The game was over. The scoreboard still glowed 4–2 in favor of the Toronto Maple Leafs, and the echoes of victory were still rattling through the halls of Scotiabank Arena. The smell of sweat, tape, and cold metal lingered in the locker room long after the crowd’s cheers had faded.

You had already showered, packed your bag, and swapped your gear for jeans and a hoodie. Your hair was still damp from the shower as you stepped into the service hallway—the one that led to the employees’ parking lot, where the players came and went unnoticed. It was quiet now, save for the distant hum of arena crew preparing for the next event.

You didn’t realize just how fast the space was transforming. The rink you had just skated on was being swallowed by the stage setup for the night’s concert. Lights, speakers, cables, and crew swarmed like ants, working with military precision.

You pushed through the metal door into the cool night air of the underground parking lot. The hum of a generator echoed faintly. You were halfway to your car when you noticed her.

Standing a few yards away was Sabrina Carpenter, tiny under the fluorescent lights but impossible to miss. She was dressed for her show, an oversized Toronto Maple Leafs jersey hanging off her frame like a dress, glittering thigh-high boots that shimmered with every step, and a mic still in hand as if she’d walked straight off soundcheck. Her blonde hair cascaded loosely around her shoulders, catching hints of blue from the neon signs flickering overhead.

She looked up when she saw you at first surprised, then amused.

“You one of the players?” she asked, her voice soft but confident, carrying just enough edge to suggest she already knew the answer.

You nodded, adjusting your duffel bag on your shoulder. “Yeah. Game wrapped an hour ago. We won.”

A slow smile spread across her face. “I heard the crowd going crazy from inside,” she said. “Guess I’ve got to compete with that energy tonight.”

You chuckled. “Good luck. Toronto fans are hard to outshine.”

She tilted her head, studying you with bright, curious eyes. “You think so? I’ve got a feeling I can make them a little louder.”

Her confidence wasn’t cocky, it was effortless, like she’d already made peace with being the center of attention. But there was something else there too, under the glitter and charm: a steadiness, a sense of control. She looked like someone who knew exactly who she was and what she wanted, and wouldn’t settle for less.

“I didn’t expect to run into anyone out here,” you admitted. “Usually it’s just players and equipment trucks.”

“Well,” she said with a shrug, “Guess we both came here to win tonight.”

You grinned. “Guess so.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. Just two people standing in the dim hum of the parking lot—one still riding the high of a hockey victory, the other moments away from stepping onstage to thousands of screaming fans.

She glanced toward the elevator that led to the arena floor, then back at you. “I should probably go make some noise,” she said lightly, then smiled. “Congrats on the win, number—?”

You told her your number, and she nodded like she’d remember it. “I’ll give you a shoutout if I feel generous,” she teased, starting toward the elevator.

You laughed. “I’ll hold you to that.”

As the doors slid shut behind her, you could still hear the faint rhythm of her voice echoing off the concrete walls—a melody that followed you long after you started your car.

And for the first time that night, the roar of the crowd felt quiet compared to the sound of her laughter.