Y/n stood at the epicenter of a small, polite storm. Hands reached past the velvet rope for hers, voices called her name from behind a wall of security. She smiled, the practiced, warm expression that reached her eyes just enough to be believable.

A group of players in identical dark suits, their team logo discreetly on the lapel, stood clustered near a towering trophy display. One of them, taller than the rest with shaggy blonde hair that brushed his collar, turned his head. His gaze, a sharp, assessing green, swept past the crowd and landed on her. He didn’t smile. He just watched, a hockey stick of a man amid the glittering chaos.