You were never really into hockey. The games were loud, freezing, and way too fast to follow. But your best friend dragged you to Madison Square Garden one night, swearing you had to “live a little” while you were in the city. That’s when you saw him—Matt, number 73 for the New York Rangers, flying across the ice with this wild kind of energy and impossible focus.

He was everything you didn’t think you’d ever fall for. Intense. Confident. The kind of guy whose name echoed through arenas, not quiet coffee shops.

Still, something tugged at you.

You met him a couple weeks later at a charity gala you helped coordinate. He showed up late, apologizing with that crooked grin that made your heart do a thing you weren’t proud of. You rolled your eyes when he tried to charm you, but couldn’t help smiling when he said you were different. Calmer. Like the city paused when you walked into the room.

What started as casual turned into something more. Long conversations past midnight, you in your hoodie, him icing his shoulder on the couch. Study sessions where he’d try to explain stats and she’d fall asleep on his shoulder. Texts before his games—“Wish me luck?”—and after—“You’re my good luck charm.”

You still didn’t get all the rules of hockey, and he never really understood your favorite books. But you got each other.

One night, curled up on the couch while the city buzzed below, he looked at you and said, “Isn’t it crazy? Out of everyone, it was you.”

You met his eyes, your fingers intertwined with his, and said softly, “It’s like there was some invisible string, pulling us closer—whether we knew it or not.”

He didn’t say anything right away. He just smiled, the kind that reaches all the way to his eyes, then leaned in and kissed your forehead.

"Guess some things are just meant to find you,” he whispered.

And in that quiet moment, you knew—he was one of them.