17. February 18, Friday
Chapter seventeen
Ilya
Holy fucking shit. What the hell just happened?
As Ilya pushed his way toward Jason’s increasingly red face, he tried to get his heart rate under control.
Besides the fact that Jason was possibly ruining a night Zoey had worked so hard for and was being openly disrespectful to management, Ilya almost wanted to thank the guy.
He almost kissed Zoey on the terrace.
If he had leaned in, he wouldn’t have been able to come back. The thought—sharp, clean, terrifying—that stopped him a breath away from Zoey Williams’ mouth.
The cooled terrace air had done nothing for the heat under his skin. Her citrusy and soft perfume curled into his lungs. Up close, he’d seen the tiny flecks in her shimmering eyeshadow.
God. The way her eyes flicked down to his mouth. He felt it like a hand around his throat.
She tipped toward him first. Just an inch, like her body decided before her brain. He’d watched it in slow motion, cataloguing every detail with masochistic precision: the widening of her pupils, the shallow catch of her breath, the way her arms tightened around him.
She had wanted him to kiss her.
Something in his chest lurched, wild and uncoordinated.
He could have closed that inch. Easy as breathing. He could have bowed his head and finally found out what she tasted like, what sound she made when she…
No. He couldn’t have.
It wasn’t hesitation. It was survival. Protection. Not his. Hers.
Zoey deserved to wake up tomorrow and not hate herself. Not have to add, made out with my ex-husband’s best friend at a team event, to the list of things she regretted.
He’d already cost her too much. Not directly, maybe, but there was no version of reality where Mitch imploding didn’t splash on her. He’d been there watching the marriage crack and not fixing it. Being her soft landing now felt…dangerously close to retroactive guilt repair.
But her parted lips. Her dazed, almost-bewitched expression. Jesus.
He made himself exhale, slow, like he was defusing a bomb.
And then he’d stroked her cheek before leaving; a stupid, pointless little touch his body snuck in before his brain could veto it. Why had he done that? That wasn’t what friends did.
Friends stopped each other from making mistakes.
Which, technically, was what he’d just done.
Like he was doing now.
He slid next to Jason and slung a heavy arm around his shoulder, unconcerned with the risk that Jason might try to shake him off or throw a punch. Jason had been…caged lately.
Jason stiffened further but clamped his mouth shut so hard Ilya could hear his teeth clack. His dark hair was mussed, like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. Another team exec hovered, trying and failing to insert himself.
“Jace,” Ilya grunted.
Jason’s head snapped around. His eyes were too bright, edges unfocused. Not wasted, but definitely not sober.
Good.
Great.
Ilya sighed.
“Ilya,” Coach said, immediate relief in his tone. “Maybe you can—”
“I’ve got it,” Ilya said, already turning Jason away.
There was a beat where Jason looked like he might plant his feet and make it a whole thing. Thankfully, he huffed something under his breath and let Ilya steer him, shoulders still coiled tight.
He half-dragged Jason toward the closest exit, which happened to lead into the kitchens, but whatever. As long as they were away from prying eyes, he could work with this.
“I’m fine,” Jason said, biting off each word.
“Not yet,” Ilya replied, tone mild but final.
Great optics. Captain hauling a pissed-off star like a parent dragging a toddler out of Target. PR would love this.
“Let go of me,” Jason muttered.
The kitchen clanged around them—metal pans, shouted orders, the sharp scent of onions and garlic. A line cook flambéed something that sent a whoosh of heat licking across Ilya’s face, but he barely noticed.
His brain was a split-screen nightmare: Zoey on the terrace, eyes half-lidded, mouth soft and waiting; Jason at his side, radiating barely contained anger.
“What? You don’t like to cuddle?” Ilya asked. “I feel like you have guys in headlocks all the time on the ice lately.”
Jason gave a small jerk, tried to twist free, then surrendered when it became clear Ilya wasn’t as relaxed as he sounded. “It’s not as fun when you’re the one being hauled around.”
“Imagine that.”
Once they cleared the kitchens into a quieter hallway, Ilya shifted his grip, just a guiding hand between Jason’s shoulder blades.
A staffer in a vest intercepted them at the end of the hall. “Uh… are you looking for somewhere… private?” He eyed Jason warily.
“Yes,” Ilya said. “Conference room?”
“Second door on the right. I’ll, uh, tell security you’re in there.”
“Spasibo.” Old habit. “Thank you,” he corrected.
They ducked into the room. Neutral carpet, too-bright lights, a long table, chairs stacked along the wall. Faint coffee and dry-erase marker in the air. Perfect for either a strategy session or an intervention.
Jason paced immediately, like a caged animal. “You gonna lecture me now?”
“Thinking about it,” Ilya said, letting the door swing shut.
Footsteps pounded down the hall. The door swung open again, bumping his hand.
Tommy slipped in first, big frame filling the doorway, tie already loose, eyes sharp. Ty followed, blond hair artfully wrecked. Bobby came last, expression neutral in that particular way that meant he was clocking every detail.
“Party’s this way?” Ty asked lightly.
“Figured you’d need backup,” Bobby said to Ilya, then cut Jason a look. “You done auditioning for a TMZ featurette out there?”
“Fuck off,” Jason muttered, but some of the manic energy in his shoulders bled out at the familiar voices.
Good. Anger with an audience was loud. Anger in front of teammates he respected might be easier to redirect.
Ilya crossed his arms. “You want to tell me what that was?”
Jason dropped into a chair, stretched his legs, crossed his ankles, and slouched like he was trying to vanish into the upholstery.
“Nope.”
“You realize there were cameras in there,” Ilya said.
“Good.” Jason’s laugh was sharp. “Maybe they’ll catch the part where management treats me like a circus animal.”
Bobby leaned his hip against the table, arms braced behind him. “Pretty sure they just caught you yelling ‘bullshit’ in front of Mrs. Pritchard, who donates, like, a million a year and definitely has a swear jar in her kitchen.”
Ty winced. “She absolutely has a swear jar.”
Jason rolled his eyes. “I’ll write her a check.”
“Jason.” Ilya kept his voice even. “What is going on?”
“Nothing.”
“That was not ‘nothing.’”
“Maybe I’m just tired, Captain,” Jason shot back, twisting his neck aggressively until it popped. “Season’s long. Media’s annoying. I snapped. It happens.”
He met Ilya’s gaze head-on, daring him.
If it were anyone else, maybe Ilya would let it go with a warning. But Jason had been off for weeks now. Shorter fuse, rougher edges. His shifts were still electric, but there was static where there used to be joy.
“You’ve been on edge for weeks,” Ilya said quietly. “That’s not new. But tonight? This is new. What changed?”
Jason’s eyes sharpened. “You wanna lecture me about composure now?”
“Yes,” Ilya said simply. “Because it’s my job.”
“Your job,” Jason echoed. His laugh was humorless.
“Right. Captaincy. Leadership. Sacrifice.” He spit the words like they tasted bad.
“Walk the line, give up your life, be the team dad. You fuck up, you pay. We fuck up, you still pay. The token example of the perfect sacrificial attitude we should all have to keep this team drama-free.”
Bobby’s gaze flickered to Ilya, then back to Jason. “Nobody’s asking you to give up your life, man.”
“Just everything else,” Jason shot back. “Off-days, friends, privacy, sanity, relationships.” His voice stuttered on that last word.
“It’s called playing in the NHL,” Ty said. “Do we need to show you the contract you signed?”
“Maybe I need to show you the shit they added to mine,” Jason snapped. “But sorry, we’re not allowed to talk about that, right? Gotta be a good little soldier.” His gaze cut back to Ilya, sharp and accusing. “Like you.”
There it was. The thing under the thing.
“We’re allowed to talk about anything that keeps the team from doing their jobs,” Ilya said. “You holding something in doesn’t help anyone. You know that.”
Jason’s mouth twisted. “Yeah? You share all your stuff?”
The words landed like a glove to the chest.
This, Ilya thought, is what you get for being a hypocrite. He straightened. “This isn’t about me.”
“Bullshit,” Jason fired back. “It’s always about you. You set the bar. You tell us to open up, lean on each other, no secrets, blah, blah, family. But when anyone asks about you?” He spreads his hands. “Brick wall.”
Unfortunately, accurate.
“I am not the one who almost started a brawl with management in front of donors,” Ilya reminded.
“They deserved it.”
Ilya took a breath, counted silently to three. “What did they say?”
Jason’s jaw flexed. He stared past Ilya, over his shoulder.
Bobby pushed off the table. “Hey. We’re not here to pile on you, man. But you know how this works. If there’s something we should know—”
“What I know,” Jason cut in, “is that management thinks they own me. Like I’m just an asset on a spreadsheet they can move and parade around and milk for every drop of bullshit social content they can get.
” His words tumbled faster now. “Skate harder. Smile bigger. Kiss more babies. Do the commercial, do the podcast, do the fucking reality series…”
Reality series. That tracked with the rumors Ilya half-heard and half-ignored. Some streaming docuseries management was salivating over. Access. Personalities. Buzzwords.
“You signed a contract,” Ilya said. “Some of this is in there.”
“I signed to play hockey,” Jason snapped. “Not to be the face of every off-ice thing they dream up because I’m good with the fans. They’re scope creeping my life. They have no right to dictate what I can or can’t do with my body on my own time…or who I want to do those things with.”
Ah. The picture sharpened.