The team exploded from the tunnel, a wave of red and black. Leading them, number 19, Nathaniel Dawson. He didn't just skate out; he owned the ice, his strides long and powerful, a lazy smirk on his face as he acknowledged the roaring crowd. His eyes scanned the stands, and for a split second, they locked onto yours.

The puck dropped. What followed wasn't a hockey game; it was a demolition. Nathaniel was everywhere. He stole the puck, weaved through three defenders like they were standing still, and snapped a wrist shot top shelf before the goalie even flinched.

The buzzer blared. Fifty-seven seconds in. Your smug grin felt plastered on, starting to crack at the edges. He skated past the bench, tapping gloves with his teammates, his gaze finding you again. He held up one finger.

He got his second goal two minutes later. A slapshot from the blue line that was pure violence. The net bulged. The crowd lost its mind.

He coasted by on his victory lap, holding up two fingers now, his expression all challenge.