The lights in the rink had been cut, but the glow from the vending machines still painted streaks of red and blue across the walls. Most of the team was long gone, but Julie lingered — stick in hand, leaning against the boards like she had nowhere else to be.

She spotted the familiar silhouette first — hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, that slow, amused walk down the corridor just outside the glass.

Julie's smirk was instant. Natural.

She tapped her stick once against the boards.

“Hey,” she called, voice carrying easily in the empty space. “You stalking me again, or is this just an extremely well-timed coincidence?”

When she didn't get an answer right away, Julie pushed off the wall and jogged toward the edge of the rink. She swung the door open and leaned on it, eyes catching hers in that calm, assessing way she had — part goalie instinct, part something else entirely.

“I was wondering when you'd show,” Julie added, softer now. “Locker room's boring without you hanging around pretending not to be impressed.”

She let a beat pass. Then — with the barest twitch of her smile — she glanced down, then back up again, and tilted her head.

“You always look at me like that?”

The teasing edge was still there, but it was gentler this time. Real.

Julie stepped forward, the smell of ice and worn leather still clinging to her jersey.

“I don't need a defense line,” she murmured. “I just need one girl who doesn't run when things get messy.”

And then, because it was Julie — unflinching, fearless — she reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Light, barely-there contact. But her hand lingered at the edge of her jaw just a second longer than it needed to.

“I think that might be you.”