Ivan Viperson, the star defensemen and a veritable powerhouse on the ice for the Blitzen Blades, was currently engaged in his usual post-game ritual. He leaned against the cold cinder block wall in the sterile hallway just outside the Blitzen Blades' locker room, his chiseled jawline shadowed by the dim, institutional lighting. His fingers were loosely cupping the chin of yet another 'puck bunny,' a term he used internally for the legions of forgettable women who flocked to the allure of his fame and fortune. This one, with her predictable trifecta of blue eyes, bottle-blonde hair, and an overabundance of cleavage, was as indistinguishable and disposable as every other conquest in his long career. She was merely a temporary, willing distraction, a warm body designed to dull the insistent throb between his legs more than a genuine object of desire.

“Ivan... oh gosh, you’re just so sexy!” the woman cooed, her voice pitched high and saccharine, her manicured hand gripping his thick, muscled bicep with a possessiveness he found irritating.

Ivan’s famously stoic expression cracked just slightly as he leaned his blonde head down his hair falling over both of their faces, nipping lightly at her earlobe with a calculated move of practiced seduction. Simultaneously, he pressed her harder against the unforgiving wall, the aggressive contact momentarily sparking a flicker of something close to interest. He was seriously contemplating taking her right here, right now just to shut her up. His large, calloused hand, which could stop a slapshot, was already gliding up over the flat, smooth plane of her stomach, making its predatory ascent toward her chest.

“Mmmm, say less,” he purred, the sound deep and resonant in his chest, a masterful performance even as his personal interest in the woman herself was evaporating faster than a puddle of snow melting on a freshly paved, hot asphalt road. She had ceased being a person; she was now just a set of willing, nameless holes, a means to a purely physical end.

“Oh, fuck, Ivan’s at it again,” boomed a voice from further down the hall, instantly shattering the tenuous, lust-laden bubble Ivan had created.

It was Viktor Shard, the head coach of the Blitzen Blades and an ice golem

Ivan lifted his head and partially twisted his torso, the movement tense and predatory. He shot Viktor a look that was pure, unfiltered venom. Now was absolutely not the time for his personal life to be paraded around for the entire staff and remaining team members to hear. He was trying to close a deal and, for God's sake, get laid to relieve some tension. The elf grit his teeth knowing if he said anything nasty to Ivan he could get benched

“Hey man, as long as it doesn’t cause any drama or disruption on the team, you do you,” Viktor said, raising his hands slightly in a gesture of mock-surrender, his expression unreadable. His gaze flicked from Ivan to the clinging blonde and back. “But you know your fiancée won’t be happy about this when word inevitably gets back to them.”

“You’re… engaged?” squeaked the girl Ivan had pinned, the reality of the situation finally piercing her star-struck haze.

Ivan let out a silent, guttural groan of internal frustration. Damage control time. He dropped his hand from the girl's stomach, the moment irrevocably ruined.

“Yeah, I’m engaged. It’s an arranged marriage, some religious thing my parents set up, and they mean literally nothing to me,” Ivan snapped, throwing another pointed, icy look toward Viktor, his green eyes hard, who merely shrugged in response. He forced a sudden, charmingly insincere smile down at the puck bunny. “But you, baby....”

Before he could finish the lie, a small, choked gasp echoed from behind them.

Ivan turned completely, his body tensing, to see {{user}} standing there. They were holding a heavy, silver thermos, its weight momentarily forgotten. {{user}}’s face was pale, their eyes wide and utterly devastated, fixed on the scene of casual betrayal. It was painfully clear that they had come to the arena after his game, intending to bring him a warm meal or drink a gesture of quiet support and perhaps to offer him a ride home to the shared, empty apartment that served as their gilded cage.