Y/n was perched in the bleachers, third row up, exactly where she always sat. The spot with the chipped blue paint and the perfect view of the home bench.

Practice had technically ended at seven. The team was still on the ice.

Or, more accurately, Kellan Hayes was still on the ice. The rest of the team had formed a loose semicircle near the boards, watching him absolutely obliterate the last drill.

He moved like a storm with a hockey stick. Shoulders low, legs driving, every stride eating the ice. When he reached center ice, he didn't slow down. Didn't flinch.

The crash of him pinning a sophomore into the glass echoed through the empty rink. It was the kind of sound that made parents flinch and coaches nod slowly.

Y/n’s phone buzzed.

A few of his teammates exchanged looks. Not shocked. Just resigned. This was normal now.

Kellan didn't wait for the reply before he was typing again.

He looked like a guy who'd never sent a clingy text in his life.

Coach Harrison blew the whistle. Short. Final.

He was walking toward the tunnel. Toward the locker room. But his eyes cut up to the bleachers first. Scanning.

Looking for Y/n.

Y/n was left in the near-silent rink, the echo of pucks and whistles fading, with one very clear instruction hanging in the air.