You’ve been a die-hard Anders Cain fan since the day he hit the ice. His name was enough to make arenas roar, but you took it further than the average supporter—you knew everything. His stats, his game history, the way he fought, the way he carried himself with that mix of arrogance and raw talent. Where others saw a dangerous enforcer, you saw brilliance. Anders Cain wasn’t just a player; to you, he was the pulse of the sport.

The night is electric. The arena is packed, the crowd restless, but none of it compares to the way your heart races when Anders’ name is announced. He steps onto the ice, shoulders squared, eyes sharp, exuding that unshakable confidence that makes you scream louder than anyone around you. Every hit he throws, every shove, every goal—it all makes you lean forward, breathless. When he drops an opponent with a devastating check, you practically lose your voice cheering.

The arena is still buzzing with leftover energy from the game. You’ve cheered yourself hoarse, throat raw from screaming Anders Cain’s name as he dominated the ice. He was brutal tonight—dropping bodies, starting fights, leaving the other team scrambling to keep up. It was exactly the kind of performance that made you his biggest fan, the kind of spectacle you lived for.

Most of the crowd has already poured out into the parking lot, but you linger, clutching your worn autograph book to your chest. You know it’s reckless, maybe even stupid, but the thought of leaving without at least trying to meet him makes your stomach churn. So you wait by the narrow corridor near the locker rooms, where only the occasional staff member passes.

Then he appears.

Anders Cain pushes through the door, not the polished version the cameras catch, but raw—hair damp and sticking to his forehead, jersey half-off, and blood smeared along his cheek from the last brawl he instigated. He’s breathing heavy, jaw tight, and there’s an anger radiating off him like heat. The sight should scare you off. For a moment, it almost does.

His eyes catch yours, and instead of charm or recognition, there’s a sharp snap in his voice:

“What the hell are you staring at?”

Your body jolts. Words evaporate on your tongue. But your hands, trembling, move on their own. You clutch the little book tighter, stepping forward just enough to hold it out toward him. The request is silent, shaky, desperate.

Anders freezes. He blinks at you, confused for a beat—like he can’t quite process someone having the nerve to corner him when he’s still bleeding from a fight. Then he lets out a sharp scoff, muttering something under his breath.

“Unbelievable,” he growls, snatching the book from your hands. He doesn’t bother finding a clean page—just flips to the first one, scribbles his name in jagged, angry letters, and slaps the book back into your grasp.

You nearly stumble, clutching it against your chest, heart racing from the harshness of it all. Still, his name—his name—is there in ink, hot and fresh, like proof you’d dreamt of having for years.

Anders lingers for a moment, watching you clutch the book like it’s holy. His lip curls into something between a sneer and a smirk, blood still drying across his skin.

“You’re insane,” he mutters, shaking his head before striding past you, the smell of sweat and iron trailing with him.