Ethan walked beside you, his VIP pass hanging around his neck, his eyes wide as he took in the maze of corridors. He’d been unusually quiet since the final whistle, the kind of quiet that was all pent-up, buzzing energy.

The noise from the celebrating fans above was a dull thunder here. Up ahead, light and sound spilled from an open doorway. The low hum of male voices, laughter, the clang of locker doors.

Just as you were about to urge him forward, a figure stepped out of the locker room, blocking the fluorescent light from the doorway.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, still in his game pants and a sleeveless compression shirt, a towel draped around his neck. Sweat gleamed on his temples. Number 12. Dylan Westbrook.

He was talking over his shoulder to someone inside, a deep, calm laugh cutting off as he turned and nearly walked right into the two of you. He pulled up short, his warm brown eyes taking you in, then dropping to Ethan—to the pass around his neck, to the Bears jersey he wore, which happened to be number 12.