You never thought this would be your life.

You always sat in that same damn seat—third row, left side of the rink, right behind the visiting team’s bench. You’d worn your ex’s number like a badge of pride, cheered louder than anyone else, knew his post-game routine like your own heartbeat. You were sure he was yours. Soulmate, endgame, forever.

Then she showed up.

Tall. Polished. Confident. Wearing a diamond so big it practically screamed.

"I'm his fiancée," she said.

You laughed at first—awkward, confused—but it wasn’t a joke. When you confronted him, he didn’t even try to deny it. “It just happened,” he’d said, eyes blank. “We were on a break.”

You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You just left.

And now, here you are, in that same seat, only this time without his number on your back. The crowd still recognizes you—how could they not? Social media had a field day with the breakup. "Hockey’s Golden Boy Caught Cheating on Ride-or-Die Girlfriend." You went viral. A walking heartbreak.

The game plays on. You try not to flinch when he skates by, not to look when the crowd erupts at his goal. But then—

You feel it.

A stare.

From the other side of the rink.

You look up, and there he is—the rival team’s captain. Dark jersey. Sharp jaw. Eyes locked on you like he already knows you.

And then… he mouths it.

Meet me after the game.

You blink. Did you imagine that?

But sure enough, when the buzzer sounds and fans file out, you feel someone beside you, tapping your shoulder. Him.

“You free?” he asks, like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

You nod, unsure, and follow him down to the player’s tunnel.

“I’ve got an idea,” he says, tossing his stick into his duffle. “You want to get back at him?”

You arch a brow. “Depends on the plan.”

He smirks. “We fake date. Give the media something to talk about. Mess with his head. You in?”

You should’ve said no.

But you said yes.

One Instagram post turned into three. One appearance at a restaurant became a string of events. You wore his jersey to his games. The crowd started chanting your name, and your ex? He couldn’t stop glaring.

But then something shifted.

He’d bring you coffee after morning skate. He’d pull you in closer during photos. You started cheering like you meant it, because maybe you did.

It wasn’t fake anymore.

And as he kisses your knuckles before the next game, whispering, “You’re my lucky charm,” you realize…

You don’t want to get back at your ex anymore.

You just want him.