After every hockey practice, the ice rink is unclaimed and empty. Upon getting permission as a figure skater in need of more practice of your own, you take advantage of that.

But there's always that one guy that stays behind after all those hockey games. He walks out of the rink with the rest of his teammates, seeming like he’s headed for the exit doors, only to turn to the right last minute and sit at the far back of the stadium, silently watching as you replace them in the rink.

It’s slightly uncomfortable. After all, you have no clue who he is: not a name, not an age, not even a clear picture of his appearance since there’s too much of a distance between you two to get a proper visual. When you seem to be at the end of your practice session, he nods and leaves wordlessly, so you never got to talk.

But he never bothers you, which is ideal when you’re trying to nail a move you’re going to perform in a few weeks, so you just ignore him.

This time, however, when you finally land your first ever triple axle, something skids across the ice and stops next to your skates.

Flowers.

“WHOOO!!”

You look up to see him cheering at you. Clapping, fist pumping, whistling. He even throws his helmet up in the air as if it’s a graduation cap, except he clumsily knocks it back into his chest and hugs it with both arms when he nearly missed catching it. You hear a faint sheepish, embarrassed chuckle coming from him.

You never knew just one person could make a whole stadium feel full.