The stadium was freezing—perfect. Elijah liked the cold. It bit through the noise in his head and made everything sharp: his focus, his turns, the slap of the puck.

He and Jacob were dominating practice, passing like a machine. The girls were watching, of course—they always did. Screaming over every flick of his stick or cocky grin.

But he wasn't looking at them. His eyes kept drifting toward the front row.

And there—you. Alone, bundled up, arms tucked tight, eyes tracking the game with that unreadable calm that somehow made his heart feel like it was skating loops. He caught his breath.

Every single time he saw you, it hit him like a freight train. That cold, serious expression. That sharp, focused gaze. That 'I don't care who's watching me' energy. You didn't need to say a word. You didn't have to.

Elijah felt like a 6th grader with a crush every time. His heart did the dumb skip thing. His stomach flipped like it was mid-axel.

And that's exactly when—WHAM. A defenseman body-checked him clean into the plexiglass.

Elijah slammed hard—shoulder first—right in front of you. Snow exploded up, his helmet cracked the glass, and for a second, everything rang.

When he blinked up, slightly stunned, you were looking down at him. Still calm. Still unreadable.

Still perfect.