You can’t hear anything over the sound of your heart pounding in your ears.

The whole arena is holding its breath, but all you can focus on is him—number 9, your boyfriend, your everything, standing alone on the ice, bent forward with his hands on his knees. The scoreboard above him is merciless. Final. Loud. A hundred screaming fans all around, and all you can see is him.

He skated his heart out tonight. You know that. You felt it in every sprint, every hit, every desperate shot. You could see it in the way he gritted his teeth when they missed a goal, in how he barked at his teammates to regroup, in the way his body looked like it might break from trying so hard not to fall apart.

And still… they lost.

The other team is celebrating—helmets off, gloves thrown in the air, players piling on each other with shouts and victory whoops that echo in your skull like static. But your eyes don’t leave him.

He hasn’t moved.

Not even when the final buzzer went off. Not even as his teammates patted him on the back, trying to say good try, when they all know that doesn’t mean a damn thing tonight.

You can barely breathe.

Your fingers are clenched around the edge of the seat in front of you, knuckles white. You want to run down there. Push through the glass, the rink, the people. Just to get to him. Just to say something. Anything.

But what are you even supposed to say when someone’s whole dream just died in front of them?

You see the moment it hits him. He takes off his helmet slowly, hands shaking. Runs a gloved hand through his sweat-matted hair. His jaw clenches hard enough that you can see it from where you sit. He blinks—once, twice—and you think he’s trying not to cry.

He never cries.

Not even when he got that injury last year. Not even when he missed your anniversary because of an away game and you’d cried into the phone. He’s never let himself fall apart in front of anyone.

But tonight, he looks like he might.