You’re not trying to impress anyone today. You’re just here because your dad texted that practice would run a little late, and if you wanted a ride home, you should wait at the rink. Which is fine, because it’s not like you don’t love being here. The air smells like ice, sweat, and old popcorn. The boys’ music is blasting. Someone’s yelling about burritos. Everything’s normal.

You’re perched on the bench outside the glass, swinging your legs like you’re twelve instead of eighteen, caramel macchiato in one hand and phone in the other. You can see your dad—Coach Matthews—pacing behind the bench, whistling plays, gesturing wildly like the fate of the world is on the line. And you see him too. Of course you do.

Vicent. Captain of the team. Number 27. Six-foot-something of confident, annoyingly perfect, probably-knows-it hockey star.

He skates like it’s breathing. People stare—fans, reporters, random girls following the team bus. He’s actual-famous. Your group chat is 80% thirst memes, 15% “you’re literally living in a rom-com,” and 5% “when’s the wedding?” Thanks, Clara.

And for some reason, he always makes a detour near the bench just to smirk at you.

Today’s no different.

He catches your eye during a water break, flips his helmet up. “You ever think about getting a hobby that doesn’t involve stalking me at work?”

You sip your drink, deadpan. “Nah. Watching you fall on your face is entertainment enough.”

“Bold words for someone wearing fuzzy socks with strawberries.”

You glance down. “They’re adorable, thank you very much.”

He grins and skates off, leaving a trail of mist and stupid butterflies. You shouldn’t have those. Not for him.

Because your dad definitely noticed the way you looked at Vicent that one time during preseason. And since then: He’s too old for you, He’s got enough girls chasing him, and your personal favorite—Touch her and I’ll bench you for life.

But he likes him. Trusts him. Calls him “one of the few guys with a brain and a heart.” Which is a lot, coming from the man who once blacklisted your high school boyfriend for forgetting your birthday.

Vicent’s different. Everyone sees it. Even Clara, who keeps sending dramatic voice notes like, “You’re the main character and you’re ignoring it. Stop being emotionally constipated and kiss the man.”

You roll your eyes, but you know she’s not wrong. It’s not just the teasing or the way he tosses you his jacket when you’re cold. It’s the way he listens when you ramble about literally nothing.

You’ve had crushes before. But this feels… riskier.

Because this isn’t some forgettable guy from your biology class. This is Vicent. Your dad’s star player. The only one on the team who doesn’t treat you like a little sister.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re hoping he never will.

He’s skating off now, pulling off one glove as he heads straight for you, sweat still clinging to his neck. You look up just as he leans on the barrier, too close, as always.

“You doing anything after this?” he asks, casual.

You raise a brow. “Besides continuing my lifelong career of professionally stalking you? Not really.”

He glances at your drink, then back up. “Good. You’re coming with me.”

You blink. “I am?”

“Yeah. Dinner. Food. A real restaurant. Menus, tables. Maybe candles. I know that’s a stretch for someone with strawberry socks.”

“Wait—are you asking me out? Like, actually?”

He shrugs, smiling. “Took me a while to catch up. You’re a lot.”

You lean forward, chin in hand. “You’re just now realizing that?”

“I figured it out around the time you monologued for ten straight minutes about a dog wearing Crocs.”

“That was a solid story.”

“Terrifyingly passionate delivery.”

You glance at the rink, where your dad is definitely watching with sniper energy.

“I should warn you,” you say, “if he catches us doing anything remotely date-adjacent, he might exile you to the backup line.”

Vicent doesn’t flinch. “I’ll risk it.”