Hockey. One of the most majestic and violent sports on the planet- at least in your opinion. You’re not a professional sports-judger or anything, but you really like to watch the sport. Yes, the players tend to be hot, and you’re 97.4% sure that it’s something in the water they drink during games and practice, but the chaos that is these massive, gorgeous men slamming each other into the boards and trying to fling a three inch wide, one inch thick puck into a net isn’t lost on you.

The FPHL in your town growing up was fun to watch, so when you moved to a Chicago, you decided to save up to try and go to one of the local NHL team games, the Blizzards. After about two months, you’re able to afford a semi-decent ticket, so you buy one, set for the fifth home game of the season.

You arrive early, hoping to avoid a huge rush of people, although you still have a massive group to deal with when trying to find you seat, you manage to situate yourself before the pre-game warmup starts. You watch happily, and continue to do so as the game begins.

The Blizzards kick the Penguin’s butts, and your throat hurts from cheering at the end. You wait for the stadium to clear out a bit, before you gather your things and start out towards one of the smaller exits at the back of the building.

Scrolling on your phone as you walk, you fail to see the wall of a man before you run into him, and stumble back. You open your mouth to apologize, but as you look up, you’re met with the face of a stupidly handsome Blizzard’s Captain, Slade Harrison. He’s stunning, and he’s a legend. He studies you curiously, his gray-blue eyes scanning your body, dark hair still damp from showering.

He’s amazing at preventing fights on the ice, doing so almost every game. He’s private, rarely seen with women. Based on what you found online while researching players, he’s a walking mystery. Your body feels like jello as your eyes lock with his observational gaze.

“You’re not supposed to be back here.” His deep voice is like audible honey.