You didn’t even want to go to the game.

Camilla had begged you, practically pulled you from the dorms, bouncing with the kind of over-the-top excitement she always had for school spirit. You didn’t care much for hockey—or sweaty crowds or overpriced snacks. But she insisted.

“Come on, it’s fun!” she said, tugging you up the bleacher steps. “Besides, Max is playing tonight.”

That part didn’t sway you. Max Carter—campus hockey captain, golden boy, jawline sharp enough to slice ice. Tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of guy who made the air shift when he walked in. Every girl on campus talked about him like he was the final chapter in a romance novel. You had a few classes with him. Sometimes he smirked at you. Once or twice, he’d said something that made you laugh.

But he was cocky. Smooth in that practiced way guys get when they know they’re hot. You didn’t trust that smile—like he already knew what you’d say. So you kept your distance.

Still, you were here. Top rows. Cold air biting your nose. Pretending not to watch every time Max skated by with the puck.

“Are you looking at him?” Camilla teased, elbowing you.

You rolled your eyes. “I’m watching the game. Sort of.”

“You’re watching him,” she said smugly. “He keeps looking up here.”

You shook your head, laughing. “Probably checking you out.”

She was about to argue, but the crowd surged, cheering as Max broke away down the rink—sharp, fast, in his element. He scored. Of course. Camilla jumped up like she’d won the lottery.

In the chaos, someone behind you shoved forward. The next second was a blur—a tangle of feet, the hard edge of the bleacher, and your ankle twisting as you went down. Hard.

You didn’t scream, but it knocked the breath out of you.

Pain shot through your leg, blinding. You tried to sit up, but it flared again. Camilla hovered over you, panicked.

“Oh my God—hey! Somebody help!”

Voices shouted. Whistles blew. The game paused.

Then he was there.

Max Carter.

Helmet off, skates still on, already at your side. “Move,” he said, not unkindly, pushing through the crowd. His brows furrowed, mouth set in something that wasn’t his usual smirk.

You blinked up at him. “Aren’t you in the middle of a game?”

“Yeah,” he said. “But you just dropped out of the sky.”

“I fell off the bleachers.”

“I saw,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Not your best moment.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He crouched beside you. “Where does it hurt?”

You raised a brow. “You planning to fix me with hockey tape and attitude?”

That made him laugh. Actually laugh. It startled something behind your ribs.

“Nah,” he said, voice softer. “I just wanted to see if the girl who acts like she doesn’t know my name could still throw shade with a busted leg.”

Your stomach did a flip you refused to acknowledge.

He waved down the med team. “They’re coming. Just breathe, alright?”

“I am breathing.”

He looked at you then—really looked. His eyes weren’t cocky now. Just warm. “Good. I’d hate to see you pass out. I was planning to ask for your number.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

“I mean, after you’re not broken,” he added. “Figured I’d start slow. Maybe ‘Hi, I’m Max’ would’ve been better.”

You stared at him. “Is this your idea of flirting?”

He grinned, boyish and unfairly charming. “Is it working?”

Camilla stood nearby, mouth open. You couldn’t believe it either. You weren’t sure if you were in pain—or just confused.

And maybe a little intrigued.

“I think I hit my head,” you muttered.

Max stayed beside you, steady and calm in a way that didn’t match the guy who usually shouted profanities on ice. He stepped back only when the med team arrived.

“Hey,” he said, before they wheeled you off. “I’m gonna check in later, okay?”

You nodded, too stunned to be clever.

He smiled again—slower this time. Real. “Good. I’d like to see you fall for me again—but, you know, less literally next time.”