Y/n’s hand was warm in Nikolai’s small, sticky one. He hadn’t stopped talking since the final buzzer.

They rounded a corner, the concrete walls lined with framed action shots of players mid-slapshot. Up ahead, a heavy metal door marked ‘HOME TEAM – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY’ swung open.

Light and the sound of locker room chatter spilled into the corridor. And then he stepped out.

Vance Sterling. Still in his gear from the waist down, his skates replaced by trainers. A damp practice jersey was slung over one shoulder, leaving his torso clad in only a tight, sweat-darkened undershirt. It clung to the hard planes of his chest and stomach.

He was taller in person. Broader. He ran a hand through his damp, tousled hair, pushing it back from his forehead. He looked tired, but his sharp features softened as he glanced down at his phone.

The hockey player went utterly still. He looked down, his brown eyes wide with surprise. Then, they dropped to the small fist pressed against his thigh, the one still clutching the puck he’d thrown over the glass two hours ago.