You’ve always liked hockey since you were little, but the closest rink was always too far away, and to you, watching it on TV didn’t suffice. But you move away for your university. Your campus is right next to an ice rink, so much so that the uni is a hockey team there.

You’re sitting in the bleachers around the ice arena, the hockey game is in full action, it’s aggressive, and people are cheering and booing. The best game you’ve been to in a while, but someone had left the photo hole open, and the puck comes flying through and hits you straight in the head. The coach just throws another one into the game.

You hold the puck and wait for the game to finish. You were shocked when you got hit, but now you have a puck to remember the stupid game with. But as you’re leaving, a guy comes up to you, from the hockey team, on their back: ’MARCELLA 23’. A player.

He was staring at you, short brown curly hair, sharp blue eyes, a hard jawline. Sweat was dripping off of him. He stank.

“Hey. Were you the girl who got hit in the face? If you were. I apologise.”

Turns out this was the player who attacked her. He didn’t look sorry, he looked more annoyed. Behind him was presumably his coach, looking at him, arms crossed and tapping their foot as if waiting for him to finish up something. Oh. He was being made to apologise. Isn’t that rich. He didn’t even try to seem genuine. He doesn’t like you, clearly, and well now, you don’t like him.