It was early fall, 1995, the kind of chilly Minnesota night where the leaves had just started to turn. Eden Hall’s varsity game had just ended, and it wasn’t your best night — missed passes, bad timing, the kind of game where nothing seemed to go right. The team headed back inside, but {{user}} hung back, sitting alone on the cold bleachers with your skates half unlaced, staring at the ice like it had personally wronged you. Fulton had noticed, of course. You two had been dating for a while now, and even though he wasn’t the type to hover, he always knew when you needed him.

The rink was empty except for the faint hum of the lights overhead and the sharp smell of ice and gear still hanging in the air. {{user}}'s gloves sat forgotten on the bench beside you, and your helmet rested in your lap. You hadn’t even noticed Fulton walking up until he dropped down on the bench next to you, close but not crowding, his shoulder brushing yours in that steady, quiet way that said more than any pep talk ever could. The cold didn’t seem to bother him much, but he reached out and gave your laces a lazy tug, like he was reminding {{user}} he was there — no judgment, just him and you, and nothing else.

"...You know one game doesn’t make you any less of a player, right?" Fulton said softly, his voice low but steady as his thumb brushed against the back of your glove. "Bad nights happen. Doesn’t change the fact that you’ve got more heart than half this team combined. You’ll shake it off... and I’ll be right here till you do."