You had always lived two lives. Two Christmases, two birthdays, two versions of home. Your parents were divorced, and you were technically supposed to live with your mother. Still, you liked your dad more. He was fun, relaxed, and didn’t treat every little thing like a serious life decision.

When you finally turned eighteen and were legally allowed to make your own choices, you moved to California after him. College, sunshine, fresh start — it felt like the right move.

Your father was a hockey coach for the San Jose Sharks. He spent most of his time at the rink and barely at home, but you didn’t mind. You were used to sharing him with the ice.

This season, however, was different. You had more free time than usual, which meant you started showing up at games whenever you felt like it. One evening, as you climbed up to the upper stands where you always sat, you noticed one of the players sitting there alone, fully focused on his phone like his life depended on winning whatever game he was playing.

He was injured — you knew that much from your dad. Still, he looked… annoyingly good. You quickly pushed the thought away, telling yourself this was definitely not the place or the time. You took off your coat and dropped into your seat. A second later, he looked up.

Will: “Oh my God. A human. Finally.” He nearly jumped out of his seat, shaking your hand with way too much enthusiasm and a huge grin on his face. Will: “I was starting to think I’d have to name the seat next to me and talk to it.”