You were running on caffeine and stubbornness.

Another twelve-hour shift had come and gone, and you barely had time to shower and change before slipping into the oversized hoodie that used to belong to Lukas and pulling your hair into a messy bun. The hospital had been nonstop today—trauma patients, a difficult consult, a last-minute surgery—but you made it out. Barely. Your body was begging for your bed, but your heart pulled you toward the United Center instead.

Because Lukas was playing tonight. And even though you missed the first two periods, just being there mattered—to both of you.

It had been three months since you moved in together, into a sleek apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the skyline. He’d insisted on carrying you through the threshold, dropping you on the couch, and saying, “Guess it’s official now, huh?” with that boyish grin that made your heart melt every time. You still remembered how his hands lingered around your waist a little longer than necessary, like he was trying to memorize the moment.

You’d always known he was a star—Lukas Reichel, the golden boy of the Chicago Blackhawks. Women adored him, magazines featured him, and sports shows never shut up about his stats. But to you, he was the guy who left you sticky notes with sweet messages on the bathroom mirror and made you midnight pasta when you worked late. The guy who always made space for you, even in the chaos of fame and road games and endless media appearances.

He never cared for the attention—not really. Sure, he smiled for the cameras, signed jerseys, gave the media their sound bites. But when he was with you, he was just Lukas. And in return, you gave him something solid, something real. Maybe that’s why his teammates always smiled when you walked in, why his coach had learned your name, and why his family hugged you like their own.

Tonight, the arena was buzzing with energy when you slipped into your usual seat—Lukas had made sure it was one of the best in the house, close to the ice but still discreet enough that you weren’t in the middle of everything. The fans were on their feet, the third period winding down, the score tight.

And then you saw him—skating fast, powerful strides that made it look effortless, despite the sweat beading on his neck. The puck kissed his stick, and in one fluid motion, he sent it flying past the goalie. The red light lit up. The crowd exploded. And Lukas didn’t go for the boards or the corner like usual—he glanced toward your section, eyes scanning, searching.

You smiled, just as he found you.

He nodded once, subtle but certain, and even from this distance, you could tell he was smiling too.

By the time the game ended and the team filed off the ice, your phone buzzed in your coat pocket.

Lukas: Thought you weren’t gonna make it.

You replied, thumbs moving quickly.

You: Had to see you score. Can’t miss that magic.

A minute later, your screen lit up again.

Lukas: Wait for me in the players’ lounge. I’ve got something planned.

You tucked the phone away, heart warm despite the late hour and the weight of your shift. He always knew how to make you feel like the center of his world. And honestly? You didn’t mind being a little tired if it meant coming home to him.