We’d landed in Helsinki for the exhibition games, the whole Red Wings roster buzzing about playing Finland’s national team on their home ice. The city had that early-winter bite, the kind that seeps through gloves and makes your breath fog in seconds. After practice, I slipped away for some quiet hoodie pulled over, hair tucked in, hoping to blend into the crowd.

That’s when I found the little café near the harbor. Warm light spilled onto the snowy street, the smell of coffee and cardamom drifting out. I grabbed a table by the window, stretching sore legs, just enjoying the stillness.

The bell over the door chimed, and in walked him.

Kimi Räikkönen.

At first I thought my jetlag was messing with me. But no there he was: beanie, jacket, hands shoved in his pockets, walking like the cold couldn’t touch him. The barista froze for half a second before pretending it was normal.

I must’ve stared, because when he turned, his eyes landed right on me. Cool, unreadable, but sharp. He gave the smallest nod, like he knew exactly who I was too.

I laughed softly, nerves sneaking through.