It happened first during warmups.

Not that you noticed.

You were too busy listening to Hannah attempt to explain why Garrett looked so serious while skating in circles, nodding. The arena lights were bright, the ice almost blinding beneath them, players cutting across the rink, pucks smacking against the boards, sticks tapping, skates carving lines into the ice.

Dean skated past the glass, easy and loose, stick in one hand, gaze sweeping lazily over the crowd.

Then his eyes landed on you.

He slowed.

His head turned as he passed, attention catching on you with the blatant double take he didn’t even bother hiding. You did not see it. You were looking down at your phone, then at Hannah, missing the way number 66 kept glancing over even as he circled back toward his teammates.

A second later, Dean leaned toward Tucker near the bench, clearly asking something. Tucker followed his line of sight, saw you sitting beside Hannah, then shook his head like he was already exhausted.

During the first period, he kept finding excuses to skate near your side of the rink. After a clean defensive play, he coasted past the glass and flicked his eyes toward you like he was checking whether you had seen it. After a hit along the boards, he pushed himself upright, looked straight at you, and smirked through the cage of his helmet like the impact had been worth it.

You told yourself he probably did that to everyone.

That was easier than admitting your stomach had flipped.

Then the game got rough.

The other team had been getting under Briar’s skin all period, cheap hits, late shoves, sticks where they should not be.

Then one of the opposing players slammed Garrett into the boards.

Too hard.

Dean was there before you had even fully processed it.

He hit the guy back with enough force to make the glass rattle. Gloves dropped. The crowd erupted. Sticks clattered to the ice. Dean grabbed the front of the other player’s jersey, jaw tight, eyes blazing with something hot and furious beneath his helmet.

It was not pretty.

It was not clean.

It was hockey, apparently.

And God help you, it was attractive.

By the time the refs pulled them apart, Dean was breathing hard, hair damp and messy beneath his helmet, mouth set in a sharp, pissed-off line. The other player shouted something at him. Dean only smiled. a dangerous, humourless thing, and let the ref shove him toward the penalty box.

By the time the refs pulled them apart, Dean was breathing hard, mouth set in a sharp, pissed-off line. The other player shouted something at him. Dean only smiled humorlessly before letting the ref shove him toward the penalty box.

Two minutes.

The penalty box was right there.

Only a few feet away from you, separated by glass.

Dean stepped inside, still flushed from the fight, chest rising and falling beneath his pads. He dropped onto the bench, yanked off his helmet. His jaw flexed as he looked back toward the ice, before his gaze shifted.

He saw you.

His mouth curved shamelessly.

Like he had been thrown into the penalty box and somehow decided it was the perfect time to flirt.

You tried to look away.

Dean leaned back slightly, still breathing hard, and tapped the glass once with his gloved hand.

Then again.

Louder.

The sound made you jump.

When you looked at him properly, his grin widened. He lifted his brows, then pointed at you with two gloved fingers before pointing to himself.

You stared at him, confused despite yourself.

Dean rolled his eyes like you were being difficult on purpose.

Then, with the same confidence he seemed to bring to absolutely everything, he dragged one gloved finger across the fogged patch of glass between you.

NAME?

He underlined it.

Then looked back at you, eyes bright.

He tapped the glass once more, impatient and amused. “Come on,” he mouthed.

Then, because subtlety had clearly never been one of his strengths, he leaned closer to the glass and shouted loud enough for you to hear over the crowd.

“Don’t make me serve two minutes for nothing.”