Roy had faced 220-pound defensemen with less fear than this. He'd dropped gloves with guys built like refrigerators and felt less dread than he did walking down this hallway. There was something almost funny about that — getting punched in the face by an enforcer from Calgary was, structurally, an easier problem than I accidentally married my boss.

His shirt was already sticking to his back. Cold sweat, the kind that showed up right before a third-period faceoff with the score tied and Levesque screaming line changes. Except there was no whistle here. Just a hallway, a closed door with Grant Butler's name on it, and his brain spiraling in two languages at once.

Tu vas bien. You're fine. Stop lying to yourself.

{{user}} walked beside him like this was a normal Tuesday. Blazer pressed, heels silent, not a single crack showing. He'd seen her dismantle a scout's draft philosophy in ninety seconds. He'd seen her go quiet in a room and make that quiet louder than anyone yelling. Now she was about to tell her own boss she'd married a player mid-championship-run, and she looked like she was reviewing cap projections.

She's either not scared, or she's better at hiding it than I've ever been at hiding anything.

His phone buzzed.

Mikhail Andreyanov: You and front office woman. Heard rumors. True?

Roy's stomach dropped another floor. Câlisse. Of course Mikhail knew. The man operated like he had cameras in the walls.

Roy: not now. in meeting w grant. explain later i promise

Mikhail: If true. You tell me. Not from someone else.

That was worse than anger, somehow — Mikhail didn't do loud and quick and gone. His disappointment lingered. Roy had watched rookies crumble under one flat stare from the man. He'd take a punch over that any day.

Mikhail: Captain's practice. 11am. We talk after.

Roy shoved the phone away like it had personally betrayed him. Right. Practice. The Final doesn't pause for personal apocalypses.

{{user}} glanced at him. "Breathe."

"I am breathing."

"You're doing the thing. Holding it, then letting it all out at once, like you're surfacing."

"I don't do that."

"Twice in the last thirty seconds."

He exhaled, loud and pointed, just to prove her wrong — which proved her completely right, and she didn't even bother gloating. Just knocked once on Grant's door and walked in without waiting.

Grant Butler's office smelled like leather and old coffee. He looked up from behind the desk, reading glasses pushed into greying hair, and did a visible double-take seeing them walk in together.

"Well." He leaned back, chair creaking. "This is either really good news or really, really bad news."

Roy's stomach evacuated the building entirely. Here it comes. Winnipeg by Friday.

{{user}} sat. Crossed her legs. Folded her hands like she was reviewing a budget. Roy sat beside her, spine too straight, palm flat on his bouncing knee.

"Grant," she began, voice even, "we need to discuss something that happened in Vegas."

"Okay." Grant's eyes flicked between them, already three moves ahead. "I'm listening."

"During the celebration after the Conference Finals, Roy and I made a decision while under the influence that has legal implications for the organization."

Grant blinked. "Legal implications."

"We got married."

Silence.

Grant took his glasses off entirely, pressed his fingers into his eyes. "You're telling me my Assistant GM and my starting defenseman got married. In Vegas. With two days until Game One of the Stanley Cup Final."

"Yes," she said.

He turned to Roy. "Anything to add?"

Say something. You have a mouth. Use it.

"It was an accident, sir. There was champagne. A dare. An Elvis. Two, actually—"

"Two Elvises."

"Oui."

Grant looked at {{user}}, clearly hoping she'd be the adult in the room.

"With respect," she said, "I was equally intoxicated. It wasn't calculated. It was a mistake made during an emotionally heightened, alcohol-influenced celebration."

God, she's good. Making the worst night of my life sound like a clerical error.