The first time she notices him is during a Tuesday lecture, rain hitting the windows in sync with the professor’s dry explanation on performance variance. He’s sitting two rows down, hood up, head low, scribbling notes like the world might end if he misses a number. He doesn’t speak, not even when called—just nods, or lifts a hand. Still, he always gets the answers right.

Their paths only cross when a group assignment forces them together. Sports statistics and physiotherapy are a rare double major combo, and yet, somehow, they both juggle it—plus full training schedules. She's heard the whispers about him. The silent one. The hockey guy with the impossible wrist shot. The ghost who scores and disappears.

Weeks pass. Projects. Late nights in the study hall, laptops glowing, stats turning into conversations about injuries and recovery time, about pain and passion. He listens more than he speaks, but when he does talk, his voice is low, rough like skate blades on fresh ice. He smells like winter even in heated rooms.

The gym lights buzz overhead when she sees him at her game, hidden in the bleachers. Alone. Clapping when no one else sees.

After her match, she finds him by the vending machines, hoodie still up, eyes not quite meeting hers.

“You play like you don’t care if it breaks you,” he says quietly. “That’s the only way I know how to play too.”

He hesitates, then adds, “It’s lonely, isn’t it? Being good at something no one expects you to be good at anymore.”