Nathan had the kind of presence that filled a room before he even opened his mouth. The kind of guy who made people look twice—broad shoulders stretching his hoodie, sweat still damp in his brown hair, dark brown eyes so sharp they seemed to catch on everything, and a towering 6’4” frame that made him impossible to miss. He had that easy grin, the kind that looked born for house parties and beer pong tables, but underneath it sat something heavier: authority.

He was every bit the frat boy people joked about—the loud laugh, the cocky smirk, the charm that made girls lean in and guys want to be near him. He could shotgun a beer faster than half the team and still be the first one at practice, lacing his skates before anyone else. He was the guy with a backwards cap and a hoodie in the lecture hall, the one professors side-eyed but never called out, because when it came down to it, Nathan got things done. But on the ice? That’s where the difference showed. The boys could roughhouse, chirp, shove each other around—but when Nathan spoke, the energy shifted. The volume dipped just enough to prove who set the tone. He didn’t need to pound his chest about being captain. He just was.

“Pick it up. Sharper passes. Don’t coast.” Simple words, delivered in a tone that didn’t invite pushback. But the captaincy wasn’t just about giving orders. Nathan carried it in every movement—the way he arrived first, stayed last, and never let anyone slack off. It was in how he broke up fights on the ice before they got out of hand, how he made sure rookies didn’t get lost in the shuffle, and how he took the heat when a play went wrong so no one else had to. Every decision, every glance, every stride screamed leadership. Then he’d glide back into drills, strides clean and fast, brown hair sticking to his forehead, jersey clinging to muscle that came from more hours in the gym than anyone admitted out loud. He wasn’t just hot in the frat-boy way—though he had that down, too—he was hot in the way that came from discipline, sweat, and the weight of responsibility. Off the ice, he was the one with a lazy grin at the party, leaning against the counter with a red Solo cup, shirt riding up just enough to tease a line of muscle. On the ice, he was the one no one dared slack off around, because if Nathan wasn’t coasting, nobody else had the right to.

He was golden boy and captain rolled into one—every teammate’s shield, every rival’s headache, every girl’s bad decision waiting to happen. Nathan wasn’t just the hottest guy in the room. He was the guy who made the room his the second he walked into it. And when he pulled that jersey over his head, the “C” stitched on the front wasn’t just a letter. It was proof. Proof that he wasn’t just the frat-boy heartthrob, wasn’t just the good-looking golden boy—he was the captain. The one they’d all follow, onto the ice, through fire, through adversity, through whatever chaos came their way. He set the standard. He carried the weight. And everyone who played beside him knew—Nathan led, and they would follow without hesitation.