scott Hunter as their emotional (and chirp-related) ping-pong ball. He’s not mad, he’s just… profoundly done.

    Or,

    Two games, two losses, two infamous knuckleheads. Only, one is a ragebaiter. The other is ragebaited. Scott Hunter is just the poor soul standing between them.

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    04 Mar 2026

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    A scrape of blades near the boards made Shane start. A kid coasted up, tapping the glass with a glove. He was maybe ten, lean with messy dark hair plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed. He had Ilya’s eyebrows, Ilya’s stubborn chin, Ilya’s dare-you look already sharpened.

    “You spying on Coach Rozanov?” the kid demanded, planting one mittened hand on his hip.

    Shane opened his mouth, nearly laughed at how the question mirrored the suspicion roiling inside him. “Just watching,” he said softly.

    The boy’s eyes narrowed. “He’s the best,” he declared, daring contradiction.

    “Yeah?” Shane’s voice barely stretched beyond a whisper.

    “Even hurt,” the kid continued. “My dad says he’s a mean jerk, but he showed me how to shoot so it doesn’t wobble.”

    Overhearing the cruelty aimed at an injured Ilya wrecks Shane. Seeing him patiently tie a child's skate wrecks him even more.

    The world called Ilya Rozanov a liability.
    Shane Hollander saw a lifeline.

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    04 Mar 2026

  3. Public Bookmark *

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    He kept talking, filling the air with words, as though sound could act as a barrier between himself and any emotion. Shane stepped closer. Ilya’s eyes flicked toward the entrance again, the gesture so quick most people would miss it.

    “They didn’t make it,” Shane said softly.

    Ilya’s mouth curved. “Who?”

    Shane gave him an incredulous look. “Don’t do that.”

    “Do what?” There was the grin, cocky and sharp.

    “That thing where you pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.” Shane took a breath and tried not to sound like he was begging. “Your family. You can say it. It’s okay.”

    (Happens during the Olympics.)

    Ilya’s good at pretending he doesn’t need anyone—until Shane finds him alone, still half-dressed in his team jacket, eating cheap room-service noodles on the floor of a silent hotel room.

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    04 Mar 2026

  4. Public Bookmark *

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    Shane gets called ‘boring.’ Ilya makes it worse by playing along. Shane tries to pretend it's fine. Ilya calls his bluff.

    Cue in a fight, a stubborn silence, a slammed door that never closes, and a tiny, broken sound that changes everything.


    “You say you’re boring, fine. You can be boring for the whole damn world. I’ll still kiss you senseless and drag you home after every game. I’ll still make you moan loud enough to shake the walls. None of that changes.”

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    04 Mar 2026

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    Shane trembles harder, overwhelmed by the praise, the possession lacing Ilya’s voice. Heat coils tight in his stomach, pressure winding. He clings to Ilya like he might float away. “Ilya,” he gasps. “I—”

    Ilya cards fingers through Shane’s hair, pushing damp locks off his forehead. “That’s right. You’re perfect. So pretty for me.”

    Shane’s face flames. The insecurity is still there, but it transforms into a desperate need for reassurance. Voice shaking, he stammers, “P-pretty… I’m—prettier?”

    Ilya’s thrust stutters for a heartbeat, then he groans, burying his face in Shane’s neck. “The prettiest,” he growls, words vibrating against Shane’s skin. “All mine.”
     

    It's bad enough that Shane has to do warm-ups in a giant bunny suit. It's worse that Ilya's stunning ex-boyfriend picks that exact moment to visit. It's a catastrophe when said ex starts offering unsolicited advice about what Ilya likes done with his cock.

    Shane’s about two seconds from losing it.

    Language:
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    04 Mar 2026