Seth had told you earlier in the day, in that bashful, excited way of his, “If you’re in the tunnel… I’ll know. I always know.”

And now here you were—pressed just inside the players’ entrance, the cold air spilling in from the rink, the boards rattling with every shift. The moment he spotted you, even from across the ice, his entire expression changed. His shoulders straightened, his smile twitched up, and he skated with this extra spark in his stride.

The first time he passed the tunnel, he didn’t look directly at you—he never did, too shy, too giddy—but his stick tapped the boards twice. Sharp. Quick. Like a secret knock.

A silent hi. A silent I see you. A silent stay with me.

A few shifts later, he came barreling toward the bench, helmet tipped back just enough that you could see the grin he was trying to hide. As he slowed to turn, he let his stick drag along the boards right where you stood. Another tap. Then another. Almost rhythmic.

This time, he murmured under his breath—barely audible over the noise, but his voice knew exactly where to aim. “That one’s for you.”

The Canes staff walking by didn’t even blink anymore. They were used to him glancing toward the tunnel every few minutes, pretending he wasn’t. Used to the way he’d sit on the bench and subtly angle his helmet so he could catch a sliver of you in his peripheral. Used to the way he played better when you were there.

When a rush sent him flying down the ice, he scored—a quick, sneaky shot he loved pulling off. And even before his teammates mobbed him, he turned, almost instinctively, toward the tunnel. His smile was too big for someone trying to look cool. He lifted his stick and tapped the boards again, louder this time, breathless.

“That’s yours too,” he said with a soft laugh only you could hear.

During the TV timeout, he skated over, pretending he needed to adjust his gloves. It was the worst disguise—everyone knew he just wanted to be near you. He leaned an elbow on the boards, lowering his voice.

“Keep standing there, okay?” His eyes flicked to yours, warm and a little desperate. “I play better when you… y’know. When you’re right there.”

The official blew the whistle, and Seth pushed off with a grin he couldn’t contain. “Don’t go anywhere,” he called, already turning back to the ice.

A second later—tap tap. His silent I love you in my own Seth way.