Ren

Then your gaze snags on Calgary, Alberta.

Calgary.

You mouth it once, twice. Alberta sounds like it belongs to a cowboy aunt. Calgary sounds... bold. You like the idea of writing to someone from another country, but you don’t want to be stuck Google Translating every letter. So you jot your name under the Calgary slot, feeling a fizz of anticipation, your pen pressing hard enough to leave a faint indent in the paper.

You, age eleven, sixth grade, from just outside Dallas — the self-declared NHL capital of your heart, even if you’ve never actually been to a real game — are about to write to a Canadian. And not just any Canadian. You’ll soon find out who it is.

The first letter comes to you with a neat, blocky handwriting that somehow seems too mature for someone still in elementary school. Because yeah, he’s still in elementary school.

Hi, I’m Cale Makar. I live in Calgary, Alberta, with my mom, dad, and my little brother. I like hockey (a lot). I’m in Grade 6 and I play defense."

You squint at that part, circling it three times with your pink glitter pen before uncapping your own notebook to reply. You feel... odd. You’re eleven, practically a grown-up (at least compared to a sixth grader stuck in elementary school), and here you are writing back to someone who sounds like he could still be on the jungle gym.

But you write anyway. And you’re funny about it, too.

Dear Cale, Wow, I didn’t know Grade 6 was still elementary in Canada! Over here, we’re already in middle school. Do you guys have lockers yet? Or are you still using cubbies? (No offense, just wondering.) I think it’s cool you play hockey. I like watching the NHL on TV, but I don’t know all the rules. Maybe you can teach me?

You sign off with a doodle of a little stick-figure girl and a lopsided maple leaf. You wonder if he’ll laugh at it or think it’s dumb.

A week later, his reply arrives.

Hahahahaha. Yeah, we still use cubbies (not lockers). But I can reach the top shelf, so it’s fine. What’s middle school like? Do you guys have to change classrooms every period? That sounds complicated. Also, don’t worry, I can explain hockey. It’s easy once you get the hang of it.

Your favorite part, though, is at the very end:

P.S. You asked what I look like — my mom says I have dirty blond hair and blue eyes, and my brother says I look like an alien. So, there you go.

You snort lemonade out your nose when you read that, pressing the paper flat against your desk as you giggle into your sweatshirt sleeve.

The letters start flowing fast after that.

You write about your little sister (annoying), your science project (lame), your crush on a boy named Ethan (who definitely doesn’t know you exist), and the time you accidentally fell off your bike and skinned both knees in the same spot you’d just scabbed over. He writes about hockey practice (so much), his younger brother, and how he’s dreaming of the NHL even though everyone keeps saying it’s impossible.

You write each other everything.

You tell him when you ace your history test. You tell him when your mom grounds you for sneaking extra screen time past bedtime. You tell him when Ethan finally talks to you, only to ask if you have gum. And when Cale’s letters arrive — always a bit longer, always a bit neater — you pore over every line like it’s a secret message just for you.

In one letter, he sends a blurry photo of himself, grinning with a mouth half-hidden by a helmet. He’s got the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen, spiky little blond tufts sticking out from under the padding. Alien boy, you scrawl in your next letter, circling the photo with a dozen exclamation points.

His reply comes back with a doodle of a UFO beaming him up, and you laugh so hard your mom peeks into your room to check if you’re okay.

The months stretch, and your friendship settles into this golden rhythm, the kind only sixth graders know: silly and important all at once, filled with overthinking and under-explaining, with hours spent sitting cross-legged on your bedroom carpet just imagining what it would be like if you lived in the same place.

You tell your friends you have a pen pal, and they nod politely. You don’t tell them you save every letter under your bed in a shoe box, or that you sometimes reread them late at night, when the house is quiet and your world feels small.

You wonder if he ever thinks about you outside of the letters.

You wonder what it’s like to be a hockey kid, really a hockey kid, with early morning practices and skates slung over your shoulder like some kind of miniature pro. You wonder if he knows what it’s like to be just a little bit lonely, a little bit restless, dreaming of the big leagues when everyone else just wants to hang out at the mall.

And one day, when you’re bored in class and scribbling his name in the margins of your notebook — not in a crush way (definitely not), just in a wondering way — you realize that somehow, without meaning to, Cale Makar has become one of the most important people in your eleven-year-old life.

He doesn’t even know it.

But maybe, you think, maybe one day he will.

14 years old

You don’t know why you’re nervous. It’s not like you haven’t been writing to Cale for years. Not like you haven’t sent him pages and pages of your life, your school drama, your dumbest thoughts, your favorite inside jokes. But somehow, when you tuck the photo into the envelope — the glossy little snapshot you begged your sister to take in the backyard, sun on your shoulders, hair actually doing the right thing for once — your stomach clenches.

It’s not even a fancy picture. Just you, holding a peace sign, wearing your favorite jean jacket, squinting into the afternoon light. But still, it feels... different. Like you’re stepping over an invisible line.

You imagine him opening it on the other side of the border, in some cold Alberta kitchen with a dog barking in the background or his little brother yelling from upstairs. You imagine him holding it, looking at it, seeing you in a way letters never quite let him.

It makes your face hot just thinking about it.

You seal the envelope with a too-big lick (ugh, why) and drop it into the mailbox outside your high school. You tug your hoodie tight, trying to ignore the strange fizz of nerves under your skin. You’re fourteen now. You’re a high schooler. Cale’s still back in middle school — his system works differently, okay, you’ve Googled it three times — and even though you tease him about it relentlessly, there’s this tiny flicker of something in your chest whenever you remember that soon he’ll catch up, soon you’ll both be in high school, and then what? Will you still be writing letters at sixteen, seventeen, eighteen?

Part of you hopes so.

Part of you doesn’t even know what you’re hoping for.

—

The reply takes longer than usual. A whole extra week. You check the mailbox every afternoon, sometimes twice, sometimes three times (don’t tell your sister, she’ll never let you live it down). When it finally arrives, the envelope’s crinkled at the edges, like it’s been through a storm.

Inside, you find his usual lined paper, blocky handwriting marching across the page. But this time, the bottom half of the letter is overtaken by something else entirely: doodles. Dozens of them. Little cartoon hearts. A sketch of a smiley face with your hairstyle. The words "pretty" underlined twice, with a jagged, awkward arrow pointing back up toward your name.

Your heart somersaults in your chest.

You read the letter again, slower this time.

Hey, I got your photo. You look really cool in that jacket. You’re really pretty, too. I don’t know why but it made me smile a lot.

You slap a hand over your face, grinning into your palm like an idiot.

Also, is mailing photos allowed? My mom said it’s probably fine but like, is there a rule? Should I send you one back? (Not sure if you want a photo of me looking sweaty after practice but maybe I’ll try to find a good one.)

And then —

P.S. I was thinking, maybe you could give me your phone number? Not because I don’t want to write letters, but like, the stamps are expensive and you know, texting is faster? Just an idea.

You can almost hear his voice through the page, casual but not, relaxed but weirdly careful, like he’s poking at something without wanting to break it.

Your cheeks burn.

You stare at the letter for a long time, your fingers tracing over the little sketched hearts and the doodled alien head he’s drawn next to his name ("alien boy" will never die, apparently). You think about all the letters, the years of scribbled stories and shared secrets, the thousands of words you’ve thrown across miles like skipping stones. And now — now he wants your number.

Your brain is a mess.

Do you want this? Yes. Obviously. But also, ugh. You’re already spiraling, wondering if texting will change things, if you’ll lose the charm of the envelopes and stamps, if you’ll start talking too much or too little or if he’ll text you late at night and make your heart do weird little flippy things you’re not prepared for.

You flop backward onto your bed, the letter fluttering to the floor. You kick your legs in the air like some cartoon character, covering your face with a pillow and groaning into it.

Why does he have to make everything feel like a movie?

You sit up eventually, reaching for your phone. You tap your thumbs against the case. You glance at the letter again. You start drafting your reply in your head, the way you always do:

Dear Cale, So, texting, huh? You’re really moving up in the world. Fine, here’s my number, but you better promise to still send letters sometimes, okay? I’m not giving up my shoebox full of your bad hockey doodles just because you’ve suddenly decided to go all high-tech on me.

You’ll write it all out properly later, maybe add a photo of your dog or your messy desk or something else silly just to keep things light. But even as you pretend to play it cool, you know you’re smiling too wide, your heart doing that annoying-sweet dance it does when you let yourself admit — maybe, just maybe, this pen pal thing has become something you can’t imagine giving up.

And you’re not sure if you’re ready to know what that means.

—

The first text comes late in the evening, just after you’ve finished your homework but before you’ve gotten up to brush your teeth. Your phone buzzes on your nightstand, lighting up the dark corner of your room like a miniature lighthouse, pulsing once, twice, three times. You nearly trip over yourself lunging for it.

Unknown number: Hey, it’s Cale :D

You sit on your bed, staring at it, thumbs hovering over the screen like they’ve forgotten how to function. For all the years you’ve been writing letters, the instant-ness of this feels... weird. You can practically hear his voice (except you don’t know what his voice really sounds like yet, which makes your stomach do this ridiculous, swoopy thing).

You type back: omg alien boy finally went digital

You’re grinning so wide your cheeks ache. And that’s it — the beginning of the texting era.

—

You text. All. The. Time.

You text at lunch, sending pictures of your soggy cafeteria pizza with the caption fine dining. He texts you from the locker room, a blurry photo of his hockey bag, captioned smells like a swamp in here. You send selfies pulling dumb faces; he sends back photos of his hockey socks stuffed into skates, claiming they are cursed. You fall asleep with your phone buzzing on the pillow beside you, half-dreaming of blue text bubbles and his goofy little “:D” smiley face.

It’s when you finally call him, though, that things hit you.

You’d been joking about how he should actually explain hockey rules to you in real time (because reading about icing in a letter was getting you nowhere), and before you can think twice, you’re both on the phone, your heart thudding stupidly loud in your chest as you listen to the line click.

"Hey," he says, and — oh my god.

You slap a hand over your mouth to muffle the laugh that bubbles up. Because yeah, there it is. The accent.

"Hey, are you laughing at me?" he asks, sounding confused but smiling, you can tell. "What’s so funny?"

"Oh my god, you sound so Canadian," you wheeze. "Say 'about' again. Say it."

"I am not a stereotype!" he protests, but you can hear the grin creeping in. "You’re such a brat."

You spend half the call teasing him about every word he says, soaking up the low, gentle rumble of his voice, and the other half listening to him try — and fail — to explain hockey penalties without getting distracted by your relentless jokes.

By the time you hang up, your cheeks hurt from smiling, and your phone battery is nearly dead, and you’re pretty sure you’ve never been more aware of how much you like hearing someone’s voice just because it’s theirs.

—

Inevitably, you get grounded.

It’s over something stupid — maybe you stayed out too late with friends, maybe your mom caught you scrolling Vine under the covers when you were supposed to be asleep — but the result is the same: no phone for a week.

At first, you’re frantic. How will Cale know you’re not ignoring him? Will he think you’re mad at him? Will he worry? You don’t want to be dramatic, but you can feel the anxiety buzzing under your skin, crawling up the back of your neck.

So you do the only thing that makes sense.

You write him a letter.

It feels weird, going back to paper after months of texting, but also... comforting. You curl up on your bed with your old glitter pen (you still have it, you’re not ashamed), scribbling out an explanation with little side notes and dumb doodles in the margins.

Dear Cale, I’m grounded. Don’t panic, I didn’t do anything that bad. I just can’t text for a bit, which is killing me because now I’m thinking of every stupid thing I want to tell you, and I can’t. So here’s this letter instead. Sorry if it’s cheesy. I guess I got used to always being able to talk to you. Anyway, I miss talking to you (ugh, gross, I know) and you better not forget about me while I’m stuck here, okay?

You fold it up, seal it, and drop it in the mailbox, heart thudding a little faster than you care to admit.

Of course, two days later, you get your phone back. Your mom decides the punishment was too harsh. You text Cale immediately: I’M FREE. LET’S NEVER SPEAK OF THIS.

You think that’s the end of it.

—

The next time he calls you, you’re lying on your bedroom floor, scrolling mindlessly through Instagram, when your phone buzzes in your hand.

"Hey," you answer, casual.

"Hey," he says back, and you can hear the mischief in his voice.

You sit up, suspicious. "What?"

"I got your letter," he says innocently.

Oh no.

"Cale, no —"

"‘I miss talking to you,’" he recites dramatically, "‘ugh, gross, I know.’" He’s laughing now, full-out, the kind of laugh you can’t help but join in even as you groan and bury your face in your hands.

"You’re such a jerk," you whine, heat creeping up your neck. "Give it back."

"It’s a letter, genius, you mailed it to me," he teases. "It’s mine now."

You flop backward on the carpet, eyes squeezed shut, grinning so wide it’s probably a crime. There’s a warmth blooming in your chest, a softness you try to swallow down but can’t quite hide. Because yeah, maybe you do miss him when you don’t talk. Maybe you’ve been missing him for a long time, without really realizing what it meant.

You cover your face with a pillow, voice muffled. "I’m never living this down, am I?"

"Nope," he says cheerfully. "Not a chance."

And even through the embarrassment, even through your playful complaints, you know you wouldn’t want it any other way.

18 years old

The television screen flickers blue and gold in the darkened living room, casting strange shadows across the popcorn bowl you’re nervously picking at, kernel by kernel. You don’t even like popcorn that much, but your fingers keep moving, digging, twisting the salty pieces apart like it’s a nervous tic. You’re sprawled sideways on the couch, one knee hooked over the armrest, your phone clutched tightly in the other hand as the NHL draft plays on the flat-screen.

Your parents had long since gone to bed — it’s late, later than they care to stay up, especially for a draft where nobody expected anything big to happen in the first round outside the usual names. Not for Cale, anyway. You know this. He knows this. You’d both talked about it for weeks, rolling your eyes at the rankings, joking about how maybe he’d be picked up eventually, late in the game, and you could laugh about it years down the road.

And then —

“WITH THE FOURTH OVERALL PICK, THE COLORADO AVALANCHE SELECT... CALE MAKAR.”

Your mouth actually drops open. You lurch halfway upright, the popcorn bowl sliding off your lap, scattering across the carpet like confetti. For a second, you’re convinced you’ve misheard, that there’s been some mix-up, that this can’t possibly be right —

But there he is, on screen. Cale, in a fresh suit, standing up, eyes wide, smile shaky, walking toward the draft stage like someone in a dream.

You throw a pillow across the room.

“OH MY GOD,” you shriek to no one, heart hammering. “OH MY GOD, HE DID IT!”

And then you sit there.

For hours.

You pace the house, picking at the cold popcorn. You open your phone and stare at his name, but you don’t text — you know he’s busy, swept into that strange new current of media interviews, press conferences, team dinners, celebration photos, hands being shaken, shoulders clapped. His parents are probably over the moon. His brother’s probably jumping out of his skin. You check Instagram and see grainy videos of him on people’s stories — the stage, the handshake, that grin you know so well stretched wide under the hot lights.

You scroll endlessly, your thumb going numb, until you finally drop the phone facedown on your bed, your heart all twisted up in a knot you can’t name.

You drift in and out of sleep, still in your jeans, sprawled across your blankets, your room half-lit by the glow of your charging phone. You wake up twice, once at midnight and once at two, groggy and tense, fingers twitching toward your screen before you yank them back.

It’s almost three in the morning when the video call finally comes through.

Your phone buzzes, lighting up your dark room, and you fumble it up to your face, hair a mess, mascara smudged under your eyes. You don’t even care. You answer without thinking.

“Hey,” Cale says, voice raspier than usual, cheeks flushed, hair slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it nonstop. He’s propped up in some fancy hotel room, the glow of the city stretching faintly outside the window behind him. There’s a bottle of water on the nightstand, a crumpled suit jacket on the chair. He looks exhausted — and happier than you’ve ever seen him.

“OH MY GOD,” you whisper, barely able to keep your voice down in the sleeping house. “CALE. FOURTH. OVERALL. WHAT THE HELL?!”

He laughs, tipping his head back against the headboard. “Yeah, uh, kinda crazy, right?”

“Kinda crazy?! Kinda?!” You flail your hands at the camera, nearly dropping your phone. “You told me you’d be lucky to go late first round, if that. You liar. You absolute alien.”

“I didn’t know!” he protests, still grinning, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I swear. I thought I was gonna pass out when they called my name.”

You hug your knees to your chest, the relief and joy flooding through you like sunlight after a storm. And under it, tangled in the glow of the moment, there’s something deeper. A sharp tug you try to ignore.

“So what happens next?” you ask softly, voice catching just a little. “Are you just... moving to Denver?”

Cale’s eyes soften. He shakes his head, running a hand through his blond hair, making it stand on end. “Not yet. I can play college first. I’ve been thinking about committing to UMass. You know — University of Massachusetts, middle of nowhere, hockey program’s solid.”

You blink. “Massachusetts?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, smiling faintly. “Figured I’d give myself a couple more years to, I don’t know... be a kid? Before the big leagues.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to ignore the sudden, stupid prickle behind your eyes. Massachusetts. It’s far. Farther than it feels, even. And for the first time, you can hear the space stretching between you — all the years of letters and texts and phone calls, all the things you never said, the tiny careful balances you kept because it was easier that way.

But then, as if reading your mind, Cale leans a little closer to the camera, eyes warm, voice low.

“Hey,” he says softly. “It’s gonna be okay.”

You let out a shaky laugh, wiping the back of your hand across your face, even though you’re not really crying. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

He smiles wider, the kind of grin you can feel in your chest even from miles away. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

And just like that, the air eases between you again, filling up with the old, familiar comfort, the one you’ve known since you were kids scribbling letters on lined paper, teasing each other about cubbies and lockers, aliens and hockey and all the things you never quite said but always meant.

You curl tighter under your blankets, eyes soft, smiling into the screen. “Good. Because I wasn’t planning on it.”

You’re twenty-one now, and you swear the universe has a sick sense of humor.

It’s April, exam season, papers stacked high on your desk, empty coffee cups like little white trophies of suffering — and yet, when the news hits your phone, you nearly knock all of it to the ground.

CALE MAKAR CALLED UP TO THE AVALANCHE FOR PLAYOFFS.

You read it twice. Three times. You scramble for your phone, fingers fumbling on the screen.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, staring at the announcement, the press photo — his sharp, determined face, the Colorado jersey. Your heart sprints in your chest, hands shaking like you’ve had five too many espressos.

Your sister sticks her head into your room, raising an eyebrow. “Why are you gasping like you just saw God?”

“Cale,” you breathe. “He’s playing. Tonight. NHL playoffs.”

Her eyes widen. “Wait, seriously? Against who?”

“Calgary.” You let out a half-hysterical laugh. “Oh my god, his hometown. This is insane.”

Without thinking, you’re pulling up flight search apps, fingers flying. Dallas to Denver, tonight. There’s a flight. Barely. It cuts terrifyingly close with your exam, but if you can finish fast — if you can sprint out the door the second you turn in your paper, if your sister drives like her life depends on it — you can make it.

You text Cale: You are NOT doing this without me. I’m coming.

He sends back a panicked string of emojis: 😳😳😳 holy shit holy shit holy shit

You grin, your whole chest lit up like fireworks, and dive headfirst into planning mode.

—

By noon, you’re halfway through your exam, leg bouncing wildly under the table, heart jackhammering. Your professor gives you a sharp look, but you don’t care. You scribble down the last answers, triple-check your name at the top, and nearly topple your chair in your scramble to turn it in.

Your sister’s waiting in the car, engine running. “You ready?”

“GO GO GO!” you yell, throwing your bag into the backseat, diving in after it.

The Texas sun blazes down, heat shimmering off the asphalt. Your sister peels out of the university lot, blasting the air conditioning.

“We’ve got time,” she assures you. “It’s an hour to the airport.”

“An hour if Fort Worth traffic doesn’t eat us alive,” you mutter, eyes flicking nervously to your phone. You can already see the little red lines blooming across the GPS app, like warning signs.

Your sister glances over. “Hey, you okay?”

You let out a shaky breath. “I just — I told him I’d be there. I promised. This is his first NHL game. His first. I can’t miss this.”

She reaches over, squeezing your knee. “We’ll make it.”

Spoiler: you don’t.

It’s the traffic. Of course it’s the traffic.

Fort Worth, sprawling and unyielding, comes to a crawling, infuriating halt. You’re stuck behind a sea of brake lights, your hands twisted together in your lap, stomach roiling with nerves.

You check the time. Again. And again. Your heart plummets every time.

“Shit,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to the window. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Your sister’s fingers tap anxiously on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Your voice cracks embarrassingly. You press your fists to your eyes, trying to swallow the knot in your throat. “I just — I should’ve left earlier. I should’ve —”

You can’t even finish the sentence. You’re already pulling out your phone, scrolling to Cale’s contact, thumb hovering over the call button.

You bite your lip hard, then press it.

The line rings twice. Three times.

“Hey,” Cale answers, breathless. You can hear the buzz of the arena behind him, the low roar of the crowd, the sharp chatter of his teammates. “Hey, what’s up?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Cale, I’m so sorry.”

There’s a pause, and then his voice softens. “What’s going on?”

“I’m stuck. Traffic. I’m not gonna make my flight.” You let out a shaky laugh, half-sobbing, half-hysterical. “I tried, I really did. I wanted to be there.”

He’s quiet for a second, then: “Hey, hey. It’s okay. Don’t — don’t cry, okay? Please.”

You sniff, wiping at your face. “I’m just — I wanted to be there. For you. You’re debuting, and it’s Calgary, and —”

“I know,” he says softly. You can hear the smile in his voice, even through the nerves. “I know. But you’re here, okay? You’re always here.”

You let out a watery laugh, pressing a hand to your chest. “You’re gonna kill it out there, alien boy.”

He chuckles. “You really think so?”

“I know so.” You swallow hard. “I’ll be watching from here. Screaming at the TV like a lunatic.”

“I’ll look for you in the stands,” he teases gently. “You’ll be the one waving frantically from Texas, right?”

You laugh, eyes squeezed shut, heart aching in the best, sharpest way. “Yeah. That’s me.”

There’s a pause, the background noise shifting, and you hear his voice soften even more.

“We’ll see each other real soon, okay?”

“Yeah.” You breathe out slowly, feeling the tension start to melt, just a little. “Yeah, we will.”

You hang up, cradling the phone to your chest, staring out at the sea of brake lights stretching ahead. And even though you’re stuck, even though you’re missing the biggest night of his life so far, you know — somehow, deep down — you’re still right where you’re supposed to be.

You should’ve known Cale would pull something like this.

You’re half-asleep in bed, scrolling lazily through Instagram stories, when your phone buzzes with a text that reads, "You actually have to come to this one." No hello, no how-are-you — just straight to the point, classic Cale. You blink, thumb hovering over the reply button, when another text drops through, this time a photo. It’s a screenshot of a glass ticket. Your eyes widen.

"No way," you murmur, sitting upright, heart kicking a little faster.

Before you can even start typing back, another message: "Don’t argue. Just come. I got it for you."

You collapse backward onto your pillows, groaning into the fabric. Of course he did. Of course, he’s pulling the NHL star card, making it impossible for you to refuse. And honestly? You’re not sure you want to.

—

The drive to Dallas feels both too long and too short. Your sister’s got the playlist on blast, windows rolled down, Texas wind tangling your hair into a mess. She’s chirping you the whole way — "Oh my god, you’re actually going to see him? Like, in person? Up close? NHL star boyfriend moment?" — and you keep swatting at her, cheeks burning even though you keep insisting, "We’re not dating! We’re just friends!"

(Yeah. Friends. Sure.)

You reach the arena, nerves a jittery swirl in your stomach. The parking lot is a sea of cars and jerseys, fans flooding in, the low rumble of excitement thrumming through the spring air. You tug your own jersey tighter around you — his jersey. You’d bought it in the off-season, pretending it was just to "support a friend," but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t smile every time you saw his name stitched across the back: MAKAR. 8.

Inside, the arena is loud and bright and freezing cold, the kind of cold that sinks through your jeans no matter how many times you shift from foot to foot. You clutch an overpriced beer you didn’t even really want — just something to keep your hands busy — and shuffle your way down, down, down to the glass.

Holy shit. You’re so close, the boards are right there. You can see the fresh scrape marks on the ice, the flecks of snow clinging to the corners. The world behind the glass feels unreal, hyper-clear, like you’ve stepped inside your own TV.

Your sister elbows you. "You’re blushing."

"I’m not," you hiss back, even as your face betrays you completely.

The arena lights dip slightly, the bass of the music kicks up, and suddenly the players are flooding out, skates flashing, sticks clattering, the whole team energy ratcheting up to a fever pitch. You can barely track who’s where at first, your eyes darting wildly over the avalanche of maroon and blue.

As soon as you can blink, There he is.

Cale Makar.

Taller than you’d imagined, even in the jersey, even behind the glass. He’s got that half-serious, half-sunstruck look on his face, the one you know so well from grainy video chats and late-night calls. His cheeks are pink, flushed from the cold, his blond hair spiked messily under his helmet. Alien boy, you think fondly, grinning despite yourself.

And then — he finds you.

Like, actually finds you. His skates slow, his body shifting in that effortless, athletic way, and before you can fully process it, he’s standing right in front of you, separated only by the glass. His stick taps lightly against the boards as his eyes crinkle in a familiar grin.

Your breath catches.

You press a hand to the glass, just instinct, fingers splayed, heart thudding so loud you’re sure your sister can hear it. Cale leans forward slightly, eyes flicking over you, your jersey, your flushed face. He says something — you can’t hear it, not through the pounding music and the glass and the arena noise — but you think it’s, "I’m glad you’re here."

Your cheeks flame.

You mouth back, "You’re cute."

He laughs. You can see it in the crinkle of his eyes, the way his shoulders shake just a little, the tilt of his head. Then, with a swift flick of his stick, he nudges a puck toward the boards. A warmup puck. For you.

Your jaw drops. You watch, stunned, as the puck bounces lightly off the glass, right at your feet. Cale gives you a little salute — the absolute dork — before pushing off, skating backward to rejoin his team.

You stand there, staring at the puck like it’s made of gold.

Your sister leans in, smirking. "Well, that’s one way to mark your territory."

You elbow her without looking, face hot, heart doing somersaults. You pick up the puck, turning it over in your hands, feeling the cold, solid weight of it. It’s just a puck. It’s just a puck. And yet, somehow, it feels like the most precious thing you’ve ever been given.

As the warmups continue, you can’t stop watching him. The sharp turns, the bursts of speed, the easy, practiced grace. He’s in his element here, focused and dialed in, but every so often, you catch him glancing your way — just for a second, just enough to send your stomach swooping.

You sip your beer to hide your grin, toes bouncing in your shoes, jersey sleeves tugged nervously over your hands. You never thought you’d end up here, not really. Not all the years of letters, the awkward first phone calls, the texts and the video chats and the late-night talks. Not after missing his playoff debut, stuck in Fort Worth traffic, whispering encouragements across a crackling phone line.

And yet, here you are. Here he is.

You clutch the puck tighter, eyes locked on the ice, heart brimming with something you’re not sure you’re ready to name.

But maybe — just maybe — it’s time to start figuring it out.

—

The crowd is still pouring out of the arena, a restless, jubilant wave of fans spilling into the cool Dallas night, jerseys and hats and flags everywhere. You keep craning your neck, bouncing slightly on your toes, trying to spot him. Your heart’s still hammering, a leftover rhythm from the game, from the roar of the crowd, from seeing him on the ice — live, in person, not just pixelated on a screen or frozen in a grainy photo. You hug your souvenir puck tighter to your chest, fingers curling around the edges, nerves buzzing under your skin.

And then — There he is.

Suit sharp and slightly wrinkled, tie a little loose, hair damp at the edges from a quick post-game shower. Cale Makar, in the flesh, walking toward you with a grin that stretches his whole face wide, eyes crinkled, mouth split open like he’s seeing something he’s been missing his whole life.

You barely have time to squeak out a breath before he wraps you up in a hug, sweeping you right off your feet, arms locked tight around your waist. You let out a surprised laugh, legs kicking slightly, the world tilting dizzy and golden and perfect.

“Oh my God,” you gasp into his shoulder, burying your face there for a second, just breathing him in — warm, clean, a little like cologne and a little like the crisp chill of the ice. “You’re actually here. I’m actually here. This is insane.”

He lets you down slowly, hands lingering at your waist, his face still lit up with that big, ridiculous smile. “You came,” he says, like he can’t quite believe it, like he hasn’t been the one blowing up your phone with texts all week.

“Of course I came,” you say, still half-laughing, half-shaking your head. “You literally sent me a guilt trip in the form of a VIP ticket, you dork.”

He laughs, eyes flicking over you, lingering just a second longer than they used to. “You look amazing.”

“Please, I look like I sprinted through a tornado,” you shoot back, self-conscious, tugging at your jersey. “You’re the one looking all fancy, Mr. NHL Star.”

He ducks his head a little, cheeks pinking — and you’re hit, all at once, with this rush of nostalgia so strong it nearly knocks you sideways. Alien boy, you think, heart twisting fondly. The same boy who used to doodle UFOs in the margins of his letters. The same boy who used to explain icing to you over crackly phone lines, who used to sign his texts with goofy little smiley faces.

The same boy who’s standing here now, taller and broader and impossibly real, looking at you like you hung the stars.

Then, it happens.

A beat of quiet, the world slipping sideways, the crowd noise fading into a blur. His eyes meet yours, soft and sure, and without a word, without even thinking, he leans in and kisses you.

It’s not deep. It’s not dramatic. It’s just a gentle, certain press of lips, a quiet little lock that sends your heart somersaulting clean out of your chest. Your eyes flutter shut for a second, your fingers curling instinctively into the front of his suit jacket, and for a moment, everything — all the years, all the miles, all the letters and texts and calls — condenses into this one tiny, perfect spark.

When you pull back, you’re both smiling like idiots.

“Wow,” you whisper, breathless, dizzy with something you can’t quite name but have maybe always known.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes crinkling again. “Wow.”

Neither of you says anything about what it means, because you both know. 

You’ve always known.

You slip your hand into his, fingers tangling easily, naturally, like they were made for this, and with a giddy little laugh, you tug him toward the parking lot. He squeezes your hand once, twice, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles as you weave through the thinning crowd.

Somewhere behind you, the arena lights glow, casting long shadows over the pavement, and somewhere ahead, the car waits, the road waits, the future waits.

You glance up at him, cheeks aching from smiling, heart so full it feels like it might float right out of you.

And as you skip off together, hand in hand, you think, 

Not obviously. Not decisively. Just—if there’s a choice, he drifts your way. If you move, he adjusts. If you’re already seated, he takes the empty chair beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You notice. You don’t assume.

“Did you want this seat?” he asks one night, already halfway into it.

“Oh—no, yeah, it’s fine,” you say too quickly. “I mean—yeah, you can sit.”

He smiles. It’s small, polite, soft. “Okay.”

And then neither of you speaks for several minutes.

This becomes a pattern.

He brings you coffee sometimes, always the same order, never commenting on the fact that he knows it. You thank him every time like it’s a surprise. You ask how practice was. He asks how your day went. You both give answers that are detailed but carefully unremarkable, like you’re afraid of saying the wrong thing when there is, objectively, nothing at stake.

Except there is.

Everyone else sees it.

“Nobody has ever needed to kiss more than those two,” Nate says one afternoon, watching Cale lean in to hear you better, his hand braced on the counter just beside yours, close enough to feel.

“Are they dating?” someone else asks.

“No,” Necas says flatly. “They would combust.”

You and Cale exist in a constant state of near-misses.

Hands brushing when you pass things. Knees touching under tables. Long conversations that mean something and nothing at the same time. Late nights where it’s just the two of you, sitting side by side, talking about everything except the obvious.

You learn things about him that feel intimate without being romantic. That he hates small talk but does it anyway. That he replays conversations in his head afterward, wondering if he said something wrong. That he gets overwhelmed by noise and likes quiet places best.

He learns things about you the same way—carefully, gently. Your favorite walking route. The way you think better out loud. The fact that you downplay your own accomplishments instinctively, like you don’t want to take up too much space.

Neither of you ever crosses the line.

It’s maddening.

“Do you like her?” Devon asks him outright one night.

Cale freezes. “I—what?”

Devon stares at him. “Cale.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I mean. Yeah. Obviously.”

“Then why haven’t you done anything?”

Cale frowns. “I don’t want to make it weird.”

“It’s already weird.”

“Good weird,” Cale says immediately, then flushes. “I mean—comfortable weird.”

Devon sighs. “You’re impossible.”

You’re having a similar conversation across town.

“Are you into him?” your sister asks, exasperated.

You stare at the ceiling. “I think so.”

“Think so?”

“Yes?”

“You talk about him like he hung the moon.”

You groan. “I don’t know how to tell if he feels the same.”

“He sits next to you like it’s gravitational,” she says. “He brings you coffee. He listens to you like you’re the only person in the room.”

You hesitate. “What if that’s just… him?”

She stares at you. “I am begging you to open your eyes.”

The realization doesn’t hit like a lightning strike.

It arrives slowly, then all at once.

It’s a late night, quiet, the kind that feels suspended in time. You and Cale are sitting on opposite ends of the couch, conversation dwindling into comfortable silence. He’s scrolling on his phone. You’re half-watching something you’ve both already seen.

You look at him—and it’s like something in your chest shifts.

The way his hair falls into his eyes. The way his foot taps faintly when he’s thinking. The way he keeps glancing at you, like he’s checking you’re still there.

Oh.

The word settles, heavy and undeniable.

Oh.

You like him. Not casually. Not in a vague, someday way.

You like him like this—like your chest feels too small to hold it.

You inhale sharply without meaning to.

“You okay?” he asks immediately.

You turn to him. Your heart is pounding. “Can I ask you something?”

He straightens. “Yeah. Of course.”

You hesitate. He watches you like he’s bracing for impact.

“Do you ever,” you begin, then stop. Try again. “Do you ever feel like you’re holding something back because you’re afraid of ruining something good?”

His breath catches. “All the time.”

You meet his eyes. They’re open, earnest, terrified.

“Me too,” you say.

Silence stretches between you. It’s different now—charged, fragile.

Cale swallows. “Is this about… us?”

Your voice comes out small. “Is there an us?”

He lets out a shaky laugh. “I hope so.”

The confession is clumsy. Awkward. Perfect.

He admits he didn’t think you could possibly feel the same. You admit you thought his kindness was just politeness. You both laugh at how wrong you were, how long it took.

“I’m really into you,” he says finally, like he’s stating a fact he’s double-checked.

You smile, overwhelmed. “I’m really into you too.”

When he kisses you, it’s hesitant at first—like he’s asking permission even now. You answer by leaning in, closing the distance fully, finally.

It’s soft. Then it’s not.

Once it clicks, it clicks completely.

You fall into each other like you’ve been waiting years to stop holding back. It’s intense in its gentleness—hands always finding, always reassuring. Love that is quiet but total, steady and consuming all at once.

Everyone notices immediately.

“Oh thank god,” Nate says when he sees you together for the first time. “I was losing years off my life.”

Cale just smiles, unabashed now, arm firmly around your waist.

Later, when it’s just the two of you, he presses his forehead to yours.

“I can’t believe we almost missed this,” he murmurs.

You lace your fingers with his. “We didn’t.”

“No,” he agrees, holding you like something precious. “We didn’t.”

And it feels—finally—like exactly where you’re meant to be.

bonus:

The family skate is chaos in the way only something well-intentioned can be.

Kids wobble past clutching helmets two sizes too big. Parents cling to the boards with the quiet desperation of people who underestimated ice. Music plays too loud, laughter echoing off the glass, the rink full of movement and noise and warmth.

You’re lacing your skates when Cale crouches beside you, already done, helmet tucked under his arm.

“Do you want me to—?” he starts, gesturing vaguely at your laces.

“Oh—no, it’s okay, I’ve got it,” you say, immediately fumbling one anyway.

He smiles. “Okay. Just—tell me if you want help.”

You look up at him. “I will.”

You both freeze for half a second, like you’re still getting used to how easily that comes now.

On the ice, you stay close without even thinking about it.

Not in a showy way. Just—naturally. His hand finds yours. Your shoulder bumps his when you laugh. You forget to watch where you’re going because you’re too busy watching him.

“Careful,” he murmurs, guiding you gently away from a kid flying past.

“Wow,” you say. “You’d think you’ve done this before.”

He grins. “A little.”

You skate in slow circles, talking about nothing—what song is playing, how cold it is, how ridiculous the little kids look. At some point, you stop skating entirely and just stand there, foreheads touching, his gloves warm around your hands.

“You’re very distracting,” you tell him.

He ducks his head, embarrassed even now. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Across the rink, someone groans loudly.

“Are you kidding me,” Nate says, loud enough for several people to hear. “This is nauseating.”

Devon skates by, shakes his head. “They’re worse than we imagined.”

Necas doesn’t even slow down. “I hate this,” he says flatly. Then, after a beat, “Also, how did it take them this long?”

You laugh into Cale’s shoulder. “We’re being judged.”

He shrugs, completely unbothered, arms sliding comfortably around your waist. “I think we’ve earned it.”

“You’re insufferable now,” you say fondly.

He smiles at you—open, unguarded, like he’s stopped wondering if he’s allowed to be this happy. “Yeah,” he says. “I am.”

Later, when the rink starts to clear and the noise fades into a softer hum, you sit together on the bench, skates dangling, his arm draped around your shoulders like it’s always belonged there.

“I still can’t believe it took us this long,” you admit.

He presses a kiss to your temple. “I think we needed to be really sure.”

You lean into him. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He tightens his hold just slightly. “Me neither.”

From across the rink, someone makes a gagging noise.