https://t.co/6WF6Z40MiL

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 ̵𝐏̵𝐋̵𝐀̵𝐂̵𝐄̵ ̵ 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 ( ̵𝙰̵͟𝙻̵͟𝙾̵͟𝙽̵͟𝙴̵ )*; 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 ̵𝐏̵𝐋̵𝐀̵𝐂̵𝐄̵ 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝖺𝗍 ( ̵𝐇̵͟𝐎̵͟𝐌̵͟𝐄̵ ) *•.

/ sorry for being MIA for a few days !! was really sick with covid in the big 26 💔 i’ll get to replies in ~3 hours

Just before the Boston/Montreal game, a snowstorm strands both teams at O'Hare. He’s settled in a corner with headphones and pop music. He was stuck here for 6 more hours. Wow. And then—@EsteemedPlayer dropped into the seat across from him. Of course. “…Roz. What do you want?”

+ locker, not looking at Atlas, giving the rookie space to breathe. He grabbed his personal kit: compression wrap, topical gel, ice packs. Things he’d learned to hoard. “Sit,” he said, gesturing to the bench against the far wall. “It won’t take long. I promise.”

His fingers stilled on the tape, and he studied Atlas through the low light. “Team medics,” he repeated, the words soft. “They’re good. But they’re also paid to get you back on the ice.” He scoffed, a derisive sound. “They didn’t do shit. Look at you.” He stood, moving to his +

+ Just then, through the haze of worry, he felt the sting. A burning line of fire across his thumb. He glanced down. Blood trickled down the pad where his hand had caught the metal corner of a vent. Not deep. Just a paper cut. “Shit—um… Do you have bandaids? Anything?”

His body reacted before he fully registered the impact. He caught himself with one hand against the wall, the other instinctively rising to steady the person he’d hit. “Oh no—I’m fine,” he said, the words spilling out in a panicked heap. “You? Are you okay? It was my fault, I—” +

+ He tried again, forcing authority into his tone that he really didn’t feel. "Stay on your side. You don’t need to—" What? Test me? Push me? Make me want things I can't have? "—to crowd." He swallowed hard, trying to regain control. "What are you trying to prove, Rozanov?"

Bullshit. The lie was obvious. Shane’s fingers balled into fists at his sides. He could feel his pulse in his throat, in places he absolutely should not be feeling blood rush right now. He was sure the tent in his pants was obscene by now. "Just—I—fuck…" He started, stopped. +

𝗜𝗹𝘆𝗮 𝗥𝗼𝘇𝗮𝗻𝗼𝘃 ₈₁ NHL 𝐶𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛 " 𝚁𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜."

/ guys i am SO sorry for the late starters and stuff im gonna be honest ive just been playing fortnite all day

The locker room had been emptied hours ago. Shane sat on a stool, taping his stick after the game. The door creaked. When he lifted his gaze, @gcldnbcy stood frozen in the doorway, visor cracked, elbow guarded. “Hurt?” He gave a soft smile. “What happened? I have first aid.”

The Montreal Voyageurs PR team arranged a mandatory photoshoot. Bright lights buzzed in the backroom, overwhelming Shane as he stood sore from a 3–2 loss to Boston. “Mr. Hollander, this is @JUSTYOURBRAT, your stylist,” He nodded, and extended his hand, palms clammy. “Uh, hi…”

——⭐✨🏆—— 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦. 𝐂𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐈 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐢𝐭.

honk shoo honk shoo honk shoo 😴😴😴

Tonight’s loss to Ottawa had been a one-goal nightmare. His jaw ticked as he climbed the stairs to the press box. When he rounded the corner, he collided with someone backing out of the media lounge. “Shit, sorry! Are you—” He stalled, registering the lanyard’s name: @Savant_SMM

+ thud against his ribs that betrayed the calm he was trying to show. His hand instinctively rose to tug down the hem of his shirt. It was embarrassing. It was intoxicating. “I'm not angry. It’s just hot in here. And your cologne isn’t helping.” His voice trembled pathetically.

The amber light turned Ilya's hair the color of gold, and Shane hated that he noticed. Hated the way his eyes seemed to glow in the low light with an intensity that made his throat close up. It was making his tailored trousers feel uncomfortably tight. His heart raced, a +

+ voice crackled through the speakers. “Technicians en route. Estimated time: 45 to 60 minutes.” His eyes closed for one second. 60 minutes in a metal box with Ilya Rozanov. The sponsorship meeting started in 20. Fuck. He reluctantly turned. “Shut up. Don’t even talk.”

His fingers found the emergency panel before Ilya finished speaking. He pressed the call button, and waited. Sweat traced down his temple, and he didn’t know if it was the climbing temperature or the fact he was trapped in here alone with Ilya Rozanov. Finally, a staticky +