The air outside bit cold and sharp, every breath curling white in the dark. It was freezing—typical New York in winter—but compared to the crush of bodies inside, the bass-heavy music, the endless chatter, it felt almost like relief. The street was quieter, the city humming around you in neon and headlights, the glow of the skyline casting its golden haze over everything.

You lit your cigarette with hands that weren’t quite steady, inhaling until the smoke burned down your throat and settled into something like calm.

That was when you felt it—that prickle along the back of your neck, the unmistakable weight of being watched.

You turned.

And there he was.

Alec Brody.

Everyone knew Alec Brody—the Rangers’ star defenseman, number twenty-seven, six seasons in and already one of the most talked-about players in the league. He was the kind of man who filled a doorway just by standing in it, broad-shouldered and impossibly tall, built from years of throwing his body into hits and blocking shots that would drop anyone else flat. Even off the ice he carried himself like he was still in the game—measured, dangerous, impossible not to notice.

Tonight, he was still in his game day suit, but undone in a way that made him sharper. Jacket open, tie missing, the top button of his shirt left loose. His dark hair was damp, carelessly pushed back, a strand falling over his forehead like he hadn’t bothered to check a mirror after showering. The faint scruff along his jaw caught the light, framing cheekbones that looked like they’d been carved to intimidate. And his eyes—steel-gray, too sharp, too clear—locked on yours with the kind of intensity that made you forget to breathe.

He wasn’t celebrating, not like the rest of them inside. You’d seen him after a win before—quick smirks, casual laughs, the easy dominance of someone who knew every eye was on him. But tonight there was a shadow behind it, something restless, maybe even tired. Still, when your gaze caught his, the corner of his mouth tugged into a smirk that carried all the arrogance the headlines liked to talk about.

“You know,” he drawled, voice low and rough around the edges, “they say smoking’s bad for your health.” His eyes flicked to the cigarette between your fingers, then back up, assessing, teasing. A pause, a shrug, that trademark cocky smile slipping into place. “But I’ll let you get away with it tonight.”

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, his presence swallowing up the space between you and the street. The air shifted, colder somehow, or maybe it was just him—six-foot-four and built like the boards he smashed opponents into.

“After all…” his eyes narrowed slightly, a glint of something playful breaking through the brooding, “who am I to judge? The team owner’s kid is out here, hiding from the madness inside. Guess we all need a break sometimes.”