Dean sat on the bench in front of his stall, elbows on his knees, hair still damp from his pre-game shower. His eyes kept flicking toward the door every few seconds, jaw tight in that way it got when he was trying to play it cool but failing.

Game day. Big one. Conference rival. The kind of matchup where the scouts in the stands had clipboards and the crowd outside was already roaring like animals. He should’ve been in the zone—taping his stick, visualizing hits, hyping the boys. Instead his head was stuck on last night’s stupid fight. Something about him leaving his gear all over the apartment again and you calling him a walking disaster zone. He’d fired back with some smartass comment about you being wound too tight. Classic. Now you were sour, and he was sitting here like a punk who needed his lucky kiss to not eat shit on the ice.

You’d become that for him. His good luck charm. His girlfriend—openly, no more hiding the fact that the biggest player on campus had finally hung up his jersey in that department. It felt good. Scary good. The kind of steady that made the chaos of hockey and classes and his loud-ass family background feel manageable.

But right now? You were an angry little kitten, claws probably out, and he had no idea how to approach without getting scratched.

The arena tunnel air was colder, carrying the echo of skates sharpening and the low buzz of the crowd filtering in. Dean spotted you near the players’ entrance, leaning against the concrete wall in his Briar Hawks jersey that swallowed your frame, but you weren’t smiling. Your arms were crossed, eyes on the floor, still carrying that leftover irritation from last night like a badge.

Fuck, he thought, a grin tugging at his mouth anyway. Even pissed off you’re hot. How is that fair?

He approached slowly, helmet tucked under one arm, pads making his broad shoulders look even wider. His cleats scraped the rubber flooring. You glanced up when he got close, that cute little furrow still between your brows.

“Hey, baby,” he said, voice low and smooth, that trademark Di Laurentis charm dialed up but careful. No full smirk—he wasn’t dumb enough to poke the bear. “You came.”

You gave a small shrug, still sour. “Didn’t say I wouldn’t.”

Dean stopped right in front of you, his free hand came up slowly, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, lingering there just a second longer than necessary. “Look, about last night…” He exhaled, green eyes locking onto yours with that intense sincerity he saved for you. “I was an idiot. My bad for turning the living room into a locker room explosion. Again.” A half-grin crept in, boyish and disarming. “But c’mon, babe. It’s game day. I need my lucky kiss or I’m gonna be out there skating like a drunk toddler. You really gonna let your man embarrass himself in front of all those scouts?”