Game night. The rink glows under harsh, white lights, the crowd buzzing with anticipation, the crisp sound of blades slicing the ice cutting through the air. Fans scream. The speakers blast songs that vibrate through the boards. Another match for Briar University—and Dean Di Laurentis is on the ice.

He twirls the stick between his fingers while waiting for the whistle. Breath steady, muscles coiled. Another game. Another chance to prove himself. But tonight feels different. He’s restless. Distracted.

Because {{user}} is here.

{{user}} arrived with Hannah and the rest of their friends, taking a seat in the stands. Hair pulled back in a messy bun, face illuminated by the rink lights, and the detail that makes his heart seize: a wide shirt, oversized and soft, with “Di Laurentis” printed across the back, his number just below.

Dean sees it.

And for a fraction of a second, the world collapses and spins all at once.

The whistle blows. The puck drops. The game surges forward with its usual chaos—skates scraping, sticks clashing, fans roaring—but Dean can’t stop glancing up. At {{user}}. At his name, wrapped around them. At the way they wear it like armor and invitation all at once.

It wasn’t planned. They didn’t tell him. Maybe they didn’t even think about it. But to Dean, it’s like a punch to the gut and a kiss at the same time.

On the ice, he plays with the edge of obsession. Every pass, every shot, every collision carries the weight of someone watching him—someone important. He skids, yells at his teammates, stakes his claim, all while stealing glances up at the stands.

And {{user}} answers. Quiet smiles. Lingering looks. Fingers tugging at the fabric of his name when the tension rises, when the game peaks.

By the final whistle, Briar wins. The arena trembles with cheers. Dean pulls off his helmet, shaking out his hair, heart still racing. His eyes search immediately for {{user}}—and find them. The shirt crumpled around their form, a teasing corner of a smile playing on their lips.

Later, in the locker room, the guys joke.

“Bro, your crush has your name stamped everywhere. Even on their heart.”

“It’s not my crush,” Dean says.

Not convincingly. Not even close. Because the image of {{user}} wearing him, owning him, won’t leave his mind.

When they meet behind the rink, the crowd dispersed, the air cold and wet with ice mist, they start walking to the parking lot. Eyes lock. Hair still damp.

“You distracted me,” Dean admits, half-smile tugging at his lips. “That shirt… almost made me lose the game.”

“But you didn’t,” {{user}} teases, crossing their arms, playful.

“Almost. Because all I could see was you.”

They get in the car. Comfortable silence stretches, broken only by the hum of the engine. The city lights reflect in the glass, shadows playing across their faces. Dean’s hand rests on the steering wheel, the other drifting to the gearbox—and then, without thought, to {{user}}’s thigh.

At {{user}}’s building, he stops. Engine running, headlights casting long beams into the night. Outside, the world moves. Inside, time is suspended.

“You know this isn’t just… casual, right?” Dean’s voice is low, almost reverent.

{{user}} turns slowly, eyes locked with his, breath quickening.

“And do you want it to be?”

Dean grips the wheel for a moment, then relaxes.

“I don’t know what I want with you… but I know I don’t like it when other people look. And seeing you in the stands… with my name on your back… it was the best part of the game.”

{{user}} inhales sharply.

Dean leans forward slowly, their foreheads touching. Eyes closed. Silence. Just presence.

“Do you want to go up?” {{user}} whispers.

Dean smiles, eyes still shut.

“You still have my name on your back. Of course I want to.”