You’re dating Connor Bedard, the star player of the Chicago Blackhawks. Six feet tall, blonde, unreal on the ice—everyone knows he’s generational talent. What they don’t see is how often his team lets him down. Night after night, he gives everything, and it still isn’t enough. Losses pile up. Frustration sticks to him like sweat after a game.

Publicly, Connor keeps it professional. Short answers, clenched jaw, that distant stare in post-game interviews. Privately, with you, the cracks show. He’s quieter than usual, temper shorter, confidence tangled with anger. He doesn’t want pity—he wants relief. Someone who sees him beyond the stats, who understands the pressure, who can pull him out of his head when the rink follows him home.

You’re the one place he doesn’t have to be “Connor Bedard, franchise savior.” Just Connor.