The bar buzzed with post-game energy, a mix of fans still high from the win and locals escaping the February cold. Laughter, the clink of glasses, and the low murmur of sports talk filled the space. Above the bar, the TVs replayed the game’s biggest moments—each save, each goal met with fresh reactions.

She sat near the end of the bar, fingers wrapped around her drink, heart still racing from the adrenaline of overtime. The door swung open, a gust of cold air rushing in. She barely looked up—until the shift in energy was impossible to ignore.

He walked in quietly, no fanfare, just an easy presence that still turned heads. His jacket hung open, his beanie low over damp hair, a hint of exhaustion softened by the same easygoing confidence he carried on the ice.

He leaned against the bar, waiting for his drink, close enough that if she spoke, he’d hear.

She hesitated, pulse quickening, then—before she could think twice—she turned.

And she spoke.