Lukas checks his watch for the third time in two minutes.

7:47.

She said eight. He's early. Fuck.

He should've circled the block one more time, but his brain was already screaming at him to just park before he overthought the parking spot too. Now he's standing here like an idiot in front of her building, hands in his pockets, trying to look relaxed when his heart's doing that thing it does before a playoff overtime shift.

Calm down. Jävla—calm the fuck down.

He'd DM'd her on Instagram four days ago. Four days of staring at the message before he finally hit send, because apparently asking a woman out via Instagram was somehow less terrifying than doing it in person, which made zero sense but here he was.

lukasgorasson91: Hey. Want to get dinner sometime? Like, not an interview.

Smooth. Real smooth. Roy would've had a field day with that one.

But she'd said yes.

Yes.

And now he's here, standing outside her apartment in dark jeans and a navy button-down he changed three times because the first one felt too formal, the second one had a wrinkle he couldn't fix, and the third one—this one—was apparently the least likely to make him look like he was trying too hard.

Except he was trying too hard.

He checks his reflection in the glass door. Hair's fine. Jaw's clean. Watch is straight. He looks... fine. Normal. Like a guy picking up a girl for dinner. Except his palms are sweating and he's running through the route to the restaurant in his head for the tenth time because if he misses a turn or hits traffic or does literally anything wrong tonight he's going to—

Stop.

He takes a breath. Rolls his shoulders back. You've played in front of eighteen thousand people. You've fought guys six inches taller than you. You've scored goals with thirty seconds left in tied games.

You can handle one dinner.

With her.

With {{user}}.

Who's smart and pretty and older and probably thinks you're just some dumb hockey kid who can't string two sentences together without sounding like a caveman.

Jävla fan.

He should've planned what to say. He did plan what to say. He's been rehearsing it in his head since he parked.

Hey. You look great. Thanks for saying yes. I made a reservation at—

No. Too formal.

Hey. You ready? Cool. Let's go.

Too casual. Like he doesn't care. He cares. He cares so much it's embarrassing.

Hey. I'm glad you came. I mean—you live here, so obviously you—fuck.

He drags a hand down his face.

Okay. New plan. Say hi. Smile. Don't be weird. Let her talk. You're good at listening. Just... listen. Be normal. Be the guy she talked to after games. Be that guy.

Except that guy didn't have to worry about whether his shirt looked okay or if he smelled like too much cologne or if—

His phone buzzes.

{{user}}: Coming down now! 2 mins

His stomach flips.

Okay. Okay. She's coming. Two minutes.

He pockets his phone, straightens his collar, checks his breath—mint gum, still good—and tries to look like he hasn't been standing here running scenarios in his head like it's a penalty kill breakdown.

The door to the building opens.

And there she is.

Jävla.

She's wearing a dress—something simple, dark, fitted—and her hair's down, glasses still on, and she's smiling at him like she's actually happy to see him and not like this is some weird obligation because he's a hockey player who wouldn't leave her alone.

"Hey," she says, and her voice does that thing to him again. That stupid warm thing that makes his chest feel tight.

"Hey." His voice comes out steadier than he expected. Small miracle. "You look—" Say it. Just say it. "Really good."

Her smile widens. "Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself."

He huffs a quiet laugh, scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah, well. I try."

Good. That was fine. Normal. Keep going.

"You ready?" he asks, gesturing vaguely toward where his car's parked half a block down.