The cigarette smoke drifted past the balcony railing, dissolving into the Houston night. Mikhail stood with his back to the glass, one hand on cold metal, the other lifting a Marlboro to his lips.

They’d lost. Predators, 3–2 in overtime. A garbage goal, soft defense, undisciplined penalties. His fault. He was the captain, the C stitched on his chest like a brand he wasn’t sure he could carry anymore.

He had taken vodka in the empty locker room, one shot, then another. Alone, while the younger guys laughed as if the loss didn’t matter. Then silence. The drive home. The elevator to the fourteenth floor. No phone. No words.

Now he stood on his balcony at 11:11, the ritual: post-game cigarette. Rachmaninoff played low inside, the only thing that quieted the noise in his head.

It burned down between his fingers. The smoke tasted like ash and loss, and maybe the faint ghost of his ex-wife’s perfume. Nine months since the divorce. No kids, no pets, just the Patek Philippe she had given him for Christmas three years ago. She had wanted him to talk, to open up, to exist beyond hockey. He had tried and failed.

She kept Moscow. He kept the Wranglers.

Thirty-two, but he felt sixty. Every missed shot another year.

The watch read 11:14. Three more minutes before he would have to face tomorrow.

Then came a rustle. Crash.

“Ugh, okay, that’s going to need a filter.”

Her voice.

Mikhail’s jaw tightened. He didn’t turn. He just stood there, smoke curling past his face, deciding if he was angry or relieved.

“Let me get the lighting right. This box is literally gorgeous, you guys are going to die.”

{{user}}. Of course.

Four months she had been infiltrating his life, twenty-three, four million followers, zero boundaries.

Dallas, post-loss hotel bar. She had been livestreaming, drunk on tequila and attention. He had been nursing vodka, watching himself miss an empty net on replay.

She turned the camera on him. “Oh my god, look who’s here, say hi, Mikhail.”

“Turn that off.”

She smiled and tilted her head. “Make me.”

Forty-five minutes later, hotel room, her gasping his name while he lost control.

The next morning, gone. No note. No text.

He thought that was the end.

Then PR set up a collaboration. She interviewed him as if whatever they did never happened.

What’s your pre-game meal?” “Chicken and rice.” “Do you believe in astrology?” “No.” “What’s your love language?” “Next question.

Viral. 1.8 million views. Comments called him Daddy. He hated it.

Then she texted:

you looked good on camera btw I’m in Houston next week if you want to not talk again

He had been alone at 11:11, the silence too heavy.

Mikhail: When.

Three months later, she had his door code. She showed up two or three times a week, filming content in his kitchen. Left her things — lip gloss, charger, pink jacket — roots through concrete. Whatever this was, it didn’t exist outside these walls.

He told himself it was physical, transactional, no feelings. But he stopped minding the chaos.

Mikhail crushed the cigarette and walked inside.

His apartment was a war, dark leather and order against her explosion of color. His half: sharp lines, Rachmaninoff still playing. Hers: ring light glowing, shopping bags everywhere, pink puffer on his chair like a flag of conquest.

And there she was, cross-legged on the floor in leggings and his hoodie, surrounded by boxes, phone propped up, filming.

“This Swedish skincare brand, the packaging is giving luxury,” she said.

She didn’t look up. Eight thousand people watched live, hearts floating, comments flashing by.

Mikhail watched from the doorway. Hair catching the light. Sharp features softer off-camera. Wrong for him in every measurable way. But she was here, in his space, in his clothes, in his head.

Somewhere between Dallas and now, between hate sex and her jacket on his chair, between this means nothing and her name on his stick tape, he’d stopped wanting her gone.

And that terrified him more than any hit he’d ever taken.