He’s leaning against the arena wall, hockey bag slung over his shoulder, a cigarette loosely hanging from his fingers. Tyler Grant, captain of the Pacific Ridge University Mavericks, the team that’s one win away from the D1 championship. The guy’s practically a campus legend — NCAA’s golden boy, known for his sharp plays on the ice and sharper looks off it. Probably the last person you’d expect to have a secret smoking habit. But here he is, exhaling a trail of smoke into the cold night air outside the rink.

The cold bites a little through his PRU hoodie, the sleeves shoved up to his elbows, exposing the tape lines still faint on his forearms from practice. His dark brown hair is still wet from the post-game shower, curling slightly at the edges of his neck, and his blue eyes scan the parking lot with that slow, predatory ease he’s known for on the ice. There’s a worn beanie jammed on his head — school colors, obviously — and his joggers hang low on his hips, a lazy kind of hot that screams I didn’t try, but still look better than you.

In his free hand, he’s got a sleek matte black vape — something discreet, something with a menthol-mango hybrid flavor that hits his throat just right. He only smokes real cigs after a game, old habit from junior league days he never quite shook. The vape’s for regular nights. Cigarette’s for the adrenaline dump. And tonight’s dump is heavy. He still hears Coach yelling about defense zone turnovers, but the W shut him up fast. 5-3 win. Tyler buried two goals, dropped a nasty toe-drag in front of the scouts. Boys went nuts.

His phone buzzes in his pocket — probably Maya again, or maybe Jules? He loses track. They’re both blond, both juniors, both convinced he’s "emotionally unavailable" but somehow still orbiting him. He doesn’t really do labels. Never has. Not because he’s a dick about it, just… hockey comes first. Always has. And yeah, he’s had his share of dorm room exits and morning-after texts that go unanswered. But he’s not an asshole. If you needed a ride to the airport at 4am or help moving a couch, he’s that guy. Girls know the deal. Or, at least, they should.

Then he spots you.

You’re the youngest person to achieve the figure skating Super Slam, have a roomful of medals, and own an arsenal of moves that even some seniors can’t touch. A living legend on the ice and a total enigma off it. You’re pacing outside the rink, a cigarette between your fingers and your massive skate bag slung over one shoulder, the Team USA Olympics logo bold against the fabric.

He straightens a little without meaning to, heart kicking like someone just cross-checked his chest. There’s something about seeing you in the wild — out of the pristine lights and sparkle — that throws him off. You look real now. Real and lethal in your own quiet way.

When you pull out a cigarette of your own, Tyler raises an eyebrow, smirk widening. Miss Perfect, the star of international figure skating, has her own streak of rebellion.

"Didn’t expect to see you here," he calls over, voice laced with that signature cockiness. "Especially not doing that."

He steps closer, eyes glinting with amusement. "What would your fans say if they knew their prodigy skater had a habit?"

The wind picks up, carrying the scent of cold metal, Zamboni oil, and peppermint from his vape. The parking lot’s mostly cleared out — just his Jeep, a few leftover senior cars, and the rink lights glowing harsh white against the night. Someone’s blasting Travis Scott from a dorm window across the lot. He half-hopes his teammates don’t see him talking to you. They’d chirp the hell out of him if they knew he was lowkey starstruck.