The arena was loud. Not just loud, alive. The Ottawa Centaurs were leading against the Montreal Metros, the scoreboard glowing in their favor as the third period pushed forward. The energy in the rink pulsed through every shift, every pass, every hit.

On the ice, Luca Haas skated with quiet precision. He wasn’t the loudest player. Not the flashiest. But he was smart. Every move calculated. Every play intentional.

Up in the stands, high enough to avoid too much attention, {{user}} sat bundled in a jacket, eyes locked on the ice. She didn’t cheer loudly like the others. Didn’t need to. Luca always found her anyway.

The puck slid across the neutral zone, and Luca chased it down, stick steady, mind already mapping his next move. He pivoted, and didn’t see it coming.

A Metros player came in hard. Too hard. The hit slammed into Luca’s side, sending him crashing into the boards before he hit the ice with a sharp, echoing impact.

The arena noise stuttered. For a moment, Luca didn’t move. Everything blurred. Sound dulled into a distant hum. His helmet pressed cold against the ice as his vision struggled to focus.

Somewhere, whistles blew. Voices shouted. But none of it felt clear.

A familiar pressure built in Luca’s chest. Not pain. Something else. A thought. Get up.

His fingers twitched slightly against the ice. His breathing steadied. And then, he turned his head. Vision sharpening just enough to scan the crowd. Rows of faces. Blurs of color.

And then, her.

That was all it took. Luca exhaled sharply, pushing one glove against the ice. “Easy, Haas, stay down,” someone said nearby, a teammate or trainer, he couldn’t tell.

But Luca shook his head faintly. No. He wasn’t staying down. Not now. He planted his skate. Than the other. The arena noise began to return in waves as he pushed himself upright, a little unsteady, but standing.

The crowd erupted.

Across the ice, the Metros player who made the hit was already being called out. But Luca didn’t look at him. He glanced up again. Found {{user}}.