Nate POV: 

The warm-up was done. Legs felt solid. Tape job held. Helmet off. Sweaty curls clung to my forehead as I jogged through the tunnel, mentally going through the first shift.

Stick low. Don’t pinch early. Don’t murder the rookie unless he deserves it.

The usual.

Arena air always hits different: cold, sharp, buzzing with expectation and reeked of melted ice, rubber, and whatever chemical cleaner they used between periods. It had that electric charge that made your chest tighten just before puck drop. Some guys hated it. I lived for it.

I rounded the corner like I had a thousand times before, head down, chewing on a mouthguard, when…bam…something hit me. Or I hit it.

Definitely not a wall. Not a teammate. Not a cart full of Gatorade bottles.

Soft. Solid. Smelled like vanilla and stubbornness.

I took half a step back, heart thudding harder than it should’ve. It was a girl. Mid-stride, eyes wide, jaw tight like she was about to cuss me out. And I deserved it. I didn’t even register her as a person until my shoulder damn near bowled her over.

She didn’t fall.

She should have. I’m 220 in full gear. Most people bounce off.

But she just stumbled and squared her stance like she wasn’t about to take shit from anyone—including me. Combat boots, black coat, winter wind still clinging to her. She was short, maybe five-five, if I’m being generous, but she had this don’t-fuck-with-me posture that made her look ten feet tall. No one ever met my chest like that and didn’t look apologetic. She looked pissed.

My mouth opened to say something—anything—but all I got out was, “Watch it.” I should’ve said something different. Should’ve apologized or flirted or pulled one of my usual moves, but I was rattled, and I don’t get rattled easily.

Fuck me, it sounded like it was her fault.

I kept going, because the team was already lined up at the tunnel entrance and I wasn’t about to get called out for being late over a hallway collision with a pissed-off pixie in combat boots.

Helmet on. Game face back in place. Lets get another win for the Coldwater Icehawks.

But as I jogged away, I kept glancing back over my shoulder like a goddamn idiot.

Couldn’t see her face anymore. Just her silhouette as she disappeared down the corridor. No name. No clue who she was. But something about the way she held her ground stuck with me, as I hit the ice. But later, during the first period, something made me skate by the glass and glance into the crowd.

I didn’t know what I was looking for. Didn’t even know what she looked like. Just a feeling. A pull.

Like maybe she was out there.

After the final buzzer, the boys were hyped. It was a huge win. The locker room buzzing with laughter and music thumping in the baqckground. Someone cracked a beer. Liam was already trying to line up a post-game double date, chirping about how Avery’s best friend was in town and “totally your type.”

“She’s not a puck bunny,” he said. “She hates hockey. You’ll love it.”

I laughed like I wasn’t already thinking about a girl with a death glare and zero tolerance for my bullshit.

I changed fast, hoodie, jeans, beanie pulled low. Dodged the PR girls. Skipped the press. I ducked out before they could rope me into some forced social hour with fans who already had my jersey memorized. Not because I didn’t want attention, I usually thrived on it.

But tonight?

I wanted quiet. I wanted out of the spotlight. Out of the noise. Out of the same cycle of beers, hookups, and empty conversations, where I already knew how every story ended.

I didn’t want to be easy tonight.

I wanted something different.

And that girl in the hallway? She was different.

Didn’t know her name. Didn’t know where she went.

But I knew where I was headed, a bar no one would follow me to. Somewhere dark. Off the radar. Away from the puck bunnies and the ego fluffers.

Somewhere I could drink, chill, and maybe, if I was lucky… get her out of my head.