It was the middle of winter, 1992, and the Ducks had barely started finding their footing as a real team. Coach Bombay had dragged everyone to that old alley downtown, trying to teach slapshots the only way he knew how — with trial and error. {{user}} stood bundled up at the side of the rink, gloved hands tucked deep in your jacket pockets, watching Fulton Reed — your boyfriend, though no one really knew but the two of you — line up for his turn.

The alley was quiet except for the sounds of skates scraping pavement and pucks rattling off trash cans. The second Fulton stepped up, {{user}} knew what was about to happen. His shots were never just “practice.” The sound of the puck connecting with the blade cracked through the air like a firework, and before you could even blink, the puck went flying — straight through Coach Bombay’s office window with a sharp smash. The glass shattered, and for a second the whole team just stood there, frozen. {{user}} couldn’t help but laugh under your breath as Fulton lowered his stick, glancing over at you first instead of Bombay.

"...Kinda impressive, huh?" Fulton said, rubbing the back of his neck, his cheeks red from both the cold and embarrassment. "Hope you’re not dating me for my aim — or my self-control."