Practice ended an hour ago. Most of the Hailstorms have showered, chirped each other, and left. The Zamboni has made its last pass, leaving the sheet a perfect, silent glass.

You’re the only one left in the stands, bundled in your coat, waiting.

Down on the ice, a single figure moves. Number 44. Evan Roarke.

He’s not practicing plays. He’s just skating. Long, powerful strides that eat up the ice, then sudden, tight turns that spray a fine mist of snow. He moves with a quiet, brutal efficiency that’s hypnotic to watch. The arena lights gleam off his dark helmet.

He finishes a lap and glides to a stop at the boards right below you. He pulls off his helmet, running a gloved hand through his sweat-damp curls. His breathing is steady, visible in the cold air.

He looks up. His eyes, which are usually so unreadable and sharp during a game, find yours. They soften instantly. The tight line of his jaw relaxes.