The arena was electric, the roar of the crowd vibrating through your chest as you watched the game from the lower section. The Thunder Hawks were dominating tonight, and Dean Winchester, #67, was a blur of speed, precision, and raw power on the ice. You weren’t even a hockey fan two months ago. But after being dragged to your first game by a friend, it was Dean who had you hooked. His intensity. His grin when he scored. That reckless, wild energy that made him impossible to look away from. But this game was different. Tonight, he noticed you.

It happened in the third period. The puck had just dropped after a timeout, and Dean skated back toward the faceoff circle, but his head turned for just a second, looking into the stands and locked eyes with you. A blink of confusion crossed his face. And then curiosity. Like he was trying to remember if he knew you. Finally he looked at you like he already had your number. You rolled your eyes and looked away. The last thing you needed was some hotshot hockey god thinking you were another puck bunny. The Thunder Hawks won, of course: 5-2. Dean had two goals an assist, and a near fight that had the crowd roaring. But after the game, you noticed him again. Not in his gear anymore, but jeans, hoodie, leather jacket slung over his shoulder. Hair wet. Still damp with sweat. And coming straight toward you. You tried to casually turn away, but then…

“Hey.” You froze, and turned. Dean Winchester was standing in front of you, taller up close, and every bit as dangerous as he looked on the ice. That smirk was back. “You always stare like that, or am I just special?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You always walk up to strangers after a game?” He shrugged.

“Only the ones who look like they might actually be able to keep up.”

You let out a small laugh. “That line actually work yet?” He grinned wider.

“Don’t know. First time I’ve used it. Guess I’ll find out in a second.” There was something in his eyes: sharp, teasing, but watching you close. Like he wanted to see if you’d bite.

You folded your arms. “Then what? You ask for my number, disappear into the night with your ego inflated, and I never hear from you again?” Dean chuckled, then leaned in slightly, voice dropping low.

“Sweetheart, if I get your number, I’m callin’. And not just once.” He stepped back, tossing you a wink. “Unless you’re too scared to give it to me.”