She stood near the barricade, shifting on her feet to keep warm. The February chill bit at her fingers, but she hardly noticed. Her heartbeat hadn’t settled since the final minutes of the third period, and standing here now, waiting, did nothing to slow it. The worn program in her hands crinkled slightly as she fidgeted with its edges, tracing over the bold gold lettering of the Bruins logo.

Around her, a handful of other fans lingered—some clutching jerseys, others checking their phones, waiting. A couple of kids bounced on their toes, their excitement barely contained as they clutched sharpies in gloved hands. A few voices murmured in hushed tones, recounting moments from the game, whispering hopeful speculations about how long it would take before any of the players came out. Then, movement from the tunnel.

A group of players emerged, still dressed in their warm-up gear, their hair damp, their post-game adrenaline settling into exhaustion. Some walked past with quick nods and tired smiles, disappearing toward the parking lot. Then, he appeared.

He still had that lightness in his step, the kind that made everything he did seem effortless. His beanie was pulled low over his ears, stray strands of damp hair curling at the edges. His black and gold jacket was zipped up halfway, the fabric slightly crinkled where he had likely shoved his gloves into the pockets. His grin was easy, the same one he had flashed after every big save, the same one that made the tension of the game feel a little lighter.

Her fingers tightened around the program, the crinkling sound lost beneath the murmurs around her. The air felt sharper, heavier. And then—he slowed.

He was close enough now that the weight of his presence was unmistakable. Close enough that she could see the lingering flush on his face, the exhaustion tucked behind his smile. Close enough that, if she spoke, he would hear her.

So she did.