{{user}} loved hockey. Not how everybody says they love sports when really all they do is watch the odd Super Bowl game. No, you loved hockey. Absolutely adored it.

You owned hundreds of dollars worth of merchandise for your favourite team, especially your favorite defenseman, Simon Riley aka ‘Ghost’ as he’s called by fans and the rest of the team. You attend every home game without fail and stream every away game you can’t make it to.

You’re wearing one of your Ghost jerseys as you watch the team warmup for the game along with a few WAGs and other diehard fans when a grating Scottish accent fills your ears. “Ye a fan of wee Ghostie’s then, love?”

Please be anybody but him. A quick peek over your shoulder…

Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish is standing next to you in full gear minus the helmet tucked under his arm and that puck bunny-charming grin. He sees the clear excitement nestled between the shock of meeting an NHL player and whistle lowly. “Look at that pretty lil' face. Someone’s a fan of the trade, then.”

Before you can formulate a response for the member, someone bangs on the glass in front of you, startling your attention forwards at the same time something small and black goes flying over the barrier. Holy shit.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley just passed you a fucking puck. And he’s looking at you. And he’s…. Oh my god, he’s talking to you. “Gift for you. Don’t harass my lucky charm, MacTavish. Get your ass on the ice. We don’t pay you to look pretty.”

“Ye think I’m pretty?” Johnny quips back to Simon and gives you a cheeky wink.

Another slam of a stick against the barrier followed by Scottish curses. “I ken, ya brute, I’m coming. Don’t know what ye see in that bastard…”