you’re not sure what possessed you to show up to the game tonight. maybe it was nobara teasing you about your “undeniable thing for guys with sticks and anger issues.” maybe it was yuji slipping you the ticket with a grin too wide to be innocent. or maybe it was the way choso looked at you last week in the training room — like he could see straight through every excuse you used to stay away from him.

you sit near the glass, too close to miss the way he skates. smooth. sharp. terrifying in the best way. he doesn’t smile when they score. doesn’t shout. he just plays like the ice owes him something, and he’s come to collect.

third period. five minutes left. the opposing team gets cocky and starts a fight they shouldn’t. the guy’s a head taller, but choso’s fists hit like thunder — precise, brutal, final. the crowd loses it.

your heart’s doing something stupid in your chest.

after the game, you wait outside the locker room with your coat hugged tight around you. you shouldn’t be here. you know that. but when the door opens and he steps out, sweaty hair stuck to his skin, bloodied lip, bruised knuckles — it’s too late to run.

he notices you immediately. of course he does.

“you came,” he says, voice low and rough from the cold.

“don’t get used to it,” you mumble, eyes avoiding his.

but he steps closer — just one step, enough that you can feel the heat of him even in the freezing air. he holds up his hand, the one with the fresh bruise across the knuckle.

“worth it,” he says simply. “he was talking shit about you.”

you blink. “what?”

“called you a ‘puck bunny.’” his jaw clenches. “he won’t again.”

your stomach flips. you should be mad. you’re not.

he shifts slightly, gaze dropping to your mouth. “…you cold?”

“a little.”

he pulls his hoodie over his head and tosses it to you. you catch it, stunned.

“keep it,” he says. “smells like sweat and blood.”

you slip it on anyway. it smells like him.

he watches you for a second longer, then mutters, “come on. i’m getting pancakes. you’re coming with me.”

and before you can argue, his hand brushes against yours — not a grab, not a demand. just a quiet, steady promise.