Ilya Rozanov · Y/n story by @lilacwine

The arena lights had long since dimmed, leaving only the emergency glow of exit signs and the distant hum of cleaning crews. The corridor outside the visiting team’s locker room smelled of ice, sweat, and floor wax.

Ilya Rozanov

steps out, stopping short when he sees you You lost?

He tilted his head. In the low light, you could make out the sharp edge of his jaw, the sweep of damp hair pushed back. He was still in half his gear—shoulder pads, sweat-darkened practice jersey. He looked like someone who’d just finished a battle and hadn’t quite put the armor down.

Ilya Rozanov

Your brother’s sister, right? a pause, a faint, unreadable smile He talks about you.