Liam Williams POV:

The arena was colder than usual tonight. Not the kind of cold you brace against, but the kind that seeps into your joints like old bruises, settles in your bones, and sharpens your focus.

Breath fogged the air as he stepped onto the ice, blades carving clean across frozen ground that felt more like home than anywhere else.

The crowd roared above, a tidal wave of heat and noise he’d long since learned to block out. But just before the faceoff, something pulled at the edge of his focus. Amid the chaos, he caught a stillness. Off to the side, bundled in layers that didn’t seem to help against the rink’s bite, you sat clutching a notebook in gloved hands like it was armor. You weren’t cheering. You weren’t filming. Just… watching. Not like a fan. Like someone trying to disappear.

He shouldn’t have noticed. He didn’t notice people in the stands. Not when the game was on. But he did.

He shook it off. They played. They won. He barely remembered the scoreboard.

After the game, the hallway outside the locker room buzzed with post-match adrenaline. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The sharp scent of sweat and ice hung in the air. His jersey stuck damp to his skin, shoulder pads pressing against sore muscles. The concrete floor was slick under his skates, patches of slush spreading from the entry.

Then he saw you again.

Still there, near the locker entrance. Your friends chatted nearby, loud and unfazed, but you stood slightly apart. Notebook in hand, brow creased, like you weren’t sure if you should’ve left already.

He should’ve walked past. He never talked after games. But something about you tugged at him. Quiet. Persistent. Like Theo’s hand used to be when he needed to tell him something without words.

“You don’t look like the usual fan,” he said, voice low, the edges of fatigue rough in his throat. He didn’t expect a response.

You blinked, startled. Then, you hurriedly scribbled something and turned your notebook toward him.

“Sorry, I can’t talk. I’m mute.”

Just like that, everything shifted. His body, still humming from the game, went still. His shoulders loosened. His heart… skipped, then settled strangely warm in his chest.

He let the quiet stretch for a beat, then signed slowly, clearly.

“Do you sign?”

You blinked again, surprised. Then nodded, and after a pause, moved your hands.

“Yes. How do you know sign language?”

He smiled a little.

Then he signed again, fingers moving in a familiar rhythm. “My brother’s mute. It’s second nature for me.”

You didn’t look away. You didn’t fumble or retreat. You just watched like you were seeing all of him, past the jersey, past the captain, past the cold.

In that small space between noise and silence, under flickering lights and the faint echo of skates on tile, he felt seen in a way he hadn’t in years.

And as brief as this introduction was, he knew he’d be looking for you next game.