Nikolai gliding across the ice, fast and lethal and so stupidly hot I nearly spilled my drink. He didn’t just skate—he owned the ice like it owed him rent. Every move he made was sharp, confident, and ugh, annoyingly elegant. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was showing off.
I smiled into my cup and took a sip, my nerves melting a little more with the chocolate. Okay. Maybe I didn’t quite belong here… but I wanted to.
And that had to count for something.
The moment Nikolai’s blades hit the ice, it was like flipping a switch. He wasn’t just skating—he was commanding. Every move was precise, deliberate, like he could predict the flow of play before it even happened.
I watched as he curved around a defenseman, his stick fluid in his hands, the puck never more than an inch away from total control. It was honestly hypnotic. Like ballet, but with more bruises and testosterone.
He didn’t talk much, but the other players clearly orbited around him like he was the gravity holding them in place. Someone cracked a joke—I couldn’t hear it from here, but I saw the way Nikolai smirked, just a little. One of the guys tossed a puck his way without looking, and Nikolai caught it with the smooth, lazy grace of someone who never fumbles.
My cocoa was now forgotten in my hands, growing cooler by the second as I leaned forward on the edge of my seat.
A few drills later, he dropped low into a sharp turn and sprayed ice like a blizzard in slow motion.
I literally flinched—and then caught myself and laughed quietly. I was so not cool right now, but I didn’t care. My heart raced every time he picked up speed, every time he darted across the rink like a storm in motion.
It hit me all over again—this was his element. His comfort zone. And somehow, he’d invited me into it.
Every so often, he’d glance up—just a flick of his eyes toward the stands.
Toward me.
I tried to act casual (read: didn’t spill the cocoa or do anything mortifying), but each time it happened, my heart did an embarrassing little somersault. He didn’t wave or grin or anything obvious—just that unreadable, almost smirking expression like he knew something I didn’t.
And I couldn’t help but think… maybe he liked having me here.
A few rows down, I caught snippets of conversation—sharp whispers punctuated by breathy giggles that made my ears perk up, despite myself.
“Ryker’s dating some blonde now, right?” one girl said, twirling a piece of hair around her finger like she was prepping for battle.
“Yeah, I saw them at that sushi place on Fifth,” her friend chimed in, voice high and full of judgment. “She looked like she was twelve. Definitely lying about her age.”
“What about Jared Crowder?” another asked, slurping loudly from an iced drink. “He’s single, right?”
“No, he’s with that girl from the gym. The one with the abs,” someone answered, the word “abs” practically dripping with disdain.
Then the tone shifted.
“Oh my god, the Russian Reaper,” a girl near the aisle whispered like she was invoking some forbidden name. “He’s so hot. Like—unfair hot. I’d risk it all.”
“I heard he doesn’t date,” one of them added. “Like, at all. Total loner vibe.”
“Whatever. I’d climb him like a jungle gym.”
More giggles. More casual cruelty masquerading as flirtation.
I blinked, heat rising in my cheeks—not from jealousy, not exactly. It was… weird. Hearing them talk about him like that. Like he was some untouchable fantasy, not the guy who let me steal his remote and kissed me so gently I forgot how to breathe. My fingers tightened around my cup.
The old me would’ve stayed silent. Would’ve shrunk down in my seat and pretended I didn’t hear any of it.
But not this version of me.
This version kind of wanted to lean over and say, “He likes girls who spill ice cream and steal his hoodies, actually.”
But something held me back.
That little voice in my head—the one that had grown up tiptoeing around tension and trained in the fine art of not making waves—whispered softly, He already invited you. You’re here. You’re enough. Don’t draw more attention to yourself.
