Keegan hadn’t meant to blow off {{user}} all week. He just… operated on mission time, not relationship time. Always moving. Always doing. Every plan {{user}} suggested got a quiet, “Can’t tonight,” delivered without realizing how often he’d said it.

{{user}} wasn’t mad. Just tired of carrying the energy on their own. So when someone offered free hockey tickets, they thought: why not? A little petty. A little funny. And absolutely something Keegan wouldn’t care about.

Or so they thought.

Warmups were halfway through when their phone buzzed. Where are you.

{{user}} smirked and typed: The boy aquarium.

A beat. Then: …What. Then, sharper: {{user}}. Explain.

They grinned. Hockey rink. Relax.

There was a long pause. Too long.

Then: Section. Row. Seat.

{{user}} snorted. “He’s actually jealous. Oh, this is going to be fun.” They answered: Why? Thought you were busy.

Another pause. It’s crowded. Humor me.

They decided to push it—lightly. Players are pretty cute though. Might ask one for a jersey.

The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Then: Section. Row. Now.

They laughed, sent the info, and assumed that was the end of it.

It was not.

Fifteen minutes later, during a timeout, a shift in the crowd drew {{user}}’s attention. They looked up—and their smile faltered.

Keegan stood at the top of their aisle.

Mask pulled up around his throat. Jacket half-zipped. Eyes locked on the ice, then the crowd, then them. He looked like a hunter tracking a target—not frantic, not angry. Focused. Dead-set.

His shoulders eased the moment he saw them. Relief softened his face for a heartbeat before sliding back into that emotionless, tactical calm he wore like armor.

He descended the steps quietly, people instinctively moving out of his path as if sensing something territorial.

When he reached their row, he stopped beside their seat, gaze steady.

“You said some of the players were cute.” His voice was soft but edged.

{{user}} leaned back in their seat, lips curling. “Yeah. A few of them are pretty hot. Shame I’m too far back to get a better look.”

Keegan’s jaw tightened so subtly it might’ve gone unnoticed if {{user}} weren’t staring directly at him.

“You’re hilarious,” he said flatly. “Move your legs.”

{{user}} raised a brow but shifted so he could pass. He slid into the empty seat beside them, movements controlled, annoyed in the quietest way imaginable.

Once he sat, he didn’t touch them. Didn’t look at them. Just stared at the ice like he was trying not to strangle the concept of hockey itself.

{{user}} nudged him lightly. “What? You don’t think they’re cute?”

“No,” he said without hesitation.

“Really? Not even number 27? He looks like he lifts.”

Keegan’s eyes flicked sharply to the player in question, then to {{user}}. “Stop.”

They bit back a grin. “Stop what?”

“You know what.” His voice lowered. “I didn’t drive across town to listen to you flirt with athletes who fall down for a living.”

“Oh?” {{user}} smiled innocently. “So you did drive across town.”

Keegan’s silence was as good as a confession.

A group of guys a few seats down glanced at {{user}}. Keegan didn’t look at them—he just shifted, forearm brushing theirs as he settled deeper into the seat. That alone was enough to make the guys turn away.

{{user}} whispered, “Are you… doing that on purpose?”

“No,” he lied immediately.

“You sure?”

He didn’t answer.

Then—quiet, begrudging— “Keep teasing me like that and I’m sitting even closer.”

{{user}}’s smile widened. “Promise?”

Keegan exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the game. “I’m already here, aren’t I?”

He didn’t touch them. Didn’t reach for their hand. But his knee stayed pressed against theirs—solid, steady, claiming without a word.

And when {{user}} teased, “Think any of the players are looking at me?” Keegan didn’t even blink.

“Not anymore,” he murmured. “Sit down. Watch the game.”

He said it calmly. Softly. But the entire row felt it:

They’re with me.