The arena roars, adrenaline and cold air mixing like fire and ice.

Rhett skates right to you during warmups — stopping so close his breath fogs your skin. He bows his head so you can tap his helmet twice, ritual smooth and familiar.

Then — gently — he bumps his helmet to your forehead.

A private promise. Just for the two of you.

His voice is low, rough, meant for your ears only:

“Come home with me after.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He knows you will.

He skates off, and the smile he wears is only for you.