So instead of clapping back with sass or planting a stake in the ice with a grand “he’s mine” declaration, I took a slow breath and sat up straighter in my seat. I wrapped both hands around my cup, letting the heat seep into my palms like borrowed courage.
And I looked back down at Nikolai.
He was slicing across the ice like it was nothing, like gravity had no hold on him. Sharp, precise, focused. The Russian Reaper in all his terrifying glory—only I knew that under all that cold precision was a man who warmed soup for a girl having a breakdown and gave up his hoodie just to make her smile.
So I focused on him and ignored everything else. Let them talk. I already knew who he was coming home with.
By the time practice wrapped, I was pretty sure I knew more about hockey than I ever expected to. I still wasn’t sure what an offside actually was, and some of the drills looked like synchronized chaos to me—but I’d learned enough to recognize who was good with puck control, who chirped too much, and how Nikolai’s skating looked different from everyone else’s. He didn’t just move across the ice—he prowled it, like it was his kingdom and the puck owed him rent.
And I had been dating Mikel for a couple of years.
I stood, brushing cookie crumbs off my jeans—don’t judge me, hot cocoa calls for snacks—and made my way down toward the locker room hallway. The halls echoed with the usual post-practice shuffle: skates clinking against rubber flooring, low voices, the occasional whoop from a shower joke I was very glad not to understand. I found a little corner near a pillar to wait, out of the way but still close enough to see when he came out.
That’s when they arrived. The same girls from earlier, like a perfume commercial with legs. One popped open a compact mirror, carefully applying gloss with surgeon-level precision while another tugged her already-tiny shirt a little lower. The last one adjusted her ponytail, fluffed it like she was about to walk a runway instead of wait in front of a locker room filled with very sweaty men.
I told myself I didn’t care.
That I was secure.
That I had nothing to prove.
But the truth?
It stung.
I crossed my arms tighter over my chest and looked away, pretending I didn’t notice how sparkly their highlights were or how flawless their eyeliner was. I reminded myself that Nikolai had invited me.
I reminded myself of last night.
Of this morning.
Of his lips against mine and the way he said I was coming to skate like it was a given, not a question.
And then the locker room door opened—and there he was.
Still damp from his shower, his hair pushed back, jaw tight from whatever mental storm he’d wrestled on the ice. The girls straightened instantly, all fluttery lashes and flirty giggles.
But Nikolai didn’t even glance their way. His eyes found me in an instant, locked on like a heat-seeking missile, and without hesitation—without even slowing down—he walked straight past them and right to me.
“Hi,” I breathed, the word catching on the rush of butterflies dive-bombing my stomach like it was a war zone in there.
Nikolai didn’t say anything right away. He just reached out and took my hand—like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like we’d been doing it for years. Like I hadn’t just fought off a mini spiral of insecurity five minutes ago. His fingers curled around mine, steady and warm, and suddenly, the chaos dulled. Just him. Just this.
We walked to the car in a silence that wasn’t awkward—it was full, charged, humming with all the things we didn’t need to say. My heart still fluttered like it didn’t get the memo that we were cool now.
Spoiler: we were not cool.
I was a flustered, pink-faced, internally-screaming wreck, but in a cute way.
Probably.
Hopefully.
A few minutes later, he pulled up outside a local café, one of those cozy-looking places with twinkly lights in the window and a chalkboard sign out front advertising sassy seasonal lattes. But just as I reached to unbuckle my seatbelt, two other guys stepped out of the car parked next to us.
And—oh goodness. One of them looked exactly like an anti-hero superhero in a beanie, with a scowl that probably made small children cry. The other had serious pirate energy—like early millennium pirates, with layered necklaces and a mischievous glint in his eye that screamed trouble with a capital T.
Nikolai noticed them too. “Perfect,” he muttered, clearly recognizing them.
