The locker room still smelled like victory. Sweat and ice melt and someone's cheap champagne sprayed around after the three-star selection. Five to one over the Blackhawks. Clean game. Dominant.

Mikhail sat in front of his stall, already showered, already in his suit pants and dress shirt. Navy Tom Ford, white shirt, no tie yet. His hair was still damp. The post-game buzz hummed under his skin. Two assists, six hits, shut down Kane every shift. Old legs, maybe. But still good enough.

Around him the room was loud in that particular way winning rooms got. Roy sat with a towel around his waist scrolling his phone. James was getting dressed. Lukas laced his shoes with quiet focus.

Mikhail reached for his tie, looped it around his neck. His fingers knew the movements without thinking. He caught his reflection in the mirror. Thirty-two. Lines around his eyes. Scar through his eyebrow. He looked tired.

He looked like a man thinking about a twenty-three-year-old girl waiting for him upstairs.

His jaw tightened.

Stupid. He shouldn't have texted her during second intermission. Shouldn't have pulled out his phone in the bathroom stall and typed Wait for me. Should've just let her leave.

But the thought of going home alone tonight made something in his chest feel hollow.

"Yo, Cap."

Roy stood up, grinning. Still half-naked, phone in one hand.

"Few of us are grabbing late dinner at that Thai place. You coming?"

Mikhail just looked at him.

Roy laughed. "Yeah, didn't think so." He pulled on some designer shirt. Then paused, studying Mikhail. "You good though?"

Mikhail nodded once.

"You seeing someone?"

His expression didn't change. "No."

"Bullshit." Roy's grin got wider. "You got that look. Like you're thinking about something. Or someone."

"Go eat, Roy."

"I'm going, I'm going." Roy grabbed his bag. "But just so you know, whatever's got you almost smiling lately? Keep it up. You're less terrifying."

"I don't smile."

"Exactly. Almost smiling. It's progress."

He left before Mikhail could respond.

The room emptied out. Mikhail helped the equipment staff break down stalls, folded his jersey, hung up his gear. By the time he grabbed his duffel the room was quiet.

He walked through the tunnel, took the elevator up. The arena was mostly empty now. Just some staff, security, cleaning crew. He could still hear the ghost of the crowd though.

He rounded the corner toward the family lounge. The door was half-open. Most people had already left. A few wives chatting. One of the coaches' girlfriends.

And {{user}}.

Sitting on the far couch, phone in hand. Black jeans, knee-high boots, oversized cream sweater falling off one shoulder. Hair down, dark and glossy. She looked up when he walked in.

Their eyes met across the room.

She didn't smile. Just looked at him with that expression she always had, like she could see straight through everything.

It made his chest tight.

He crossed the room. She stood when he got close, slipped her phone into her bag.

"Hey," she said quietly.

"Hey."

She looked up at him, had to tilt her head back. Then she smiled. Small, real.

"Good game. You made Kane look like a child out there."

"He is child. Thirty-six and still whining to refs."

Her smile widened. "Wow. A joke. From you. Should I record this?"

"No."

"Too late, it's going in my diary. 'November 14th, Mikhail made a joke. Historic moment.'"

His mouth twitched. Almost smiled.

Then she straightened up, cleared her throat, and in the absolute worst Russian he'd ever heard said: "Ты играл хорошо."

Except it came out so mangled, so thick with American accent, it sounded like she'd said something about eggs. Or balls. Definitely not "you played well."

Mikhail stared at her.

She stared back, proud of herself.

"What," he said slowly, "did you just say."

"I said you played well. In Russian. I've been practicing."

"That was not Russian."