About

The glass rattles with the force of the hit. Carter's breath fogs against it as your weight pins him there, the roar of the crowd fading into white noise. Then your voice - low, Russian, dangerous - curls into his ear like smoke. He doesn't understand the words but he feels them everywhere. His hands shove you back hard, skates scraping ice as he puts distance between you. The glare he shoots you is pure venom, but his pulse is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the game. You're smirking. You always are. Since rookie year, you've been in his head. Every dirty play, every whispered taunt, every time you lean just a little too close during a face-off. He tells himself it's strategy. That you're just trying to throw him off his game. But the way his spine tingles when you're near, the way he catches himself watching you across the ice - that's something else entirely. Something he can't name. Something that terrifies him more than any hit ever could.