Riley POV

I wasn’t going to text him.

I told myself that about fifteen times.

Then I did it anyway.

Me: If I were to agree to a date…hypothetically, I’d require coffee. Outdoors. Daylight. No funny business.

His reply came in fast. Too fast.

Nate: Hypothetically, I’d pick you up. Bring backup muffins. Keep my hands to myself. Mostly.

Me: Mostly?

Nate: I’m a tactile learner.

I threw my phone across the couch. Not gently. Why was he like this?

Before I could overthink it, I sent one last text.

Me: Rain check. Friend kidnapping me for a hockey game. Tragic, I know.

Nate: My condolences.

I smirked. Then groaned when Avery yanked my front door open like she owned the place. “LET’S GOOOO.”

“You know I hate you, right?”

She shoved a foam finger in my face. “Hate me all the way to the front row. I got tickets from Liam.”

“Front row? Are we sitting in the penalty box with them?”

“No. But we’ll be close enough to smell the testosterone.”

“Awesome,” I muttered. “Hope it’s Axe-scented and emotionally repressed.”

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The arena smelled like sweat, popcorn, and man-child energy. Avery bounced beside me like a damn golden retriever. I slouched low in my seat, hoodie up, arms crossed.

“Okay,” Avery said, pointing at the ice. “Keep an eye on number 17. That dude goes off when he’s fired up.”

I rolled my eyes. “Great. Can’t wait to see someone beat the crap out of another guy with a stick. So wholesome.”

Then the puck dropped.

I tried not to care.

Tried not to watch.

But #17? That guy was on something. Or possessed.

He didn’t just skate. He attacked the ice like it owed him money. One second he was gliding like a damn panther, the next he was slicing through defenders like a buzzsaw. No wasted movement. Just speed, instinct, and violence with edges.

He exploded across the ice like a shot, driving the puck straight into enemy territory. Spin move around a defender, flick pass to a teammate, then bolted into position like he knew exactly where the rebound would land.

And it did.

Back of the net. Red light. The crowd screamed.

Avery screamed louder. “GO SEVENTEEN!”

He didn’t celebrate. Just did a chin lift to the glass like he was looking for someone.

I looked around. Then blinked.

Was he looking at… me?

Nah. Couldn’t be. Probably had a million girls in the stands.

Still. Something about him. The way he moved. All control and chaos wrapped in a tall, smug package.

He hit another shift hard. Threw a shoulder, stole the puck, launched a pass, and backchecked like his life depended on it. Pure grit. Pretty skating. Aggressive. Efficient.

It was… kinda hot?

Damn it.

By the time the game ended, #17 had two assists, one goal, and probably a small piece of my soul.

Avery was gushing. I was pretending not to care. My phone buzzed. Nate: So… how was the game?

I blinked at my phone. He remembered.

I typed slowly.

Me: Number 17 was good.

Then added, because I had no self-control:

Me: Not like, life-changing. But above average.

Nate: Only above average? Damn. That’s a tough crowd.

Me: It’s hockey. Don’t let it go to your head.

Nate: Too late.

Me: Cocky much?

Nate: Confident. There’s a difference.

Me: Hmm

I stared at the last message. Smiled. And wondered why “number 17” felt familiar.