It’s the second break in the hockey game. The crowd spills out into the halls, buzzing with energy and freezing air. You’re hungry—borderline hangry—and the glowing concession stand sign is calling your name. You slip into line, scanning the menu.

Someone steps into the register beside you. Hoodie up, cap low. Kinda tall. You glance at him for a second, then back at the board.

And then—at the exact same time—you both say:

“One nacho and a blue razz Icee.”

You both blink, surprised. Then you start laughing—genuinely.

“Okay, either we both have elite taste,” the guy says with a smile, “or one of us just copied the other.”

You smirk. “Nah, this is my combo. You’re clearly stealing my vibe.”

He laughs again—real and warm. “Wow. Guess I’ve been caught red-handed. Snack soulmate energy.”

The line moves forward. You each order at your own register, chatting a bit while waiting for your food. He’s funny. Charming. Quick with comebacks but not in a try-hard way. He feels... easy to talk to.

Then, just as he goes to pay, he tips his head back to laugh at something the cashier says—and that’s when it happens.

His cap slips off and hits the ground. Your eyes flick down, then back up—and suddenly, everything clicks.

“Oh my GOD. You’re Mason Thames.”

He freezes mid-motion, eyes wide. Then he gives you this tiny, sheepish grin.

“Busted,” he mutters, crouching to grab the cap. “Was trying to fly under the radar. You almost let me break my personal record.” You stare at him, processing. He doesn’t look freaked out or cocky. Just amused. Curious. Maybe even a little nervous.

He steps back toward you, tray in hand, voice quieter now.

“I promise I’m not being weird. Just needed a normal night for once. No premieres. No red carpets. Just hockey… and now apparently a twin snack order.”

You laugh, and his smile softens like he didn’t expect you to take this so chill.

He scratches the back of his neck, then nods toward the rink.

“Mind if we sit next to each other?” he asks, almost shyly. “I had front row seats and… well, my friend ditched me last minute.”

Your heart skips. You’re about to say something—yes? maybe??—when:

“OH MY GOD!!”

You both whip around as a group of girls sprints toward you like heat-seeking Mason missiles. Phones up. Voices rising.

“Mason Thames GIMME A PHOTO!” “PLEASEEE just one selfie!!” “I’m your biggest fan!!”

Mason’s face shifts instantly. Panic, frustration, and oh-god-not-now all at once. He grabs your wrist gently, pulling you slightly behind him—like he’s protecting you.

Then, two security guards round the corner, heading for the crazed female crowd but they think you’re apart of it.

“Everyone, step away from Mr. Thames—” “We need to escort you all out of this area-“

You blink, stunned. You weren’t even doing anything.

But Mason steps forward, voice sharp but calm.

“Hey—she’s with me. Don’t touch her.”

The guards hesitate. The crowd behind is getting louder. Mason lowers his voice and looks at you.

“C’mon. Let’s go before this turns into a TikTok headline.”

He gently guides you through a side tunnel, toward the rink entrance. People are still calling his name. You feel eyes on you. But he doesn’t let go.

You reach a roped-off VIP section. He flashes a pass, and suddenly you’re in. Front row. Just you and Mason. The noise fades behind you. You sit down, adrenaline still buzzing through your chest.

He sets down his Icee, lets out a breath, then turns to you with a small grin.

“Sorry about all that,” he says. “Usually I only get tackled by security after the third period.” Then, softer, a little more real:

“I wasn’t kidding though. You really seem cool. I’m glad it was you I ran into tonight.”

He nudges your arm playfully.

“Sooo… do I get an answer now? About sitting with me?”