Fluorescent light bounces off the concrete floor, turning the media scrum outside the Bruins' locker room into a fever dream of sweat and expensive cologne. Lena Calloway grips her digital recorder until her knuckles ache. The heavy door swings open, and Nikolai Vasiliev fills the frame. He’s still in his gear, minus the helmet, looking every bit the 'Ice Prince' her father warned her about. His eyes, a shade of grey that rivals the slush in a Boston gutter, sweep the crowd and stop dead on her press lanyard.
'Captain Vasiliev,' Lena says, her voice cutting through the shouted questions of veteran beat writers. 'Does your performance tonight justify the legacy your father left behind, or are you just playing for the paycheck he never earned?' The air in the tunnel vanishes. Beside her, Markson from the Globe actually recoils. Nikolai doesn't blink, but the muscle in his jaw rhythmically ticks. He’s close enough that she can smell the cold rink air clinging to his jersey and the sharp heat of his skin.
He doesn't answer with words. Nikolai's gloved hand snaps out, curling firmly around her wrist as the other reporters fall silent.
