Mina's boots clicked against the concrete floor as she pushed through the heavy door into the rink, the cold hitting her face like a splash of water. She pulled her thin cardigan tighter, but it barely helped—the air was sharp and metallic, carrying the sting of bleach and the flat chill of ice. On the far end, the Zamboni was just finishing its final loop, steam rising in ghostly curls.
She spotted him immediately. She always did.
Vlad was already on the ice, gliding backward with easy, fluid strides, his dark hair damp at the temples. His black practice jersey clung to the broad shelf of his shoulders, and his arms—inked sleeves creeping past his elbows—moved with the kind of casual power that made her stomach drop every single time. He was laughing at something one of his teammates called from the bench, his head tipped back, that sharp jaw catching the fluorescent light.
God.
She bit the inside of her cheek and forced her feet forward. You're here to watch, not to drool. Just find a seat. Act normal.
Her low-rise jeans rode her hips with every step, the waistband dipping below the curve of her stomach. The black lace of her thong sat exposed above the denim, a deliberate choice that usually made her feel powerful. Around Vlad, it just made her feel exposed—like he could see straight through her bravado to the trembling mess underneath.
She climbed the three steps to the bleachers, the metal cold through the thin soles of her boots. Most of the players were still in the locker room, but a few were already stretching on the bench near the boards. Vlad's stick was propped against the glass, a sleek black thing with red tape wrapped around the blade.
"Hey, could you toss that over?" a voice called.
Mina's head snapped up. Vlad had glided to a stop near the boards, just below where she stood. He was looking at her—actually looking at her, those gray eyes warm and familiar—and her brain short-circuited.
He raised an eyebrow. "My stick. You're closer than the bench."
"Oh. Right." She laughed, a breathless sound she hated. "Yeah. Yeah, I got it."
She stepped down from the bleacher row, balancing on the bottom ledge, and reached over the glass for the stick. The movement stretched her torso, pulling the hem of her crop top upward, baring her entire midriff to the cold air. Her nipples tightened instantly, pressing against the thin fabric, and she felt a flush climb her neck.
Don't look at me. Please don't look at me.
Her fingers brushed the tape on the blade, and she leaned farther, her weight shifting forward. The stick was heavier than she'd expected, and as she grabbed it, the momentum tipped her off balance. Her free hand flew out, fingers splaying against the glass, but there was nothing solid to catch her.
"Shit—"
And then his hand was on her waist.
Heat bloomed through her like a detonation. His palm was huge, spanning the bare skin of her side, fingers curving around her ribcage with enough strength to steady her completely. The warmth of him cut through the cold like a blade, and she went still, frozen, her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her lips.
"You're going to fall," he said, his voice low and amused. "Careful."
She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. His thumb pressed against the dip of her waist, grazing the edge of her hip bone, and the touch was so casual—so unaware—that it almost hurt. He had no idea what he was doing to her. He was just keeping her from tipping forward, his hand planted on her bare skin like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Her jeans had slipped lower during the stretch. The black lace of her thong was fully exposed now, the waistband caught below the curve of her ass, and she knew he had to see it. He had to see the thin strip of fabric against her spine, the way her low-rise denim barely clung to her hips.
But he didn't look down. His eyes stayed on her face, his brow furrowed.
"You're shaking," he said.
The words hit her like a cold splash. She was shaking. Her whole body was trembling, a fine vibration that started somewhere deep in her chest and radiated outward. She could feel it in her knees, her hands, the flutter in her stomach that had nothing to do with the cold.
"I'm fine," she managed. Her voice came out thin, barely audible over the hum of the Zamboni. "Just—cold."
He didn't buy it. She could see it in the way his eyes narrowed, the slight tilt of his head. He was studying her, that protective instinct kicking in, and she wanted to crawl out of her skin.
"Here." He pulled his hand back, and she felt the absence like a physical ache. The ghost of his fingers lingered on her waist, a warm imprint that she knew would fade too fast. "Step back. I'll take it."
She fumbled the stick through the gap between the glass and the boards, and he caught it with one hand, his grip effortless. Then he reached over the glass with his other hand, palm open, waiting.
"Take my hand. I'll help you down."
Oh god.
She stared at his hand. The broad palm, the thick fingers, the veins that ran along the back. He'd wrapped his knuckles in white tape before practice, and she could see the frayed edge where the tape had started to peel.
She placed her hand in his.
The contact was electric. His fingers closed around hers, warm and rough, and he guided her as she stepped off the ledge onto the solid bleacher floor. His grip was firm, steadying, and when she was safely on the ground, he held on a beat longer than necessary.
"You're not dressed for this," he said, his voice carrying a note of concern. "No jacket?"
"I forgot mine in the car." She tugged her cardigan tighter, but it was useless. The cold had seeped into her bones. That, and his touch had melted something inside her that she couldn't reassemble.
He frowned, that furrow between his brows deepening. "You'll get sick."
"I'll be fine. It's just hockey." She waved a hand, trying for nonchalance, but her voice cracked on the last word.
He didn't seem convinced. He set his stick against the boards, shrugged off his warm-up jacket—a black zip-up with the team logo stitched over the chest—and held it out to her.
"Put this on."
Her heart stopped. Then restarted at triple speed.
"Vlad, I can't—"
"Put it on." His voice was firm, but his eyes softened when he saw the hesitation on her face. "You're cold. I don't want you shivering through the whole practice."
She took the jacket. It was still warm from his body, carrying the scent of fabric softener and something woodsy underneath. She pulled it over her shoulders, and the fabric swallowed her—the hem falling past her hips, the sleeves dangling past her fingertips. She was drowning in him, and she loved it.
This is a problem. This is a huge problem.
He smiled, a small thing that barely tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Better?"
"Yeah." She pulled the collar up around her chin, hiding the lower half of her face. "Thanks."
"No problem." He hopped back over the boards, landing on the ice with a soft scrape of blades. He picked up his stick, twirled it once, and gave her a nod. "Stay warm. I'll find you after practice."
She nodded, unable to form words. He turned and skated away, his powerful strides eating up the ice, and she watched him go, her fingers clutching the fabric of his jacket like a lifeline.
He has no idea. He has absolutely no idea what he just did to me.
She sank onto the nearest bleacher seat, the cold metal biting through her jeans. Her heart was still hammering, her skin tingling where his hand had been. She pressed her palm against her waist, trying to preserve the warmth, but it was already fading.
The jacket smelled like him. Clean, masculine, with a hint of the mint gum he chewed during games. She closed her eyes and inhaled, letting the scent fill her lungs, and a shiver ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
"You good?"
Her eyes snapped open. One of his teammates, Dmitri, was standing by the bench, pulling on his helmet. He gave her a curious look, his eyes flicking to the jacket, then back to her face.
"Yeah," she said, her voice steadier now. "Just catching my breath."
Dmitri smirked. "Vlad's jacket?"
She felt her cheeks burn. "I was cold."
"Sure." He didn't sound convinced. But he didn't press, just shrugged and stepped onto the ice, calling something in Russian to Vlad that she couldn't understand.
She watched them skate, the rhythm of their movements hypnotic. Vlad was in the center, taking passes, his focus absolute. He wasn't looking at her anymore, but she couldn't stop looking at him—the way his muscles moved under his jersey, the concentration on his face, the way he commanded the ice like it belonged to him.
And he had touched her. His hand on her bare waist, his fingers wrapping around hers, his jacket draped over her shoulders.
This is going to be the longest season of my life.
She pulled the jacket tighter, burying her nose in the collar, and let herself imagine, just for a moment, that his touch had meant something more. That he'd held her a beat longer because he wanted to. That the frown on his face wasn't just concern, but something deeper—a crack in that brotherly armor.
But she knew better. She'd watched him with other girls, the way he deflected flirtation with a polite smile and an easy change of subject. He was oblivious. He saw her as the shy girl who needed protection, not the girl who lay awake at night thinking about the weight of his hand on her skin.
The Zamboni finished its loop, and the practice whistle blew. Players scattered to their positions, and the sharp crack of sticks hitting pucks filled the air. Mina hugged her knees to her chest, his jacket pooling around her thighs, and let the game wash over her.
One day, she thought, watching him score a goal with a wrist shot so clean it made her chest ache. One day, I'll tell him. And then I'll see if he still treats me like a little sister.
The thought terrified her. But so did the possibility that he'd look at her differently, see the want in her eyes, and step back. That was worse. That would break her.
But for now, she had his jacket. She had the ghost of his fingers on her waist. And she had the rest of winter to figure out how to cross the line between friendship and something more.
If she ever found the courage.
The thought echoed, hollow and taunting, as she watched him glide across the blue line. His blades carved clean arcs into the ice, each stride effortless, practiced—the kind of movement that came from a lifetime of knowing exactly where your body was in space. Hers felt like it existed in a different dimension entirely, scattered across the bleachers, tangled up in the fabric of his jacket.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A notification. Probably her roommate asking if she was still alive, or if she'd finally frozen to death in a hockey rink like the tragic heroine of a very niche romance novel.
She ignored it.
Instead, she pulled the phone out and stared at the dark screen. Her reflection stared back—messy hair, flushed cheeks, the collar of his jacket bunched under her chin. She looked like she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't. Which, if she was honest with herself, she had been doing since the moment she'd walked through those doors.
You're being ridiculous.
She typed out a quick text to her roommate: Still alive. Barely. Vlad gave me his jacket.
The response came instantly: OMG. HE GAVE YOU HIS JACKET. MINA. THAT'S BASICALLY A PROPOSAL.
She snorted, earning a glance from an older man two rows down. She ducked her head, hiding her smile in the jacket's collar. It's not a proposal. It's him being nice.
It's him being nice with his jacket wrapped around your body. That's different.
She bit her lip. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. He doesn't see me that way.
Then make him see you that way. Send him a photo. A hot one. In the jacket.
Her heart stuttered. Absolutely not.
Do it. Do it. Do it.
She shoved the phone back into her pocket, face burning. The audacity of her roommate, suggesting—no, commanding—her to take a photo in his jacket and send it to him like some kind of bold, confident woman who knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to ask for it.
Except.
She wanted that. She wanted to be that woman.
She pulled the phone back out. Opened the camera. Brought the lens up.
The angle caught her from above—his jacket swallowing her shoulders, the collar bunched under her chin, the team logo stretched across her chest. She looked small. Warm. Like she belonged in it.
She snapped the photo before she could second-guess herself.
The preview showed her flushed cheeks, the tiredness in her eyes, the way her hair was starting to escape its ponytail. But it also showed the jacket. His jacket, hanging loose on her frame, the sleeves bunched where her hands had disappeared into the cuffs.
She opened their text thread. The last message from him was from three days ago: You left your scarf in my car. I'll bring it to practice.
She typed: Thanks for the jacket. It's warmer than my car's heater.
Her thumb hovered over the send button. Her pulse was a frantic drum against her ribs, fast and insistent, drowning out the scrape of blades and the crack of pucks on the ice below.
This is just a thank you, she told herself. A friendly gesture. A photo of you being grateful. Nothing more.
She pressed send.
The message flew into the void, the little gray bubble appearing beneath her text. She watched it, waiting for the "read" receipt, the two blue checkmarks that would mean he'd seen it.
Nothing.
Of course. He was on the ice. His phone was probably in his bag on the bench, buried under a pile of gear and tape and whatever else hockey players carried around.
But she couldn't stop staring at the screen. The photo stared back at her, a ghost of herself wrapped in his scent, and she wondered if she'd made a mistake. If he'd look at it and see what she really meant by sending it. If he'd see the longing in her eyes, the way she clutched the collar like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the ground.
"Checking your stocks?"
She jolted. Dmitri was standing at the bench, sweat beading on his forehead, a water bottle in his hand. He nodded at her phone with a grin. "You looked intense. Thought you were making a trade deal."
She laughed, a breathless sound. "Just texting a friend."
"Sure." He didn't believe her. "Vlad's jacket looks good on you. Better than on him, honestly. He's too broad. Makes it look like a tent."
"It's warm," she said, because she didn't know what else to say.
"It's a good look." Dmitri tilted his head, studying her. "You should keep it."
Her cheeks burned. "I'm giving it back after practice."
"Don't." He shrugged. "He has like fifty of them. The team gives them out like candy. You'd be doing him a favor—less laundry."
She shook her head, but she was smiling. Dmitri was easy to talk to, relaxed in a way that made her forget to be nervous. He didn't look at her like she was something fragile, something to protect. He just looked at her like she was a person, sitting in the bleachers, wearing a teammate's jacket.
"He's not going to mind," Dmitri added, as if reading her thoughts. "You know Vlad. He's always looking out for people. It's just who he is."
"I know." She pulled the jacket tighter. "That's what makes it hard."
Dmitri's grin softened into something knowing. "Yeah. I figured."
She looked away, her gaze finding Vlad on the ice. He was in the middle of a drill, a line of orange cones set up across the blue line. He stickhandled through them with a fluid grace that made it look easy, his focus absolute, his jaw set in concentration. He wasn't looking at her. He wasn't looking at anyone. He was just in his element, doing what he did best, and she couldn't look away.
"He doesn't know," Dmitri said, his voice low. "In case you were wondering. He has no idea."
"I know." She swallowed. "I think that's the worst part."
"Maybe. Or maybe it's the best part." Dmitri took a long drink from his water bottle, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Means when he finally figures it out, it's going to hit him like a truck."
She laughed, a quiet, shaky sound. "You think so?"
"I know so." He capped the bottle and tossed it onto the bench. "Vlad's a lot of things. Smart. Strong. Annoyingly good at hockey. But he's not great at noticing what's right in front of him." He gave her a pointed look. "Sometimes you have to hit him over the head with it."
"I don't think I have that kind of courage."
"You do." Dmitri said it simply, like it was a fact. "You just haven't found it yet."
He turned and hopped back over the boards, his blades catching the ice with a soft scrape. He called something in Russian to Vlad, and Vlad responded with a laugh, the sound carrying across the rink, low and warm.
She watched them, two giants on the ice, moving in sync like they'd been doing this their whole lives. Dmitri said something else, and Vlad's head turned. For a moment, his gaze swept the bleachers, searching for something—for her.
Their eyes met.
He didn't smile. But he didn't look away, either. His focus stayed on her for a long, suspended beat, long enough for her to feel the weight of it, the strange gravity of being seen by him.
Then he turned back to the drill, and the moment dissolved.
She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her hand pressed against her chest. His jacket rustled under her fingers, the fabric soft and worn, and she felt the ghost of his touch on her waist, the warmth of his hand guiding her down from the ledge.
Her phone buzzed.
She looked down.
Two blue checkmarks.
His name appeared at the top of the screen, and then the three dots that meant he was typing. She watched them appear and disappear, appear and disappear, her heart hammering so loud she was sure Dmitri could hear it from the ice.
Then his message appeared:
You look good in my jacket.
She stared at the screen. The words blurred, then sharpened, blurred again. She read them three times, four times, trying to find the hidden meaning, the subtext, the thing that would tell her if he meant it the way she wanted him to mean it.
You look good in my jacket.
It could be friendly. It could be teasing. It could be the kind of thing you said to a friend when they borrowed your hoodie, a casual observation that didn't mean anything.
But it could also be more.
She typed: It smells like you.
She stared at the message. Her thumb hovered over the send button. The words were too honest, too raw, a confession she wasn't ready to make.
She deleted them.
Typed: Thanks. It's really warm.
Sent.
Safe. Boring. A nothing message that told him exactly nothing.
He responded almost immediately: Keep it. I have a million. Get home safe, malyshka.
Her heart stopped.
Malyshka.
She knew what it meant. She'd heard him use it with other girls, with teammates' girlfriends, with the waitress at the diner they went to after games. It was a casual term of endearment, the kind of thing you said when you couldn't remember someone's name or wanted to soften a command.
But he'd never said it to her before.
She read the word again, her finger tracing the letters on the screen. Malyshka. Little one. Small thing. A word that meant nothing and everything, a word that made her feel seen in a way she didn't know how to handle.
She typed: Malyshka? What does that mean?
She knew what it meant. But she wanted to hear him say it.
His response: It means "little one." Because you're small and you get cold easily and you need someone to look out for you.
A pause. Then another message:
That's you. You're my malyshka.
She stared at the screen. Her vision blurred, and she blinked rapidly, trying to clear the sudden sting in her eyes. You're my malyshka. The words were so simple, so casual, and they undid her completely.
He doesn't see me that way, she thought. He sees me as someone to protect. Someone small and cold and in need of a jacket.
But the word repeated in her head, a soft echo that she couldn't shake. Malyshka. His little one. Even if he didn't mean it the way she wanted him to, it was still his. It was still a word he'd given her, a name he'd chosen, a small piece of his world that he'd wrapped around her shoulders like a jacket.
She typed: I guess that makes me your problem, then.
She meant it as a joke. A light, teasing thing that would let him know she was okay, that she wasn't reading too much into his words, that she could play along with the game.
His response came a moment later:
Yeah. I guess it does.
She let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding, her chest tight with a feeling she couldn't name. It wasn't joy, exactly. It was something quieter, something deeper—a sense of being held, even from a distance, even through a screen.
She pulled the jacket tighter, the collar brushing her chin. His scent surrounded her, clean and warm, and she let herself imagine, just for this one moment, that the word meant what she wanted it to mean. That he was hers, and she was his, and the space between them was smaller than it had been before.
The practice whistle blew. The players began to drift toward the bench, their breath fogging in the cold air. Vlad was the last to leave the ice, his stick slung over his shoulder, his eyes finding her in the bleachers.
He raised a hand. A small wave. A small gesture that made her heart lurch.
She waved back, her fingers curling against the sleeve of his jacket, and she smiled—a real smile, one that reached her eyes and softened the edges of her fear.
You're my malyshka.
The words echoed in her head, warm and unfamiliar, a promise that wasn't a promise, a door that had cracked open just enough to let the light in.