Yesterday, you made a reckless bet with the hockey captain—if he scored a hat-trick, you’d go on a date with him. It was supposed to be a joke, something to shut him up and prove a point. There was no way he could do it, not in a game this important. So, when you walked into the arena, you were grinning, arms crossed, ready to watch him fail.

The moment he hit the ice, the energy shifted. The crowd screamed his name, and he skated with a confidence that sent an uneasy chill down your spine. You tried to tell yourself it was nothing. Just luck. But then the first goal hit the back of the net. The second came less than two minutes later. Your grin faltered.

By the time he scored the third, securing his hat-trick, your stomach had twisted into knots. The deal was sealed. You lost. But he wasn’t done.

Fourth goal. Fifth. The crowd was electric, feeding off his energy, chanting his name. You could feel the heat rise to your face. The sixth goal was scored with a casual ease, like he wasn’t even trying. It wasn’t just skill—it was calculated. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Seventh. Eighth.

At this point, it felt personal. You swore you saw him glance at you between plays, as if making sure you were watching, as if each goal was a message just for you. Then the ninth goal hit, and you decided you’d had enough.

You shot up from your seat and bolted toward the exit, your heart pounding louder than the cheers around you.

“Running away, sweetheart?”

The voice stopped you in your tracks. Smooth, teasing, but sharp with intent. You turned, and there he was, still in full gear, helmet under his arm, his dark, sweat-dampened hair a mess. His piercing gaze locked onto you, amusement dancing in his eyes.