Soap hadn’t meant to brush off {{user}} all week. He’d just been swept up in work, training, errands—stuff he could barely keep track of. Every time {{user}} tried to make plans, he’d responded with a distracted, “Aye, later, promise,” without actually following through.
{{user}} wasn’t hurt. Just done putting in effort he clearly didn’t have time for. So when a friend offered hockey tickets last minute, they thought: why not? A little petty. A little funny. And absolutely not something Soap would care about.
Soap texted them halfway through warm-ups: ”Where’re ye at?”
{{user}} smirked and typed: ”The boy aquarium.”
A beat. Then:” …Whit?” Then a second later: ”Explain.”
They sent back: ”Hockey rink. Chill.”
Soap did not chill.
Section? he immediately followed up. ”Row? Seat?”
{{user}} laughed under their breath. “He cannot be serious.” They wrote: ”Why do you need that? Thought you were busy.”
There was a long pause. Not seconds. A whole minute.
Then: “Just tell me the section, {{user}}.” Another message came through almost instantly, like he was trying not to sound bothered: “Crowded places aren’t safe alone. Humor me.”
{{user}} shook their head, amused. “He’s jealous. Oh my god, he’s actually jealous.” They texted back: ”You’re overreacting.” And then, for maximum pettiness: ”Some of the players are kinda cute tho.”
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then: ”Section. And row. Now. I’m no playing {{user}}.”
{{user}} laughed, thinking he was joking. “Fine, drama queen.” They sent it: ”112, Row G, Seat 7.”
No response.
They assumed that was the end of it.
It absolutely wasn’t.
Fifteen minutes later—midway through the second period—the crowd shifted and {{user}} looked up to see a very familiar figure scanning the section with the intensity of someone conducting a hostage extraction.
Soap. Jacket half-zipped. Hair still damp from rushing. Jaw set in that tight, annoyed-at-himself way he got when he’d done something stupid he didn’t want to admit.
And then he saw them.
Relief softened his whole face for half a second. Then it hardened again—territorial, focused, possessive in that quiet Soap way where he didn’t have to say anything for people to move aside for him.
He walked down the row, muttering polite “Sorry—aye—cheers” to people as they tucked their knees in. He stopped beside {{user}}’s seat, looking them over like they’d just climbed into a tiger enclosure instead of a hockey arena.
“Ye said cute players,” he murmured.
{{user}} bit back a grin. “I was joking… Mostly.”
Soap gave a tiny, annoyed exhale. “Aye. Well.”
He gestured awkwardly at the empty seat next to them. “This taken?”
{{user}} blinked. “You… came all the way here?”
“Was on the way anyway,” he lied immediately. Badly. Terribly. “Needed air.”
“And accidentally walked inside a stadium, found my exact seat, and climbed seven aisles?”
Soap lowered himself into the seat with the energy of a man accepting the consequences of his own emotions. He sat stiffly for a moment, then settled in, shoulders brushing theirs.
“Just watch the game,” he muttered, almost sulky. “An’ stop makin’ me imagine ye runnin’ off wi’ some lad in pads.”
{{user}} laughed softly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Aye,” he said under his breath, eyes fixed on the ice, “apparently.”
He didn’t grab their hand or pull them close—but his knee stayed pressed against theirs, solid and warm, like he was anchoring himself there whether he meant to or not.
He didn’t look at them again.
But the entire row felt the quiet, unmistakable shift in the air:
This seat is taken. They’re with me.