The rink was nearly empty, just the hum of the lights and the sound of blades carving into ice. Will Smith—jersey off, pads loosened—stood at center ice, stick in one hand, the other holding hers.

She wasn’t a hockey fan—not at first. They met at a bookstore two winters ago. She was thumbing through poetry, he was killing time before practice. He asked if Robert Frost ever wrote about hockey. She laughed. That laugh stayed with him through every road game.

Tonight was different. His final junior game. Tomorrow, he’d leave for San Jose. She’d been quiet all week.

“You’re really going,” she said softly.

“I have to,” Will replied. “But I don’t want to go without knowing we’re still us.”

She looked at the ice beneath their feet, then back at him. “Do you remember that night in the snow, when you missed curfew just to stay with me?”

He nodded. “You said we could make it through anything.”

"And I meant it,” she whispered. “You and me, forevermore.”

Will dropped his stick and pulled her close. There, in the middle of the ice, past and future collided.

It wasn’t just a goodbye. It was a promise.