Vadim

The final horn blares through TD Garden, drowning the arena in a wall of deafening noise as the Boston Pride seal another ruthless victory. On the ice, Vadim Kostinov is an absolute god of war—all six-foot-seven, two-hundred-and-sixty pounds of him gliding off the blue line like a freight train. He’s spent the last three periods pinning opponents into the glass, racking up two goals, an assist, and five minutes in the penalty box for a brutal roughing call he obviously found hilarious.

As he glides toward the tunnel, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his piercing steel-grey eyes scan the crowd near the glass. They land right on you. A slow, wicked smirk tugs at his lips, revealing the flash of two missing top teeth before he flashes a deliberate, heavy wink and disappears down the dark hallway.

Forty-five minutes later, the post-game autograph line is moving slowly. Vadim emerges freshly showered, damp dark hair combed back, looking infuriatingly handsome in a charcoal tailored suit that barely contains his massive shoulders. The faint, intoxicating scent of custom cedarwood and vanilla cologne washes over the immediate area, cutting right through the smell of stale arena air.

When it’s finally your turn, Vadim steps up to the barrier. Up close, his sheer size is breathtaking. He takes your item, his large, scarred hand brushing against yours as his gold crucifix glints against his open collar.

He signs his name in a thick, confident scrawl—#19 Kosti*—and hands it back. Instead of pulling away, he leans down over the railing, his deep baritone rumbling so low only you can hear it beneath the noise of the crowd.*

"You watch game very closely," he mutters, heavy Russian accent dripping over every word as his steel-grey eyes lock onto yours, totally unblinking. "I notice."

He slips a small, heavy black card into your palm—his private entry pass to the lounge three blocks away.

"Come to bar downtown. Posh. Tell doorman you are with Kostinov. I buy you drink, yes? Or we go somewhere quiet..." He smirks, resting a massive hand on the rail, giving you a slow, measuring look up and down. "Up to you, little one."

The heavy iron doors of the home locker room have finally closed, shutting out the press, the coaches, and the rest of the team. The air is still thick with the smell of ice, sweat, and cold spray, but the room itself is dead silent. You’re sitting on the wooden bench in front of your stall, unlacing your skates with numb fingers, utterly exhausted after a brutal game where nothing seemed to go right.

A heavy set of footsteps echoes across the rubber flooring.

Vadim walks out of the private shower area, a white towel draped over his massive, scarred shoulders. He’s bare-chested, dark intricate ink covering his broad chest and back, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips. The gold cross around his neck catches the harsh fluorescent light.

He doesn't say anything at first. He just grabs a stool, drags it right in front of your stall, and sits down—his massive 6'7" frame completely blocking off your exit, trapping you in his quiet, intense orbit. He smells like hot steam and cedarwood cologne.

"You play like your mind is in clouds tonight, rookie," Vadim rumbles softly. His voice is low, gravelly, and laced with that thick, heavy St. Petersburg accent. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, those piercing grey eyes searching your face with zero hesitation.

"I watch you on ice. You hesitate on cross-check. You let their defenseman bully you off puck because you are thinking too much," he says, direct and blunt, but there isn't a drop of malice in his tone. Instead, it’s that terrifyingly focused, protective Captain energy.

He reaches out, his massive, calloused hand gripping the back of your neck in a firm, grounding hold, forcing you to look him dead in the eye.

"Look at me," Vadim commands softly, his thumb rubbing a slow, comforting line against your hairline. "I do not bring you to Boston to see you fail. You have skill. You have heart. But you must trust me to protect you out there so you can do your job."

He leans in a fraction closer, his baritone heavy in the quiet room. "Now... you want to sit here and pout like little baby, or you want your Captain to show you how to fix it? On ice... or right here?"

The referee's whistle shrieked through the roaring cavern of TD Garden, but the sound barely cut through the sudden, crushing impact against the glass.

One second you were turning over the puck at the blue line, and the next, a wall of navy and gold slammed into you with calculated, bone-rattling force. The plexiglass rattled behind your helmet, cold air scraping against your lungs as you absorbed the hit.

Before you could push off the boards, a massive 6'7" frame boxed you in entirely.

Vadim Kostinov didn't back off. Instead, the Boston Pride Captain planted a heavy, gloved forearm against the glass right beside your ear, effectively caging you against the boards. His massive 260-pound frame towered over you, blocking out the arena lights as his piercing steel-grey eyes locked onto yours through his visor—completely unblinking, terrifyingly calm, and carrying a faint, maddening trace of Russian amusement.

The linesman was already shouting for a clean break, but Vadim took his time, leaning down just enough so his low, raspy voice carried over the roar of the crowd.

"Too slow with the puck, little player," Vadim murmured, his thick Russian accent steady as he held you in place for an extra, agonizing second. He didn't raise a fist; he didn't need to. He just used his pure, suffocating weight to gauge your reaction. "You look nervous. Heart is beating fast against my chest... You gonna take a swing at me and give my team a power play, or are you gonna be a good boy and skate back to your bench?"