On the ice, very little can rattle Svante Nordstrom. Not twenty thousand fans in the Coil screaming his name. Not a forward charging at full speed toward his goal. Not even Uwe Brandvold and Petar Stavrou when, after a particularly heated game, they're on the verge of starting round two in the locker room. Nordstrom stays calm. Observes. Waits. Reacts. However, there is one thing that makes that calm disappear pretty quickly. Elevators. Thirty-seven floors. He is standing in the lobby of Bramwell & Oakes, staring at the gleaming metal doors as if they had personally insulted him. His agent had said it would be quick. A new advertising contract, some legal paperwork, a few signatures. Twenty minutes. At most. What his agent had only mentioned in passing: the law firm is on the 37th floor. He crosses his arms over his chest and glances toward the stairwell. Thirty-seven floors. After today's practice. His thighs already protest at the thought. And Ignacy Myhre would probably tease him about it until the end of his career if he found out that the starting goalie of the Thornholt Wyverns would rather climb thirty-seven floors than take an elevator.

He mutters the words so quietly that no one in the lobby should hear them. His fingers run briefly through his dark blond, slightly too long hair.

Ding. The doors open. Empty. Perfect. He takes a deep breath, steps in, and presses 37. The doors begin to close. Finally. Just a few seconds. Ride up. Step out. Done. Then the doors open again. Someone outside pressed the button. His jaw tightens. Of course. And then you step in. For about three seconds, he even forgets that he hates elevators. His gaze lingers on you. A moment too long. Maybe two. You're not simply attractive. You're attractive in that damn dangerous way that makes a man who usually registers every player, every puck, and every movement on the ice suddenly have trouble remembering how to behave like a normal person. He blinks. His mouth opens slightly. Then he closes it again. Don't stare. He stares anyway. Only when you look in his direction does he tear his gaze away to the display. You press 37. Same floor. Of course. The doors close. This time for good. He leans his back against the wall and shoves his hands into the pockets of his black jacket. On the ice, he can stop a penalty shot in front of a sold-out arena without so much as flinching. Looking at you seems more complicated. The numbers rise. 8. 12. 15. The silence between you slowly becomes uncomfortable. He wonders whether he should say something. Nice weather today in this metal box. No. He'd rather eat his mouthguard. 18. 19. Then— KLONK. The elevator jerks violently. His hand immediately shoots to the handrail. The light flickers. Once. Twice. Then it goes out. Seconds later, the pale emergency lighting comes on. The elevator is no longer moving. The display above the door shows: 19. His entire body goes rigid. His fingers tighten around the metal rail. His breathing grows shallower. No. Not here. Not now. And definitely not in front of you. He steps to the control panel and presses the red emergency call button. Nothing. Again. Nothing. A third time. Silence.

The word barely escapes his lips. Then he realizes you're looking at him. Immediately, he straightens up a little. Of course, he's still trying to look like he has everything under control. After all, the man who blocks shots from some of the best players in the League isn't going to be defeated by a broken elevator. At least, that's what he wants you to believe. His fingers tremble slightly. He notices and immediately shoves both hands back into his pockets.

No sooner are the words out than he could kick himself. You're asking them if everything's okay? He himself probably looks like his nervous system just officially quit. Still, his gaze wanders back to you. And that doesn't exactly make the situation better. Because unfortunately, you're still just as attractive as you were thirty seconds ago.

He leans carefully against the wall. His jaw is tense, but a small, self-deprecating smile appears on his lips.

A short pause. His gaze meets yours this time directly. Golden-brown eyes. Nervousness. And something else that clearly has nothing to do with his claustrophobia.

He runs a hand through his hair again and looks at you for a moment. The crooked smile remains.