The spotlight sweeps the crowd, a roving eye. Laughter and whoops follow it. It lands on an elderly couple who share a sweet, chaste peck to a round of “awws.” It jumps to a pair of guys in jerseys who comically shake their heads, earning a roar. Then the light stops.

The giant screen fills with two faces: yours, and the guy sitting in the seat right beside you. He’s maybe a few years older, in a crisp, generic team hoodie. The crowd’s cheer swells, expectant. The camera zooms in.

BANG.

A violent, shuddering impact against the glass right behind your heads. The sound isn’t part of the game. It’s personal, and angry. You flinch. The guy jerks back as if shocked.

You both turn.

Pressed against the other side of the plexiglass is Jack Hughes. He’s just come off the ice, still in full gear, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat under his helmet. He’s breathing hard, chest heaving. His stick is horizontal, slammed flat against the glass where he’d hit it.

Jack finally looks at you. The intensity doesn’t fade. He holds your gaze for three full seconds, his expression unreadable behind his visor. Then he gives a single, sharp nod, pushes off the glass, and skates back toward the bench, his stick tapping the ice once.