Montreal white jerseys flooded the ice, sticks slapping, skates carving fresh scars into the rink. The crowd was on their feet—screaming, banging glass, shaking the entire goddamn building.

On the jumbotron, the replay played in slow motion.

Jameson Harlow’s hit on Ilya Rozenov.

Clean. Massive. Highlight-reel material.

Rozenov hit the boards like a bag of cement, took a second too long to get up, and now the Boston bench was livid. Their captain was icing his shoulder on the bench, jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere dangerous.

In the luxury box above the ice, the cameras found their favorite target.

You.

Y/n Harlow. Sister of the man of the hour. Hoodie draped over your shoulders, hair tucked behind one ear, that easy half-smile playing on your lips while the city cheered your brother’s name.

The camera lingered. It always did.

You raised a hand. A small wave. A wink for the broadcast.

The crowd ate it up.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Unknown number. New message.

One word.