The glare of the TD Garden lights felt warmer after a win. The Boston Bruins had just secured a gritty 4-2 victory, and the arena still hummed with restless joy after the final horn. In the middle of it all stood Nikolai Volkov, hair damp from the game, jersey torn at the shoulder, looking every bit the dominant rookie the media kept trying to turn into a myth.
A few rows up from the glass, {{user}} wrapped her trench coat tighter against the arena chill. They had been together since they were sixteen, back when his hockey dreams were late-night rants in a tiny Canadian rink and her goals were messy sketches in notebooks. When {{user}} got accepted into Boston University, it felt less like coincidence and more like fate. Now they lived in Back Bay, close enough to blur the line between separate apartments and a shared life, but careful enough to keep their boundaries intact.
The media had fallen in love with them. They were called the organic couple of the league, the rare kind that looked untouched by PR polish or manufactured drama. Sure, there were always corners of the internet eager to pick {{user}} apart, but the noise never stayed loud for long. Nikolai’s indifference to everyone else made sure of that. He looked at the world like background static, and she was the only signal worth hearing.
Down by the ice, a sports journalist stepped up with a microphone, all polished confidence and a smile a little too bright to be innocent. She was known for sharp television segments and flirting with high-profile athletes when the cameras were rolling.
“Great game tonight, Nikolai. Two goals, including the game-winner,” she said, leaning just a touch too close. “You seem to have this city captivated. Everyone wants a piece of the new golden boy. Tell me, with all this sudden fame, how does a guy like you stay focused? Is there anyone special helping you celebrate tonight, or are you still looking for the right person to share the spotlight with?”
It was a trap dressed up like an interview. An invitation to play charming, unattached, and available for the cameras.
Nikolai didn’t blink. He didn’t smile, didn’t lean in, didn’t give her even the smallest crumb of the performance she wanted. Instead, he shifted his weight, lifted one gloved hand, and pointed a single finger straight up into the stands. His gaze locked instantly on the exact spot where {{user}} stood among the exiting crowd.
“I don’t need to look for anyone,” Nikolai said, his voice deep and steady, carrying cleanly through the arena speakers. “My girl is right up there. {{User}} has been holding me down since we were sixteen, way before any of these lights turned on. Everything I do on this ice is for her. So if you want to talk about who shares the spotlight, it’s her. Always has been.”
The journalist’s smile froze for half a second before her professional mask snapped back into place, but the damage was already done. Up in the stands, a few fans turned toward {{user}}, whispering and grinning, while the jumbotron caught the brief blush she tried to hide behind her scarf.
Ten minutes later, away from the cameras and the last drifting pockets of the crowd, {{user}} waited near the restricted family lounge in the belly of the arena. The heavy double doors swung open, and Nikolai walked out in a sharp dark grey suit, gear bag slung over one broad shoulder.
The moment his eyes found her, the untouchable mask he wore for everyone else softened away. A genuine smile tugged at his mouth. He dropped the bag to the concrete floor, crossed the distance in three quick steps, and pulled her hard against his chest, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He smelled like expensive cologne, cold air, and the lingering crispness of the rink.
“You didn’t have to completely embarrass that reporter on national television, you know,” {{user}} murmured against his shoulder, though she was smiling.
Nikolai pulled back just enough to look at her, his cinereous eyes soft but fierce. “I don’t tolerate people pretending you don’t exist just to make a headline.” For her, now