You'd been at the game, you promised you'd go to all of the home games, clad in the wag jacket that had his name embroidered on the front and his number patched onto the sleeve.

You settled in, next to a few of the other wags, and were quickly entertained. Marie (Yanni's wife) is probably your best bud when the fighting starts because she just gets it. Both of your boys are scrappy and while some of the other wags grimace and get nervous—of course not wanting their man to get hurt—you both know they'll be just fine.

It started with Yanni taunting Xhekaj and you were both laughing and giggling, really starting to enjoy it all.

It crescendoed with Brandon's fight with Slafkovsky. You were on your feet, screaming and cheering and know that Brandon was eating it up as he went to the box. It kept going though, getting joined by Corey Perry and continuing to chirp at the Canadien players in the other box.

"He's got jokes!" Marie laughed over the roaring crowd.

"He like to ragebait!" You giggled back, clearly seeing—even from far away—he was enjoying himself.

Later after the late overtime, Marie was quick to get home, her daughter practically falling asleep standing up. She'd given you a ride there but you were adamant that you were fine and Brandon could take you home. You were more than happy to wait in the family lounge for an hour.

You'd texted him but figured he wouldn't see it—he's notoriously bad at texting on a normal day. After a little over an hour, he'd finally emerged—hair a messy wet mop and suit jacket hanging over his arm.

"You need a hat." You smiled as he approached, raising your hand and running your fingers through the mess in an attempt to tame it.

Brandon grimaced, "It's still wet."

"Yeah," You start, running your fingers through it some more. "And if you let it dry like this it will look like you've been electrocuted."

He was quiet as you worked. When you finished, sighing because it wasn't laying just right, he gave you his signature smile. The smile that melted your heart the first time you met.

"What?" You asked, knowing he was about to something.

"Nothing..." He trailed.

You quirked your brow, knowing him well enough to know the gears were turning.

"You saw my goal?" He asked. You nodded. "And my assist?" You nod again. "And my fight?" You nod again, this time a little exaggerated as you smiled, realizing pretty quickly that he was on to something. "That's a Gordie Howe hat trick, ya know?"

You nod, "Yeah, it was beautiful, baby."

"They were saying I'm the first to do in the playoffs—for the Lightning I mean." He's cheesing now. Proud of himself.

"Well, all I have to say is that I loved seeing you one punch that guy." You were practically giggling, knowingly feeding his already large ego.

"Let's get you home." He announced, like it was a necessity. You nod, letting him grab your hand as he practically drags you out of the side entrance of the arena.

When you'd both gotten to the car, he let you hold his right hand in your lap during the drive. The post game traffic had died out by now. The only light being the passing street and traffic lights.

His arm was practically limp, letting you mess with the tips of his fingers and he drove with the other hand. You noticed something, holding his hand up at eye level to—somewhat awkwardly—catch the passing lights.

"What?" Brandon questioned.

"Your hand is swollen." You analyze, squinting with your head tilted, trying to get the right view of his knuckles. "And the skin is broken."

"It's fine. They looked at it after the fight and after the game. I don't need stitches and it barely hurts." He reasoned, flexing his hand in your own grip to try and prove a point. "It just feels like a dull ache. Nothing to worry about."

You squinted, not believing him as you lightly poked at the skin puckering at the edges of the cut. He flinched, his hand jolting as you gave him a deadpanned look. "Okay, maybe don't stick your finger in it?"

"I barely grazed it." You sassed. "You at least need ice when we get home."

"Okay, nurse. I'll get some ice."

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