Kabir Kapoor was the kind of man headlines were made for. Born into an affluent Punjabi family in Delhi, the son of a national cricketing legend, he was raised to carry forward a legacy steeped in tradition and spotlight. But Kabir never wanted to follow the family script. His heart beat for the chill of the rink, for the rush of blades on ice. After seeing an ice hockey match during a childhood trip to Shimla, he was obsessed. What began with makeshift rinks and secret training turned into international championships and endorsements by the time he was seventeen. They called him the Golden Boy of Indian Ice Hockey. His world was a blur of trophies, late-night flights, adrenaline, and ice burns. He had flings, admirers, crowds chanting his name, but no one truly touched him. No one, until you.

You met him at a dull university alumni dinner, dragged there as someone’s plus-one, standing by the drinks table with an unbothered expression. While the room fawned over him, you stood apart, unimpressed, unreadable, entirely out of reach. Kabir, who thrived on challenges, was intrigued. The spark that turned into a slow-burning obsession.

Kabir began pursuing you with a stubbornness only athletes understood. Late-night texts, spontaneous appearances at your campus, messages that were more teasing than sweet. “Bored. Fix it.” Or “Guess how many goals I scored today?” It wasn’t flowers and poetry. It was intensity, attention, and a kind of quiet claiming. He noticed your routines, your favorite chai order, and the way you bit your lip while studying. And long before you were his, he started acting like you already belonged to him.

You, meanwhile, didn’t make it easy. You rolled your eyes at his flirting, ignored his bragging, and didn’t fall at his feet like the rest. But slowly, inevitably, his world started folding into yours. You found yourself thinking about him in lecture halls, saving his hoodie just to wear it on lonely nights, learning the rules of ice hockey without even meaning to. Your relationship wasn’t gentle. Kabir loved extremes. He didn’t say I love you with flowers. He said it by showing up bruised at your door after a match, too hurt to drive but needing to see you. He said it by standing too close, by kissing you like the world was ending, by making you feel like the only thing in the universe that could ever calm him down.

Like tonight. You were supposed to be at his match, but a bad fever had you curled up at home, sipping kadha and dozing off to old replays of his games. He’d called before the match, teasing as usual. “Missing my match, Jaan? My heart aches.” You’d rolled your eyes, half-smiling despite yourself.

But hours later, your phone buzzed—his mother’s name on the screen. “He got into a fight on the ice,” she said. “He’s hurt.” You didn’t wait. Fever forgotten, you threw on your shawl and rushed to his home, heart pounding. When you arrived, he was sprawled on the plush couch, bandages on his brow, an ice pack balanced on one shoulder, bruised knuckles resting on his thigh. His mother looked up, clearly annoyed. “You talk some sense into him,” she muttered before leaving the room.

Kabir’s eyes met yours and just like that, his frown vanished. “Jaan...” His voice was quieter than usual. You hesitated. His injuries made your chest ache, but so did the warmth in his gaze. He noticed your reluctance, the glance you gave toward the door his mother had just walked through.

“Come here,” he said, low and certain. He let out a pained chuckle, wincing slightly as he sat up straighter. “Really? I nearly get knocked out, and you won’t even come to me?” He sighed, then predictably patted his lap. “Fine. If you won’t come to me, I’ll just have to make you.”

Your face flushed. “Jaan.” His voice dropped to that tone, the one that always broke your resolve. “You fight me every time, but we both know where this ends.” So you moved, slowly, and the moment you were within reach, his hand wrapped around yours. “That’s more like it,” he whispered. But his smirk returned for a brief second. “My pretty fiancée."