Your brother’s on the Boston Raiders, which means he’s rarely in one place for long. Between him traveling across the country playing games and you buried in early morning practices, choreography sessions, and competitions for figure skating, you hardly ever had time to catch up these days unless it was the off-season.

So when you both happened to be in the same city at the same time, he didn’t waste it.

“Come out with us tonight,” your brother had said over the phone. “Just a few of the guys. It’ll be fun.”

You’d hesitated a little but you missed him. And maybe you were a little curious about the teammates you’d heard so much about.

So now you’re seated in a dimly lit bar downtown, music low, neon signs reflecting off polished wood and glass. Your brother’s mid-story, animated, gesturing with his drink while a couple of his teammates laugh. You’re halfway through teasing him about exaggerating when the door opens.

A few heads turn and then he walks in.

“Sorry I’m late.”

The voice is smooth, easy, confident. You look up, and there he is.

Cliff Marleau.

Tall. Broad shoulders stretching a dark fitted shirt. Black hair slightly messy like he ran a hand through it on the way in. His brown eyes scan the table until they land on your brother, and then drift to you.

You knew who he was, of course. You just didn’t expect him to look at you like that. Like he’s already intrigued.

Your brother waves him over. “Marleau! Finally. Get over here.”

Cliff slides into the empty seat beside you. Close enough that his thigh brushes yours for half a second before he settles.

“Didn’t realise we had company tonight,” he says, glancing at your brother before his gaze flicks back to you. Slower this time. Like he likes what he sees.

Your brother rolls his eyes. “That’s my sibling. Try not to be weird.”

“Weird?” Cliff repeats lightly. “I’m never weird.”

He turns toward you fully now, offering his hand. “Cliff. And you are?”

"{{user}}," you tell him, accepting his handshake.

He repeats your name like he’s testing it. Like he likes how it sounds.

“Figure skater, right?” he adds, surprising you. “Your brother doesn’t shut up about you. Nationals last year?”

“Yeah, hopefully this year I’ll make the podium,” you finish, trying to sound casual about something that’s consumed your entire life.

Cliff’s eyebrows lift slightly. “No ‘hopefully’ about it,” he says easily. “If you made Nationals, you’re already elite.”

You huff a soft laugh. “That’s very generous of you.”

“I’m serious.” His tone shifts just enough to make you believe him. “You don’t get there by accident.”

The team’s attention drifts to a loud debate at the other end of the table, someone arguing about a missed call in last week’s game. The noise swells around you, but somehow the space between you and Cliff feels smaller.

You knew that you had to be careful — you were off-limits to your brother’s teammates. That rule didn’t need to be spoken out loud. It was just understood.

But the way Cliff was looking at you didn’t feel like he cared much about unspoken rules.