you lost the bet. so, as agreed, you had to get his jersey number tattooed — or so he thought.

so when nate spotted his best friends' number inked on your wrist before the game, his jaw clenched. “that’s not my number.”

you smiled sweetly. “nope.”

he blinked at you. “you’re joking.”

“a deal’s a deal. i lost. but i never said which number i’d get.”

he didn’t say anything after that. just walked away — stiff shoulders, tense jaw.

and on the ice? he was awful. missed shots, sloppy moves, zero focus. even his bestfriend whispered, “dude’s malfunctioning.”

post-game, he didn’t talk. just sat in the locker room, hoodie up, refusing to look at you.

so you walked over, crouched in front of him, and held up your wrist. “relax. it’s henna.”

his head snapped up. “what?”

"robbie dared me to prank you. it washes off in like three days.”

he blinked. “are you serious?"

you nodded, amused. “you’re so dramatic.”

he tugged your arm closer, rubbing at the fake tattoo. “you suck,” he mumbled. “you actually ruined my game.”

“you ruined your own game, lover boy.”

he pouted. actually pouted. “i was jealous.”

you leaned in, smiling. "good. means that you care."