Pairing: Ilya Rozanov x Female!Reader
Summary: After a big win, hockey star Ilya Rozanov, publicly known as a womanizer proposes to his longtime secret girlfriend. On his balcony, he offers her three symbols of their love: a jade stone from the beginning, a private band, and a public diamond ring. She says yes, and they prepare to finally reveal their four-year relationship to the world.
The roar of the stadium was a physical thing, a wall of sound that vibrated in your chest as you watched from your usual seat. On the ice, a blur of red and white, Ilya Rozanov moved with a predatory grace, a symphony of controlled aggression. The opposing defenseman tried to check him, but Ilya simply pivoted, a fluid escape that left the man grasping at air, and snapped the puck top-shelf with a crack that echoed over the din. The goal light blazed, and twenty thousand people screamed his name.
You smiled, clapping politely, a private warmth blooming beneath the public adulation he stoked so effortlessly. The camera, as it always did, found him. He skated past his celebrating teammates, his helmet tilted back, and his gaze, sharp, blue, and utterly focused, found yours in the sea of faces. He didn’t smile. He never did on the ice. But he gave a single, almost imperceptible nod, a secret handshake witnessed by millions but meant only for you.
Four years. Four years of this dichotomy. To the world, Ilya Rozanov was the Russian Hurricane, a force of nature on skates and a certified womanizer off them. The tabloids chronicled his every move, linking him to models, pop stars, socialites—a never-ending parade of beautiful, fleeting faces. They painted him as a heartless playboy, a man who loved the game and the chase in equal, shallow measure.
The final buzzer sounded, another victory sealed. You made your way through the familiar, labyrinthine corridors of the arena, flashing your pass at security who knew you by now. The whispers followed you, as they always did.
“There she is. The ‘friend’.”
“How long do you think this one will last? A month? He’ll get bored.”
“She’s pretty, but… quiet. Not his usual type.”
You let the words wash over you, harmless as summer rain. If they only knew. The “womanizer” was currently probably fretting over whether the post-game meal you’d suggested, that new Thai place, would have enough vegetarian options for you. The “heartless playboy” had a notes app on his phone filled with things you’d casually mentioned liking: a specific brand of tea, the author of a book you were reading, the name of a flower you’d pointed out in a park.
You found him in the family lounge, not the main locker room. He was still in his gear from the waist down, his jersey off, a towel around his neck. Sweat gleamed on the defined planes of his chest and shoulders, and his hair was dark and damp. He was staring intently at his phone.
He looked up, and the transformation was instant and complete. The fierce, icy concentration melted away, replaced by a warmth so profound it still made your breath catch. His eyes crinkled at the corners, a genuine, full smile breaking across his face.
“Moya lyubov,” he murmured, his voice rough from shouting on the ice. He stood, enveloping you in a hug that smelled of sweat, ice, and his own unique, clean scent. “You saw the goal?”
“I see all your goals,” you laughed into his shoulder. “You were incredible.”
“Was for you,” he said simply, pulling back to cup your face. He studied you, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “You are tired. Work was long?”
This was your Ilya. The doting, observant, deeply loving man who existed only for you and a very small, trusted circle. The public persona was a shield, one he’d constructed long before he met you to protect what little privacy he could claim. And when he’d fallen for you, a woman who valued quiet and authenticity over flash, he’d doubled down on the ruse. Protecting you from the blinding, often cruel glare of his spotlight was his highest priority.
“It was fine,” you assured him. “But I’m starving. Thai?”
His face fell, just a little. “I was thinking… maybe home? I have something at the apartment. I can cook.”
This was unusual. Ilya loved celebrating wins with you out in the city, even if it was just a quiet corner in a back-alley bistro. “Everything okay?”
“Perfect,” he said, too quickly. He kissed your forehead. “Just want a quiet night. With you.”
An hour later, you were in his—no, 'your' penthouse apartment. The floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the glittering city skyline, but the room was lit only by the soft glow of under-cabinet lights in the kitchen. Ilya was, as promised, cooking. Or rather, he was attempting to. You watched from a stool at the kitchen island, hiding a smile as he frowned ferociously at a recipe on his tablet, wielding a wooden spoon like a hockey stick.
“It says ‘sweat the onions’,” he grumbled, his Russian accent thickening with frustration. “How does an onion sweat? This is nonsense.”
“It just means cook them until they’re soft and translucent, my love,” you said, sipping the wine he’d poured for you.
He muttered something in Russian that you were pretty sure was a curse directed at culinary terminology. This was another side of him no one saw. The fiercely competitive athlete, utterly humbled by a pan of vegetables.
The meal, when it was finally served, was surprisingly edible, a pasta dish with a creamy sauce. He watched you take the first bite, his expression more anxious than when facing a penalty shot in overtime.
“It’s delicious,” you said, and meant it. The love he’d poured into it was the best seasoning.
He relaxed, the tension leaving his shoulders. “Good.”
Dinner was quiet, comfortable. You talked about your day, his game, a funny video his teammate’s dog had starred in. But there was a current of something else running beneath it all, a nervous energy emanating from him. He was uncharacteristically fidgety, his eyes constantly darting to you, then away, as if he was working up to something.
After dinner, he led you not to the couch for a movie, but to the sprawling balcony. The night air was cool, a gentle breeze carrying the distant hum of the city. He’d lit the outdoor fireplace, and the flames danced, casting warm, shifting shadows. He stood behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist, his chin resting on your head as you both looked out at the tapestry of lights.
“Four years,” he said, his voice a low rumble against your back.
“Four amazing years,” you replied, leaning into his solid warmth.
“You have given me… everything,” he continued. The usual confidence in his voice was tempered with something raw, vulnerable. “A home. Not this apartment. A home *here*.” He tapped his chest, over your hand. “You see me. Not the Hurricane. Not the… what do they call me? The ‘playboy’.” He spat the word out like it was bitter. “You see Ilya. The man who is bad at cooking onions.”
You turned in his arms, looking up at him. In the firelight, his blue eyes were deep oceans of emotion. “I see the best man I know.”
He took a deep, shuddering breath. He released you, taking a small step back. The nervous energy was now a visible tremor in his hands.
“This has been… the greatest game of my life. Being with you,” he began, his words careful, rehearsed. “But I do not want to just play the game anymore. I want to win. The ultimate prize. Forever.”
The world stopped. The city sounds faded, the crackle of the fire muted. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, joyful drumbeat.
From his pocket, he drew not a ring box, but a small, worn, black velvet pouch. His hands, so steady and sure on the ice, fumbled with the drawstring. He poured the contents into his palm.
It wasn’t a single ring. It was two. The first was a breathtaking emerald-cut diamond, its clarity capturing the firelight and fracturing it into a thousand brilliant sparks. It was elegant, timeless, stunning. The second was a band of woven platinum, sleek and modern.
But it was what lay beside them that stole the air from your lungs. A third item. A simple, smooth, worry stone of dark green jade, worn silky from touch. It was the first gift he’d ever given you, back when you were just friends, when you’d mentioned your anxiety during your stressful exams. He’d pressed it into your hand after a game and said, “To hold when the world is too loud.”
“The stone,” Ilya said, his voice thick with emotion, “is where we began. Where I knew I would love you forever, even before I knew I loved you at all.” He picked up the diamond ring. “This… this is my promise to the world. A promise to finally tell them the truth. That I have been yours, and only yours, for four years. That the womanizer is a lie. That my heart has had only one home.” He set it down and picked up the platinum band. “And this… this is my promise to you. The private one. The real one. Not for the cameras or the headlines. Just for us. A promise that every day, I will choose you. I will cherish you. I will be the man you see when you look at me.”
He looked up at you, his eyes shining with unshed tears. The mighty Ilya Rozanov, brought to his knees not by an opponent, but by love.
“You are my quiet in the storm. My safe harbor. My greatest victory, long before we ever get to this moment. So, 'moya dusha', my soul… will you do me the incredible honor of becoming my wife?”
Tears streamed down your face freely now, a silent, happy waterfall. You looked at the offerings in his palm, the symbol of your past, the promise to the world, the vow for your future. It was so perfectly, quintessentially 'them'. Public and private. Flash and substance. The story and the truth.
You dropped to your knees in front of him, not caring about the cold concrete. You took his face in your hands, feeling the dampness on his cheeks that mirrored your own.
“Yes,” you whispered, the word barely a breath. Then stronger, filled with all the joy in your heart, “Yes, Ilya. A thousand times, yes.”
The smile that broke across his face was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen, pure, unadulterated joy. He let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, and gathered you into his arms, holding you so tightly you felt your souls knit together. He kissed you, and it tasted of salt, promise, and a future brighter than any stadium light.
He slid the platinum band onto your finger first, his touch reverent. “For us,” he whispered, kissing your knuckle. Then, the diamond. It settled on your finger, heavy and magnificent. “For the world.”
You picked up the jade stone, closing your fingers around its familiar, soothing shape. “For always,” you said.
He helped you stand, pulling you back into his embrace. You stood intertwined on the balcony, the city sprawling before you, a kingdom he’d just offered you, and you’d just accepted.
“The team… the press… everyone will be shocked,” you said later, your head on his chest as you sat by the fire, the new weight on your finger a delightful constant reminder.
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through you. “Let them be shocked. Let them write their stories. Finally, they will write the true one.” He tilted your chin up. “The story of how Ilya Rozanov was loved, completely and quietly, by the most remarkable woman in the world. And how he spent every day of four years, and will spend every day for the rest of his life, trying to be worthy of her.”
He kissed you again, a seal on the promise. The heated rivalry had never been with other women. It had been within himself, the rivalry between the man the world thought he was and the man he wanted to be for you. Tonight, in the quiet glow of a fire, under a blanket of stars, the right man had won. And his victory, your victory, was just beginning.
