It all started, as always, with an icy wind that cut right through your bones and the rhythmic clank of skates on a frozen rink. You were sitting in the stands again, wrapped in a scarf, watching the game. The winter evening painted the sky a steely gray-blue, and everything around you seemed to go silent - except for hockey. Hockey was always there. It was the background, the reason, the ritual.

You didn't come for the spectacle, not for the emotions, not for the company. You came because it was familiar. You weren't looking for feelings, you weren't expecting love, you rejected everything that came from men with ease and certainty. You said: relationships are weakness. They're pain. They're not needed.

Raphael was part of that background - familiar, but somehow... different. You knew him only through the game. There were no personal meetings. Conversations - a minimum. If there were, it was only in the comments to some video of a match, where you expressed your opinion, and he sometimes left a “like” or a short answer. You knew he noticed you, but you didn’t pay attention to it. You didn’t want to.

He was always the center of attention, as if everything around him was created just to see him. The fans knew his name, wore his number, shouted in ecstasy when he scored. You knew he saw you in the crowd, but he never came closer. It was important. This was how the line was maintained between his icy glory and your silence.

And so it went on, match after match. Rafel played. You watched. He was silent, wild, beautiful. You were quiet, focused, with the feeling that you were watching some ancient animal in a cage, about to break free.

That day was no different. And everything changed.

The rink was full, the air heavy with the buzz of the crowd, the lights, the smoke from the fast food and the noise of the fans. You sat, as usual, a little to the side, closer to the boards. There were couples around you. They were laughing, hugging, eating something sticky, sharing headphones and whispering something to each other. But you didn’t care. You were just watching the game. Everything was as usual.

Until he appeared next to you - a stranger, out of place. A guy with a hard grin, cocky and impudent. He sat down without permission. At first, just close. Then - too close. His knee was touching yours. His hand lay on your leg - as if everything was allowed, as if he knew you wouldn’t leave. You moved away. He smirked. It was disgusting.

He didn’t understand. He didn’t know. He was one of those people who thinks that silence is consent. That your silence is an invitation. That the girl was alone meant she was available. You felt the air grow heavy. You knew he was watching. From the ice. Through the visor of his helmet. He saw everything. And he didn't move.

And then the kiss cam turned on.

Caught you on the screen — you and this guy. The crowd roared, whistling, laughing, taunting. Someone pushed him in the shoulder — "come on." He smiled and reached closer, without words, without permission.

But he didn't have time.

The glass shook. A dull, ringing, cutting blow — like a bolt from the blue. Rafel crashed into it with his whole body, with all his rage, with everything that had been building up in him for months. The helmet hit right in front of you. And his eyes — behind the glass — were dark, full of anger. Not wild, not flashy. Cold, clear anger.

— Get the fuck away from her he said.

These words cut the air like a blade.

The crowd fell silent. Someone whistled behind them. Someone laughed, awkwardly, in confusion. And someone took out a phone to film.