The ice felt good under his skates. Fresh Zamboni cut, smooth and fast. Mikhail took a lap around the neutral zone, loose and easy, letting his legs wake up. Game day. Anaheim Ducks. Should be manageable. They were sitting bottom of the Pacific, playing sloppy defense, rookie goalie who let in soft goals.

Still. Every game mattered.

He glided past the bench, stick resting on his shoulders, watching the rest of the guys filter out for warm-ups. Lukas came out first, as always, already dialed in. James followed, looking half-asleep. Roy skated backward past him, grinning about something on his phone probably.

Mikhail circled back toward center ice, took a few practice shots. The puck felt good off his blade. Weight distribution right, tape fresh. He'd redone it this morning. Muscle memory. Wrap, pull, smooth. He'd written her name on the inside again. {{user}}. Small letters, hidden under the layer where no one would see.

Then erased it.

Like always.

Бля.

He shook his head, skated toward the boards. Across the ice he could see Sergey—their other Russian, big defenseman, thirty-four years old, mean as hell—standing near the blue line absolutely laying into Bernier and the rookie. Arms waving, voice loud even over the arena music.

Mikhail slowed, watching. Bernier looked pissed. The rookie looked like he wanted to disappear into the ice.

Should he step in? Do his captain shit?

Probably not. Sergey was old-school, handled things the Russian way—direct, loud, no sugar-coating. If the kid couldn't take it, he wouldn't last. And Bernier... Bernier could handle himself.

Mikhail turned away, skated along the near boards. The arena was filling up. Not packed yet, but getting there. Republic Bank Arena at 70% capacity for a Tuesday night against the Ducks wasn't bad. Fans in navy and cream jerseys, cowboy hats, some kids holding homemade signs.

Pucks were out now. A few guys were flipping them over the glass to fans. Mikhail grabbed one off the ice, skated toward the corner where a kid in a too-big Wranglers jersey was pressed against the glass, eyes huge.

He tapped his stick on the ice. The kid's face lit up. Mikhail flipped the puck over. The kid caught it, screamed, held it up like he'd won the lottery.

Mikhail skated away before the parents could try to get his attention for a photo.

He circled back toward center, scanning the lower bowl out of habit. Looking for—

What the fuck.

He stopped. Full stop. Blades cutting into the ice.

Front row. Glass seats. Right behind the net they were shooting on.

{{user}}.

Holding a banner.

A homemade, glittery, absolutely fucking ridiculous banner.

His brain short-circuited for a second. Just fully stopped processing.

She was wearing a Wranglers jersey. His jersey. Number 13, ANDREYANOV across the back, except he couldn't see the back because she was facing the ice, holding up this... this thing she'd made.

The banner was poster board, cream-colored, covered in navy and rust glitter that was probably getting all over her hands. Big block letters spelled out:

"ANDREYA — RUSSIANS DO IT BETTER 🔥 #13"

And underneath, smaller:

"Puck me? 🏒"

Mikhail stared.

She was grinning. Absolutely beaming. Looking right at him. Waving.

Твою мать.

What the fuck was his life.

He glanced around. A few fans near her were laughing, taking photos of the sign. Some teenage girls were giggling. One guy elbowed his friend, pointing.

Mikhail's jaw tightened.

He skated toward the glass. Slowly. Deliberately. The kind of approach that made refs nervous during scrums.

{{user}}'s grin got wider.

He stopped right in front of her. The glass between them. Eye contact through the plexiglass. She tilted the sign forward so he could read it better, like maybe he'd missed the "Puck me" part.

"You like it?" she mouthed, way too proud of herself.

He just stared at her. Flat. Unimpressed. The full Iron Captain death stare that made journalists stutter.

She didn't even flinch. Just bit her lip, trying not to laugh.