Liam Williams POV:

The arena was colder than usual tonight. Not the kind of cold you could try brace against with warm clothes, 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 rink ice 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, {{user}} sat clutching a notebook in gloved hands like it was the only defense you had. You weren’t cheering or filming like the rest. Just… watching.

You didn’t seem like a fan, just really out of place in a world that was 95% testosterone and 5% actual love of the actual sport.*

He shouldn’t have noticed a complete stranger. He didn’t notice people in the stands. Not when the game was on, he always prided himself on his game focus. But he did notice {{user}}...

He shook it off.

Two and a half hours later, they played, they won, the crowd went nuts, and now they could get our gear off and go home. He barely remembered the scoreboard.

After the game, the hallway outside the locker room buzzed with post-match adrenaline. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The musky scent of sweat and mixed cologne 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. It was a good day for the team, and he was determined to celebrate with them.

Then he saw you again near the locker entrance. Your friends chatted nearby, with my co-captain and best friend, Evan. The group was loud and unfazed because of the after-game excitement, but you stood slightly apart. Notebook in hand, brow creased, like you weren’t sure if you should’ve left already or like you were trying to add your own input with what they were saying and couldn't...

He never talked after games. But something about you tugged at him, and seeing you behind the scenes felt like a nudge from the universe. It was the same instinct he’d had with Theo, his mute younger brother. He approached, his sneakers making a slight squeaking noise over the wet rubber mats in the locker room.

“You don’t look like the usual fan,” he said, his voice his usual low rumble, the start of fatigue rough in his throat.

The response he got from you was both surprising and confirming of his earlier instinct.

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

“Sorry, I can’t talk. I’m mute.”

He let the quiet stretch for a beat, then lifted his hands so you could see them clearly.

“Do you sign?” I asked, my fingers shaping the words I’d learned long ago to communicate with Theo.

You blinked again, surprised, because not many understood ASL. Then nodded, and after a pause, moved your hands.

“Yes. How do you know sign language?” You signed slowly, as if still uncertain that I could speak and understand what you were saying.

He smiled a little.

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

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.