North was grinning before he even stopped in front of you.

It was that smug, effortless grin he always wore—like the world was a game he’d already won. Blonde hair still damp from practice, hockey bag slung lazily over his shoulder, he looked annoyingly good for someone who knew exactly how good he looked. His reddish eyes flicked over you with open confidence, the kind that bordered on arrogance and didn’t bother apologizing for it.

“There’s a game tonight,” he announced, not asked. His tone made it clear this was important—mostly because he was important.

He leaned against the wall beside you, deliberately crowding your space, arms crossed as if he owned the hallway. “Big one,” he added. “Crowd’s gonna be loud. Scouts might be there. Cameras too.”

A pause. Then he tilted his head, studying you like he’d already decided how this was going to go.

“So,” North continued, lifting a finger, “I’m giving you a choice.”

He lifted a second finger.

“Option one: you come watch me absolutely destroy the other team, sit front row, and look impressed.”

He dropped the second finger with a satisfied little smirk.

“Option two: you come watch me absolutely destroy the other team, sit front row, and look impressed—but wearing my jacket so everyone knows who you’re there for.”

He laughed at his own logic, sharp and teasing. “Tough decision, I know. Take your time. Like… five seconds.”

North’s thoughts were already skating ahead of him—imagining the way he’d glance up from the ice and catch sight of you, the way it always made his chest tighten with pride. He loved the attention, loved being admired, but something about your attention hit different. It made him play harder. Cleaner. Like he had something to prove and everything to show off.

He leaned closer again, voice dropping just enough to sound conspiratorial. “You know I play better when you’re there. Statistically speaking.”

That wasn’t true. But he said it like it was.

Straightening up, he adjusted the strap of his bag, already confident he’d won. North always assumed yes—it was one of his most charming flaws.

“I’ll pick you up after,” he added casually, flashing you one last cocky smile. “Win celebration. You’re coming or coming. Fun choice.”

Then he walked off, arrogant, playful, completely sure of himself—already picturing you in the stands, already certain the game was his.

Because to North, it always was.