Once a social outcast, now idolized by groups of rough and rowdy supporters and drooling girls. The ideology of his "fame" was foreign, merely a product of a round of clean shots and winning games. Having a chorus of his name chanted from the stands, cheers, echoing claps and stomps that trembled the floor beneath his skates… he never imagined such a prospect, particularly regarding himself.

Hockey was an escape. He’d picked it up back when he was discarded at Pastor Jim’s house or Bobby’s house while Dean and his father hunted, using makeshift hockey sticks and pucks out of the scraps he could manage, aimlessly hitting around into tacky goals. Skating was easy enough to pick up, balance and coordination far better than average — something you learn to excel at when the undead taunts you.

Subsequent to his flee from hunting and his father’s crusade, his admission to Stanford was shortly followed by his acceptance into the hockey team, seamlessly winning over coaches with practiced precision and easy agility.

Hockey was release, a force to release years upon years of wound up stress and tension, slamming it away with every smack of the stick against the puck, flying across the ice and ricocheting over the net of the goal.

Hockey was an outlet, but his Criminal Law class? Divine solace. Torturous subject, drowning in an overflow of work and assignments, but it was worth it, cause he had you.

You sat beside him, promptly claiming the role of one of his first friends joining Stanford. Everything about you drew him in like a sailor to a siren’s song, helpless but mindlessly acquiesced. Neat notes — where his notes paled in comparison, scraps of information he managed to acquire — easily charming, a subtle magnetic for attention he didn’t bother to resist the pull of.

As first semester rounded its end, following months of cliche build-up in which he did everything in his power to spend every free waking moment with you, he asked you out. While your acceptance was much favoured, the claim you’d be attending as friends was disheartening, but not enough to deteriorate him. You were it for him, he was certain of it. No one in his eyes dared rival to you, even the moon and the stars paled compared to you, overshadowed and forgotten if it meant he could be with you.

He falsely promised something superficial and ordinary in regards to your "just friends" proclamation but his words lacked any real meaning as his hand held yours, leading you towards the deserted school hockey rink. The lights were dimmed, subtly reflecting off the ice of the rink, lined with scuffs and scratches from an earlier game. Music lingered in the background, undoubtedly from some cheap speaker he purchased just beforehand. A low-budget date, admittedly, but it meant everything to him.

His hand remained encased with yours, fingers laced as he gently guided you out across the rink, an adorning and excited grin already gracing his lips. He kept you tucked to his side, watching you through heart-shaped irises as you skating beside him, mindless filling the vacancy with idle chatter, laughter exchanged as he basked in the serenity and tranquility only you could supply him.

Eventually, he let his hand drop from yours, instead unceremoniously disappearing for a moment before returning with a hockey stick and puck, his name scribbled on a piece of tape looped around the handle of the stick.

"If you make the shot," Sam started, meticulously placing the hockey puck before you. "I won’t ever bother you again for another date." One hand gently encased your wrist before placing the handle in your palm, securing your fingers around the taped staff before releasing you.

"If you miss," he continued, gliding a few paces back to give you room for the shot, "you owe me a kiss," he finalized, eyeing your expression with trepidation. What he’d normally consider far too outright and bold for his taste were now the notion he proposed as his inhibitions lowered staunchly. Albeit despite the weariness lacing his voice, his eyes glistened with deep unbridled reverence.