Ice Breaker
by @velvetgingerMina Lopez is sharp confidence and bold fashion—until Vladimir Rosanov skates into view. Then her cheeks flush, her words vanish, and her nipples tighten visibly through every crop top she owns. The tattooed Russian forward treats her like a buddy and stays oblivious to the way she melts, even as his protective instincts kick in around her shyness.
MEET THE CHARACTERS
Mina Lopez
A 22-year-old with waist-length straight black hair and wide blue eyes that go doe-soft whenever he's near. She's all sharp confidence with everyone else, but around him she forgets how words work—her cheeks flush, her breath catches, and her nipples harden visibly under every thin crop top she owns. Her tiny waist and flat stomach are always on display, low-rise jeans riding her hips so the lace edge of her thong shows with every move, and she's learned to live with the ache of wanting someone who sees her as just a friend.
Vladimir “Vlad” Rosanov
A 26-year-old, 6’4 foot tall Russian forward built like a tank—broad shoulders that block out the light, thick arms sleeved in ink, and a jaw that could cut glass. He moves with the easy grace of someone who dominates ice for a living, all coiled power and casual strength, and he's genuinely oblivious to the effect he has on her. When he looks at Anya, it's with protective warmth—the soft concern of an older brother, never seeing the hunger in her eyes or the way her body responds to his mere presence.
EXPLORE CHAPTERS
Thong Line
Mina balances on the bottom row of the bleachers, reaching over the glass to pass Vlad his practice stick, and her low-rise jeans slip lower, baring the black lace of her thong and the dip of her spine. He takes the stick with one hand and plants the other on her bare waist to keep her from tipping forward—his palm is huge, warm, casual, and he holds her there a beat too long, frowning at her flushed cheeks. 'You're shaking,' he says, pulling her back onto solid ground, and she feels the ghost of his fingers on her skin all the way to her core, knowing he has no idea what he just did.
Malyshka's Test
Mina steps into the campus lounge where the team has taken over three pushed-together tables, and Vlad looks up mid-sentence, his eyes catching the jacket before they catch her face. He shifts sideways on the couch, pats the cushion beside him without pausing his conversation with Dmitri, and she sits because refusing would draw more attention. His arm drops along the backrest behind her, his fingers brushing her shoulder once, casual and absent, and she feels the heat of his body through the jacket sleeve. Dmitri's eyebrows lift just slightly over his water bottle, and Mina stares at the textbook in her lap, her thumb pressing into the spine, knowing she has to survive two hours of this without giving herself away.
The Walk Back
The night air bites hard as they step outside, and Mina's arms wrap around herself before she can stop it—her thin crop top doing nothing against the wind. Vlad shrugs off his jacket without a word and drapes it over her shoulders, his hands settling on the collar to pull it closed, his knuckles brushing her chin. He drops his arm around her, tucking her into his side as they walk, his body a wall of heat she presses into without permission, and he talks about the movie plot like nothing is happening. She can feel every ridge of muscle through his long-sleeve shirt, can smell the clean sweat and fabric softener on his skin, and when he says goodnight at her door, his hand lingers on her shoulder a beat too long before he turns and jogs back toward the parking lot.
Rink Coffee
She spots him by the rink entrance, two cups in hand, his gray eyes scanning the crowd until they land on her—and his whole face softens. He hands her the coffee, his fingers brushing hers, then his palm settles on the small of her back, a warm, heavy weight that stays there as a guy from the team jogs past and Vlad's jaw tightens. 'You're early,' she manages, and he shrugs, his thumb tracing a slow circle against her spine. 'Wanted to make sure you got coffee before the machine runs out.' He doesn't move his hand. Doesn't seem to notice he's still touching her. Another player calls his name, and Vlad's eyes flicker—a quick, assessing glance—before he looks back at her, his body angled to block the view, his hand pressing just a little firmer against her back.
Party Ice
Vlad types the invite with his thumbs, a simple 'Party at mine. 8. You should come.' — he sends it before he can wonder why he wants her there specifically, then pockets his phone and goes back to hauling beer onto ice. Hours later, the house is packed with teammates and strangers, music thudding through the floorboards, and he spots her by the door — small, uncertain, her fingers curled around the strap of her bag. He weaves through bodies to reach her, his voice warm when he says her name, and he keeps his eyes fixed on hers the whole time, never once letting them wander down, even when her crop top rides up as she shifts her weight. 'You came,' he says, and it sounds like a fact he's glad to confirm, his hand settling on her shoulder to guide her toward the kitchen — a brief, brotherly touch that lingers just a second too long for brotherly.