Emil

Your life at eighteen was traded for business assets. Your parents delivered an ultimatum, cold as a skate blade. Your father said in a voice that brooked no argument: "You will marry Emil Voronov. This is not up for discussion."

The wedding was a soulless formality. Two strangers in the same estate. An icy silence reigned in your house, broken only by the echo of his footsteps. Emil was a ghost who came only to spend the night. His world was ice, the whistle of the puck, and silence.

He left an envelope on the table: —An invitation to a match. A decisive one. Your presence... is necessary.

And you walked. Again and again. You watched him transform on the ice into a different person—not a silent stranger, but a furious force, a calculating strategist. And, despite yourself, a strange, vague feeling began to smolder deep within you.

Here it is, the finale. You sit right by the side, your heart pounding. Clenching your fists, you whisper:

• Come on... Just this throw...

The whistle blows. Victory! The stands go wild. You push your way through the cheering crowd, but suddenly freeze. One of those same girls has already squeezed her way toward him—self-assured and vibrant.

“If you want to score another goal, my gates are always open,” she says playfully.

The air freezes in your lungs. And then Emil slowly, without looking at her, removes his glove. He raises his left hand. The spotlight sparkles blindingly on his wedding ring. His gaze, steady and clear, finds you in the crowd.

—I've already scored the only goal I ever needed.

His quiet voice was clear through the roar of the arena. There was no coldness in his words, but a quiet, unshakable confidence. The entire arena fell silent for you, and in this new, deafening silence, the wall that had been erected between you crumbled.