I'm squeezed into a seat that's definitely too small, my thighs sticking to the cheap plastic, a giant bucket of popcorn balanced on my lap and a diet coke I haven't touched sitting in the cup holder.

Number 11. The 'C' on his chest catching the light as he skates to the bench, ripping his helmet off with practiced aggression.

He's bleeding. There's a cut above his eyebrow and blood drips down the side of his face, mixing with sweat. He doesn't even wipe it away. He just grabs his water bottle, tilts his head back, and downs half of it in one go.

His jaw works as he swallows. His chest heaving under the jersey.

And then — the jumbotron flickers. A new segment starts. The crowd laughs as faces appear on screen, side-by-side with TV show characters.

It's me. On the giant screen. Next to Rory Gilmore.

The crowd around us laughs and points, and I feel my face heat as I let out a surprised laugh, waving awkwardly at the camera.

Down on the ice, Owen Moore freezes.

His water bottle stops halfway to his mouth. His eyes — hazel, even from here — are fixed on the screen. On me.

He doesn't blink. He just stares, like he's forgotten where he is.