rancidbitch-affectionate

You glanced at your watch again. Practice had ended twenty minutes ago. You were supposed to be home by now, already showered, maybe halfway through dinner. Instead, you were standing alone in a freezing parking lot, the ache in your stomach not from hunger but from something sharper—annoyance, maybe. Or disappointment.

Then, finally, the call connected. Relief hit you fast, but it didn’t last.

“Mom? The practice is over—” you began, ready to let the words tumble out, to ask where she was, to say you were cold and tired and just wanted to go home.

But she cut you off before you could finish.

“Honey, I can’t right now. I’m at a meeting about Shane’s sponsorship,” she said, quick and clipped, like she was already halfway out of the conversation.

You opened your mouth to argue, to say how unfair this was, how it wasn’t the first time she’d forgotten you, how you were sick of always coming second. “Mom—” you tried, but the line went dead.

She’d hung up.

You wanted to cry. Or scream. Or just start walking and never look back. The kind of dramatic exit you always imagined in your head, where no one could stop you because no one had bothered to show up in the first place. It was always Shane. Shane this, Shane that. Shane with his perfect stats and his perfect smile and his perfect future in the NHL. Your mom never missed a meeting, a game, a chance to push his dream forward. But when it came to you—your practices, your competitions, your shot at Nationals—it was like she kept forgetting you were chasing something too.

You loved them. You really did. Your brother, even when he was annoying. Your mom, even when she let you down. But sometimes love didn’t stop the hurt. Sometimes it made it worse. You didn’t want to be first all the time. You just wanted to matter the same.

The cold was getting unbearable now. Your jacket was too thin, your leggings no match for the wind that kept cutting through the lot. You were shivering so hard your teeth had started to chatter, and your fingers were too numb to text again. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hold it together, but you were one gust of wind away from falling apart completely.

And then—

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Hollander junior.”

The voice came from behind you, smooth and sharp, with that unmistakable Russian accent. It echoed across the empty lot like it had been waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

You turned slowly, already knowing who it was.

Ilya Rozanov.

Boston’s golden boy. Russia’s pride. The NHL’s favorite headline. And, most importantly, your brother’s sworn enemy. His name had been echoing through your house for years, always followed by a curse, a slammed door, or a rant from Shane about cheap hits and smug interviews. Your mom wasn’t much better—she talked about Rozanov like he was the villain in some family drama, the one standing in the way of Shane’s greatness. You’d never met him, but you’d heard enough to build a full picture: arrogant, reckless, impossible to ignore.

And now, apparently, he was here. In front of you. 

You didn’t look at him. Just turned your head away, like you always did when his name came up on the TV or in conversation. You didn’t want to talk to him. You didn’t want to owe him anything. 

But then again, his voice cut through the cold like a knife, low and amused.

“Forgotten?”

“Waiting for my mom,” you muttered, though the words felt thin in the air. The truth was obvious—you couldn’t stay out here much longer. The cold was biting through your jacket, sinking into your skin, and every breath came out sharp and painful. If you didn’t move soon, you were going to freeze.

“She’s probably busy with Hollander’s Rolex sponsorship,” Ilya said, his voice carrying easily across the empty lot. He didn’t rush, didn’t even sound like he cared about the cold. He strolled toward his car with that same unshakable confidence you’d seen on the ice, his blue eyes fixed on you like he was enjoying every second of your discomfort.

What were you supposed to say to that? He wasn’t wrong. That was the worst part. Your mom was probably sitting in some warm office, talking about Shane’s future, while you stood here shivering in the dark. And Rozanov—of all people—was the one pointing it out.

Ilya reached his car and stopped, both hands resting casually on the roof as if he had all the time in the world. His posture was relaxed, but there was something in the way he looked at you—steady, unbothered—that made the air feel heavier.

“Get in the car. I’ll drive you,” he said, the words firm, not really a suggestion.

Your reaction was instant, almost automatic. “Fuck no.” The words came out sharp, louder than you meant, but you didn’t take them back.

His eyes narrowed, the blue of them colder than the night air. “Hollander,” he said, dragging your name out with that thick Russian accent, turning it into something that made your stomach twist. Jesus Christ.

“I said, fuck no,” you repeated, forcing the words through clenched teeth, even though your body was already trembling from the cold.

“You act like I bite,” Ilya said, rolling his eyes. The smirk stayed, sharp and unshakable, like it was carved into his face.

“Wouldn’t be surprised if you did,” you shot back, arms crossing tight against your chest. The cold made the gesture feel more like defense than defiance.

He tilted his head, studying you with that unnerving calm, like he was already planning his next move. “You think I’d hurt you?” His voice was low, curious, almost amused.

“Not sure,” you muttered, shivering hard enough that your teeth clicked together. “Maybe just… scare me a little.”

“I’m terrifying, I know,” he said with a shrug, stepping closer, his presence filling the empty lot. “But freezing to death out here? That’s worse.”

You glared at him, clinging to your pride even as the cold gnawed at your skin. “I’ll survive.”

“Sure,” he said, the teasing edge still there. But then his tone shifted, softer, almost reasonable. “Or you could get in. I do have heat in the car.”

Your jaw tightened. Every instinct screamed no—you didn’t want to, couldn’t, should never. But the thought of another ten minutes out here, frost gathering on your eyelashes, made your stubbornness falter.

You let out a sharp breath, the kind that fogged in the air and made your chest ache. Your arms dropped to your sides—not enough to look like surrender, but enough to admit that your fingers were too numb to keep fighting this battle.

“Fine,” you muttered, the word heavy, reluctant, dragged out of you by the cold more than by choice.

Ilya’s smirk widened instantly, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. He moved with unhurried confidence, sliding the car door open as if he’d orchestrated your defeat from the start. “Finally,” he said, his voice smooth, satisfied.

Wow. Gentleman.

You hesitated on the curb, one foot hovering, your glare locked on him like it might burn through his smugness. “This doesn’t mean I like you,” you said, each word clipped, sharp, meant to remind him exactly where the line was.

“Of course not,” he replied without missing a beat. He leaned against the car, posture loose, casual, like he owned the night and the world along with it. “I didn’t drive here to become your best friend.”

Ilya slid into the driver’s seat, moving with the kind of confidence that made it seem like the car already belonged to him and the night bent around his pace. Before he even reached for the ignition, he twisted in his seat, reaching into the back. His hand closed around something, and when he turned back, he was holding out a hoodie like it was proof of his generosity.

“Here,” he said simply, thrusting it toward you.

You stared at him, then at the hoodie, then back at him again. Of course it was Boston. Of course it had his team stamped across the front in bold letters, like he couldn’t resist reminding you exactly who he was.

“I’m not wearing that,” you said, shaking your head, voice sharp even though your teeth were starting to chatter.

“Don’t be fucking stubborn, Hollander.” His tone cut through the air, firm but almost amused. He tossed the hoodie into your lap before you could argue again. “Your fingers are about to fall off.”

You let out a frustrated huff, tugging at the fabric despite yourself. It was heavier than you expected, the kind of weight that promised warmth. It smelled faintly of him—cigarettes, maybe, or just the car—but either way it was something solid, something that made the cold feel less unbearable.

“Fine,” you muttered, slipping it over your shoulders. The sleeves swallowed your hands whole, the fabric hanging loose and oversized, but at least it was something between you and frostbite.

The moment you finally pulled his hoodie over your shoulders, Ilya turned the key in the ignition. The engine hummed to life, filling the silence that had stretched too long between you. Still, the ride was quiet. Dead quiet. You kept your eyes fixed on the window, watching the blur of streetlights pass one by one, counting them like they might lead you home faster. What were you supposed to say to your brother’s enemy? Words felt impossible, so you clung to silence instead.

It wasn’t until a few blocks later that he spoke. His voice was low, almost hesitant, quiet enough that you almost thought you’d imagined it.

“Your spin,” he said, eyes steady on the road. “Earlier. Cleaner than usual.”

You froze, the words sinking in slowly. Not because it was a compliment—Rozanov didn’t hand those out easily—but because it meant he had been watching.

“You… you were watching?” you muttered, disbelief slipping into your tone.

“Someone has to,” he replied, pausing just long enough to glance at you. His expression was unreadable, but his words landed heavy. “When your family doesn’t.”

The silence that followed was louder than anything else.

Fuck.

“It seems your brother’s not the only one who’s good on skates.”

You blinked, the words hanging in the air like they didn’t belong to him. Was that… praise? From Ilya Rozanov?

“For my mom, he is,” you said quickly, rolling your eyes, bitterness dripping from every syllable. “It’s always Shane, Shane, Shane.” You pitched your voice higher, mocking her tone, waving your hand in a vague gesture that felt more like surrender than humor.

Ilya didn’t answer. He just kept his eyes on the road, the silence stretching between you, heavy and unyielding.

You let out a sharp breath, frustration curling in your chest. “It’s just… fucking annoying,” you muttered, the words slipping out before you could stop them. They sounded smaller than you wanted, but they were true.

Then it hit you—who you were actually talking to.

“God,” you laughed, too sharp, too sarcastic, the sound brittle in the small space of the car. “I sound fucking stupid. Bragging about my family to you, Rozanov.”

“It’s not stupid,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

You blinked, waiting for more. But that was it. No lecture. No teasing. No smug remark to twist the knife. Just calm.

It unsettled you, more than you wanted to admit. You weren’t used to anyone—least of all him—making you feel lighter just by sitting there, existing in the same space.

You turned back to the window, the oversized hoodie swallowing you whole, shivering against the faint hum of the heater. “I don’t know why I even…” you dragged a hand through your hair, words slipping away before they could form. “…I don’t know why I say anything.”

He didn’t answer right away. He just drove, steady, letting the silence stretch between you. And somehow, that silence felt safer than it had any right to.

Finally, his voice came, soft, almost muttered, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud: “You’re… good. Even when it’s shitty.”

You turned slightly, catching his reflection in the rearview mirror. His expression was calm, unreadable, but there was something real in it—something that made your chest tighten.

You swallowed hard. You didn’t know why it mattered so much that he thought that. Or why the simple weight of his words left you feeling… strange.

Suddenly, the car slowed and came to a stop. You lifted your head, blinking at the familiar outline of your house through the windshield.

“You’re home,” Ilya said, his voice steady, almost casual, as if this had been nothing more than a routine drive.

You bent down to gather your things, fingers brushing over your bag, your phone, the scattered mess of practice gear. Only then did you notice the weight still draped over your shoulders—the Boston hoodie, oversized and warm, clinging to you like proof of the night.

You didn’t bother to take it off, though.

“Have a good sleep, Hollander junior,” he added, a smile tugging at his mouth, the kind that carried both teasing and something softer underneath.

And in that moment, something inside you cracked. Just a small break in your stubbornness, quick and impulsive, but enough to push you forward before you could think better of it.

You leaned over, pressed a fast kiss to his cheek, and pulled back just as quickly, almost shutting the door behind you.

“Thanks, Rozy,” you said, the words slipping out quieter than you intended.

He froze, just for a heartbeat, long enough to make your chest tighten and your pulse skip. Then he blinked, the familiar smirk sliding back into place. He didn’t say anything, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away. He knew exactly what that meant.

But..did you knew?

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