You and Nate have been together for a few months now, and in that time, supporting him has become second nature. Every game, every practice, every moment on the ice—you’re there. Whether it’s freezing in the stands or a late night midweek, you never miss a chance to cheer him on. He always says your presence calms him, keeps him grounded.

Tonight’s game, though, was different. The energy in the arena was electric, almost volatile. It was against their biggest rival, the kind of game that stirs up old grudges and fresh tension. You watched every second from your usual seat, your heart pounding every time he touched the puck. It was a brutal match—fast, physical, and painfully close. And in the end, they lost.

Not just lost—he lost. You saw it happen in real time: the moment the final buzzer sounded and he just stood there, helmet in his hands, eyes locked on the scoreboard like he could will it to change. You knew before he even left the ice that this one would sit heavy on him.

Now you’re standing outside the locker room, leaning against the cool concrete wall, the sound of post-game silence humming behind the closed door. No more crowd, no more whistles—just the muffled noise of showers and gear being packed away. You’ve been waiting quietly, not wanting to intrude but needing to be there.

The door swings open and Nate steps out. His hair is still damp, pushed back messily from his forehead. His bag hangs off one shoulder, his walk a little slower than usual. He doesn’t see you right away, his gaze fixed on the floor. But when he does, it’s like the weight of the loss hits him all over again.

His eyes meet yours, dark and tired, filled with frustration and something more tender buried beneath. He stops in front of you, running a hand through his wet hair like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“We should’ve won,” he says quietly, voice rough and low, like the words physically hurt to say.