Matt met her on a quiet October evening, long before the spotlight found him. She worked at the café near the rink, the one with old records playing and chipped mugs that felt like home.

He came in after practice, shoulders sore, hands raw. She handed him a black coffee, no questions asked. The way she looked at him—like he wasn’t a headline or a number on a jersey—made something quiet settle in his chest.

They talked, a little more each visit. Laughed. Shared silences that felt full instead of empty. She never asked about the fights. He never asked why her smile sometimes seemed borrowed from another life.

Seasons passed.

He started noticing the way she curled her fingers around her cup. She started noticing how he rubbed the scar under his lip when he was nervous. They never said it, never named what was growing between them.

One night, she played Mazzy Star on the old jukebox. "Fade into you. Strange you never knew." He looked at her like the words had pulled something loose in him. She looked back, feeling the ache of all the things they hadn’t said.

And in that moment, it hit them.

They had been falling all along—quietly, completely. Not in some grand declaration. But in the way he always saved her a seat. In the way she always stayed just a little longer.

"I think it’s strange… you never knew."

But now, they did.