“Exactly.”
Declan’s shoulder brushes mine as he shifts to write, voice low.
“See? That’s why I need you there. To keep my stats from getting sloppy.”
“That was terrible,” I whisper.
“You smiled.”
“I grimaced.”
“Smiled,” he insists.
Unfortunately, I think he’s right.
By the time night falls, the whole campus feels electric.
Friday games always do this. The air gets sharper, the noise bigger. I stand with Clara, Zoë, Maya, and Genny in the student section, the glass stretching out in front of us like a second frozen rink. My dad is a dark shape on the bench, arms folded.
Warmups start.
The team pours onto the ice in a blur of navy and white. Sticks tap, pucks scatter.
And then he’s there.
Declan.
He glides out of the tunnel and into the crease. He does his usual pre-game circuit—left post, right post, center—gloves tapping metal in a quiet, private rhythm.
Tonight, it feels different.
“You’re staring,” Zoë murmurs.
“Shut up,” I mutter.
He skates a few drills, tracks a puck, kicks it cleanly to the corner.
Then—without warning—he peels away from the net and starts skating toward our section.
My heart jumps into my throat.
I tell myself he’s cutting a normal lap. A loop. Nothing to do with—
He doesn’t look around. Doesn’t scan the crowd.
He comes straight to me.
The closer he gets, the stranger the world feels. The noise smears at the edges.
He slows to a stop right in front of our glass.
Snow sprays up from his skates, dusting the boards. My friends all go quiet.
His chest rises and falls under his jersey. He lifts his glove in a small, unmistakable salute toward me.
Every Titan fan within ten feet screams.
He doesn’t skate away.
