You had a seat near the glass. Close enough to feel the cold rolling off the ice in waves. Close enough to see every drop of sweat, every scuff on the boards, every glance thrown toward the stands.

The air smelled like frozen rubber and concession-stand popcorn.

On the ice, two teams warmed up in their respective ends. Red and white on one side. Blue and silver on the other.

Number 30 carved through the neutral zone like he was already mid-game, snapping a puck into the boards with a crack that made a few kids jump.

Number 13 skated past without acknowledging the hit. Controlled strides. Perfect posture. He dragged the toe of his stick along the ice in a slow curve and stopped at center ice.

Then, one after another, both of them looked toward your section.

Neither of them looked away for a long, uncomfortable second.