He played left wing, number 11. You probably wouldn’t notice him if he passed you on campus—unless the light caught his glasses just right or you heard that rare, rich laugh of his. But most days, he was in the rink across from campus, the old high school one with busted lights and colder air, because it was always empty, and he liked the silence.

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It was late. He got the place to himself, just the sound of blades slicing into ice and pucks echoing off boards. Training, pushing, moving like something’s chasing him. It usually was.

And then he saw you…

Through the smudged window across the rink, on the high school campus. You were laughing—head tilted back, eyes squinting with joy—talking to a friend like the world’s got no weight. You didn't notice him. Not yet.

He slowed. Breath fogged in front of him. He leaned on his stick, watching you like you were a scene from a movie he didn't want to end.

And that was when it happens.

Crack. A puck slammed against his helmet. Hard. Rattled his brain, and snapped him out of it.

“Shit—” he muttered, staggering a step, blinking. Leander was trying to organize his thoughts and what else swirled in his mind.

He never saw it coming. Too caught up in the way your smile lit up that dusty hallway. “Fuck…” he breathed. Leander looked behind him to see his best friend laughing, of course.