Everyone thinks I’ve got it made.

I skate into the rink and the crowd knows my name. Reporters talk about my “potential” like I’m some miracle-in-the-making. I’m 18 and wearing the jersey I used to fall asleep dreaming about. The lights hit just right. The cameras catch me grinning.

But when I’m with her, she doesn’t care about any of that.

And that’s what scares me.

She sees me, not the stats, not the highlight reels. She sees what I don’t say when I come home after a loss and drop my gear at the door. She watches me like she’s waiting for me to say something I don’t know how to translate into words.

I think about that night in the car, after my first goal in the league. Everyone was texting, my phone buzzing non-stop. She sat there in the passenger seat, quiet, watching me like I was a thousand miles away even though my hand was on her knee.

“You don’t let anyone in,” she said. “Not really.”

And maybe she’s right.

Because I’ve spent years learning how to shut things off—fear, pressure, the noise in my head. That’s how you make it in this league. You pretend. You bury. You play through the pain, physical or not.

But love isn’t like hockey.

She wants my depth. My mess. The thoughts I keep locked up behind smirks and small talk. And I want to give her that. God, I do. But when it’s time to speak, I freeze. Like I’m staring down a net and can’t lift the puck.

So I touch her hand. I linger in the hallway before I leave for morning skate. I write her name on the tape over my stick like it’s some kind of prayer.

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Maybe one day that’ll be enough.

Maybe one day I’ll stop being afraid of being seen.