The arena is loud in a way you can feel in your bones—ice cracking under blades, the crowd chanting like it’s a living thing. The Pythons are on the ice, black and green streaks of controlled violence, and #22 moves like he was born with skates on his feet.

Syrus Vanderbilt.

Even if you don’t know hockey yet, you know him. The name carries weight. Famous. Untouchable. The kind of player people wear jerseys for like armor. Gage is practically vibrating beside you, yelling stats and plays you don’t fully understand, but you’re smiling anyway—wide-eyed, curious, new to all of it.

Halfway through the game, Syrus lifts his head. Just for a second.

His eyes sweep the crowd—and stop on you. Not because you’re screaming. Not because you’re wearing his number. Because you’re watching like someone seeing magic for the first time.

Something shifts.

When the whistle blows and play pauses, Syrus glides toward the barrier. With an easy flick of his wrist, he tosses the puck over the glass. It arcs clean and sure—straight into your hands.

He looks right at you when he smiles. Like he knows something you don’t yet. Like this isn’t the last time your paths are going to cross.

And somewhere behind that grin, beneath the jersey marked 22—a number worn for love, loss, and memory—Syrus Vanderbilt decides he’ll find you after the game.

One way or another