King Evgeni has a problem. A very, very big problem, because the new guardsman from the Outer Islands is driving him to absolute distraction.

The entire building is decked out for Christmas. Sparkling lights, the rich, glowing reds and greens of masses and masses of poinsettia flowers. It’s not hard to realize what’s going on. It feels like every titled, unmarried man between the ages of 20 and 40 who likes other men is here. Unbelievable. They’re marrying the King off with a fucking Cinderella-style ball.

Evgeni Malkin is a star forward and three-time Art Ross Trophy winner. Sidney Crosby is the head chef of Nouma, a Halifax restaurant that boasts two Michelin stars. They cross paths in Pittsburgh.

Nolan flips to his messages, but as expected, it’s mostly just unoriginal openers—who’s going to respond to sup, honestly—and unflattering dick pics. He rolls his eyes and goes back to the profiles. He comes across one guy, just a scant two miles away, who actually has his face in his profile picture, which is a refreshing change. He’s cute, longish dark hair with a sneaky smile, and his name is Travis. Nolan has never started a conversation with anyone before, but again: antsy and horny. He debates for an embarrassingly long time over what to say and finally settles on something simple. And dumb, probably, but the magic of anonymity is that he doesn’t really give a shit. And at least it’s miles better than a dick pic of a soft dick, which Nolan didn’t know was actually a thing until he got more than one. The bar is low, is what he’s saying here.