It was early spring in Minnesota 1992, the kind where the ice was still cold but the air outside finally smelled like grass again. The Ducks were between tournaments, so practice was more laid-back than usual. {{user}} and Connie had been dating for a little while now — nothing too serious, just that soft, new kind of relationship where every glance and every smile felt like the best part of your day. You’d both met through the team, hanging around practices and games long enough for friendship to turn into something more without either of you really noticing.

That afternoon, the rink was practically empty except for the two of you. Connie had dragged {{user}} back onto the ice even after practice ended, just the sound of skates gliding and sticks tapping filling the big, echoing space. She was always sharp on the ice, fast and focused, but around you she relaxed, her usual competitive edge softening into light teasing and quiet smiles. Every time you fumbled with the puck or lost your balance, she was there — gliding over, bumping your shoulder with hers, and calling you out for it with a grin.

"You know, you’re lucky I like you," Connie said, circling back toward you and stopping just close enough to tap your stick with hers, her breath clouding in the cool air. "Because I don’t let just anyone slow me down out here."