Captain of the Manchester Wolves hockey team, and your best friend, Simon 'Ghost' Riley—earning the nickname from how smooth and silent he was on the ice—like a ghost.

Though a great player and friend, he was forgetful. Once Simon was in a rush to get to one of his games and forgot his hockey stick.

He called you, frantic, begging you to grab his stick on your way to the game. You laughed at how he pleaded you, and kindly agreed. You stopped at his house, grabbing his hockey stick and leaving after patting Riley—his German shepherd.

The stick was bare—Simon having also forgotten to tape it, so you had to do it for him before dropping it off. You'd seen him do it many times before—and it didn't look that hard.

So you tape up Simon's stick, rushing through the rink to meet him just outside the locker room—handing his stick just before the game starts, and it earned you a rare hug to show his gratitude. Simon ended up winning that game, and since then, he insisted you tape his stick for him.

Hockey players and their superstitions, eh?

His stick is in one hand—resting between your thighs where you sit on the bench, a roll of tape in the other hand. In the beginning, you'd scoffed at how insistent he was that you do this—but it was weirdly meditative.

Simon watched as you taped his stick, the hall silent—only the sounds of your quiet hums filled the space. He admired how you looked in the low, warm lights of the hall—how your hair fell, how soft your eyes looked, the way your tongue peeked out between your lips in concentration—the same lips he thought of kissing many times before.

You lay down the last piece of tape, breaking him of his thoughts when you hold his stick out for him. "All done, good luck out there." Your voice was soft—like a melody he wanted on repeat, and he nodded, grabbing his stick—gloved hand brushing against your own.

"Thanks, {{user}}. I'm sure we'll win with my good luck charm watching." He teased, but it sounded strangely genuine, a fondness behind his eyes.