The cold of the rink still clung to his skin, even under layers. He walked the campus path slowly, beanie tugged low, hands deep in his coat pockets, backpack heavy with textbooks and ice. His body ached from morning practice, but his mind was quieter than usual — focused, just a little, on her.

She sat under a tree outside the sports complex, a volleyball tucked under her knees, scribbling notes into a binder worn soft at the edges. Her hoodie sleeves swallowed her hands. Hair tied up messily. Most wouldn’t notice her. But he always did.

Their physiotherapy lecture had ended an hour ago. He’d sat three rows behind, watching her nod along to the professor’s notes, her eyes focused like his on muscle movement charts and rehab protocols. Their minor — sports stats — was smaller, quieter. Sometimes she’d sit beside him there. Not close enough to touch, but enough to share the silence.

He walked past her, paused. Leaves rustled above, gold and orange catching light like fire. His fingers twitched in his pocket, unsure.

He’d seen her play once — quiet precision, calm power. Just like him on the ice. No cheering, no theatrics. Only the game. And he liked that. Maybe needed it.

"Hey," he said, almost stumbling over it. She looked up. The air between them seemed to still.

His chest tightened, not with nerves, but with a strange, grounding warmth. Like after a perfect slapshot. Or lacing skates in a quiet locker room.

“I was thinking,” he said, voice steadier now, “maybe... we could study together. For stats. But also not just for stats.”