Grace

The rink smelled like cold air, sweat, and freshly resurfaced ice, the familiar combination settling heavily into your lungs every time you pushed off the bench and stepped back onto the surface.

Your legs already ached.

The game had turned aggressive halfway through the second period after one shitty call spiraled into another, and now every shift felt sharper around the edges. Faster. Meaner. The kind of game where players stopped caring about penalties and started caring about pride instead.

You preferred games like that, if you had to be honest.

Your ponytail stuck damply to the back of your neck beneath your helmet while you skated toward center ice, adjusting your grip against your stick as the referee dropped the puck between you and the opposing center.

The collision happened almost immediately after that.

Sticks clashed. Skates carved violently against the ice. Somebody shouted from the bench behind you while bodies slammed together hard enough to rattle the boards, but your focus narrowed the way it always did during games until the rest of the rink became background noise.

You stole the puck cleanly and pushed forward.

A defender cut toward you from the left.

You dipped your shoulder, trying to slip around her.

Instead, she drove straight into your side.

The impact sent you hard against the glass with a crack loud enough to echo through the arena, pain blooming sharply along your ribs as the boards shook beneath you.

The crowd reacted instantly, and so did your teammates.

But you barely had time to register any of it before irritation outweighed the pain completely.

You shoved off the glass immediately, stealing the puck back before the defender could recover properly, and skated straight down the ice with enough force behind your strides to make your thighs burn.

Somewhere behind the opposing bench, somebody yelled, “Holy shit.”

The puck left your stick seconds later, and the goal light flashed red.

You barely had time to breathe before gloves slammed against your helmet and arms wrapped around your shoulders, the team crowding around you near the bench while the arena noise swelled louder overhead.

“You’re insane,” your captain laughed breathlessly against the side of your helmet.

You grinned despite yourself, adrenaline still racing violently through your system.

The celebration around you lasted only a few seconds before the line changed again and everybody scattered back into position, skates carving sharply across the ice while the energy in the rink climbed even higher after the goal.

You pushed a hand briefly against your ribs while skating backward toward center, testing the ache already beginning to settle beneath your padding.

It hurt.. not enough to matter, yet.

Across the arena, Logan still had not looked away from you.

He sat forward in his seat slowly, forearms resting against his knees while the rest of the crowd blurred into noise around him. The game continued moving at full speed beneath the arena lights, players shouting over one another while the referees reset the faceoff, but his attention stayed fixed entirely on you.

Dean noticed first, because of course he did.

“You good, bro?” he asked, glancing sideways from his seat beside him.

Logan barely blinked. “Who is that?”

Dean followed his line of sight toward the ice where you were circling near center.

“The defenseman?”

“The one that just got launched into the glass.”

Tucker snorted from Logan’s other side. “That doesn't narrow it down at all. They've been nasty tonight.”

Logan ignored him completely.

You pushed your helmet back slightly while talking to one of your teammates, visibly unfazed by the hit you had taken less than a minute earlier, and something about that seemed to irritate Logan further.

He wasn't irritated with you.

At the fact that nobody else on the ice appeared nearly as bothered by it as he was.

“She’s fine,” Dean said casually, mid bite of his overpriced arena pretzel. “Women’s team plays mean as hell.”

“That wasn’t a casual hit.”

Dean shrugged. “She got back up.”

“Not the point.” Logan groaned, leaning back in his seat and letting his legs spread a bit.

Tucker looked over slowly then, eyebrows lifting slightly as realization started creeping into his expression.

“Oh my God,” he muttered. “You’re obsessed with her.”

Logan finally tore his eyes away from the ice long enough to glare at him.

“I’m not obsessed.”

“You looked ready to fight somebody for checking her.”

“She hit the glass hard.”

“She also scored immediately after.” Dean piped up with a shrug and a wink.

Logan’s jaw tightened slightly.

The game resumed again before Dean could say anything else, but Logan’s attention kept drifting back toward you no matter how hard he tried to focus elsewhere. Every shift you played seemed sharper than everyone else’s. Faster. More aggressive.

You didn’t hesitate.

Most players slowed right before impact without even realizing they were doing it, bodies instinctively bracing against pain before collisions happened.

You didn’t.

You kept driving forward like fear genuinely never occurred to you.

Halfway through the third period, you slammed another player into the boards hard enough that Tucker actually winced.

“Jesus Christ,” he laughed. “She’s terrifying.”

Logan said nothing.

Your helmet turned slightly while backing away from the boards afterward, and for a brief second the arena lights caught the side of your jersey clearly enough for him to see the number stretched across your back.

Twelve.

Before he could make out the name above it, you skated off toward the bench again.

Logan leaned forward immediately.

“Twelve,” he repeated.

Dean stared at him. “What?”

“Her number.”

Dean burst out laughing. “You’re actually trying to identify her right now?”

Logan reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled his phone out without answering.

“Oh, this is bad,” Tucker said, grinning openly now. “He’s gone.”

Dean leaned over slightly while Logan opened the Briar women’s hockey roster, scrolling quickly with his thumb while the game continued in the background.

“Twelve,” Logan muttered quietly to himself.

The roster loaded slowly.

Tucker watched him with open amusement. “You don’t even know this girl.”

Logan’s eyes stayed fixed on his phone. “Working on it.”

Dean laughed under his breath. “You got all this from one hit into the boards?”

Logan finally looked back toward the ice.

You were standing near the bench listening to your coach, one glove hanging loosely from your hand while you nodded along absently, cheeks flushed from exertion and baby hairs sticking damply to your forehead beneath your helmet.

Then you smiled at something one of your teammates said.

Five minutes ago you had looked vicious enough to start a fight in the middle of the rink. Now you looked warm and relaxed. The contrast was something that Logan understood and admired.. something that was also making him constantly reconnect his wifi in the hopes that it would load faster.

Logan looked back down at the roster immediately.

“There,” Dean pointed suddenly, leaning closer. “Number twelve.”

Logan’s thumb stopped scrolling.

Your name sat there on the screen beneath your player photo.

Defense. Junior. The same number stitched across your jersey.

For some reason, finally knowing your name only made the strange tight feeling in his chest worse.

Tucker looked between Logan and the phone before laughing again.

“You’re done for, bro.”

Logan barely heard him.

Down on the ice, you stepped back into play again, completely unaware that a man several rows above the rink had just memorized your name like it was something important.

By the final stretch of the third period, Boston College had stopped looking organized and started looking frustrated.

Every pass they attempted felt rushed, every hit carried just a little too much irritation behind it, and Briar only seemed to feed off the shift in energy. The game had become brutal in the way rivalry games always did once pride got involved, fast and physical and loud enough that the sound of skates carving into the ice blended together with the roar of the crowd overhead.

Your lungs burned every time you pushed off into another sprint, exhaustion settling heavily into your legs beneath the adrenaline, but it barely registered anymore. The ache in your ribs from earlier pulsed every time you twisted too sharply, yet even that felt distant compared to the rush of momentum building around your team.

The scoreboard hanging above the rink read 5–1.

Boston looked furious about it.

You stole another pass near center ice before one of their forwards could recover properly, intercepting it so cleanly that she nearly lost her footing trying to turn around after you. The crowd reacted immediately, noise erupting through the arena while you accelerated down the ice with one of your teammates racing alongside you.

A defender moved toward you.

You waited until the very last second before sliding the puck across the ice.

Your teammate buried it immediately.

The red goal light flashed, and before you fully registered it, the arena exploded.

By the time you reached the boards again, your teammates were already swarming you, gloves smacking against your helmet and shoulders while somebody nearly crashed hard enough into your back to knock you forward.

You were laughing before you realized it, adrenaline making everything feel sharp and electric beneath your skin while the Boston goalie snapped her stick against the post in frustration somewhere behind you.

Several rows above the glass, Tucker stood abruptly from his seat with the kind of dramatic excitement only hockey players seemed capable of.

His hands coming together with immense force as his claps echoed alongside the rest of the cheers in the arena.

Dean laughed immediately beside him, though his attention shifted toward Logan a second later once he realized there had been absolutely no reaction.

Logan had not looked away from the ice.

Not once.

His forearms rested against his knees while his eyes tracked you, a small grin tugging at his lips despite the intent behind his eyes.

Dean noticed it first.

Or maybe he had noticed earlier and only now found it entertaining enough to comment on.

“Y'know,” he said slowly, “most people blink occasionally.”

Logan barely reacted.

“You’re staring at her like you’re scouting for the NHL,” Tucker added, dropping back into his seat.

“She’s good,” Logan answered simply.

It came out quieter than either of them expected.

Not dismissive. Not casual. He was just certain.

Dean glanced sideways at him then before looking back toward the ice again where you were circling near the bench waiting for the next line change.

“That is not a normal amount of interest for someone you’ve watched exactly one game of.”

Logan didn’t answer immediately.

The truth was he had stopped paying attention to the rest of the game almost twenty minutes ago. Every time you stepped onto the ice, his focus shifted toward you without thinking. The speed, the aggression, the complete lack of hesitation every time another player came near you. You played like somebody who trusted herself completely, and there was something about that confidence that had rooted itself beneath his skin almost instantly.

The final buzzer sounded not long after.

Briar won 7–1.

The entire team spilled onto the ice immediately afterward while music blasted through the arena speakers and students crowded harder against the glass cheering. Your helmet disappeared during the celebration at some point, leaving your hair flattened messily around your face while one of your teammates jumped against your side hard enough to throw both of you off balance.

You caught her automatically, laughing hard enough that Logan could see it even from the stands.

Dean leaned back in his seat slowly.

“Oh, you are fucked,” he muttered.

Logan finally dragged his attention away from the rink long enough to frown at him slightly. “Fuck off." He shoved Dean's shoulder while the two of them laughed as Logan's eyes wandered back to the ice.

You were standing near the bench now talking to your coach, your gloves tucked beneath one arm while you nodded along absently. The arena lights reflected faintly against the sweat still shining along your forehead, and even exhausted, you still looked completely awake somehow. Alive in a way that made it difficult to stop looking at you once he started.

After a short victory lap, the team slowly started disappearing through the tunnel beneath the stands while the energy in the arena softened into postgame noise. You lingered near the ice longer than most of your teammates, still talking to someone through the glass while tossing a puck over for a kid with a little Briar hockey jersey on.

Then your head turned slightly toward the stands.

Toward him.

Logan went still.

Even from this far away, he could see the brief flicker of awareness cross your expression as your eyes passed over the crowd and paused for half a second too long in his direction.

It wasn't recognition, despite the fact that he wanted it to be. It was really just awareness.. like you had felt someone watching you.

Before either of you could hold the moment long enough for it to become anything real, one of your teammates grabbed your arm and dragged your attention away again, pulling you toward the tunnel with the rest of the team.

Logan kept looking toward the empty space you had left behind long after you disappeared from sight.

The next morning felt painfully slow after the energy of the game the night before.

Campus had settled back into its usual rhythm by the time Logan crossed the quad toward his lecture hall, students moving in uneven streams through the cold while coffee cups steamed between gloved hands and backpacks bumped against shoulders in crowded walkways.

He barely noticed any of it, all he could think about was crawling back into his bed after his classes wrapped up.

Not because anything was wrong, which honestly only irritated him more, but because every time he closed his eyes he kept replaying flashes from the game in frustratingly vivid detail. The sound of skates against the ice. Your laugh during the postgame celebration. The way you kept getting back up after every hit like it genuinely offended you to stay down.

Dean had called him pathetic three separate times already that morning.

Logan still wasn’t entirely convinced he was wrong.

He pushed open the door to the lecture hall a few minutes before class started, stepping into the familiar low buzz of conversation and keyboards tapping. The room smelled faintly like coffee and winter air dragged in from outside, students already settling into seats while the projector glowed dimly against the front wall.

Logan started down the steps automatically, his hands settled in his pockets while he made his way towards the usual row he sat in.

Then, his steps came to a screeching halt.

Three rows from the front sat a navy blue Briar athlete backpack slouched beside one of the seats.

Women’s hockey was embroidered, and small along the top of the front pocket.

His eyes caught on the small keychain hanging from the zipper almost instantly.

#12.

For a second, he just stared at it. Then his gaze lifted higher.

You sat half turned in your seat talking quietly to the girl beside you, one sleeve pulled over your hand while you absentmindedly highlighted something in your notebook with the other. Your hair was perfect, and despite being beneath a helmet earlier that morning for practice, he was sure it smelled like vanilla.

Without all the gear and arena lights around you, you looked softer somehow. Still pretty enough to make his chest tighten annoyingly hard. Just… real now. Close enough to touch.

Logan stood there long enough that somebody behind him had to awkwardly step around him to get down the stairs.

He moved automatically after that, though his attention stayed fixed on you the entire way down the aisle.

You still had not noticed him.

Part of him almost preferred it that way, because now that he was actually standing in the same room as you instead of watching from the stands, he realized he had absolutely no idea what to say.

Which was new.

Logan was not usually nervous around women. Confident, relaxed, occasionally arrogant if Dean was being honest, but never nervous.

Yet suddenly he was hyperaware of everything. The sound of his shoes against the lecture hall floor. The fact that his heartbeat felt stupidly loud. The way your fingers tapped absently against your pen while reading over your notes.

He passed your row. Kept walking. Then, immediately regretted it and pretended to take a phone call to abort back up a few rows.

By the time he dropped into a seat a few rows higher, Dean — who had walked in behind him at some point — looked close to losing his mind laughing.

“Holy shit,” he whispered while sitting beside him. “You panicked.”

“I didn’t fucking panic.”

“You literally walked past her like a Victorian dude seeing an ankle.”

Logan stared straight ahead. “Shut up.”

Dean leaned back in his chair, visibly delighted. “You’re down horrendous.”

Logan ignored him, though not very successfully considering his attention had already drifted back toward you again.

You were still focused on your notebook completely unaware of the crisis currently happening several rows behind you.

Then, as if sensing it somehow, you glanced over your shoulder.

Your eyes landed on him immediately with a flicker of recognition swiping across your face almost instantly.

Logan watched the exact second you noticed him noticing you. You looked away first, and that was enough to make warmth crawl unexpectedly up the back of his neck.

Dean saw the entire interaction and looked ready to combust.

“You made eye contact,” he whispered dramatically, his eyelashes batting in a playful fashion.

“Please be quiet.”

“Are you in love?”

Logan rubbed a hand slowly over his face.

Class started before Dean could keep talking, though that honestly did not help much, considering Logan spent the first twenty minutes hearing absolutely none of the lecture.

His focus kept drifting. He noticed how you chewed lightly on the end of your pen while reading. The way you fidgeted with your necklace while listening to the professor. You wrote quickly, confidently, barely ever crossing things out or hesitating before moving onto the next line.

At one point, you stretched slightly in your seat and winced.

Subtle and quick. But Logan noticed immediately, of course he did, he was noticing everything you had done for the past 30 minutes.

Your ribs.

The hit from yesterday had clearly bruised you worse than you’d acted like it did. The thought of that was enough to bother him for the rest of class.

When the lecture finally ended, students started gathering their things immediately, backpacks zipping loudly while conversations picked up around the room.

Logan watched you zip your backpack shut carefully before standing. Then he watched two different guys notice you at exactly the same time.

One of them moved before he was able to finish fumbling to put his laptop away.

Of course he did.

Tall, confident-looking business major type. The kind of guy that was probably in a frat with a snap score of at least 2 million.

Logan felt irritation spark instantly.

The guy smiled at you while adjusting the strap of his backpack. “Hey, you’re on the hockey team, right? You played last night?”

You looked up politely. “Oh-.. uh, Yeah.”

“You were really good.”

Logan hated how genuine the compliment sounded, he was expecting this douche to be superficial and just ask for your snap to add to his roster.

You smiled softly anyway. “Thank you.”

The guy opened his mouth again, clearly gearing up to continue the conversation.

Then Logan stood.

Dean looked up immediately with the kind of excitement usually reserved for live sporting events.

“Ho-ly shit,” he muttered.

Logan ignored him completely before heading down the stairs.

He wasn’t entirely sure what his plan was, only that the idea of walking out of this room without talking to you suddenly felt impossible.

The guy was still talking by the time Logan reached the bottom of the stairs.

Something about study groups, or maybe coffee. Logan honestly was not listening closely enough to tell the difference.

Your attention stayed politely fixed on him while you adjusted the strap of your backpack higher onto your shoulder, though there was something slightly distracted about your expression, like your mind was already somewhere else entirely. Exhaustion lingered faintly beneath your eyes from the game the night before, softened only slightly by the fact that you still looked unfairly pretty standing there in your Briar hockey sweatshirt and sweatpants.

The small keychain hanging from your backpack zipper knocked lightly against the fabric every time you moved.

#12.

Logan’s eyes caught on it again before he could stop himself.

“You play unbelievable, by the way,” the guy continued. “That goal in the third period was insane.”

You smiled politely, surprised that this guy actually had gone to the game, and wasn't just using it as an excuse to hit on you. “Thanks, Boston's never an easy opponent.”

The conversation should have ended there.

You clearly wanted to end it there.

But the guy kept standing in front of you anyway, lingering just enough that Logan recognized the strategy immediately. Stretch the interaction out long enough and eventually it becomes something else.

Normally he wouldn’t have cared.

Except now he did, annoyingly so, at that.

Before he could overthink it, he stepped closer.

“You should probably ice your ribs.” The words came out naturally, low and calm, though the moment they left his mouth, you turned toward him immediately.

Recognition crossed your face faster, and it wasn't just vague familiarity, but rather memory this time.

You had seen him in the stands last night, and Logan got to watch the exact second it clicked for you.

“The guy from the game,” you smiled before seeming to realize you had spoken out loud.

Your voice sounded rougher than he expected, slightly worn at the edges from yelling over rink noise the night before.

Something about it settled heavily in his chest.

“Yeah,” Logan answered quietly.

For a brief second, the other guy still standing beside you looked deeply confused by the interaction happening in front of him.

“You know each other?” he asked.

“No,” both of you answered at the exact same time.

That seemed to catch you off guard a little because your mouth twitched faintly afterward, like you were trying not to laugh.

Logan felt warmth spread unexpectedly through his chest at the sight of it.

The other guy looked between the two of you again before apparently deciding he was suddenly no longer part of the conversation.

“Well,” he said awkwardly, adjusting his backpack strap, “I’ll see you around.”

You smiled politely again. “See you.”

The second he disappeared into the crowd of students leaving the lecture hall, silence settled briefly between you and Logan.

Up close, he noticed details he hadn’t been able to see clearly from the stands. A faint bruise near your jaw partially hidden beneath your hair. The exhaustion lingering beneath your eyes. The slight stiffness in your posture every time you shifted your weight too quickly.

You were definitely hurting more than you wanted people to notice.

“You really should ice those ribs,” he repeated more quietly this time.

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “You could tell?”

“You flinched during class.” The answer seemed to surprise you, no one besides your roommate paid enough attention to notice when you had an injury you were insistent on downplaying.

Heat crawled faintly into your expression before you looked away for half a second, adjusting the sleeve pulled over your hand.

“It’s fine,” you murmured. “Just bruised, at least nothing's broken. ”

Logan frowned slightly. “That hit looked bad.”

“It was bad.”

“Yet, you got right back up. Scoring after nearly breaking the glass is some insane shit.”

Something softer flickered briefly across your face then.

“Kind of have to in hockey.” You shrugged in amusement, a smile tugging at your lips that was much more genuine than with the frat guy from a few moments ago.

And Logan was taking that as a win.

Students continued filtering loudly around the two of you while the lecture hall slowly emptied, but Logan barely registered any of it anymore. His attention stayed fixed entirely on you, on the way you shifted your backpack higher against your shoulder or how your fingers tapped absently against the strap while thinking.

“So, you came to the game? There was more turnout than usual for our game's last night, it was fun.” you asked after a second.

The question sounded casual, though curiosity lingered beneath it.

Logan nodded once. “Yeah, I went with some of my roommates, we decided last minute because one of them wanted a fucking pretzel.”

“And now you’re giving medical advice to strangers?”

A smile tugged unexpectedly at his mouth. “You don’t really feel like a stranger.” The sentence slipped out before he could stop it, and immediately his eyes squinted a bit in regret, and his brows furrowed.

Your eyes lifted back to his immediately.

For one horrible second, Logan considered the possibility that he had just sounded insane, but your expression softened instead in a very subtle way.

“Well,” you hummed quietly, “you still don’t know me.”

“I know your name.”

The moment he said it, your eyebrows lifted again.

“I-... uh, looked up the roster.” Logan had the decency to look slightly guilty as the words left his mouth.

You stared at him for half a second longer before laughing softly under your breath, and the sound hit him with the same force it had the night before in the arena.

It was soft and warm, to anyone else it would be like music to their ears, but to Logan? It was dangerous.

“That’s a little insane,” you told him, playfully putting on a disapproving face that quickly dissolved into a smile.

“Yeah, no, for sure.”

The honesty of the answer seemed to catch you off guard enough that you laughed again, shaking your head while starting toward the aisle leading out of the lecture hall.

Logan naturally fell into step beside you without thinking about it. From across the aisle, Dean held up two thumbs-ups and mouthed 'Fuck yeah,' which Logan was happy to drown out with the conversation that was slowly building between the two of you.

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