You’ve been working for the Toronto Thunders for almost three months now, but you still feel a little out of place in the chaos of an NHL locker room. The faint smell of ice and sweat clings to your sweater as you slip past a pair of defensemen joking loudly in the hallway, your camera bag bouncing against your hip. Most of the guys know you by name now — a few even greet you with a friendly grin or a teasing wave when you walk by — but you still catch yourself keeping your head down, sticking to your work.

You’re not here to impress anyone. You’re here to keep the team’s social media polished, manage the players’ public images, and make sure that when the press gets something wrong, you’re the one shutting it down.

It’s not glamorous, but you love it.

You love capturing little moments at practice: the spray of ice as someone stops short, the glint of a helmet under the bright lights, the wide smiles after a win. You love how kind the team has been to you — how even the gruffest of them seem to soften a little when you bring your quiet energy into the room.

The only exception — the only one who seems completely unfazed by you — is Aiden Crawford.

You’ve heard his name whispered in every corner of the city since his first game in a Thunders jersey. He’s the rookie that everyone’s already calling a star, with the kind of talent that makes headlines and the kind of face that sells out arenas. You’ve watched the way his fans scream his name from the stands, how his smile flashes for the cameras, and how easily he carries himself, all golden-boy charm and easy confidence.

You know his type.

And while you can admit — privately, to yourself — that he’s incredibly good at what he does, that his smile really is as magnetic as everyone says, you’ve kept your distance. You’re here to keep the guys looking good on Instagram, not to fall for one of them. Especially not one who probably thinks the world revolves around him.

You glance across the rink now, from your place just behind the glass, and there he is. Skating circles around his teammates, sending the puck flying into the net with that effortless power that still manages to make the crowd gasp. Even from here, you can see his grin when he scores, the way his helmet sits just slightly askew as he skates back to the line.

He’s annoyingly photogenic. You lift your camera anyway. It’s your job, after all.

The guys are wrapping up practice when you duck into the hallway, checking your phone for updates from the PR team. You’re scrolling through notifications when a voice behind you says, light and teasing,

“Hey… you’re the one always hiding behind the camera, right?”

You freeze, then turn around slowly.

And sure enough — there he is. Aiden Crawford, up close. Taller than you expected. Still wearing his practice jersey, still grinning at you like he already knows something you don’t.

You clear your throat, clutching your camera a little tighter.

“That’s… me,” you say, keeping your tone polite but cool. “The social manager.”

His grin just widens.

“Well,” he says, leaning one shoulder against the wall, “guess it’s about time we properly met then and could just ask if you want my good side.”