#islanders

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” you say, the words a low groan as you stare out the Uber window. The familiar skyline of Manhattan shrinks in the rearview mirror, replaced by the endless, flat expanse of the Long Island Expressway.

“Oh, stop being so dramatic,” Becca says, flicking a piece of lint off her vintage band t-shirt. “It’s Noah Kahan. You love Noah Kahan. We all love Noah Kahan.”

“I love Noah Kahan when he plays in a civilized venue,” you retort, gesturing vaguely towards the city behind you. “A venue that doesn’t smell faintly of desperation and poor life choices.”

Ana leans back from the front passenger seat. Her tone is the same one she uses when she’s about to dismantle a weak argument in your Torts study group. “Okay, let’s be rational. Fact one: Noah Kahan’s MSG dates sold out in thirty seconds. Fact two: We were all in a contracts lecture during that thirty seconds. Fact three: These were the only resale tickets under five hundred dollars. It’s simple logistics, Y/N.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” you insist, crossing your arms. Your Columbia Law hoodie feels like insufficient armor for the journey ahead. “UBS Arena. It’s … it’s their house. It might as well be built on the unholy ground of the Nassau Coliseum parking lot. Do you know how many times I had to hear my dad complain about the ice at the Coliseum? It was a running joke for fifteen years.”

Becca rolls her eyes so hard you can practically hear it. “Are we really bringing up the quality of the ice from a defunct arena as a reason to be miserable at a concert we’ve been waiting six months for?”

“It’s a metaphor, Becca. For the entire organization.”

The Uber driver, a man who has remained stoically silent for the entire theological debate, glances at you in the mirror. You can’t tell if it’s with pity or amusement.

“Look,” Ana says, turning around fully. “We’ll get in, we’ll see the show, we’ll sing Stick Season until our voices are gone, and we’ll get out. We don’t have to talk to anyone. We don’t have to look at the stupid logos on the walls. Just think of it as an away game. You’ve been to hundreds of away games.”

“Away games are different. You go in with your colors on, ready for battle. This …” you sigh, slumping against the window, “this is infiltration. I feel like a spy. A spy who is about to pay fourteen dollars for a light beer in a plastic cup.”

“A spy with fantastic friends who scored you a ticket to see your favorite indie-folk artist,” Becca adds, patting your knee. “Now put on your happy face. Or at least your neutral, ‘I am merely here for the musical stylings and not to absorb the bad hockey juju’ face.”

You can’t help but let a small smile break through. They’re right, of course. It’s absurd. You’re twenty-four years old, a second-year law student at one of the best schools in the country. Your identity is more than just being Henrik Lundqvist’s daughter. And yet, stepping out of the Uber and onto the pavement of the UBS Arena complex, the old, ingrained loyalty flares up like a phantom limb.

The air feels different here. It’s not the electric, vertical energy of Manhattan. It’s a sprawling, suburban energy. The blue and orange on the signs and banners are just a few shades off from the familiar Rangers palette, a visual dissonance that sets your teeth on edge. It’s like looking at a poorly rendered knock-off.

“Okay,” you say, taking a deep breath and pulling the sleeves of your hoodie down over your hands. “Let’s do this. But if I see a single fisherman logo, I’m claiming emotional distress and suing.”

Ana laughs. “I’ll represent you.”

Inside, it’s exactly as you feared. A shrine to mediocrity. Banners celebrating championships won before you were born hang from the rafters. The concourse is a sea of blue and orange jerseys, the names on the back a rogue’s gallery from your childhood: Tavares (the traitor), Okposo, Nielsen. You avert your eyes, focusing on the mission: find your section, find your seats, and pretend you’re anywhere else.

The opening act is a blur of pleasant guitar riffs and forgettable lyrics. You stand with your friends, bobbing your head, trying to get into the spirit of it. But your gaze keeps drifting, cataloging the details of the arena, the sight lines, the sheer audacity of it all. It’s a nice building, you have to admit. Clean. Modern. It pains you to concede the point.

As the opener finishes and the house lights come up, the pre-show buzz intensifies. The roar of thousands of simultaneous conversations fills the space.

“I’m dying of thirst,” Becca announces, fanning herself with her hand. “And I need a pretzel the size of my head. Anyone else?”

“I could use a water,” Ana says, already pulling her wallet out.

“I’ll go,” you volunteer immediately. It’s an excuse to move, to escape the feeling of being a blue-shirted ghost in an orange-and-blue machine. “My treat. You guys save the seats.”

“You sure?” Ana asks. “The lines are going to be insane.”

“Positive. I need to stretch my legs anyway.” You give them a reassuring smile and begin the slow, arduous process of shuffling past a dozen pairs of knees.

The concourse is a human traffic jam. You squeeze through crowds of people laughing, shouting, and spilling beer. The smell of popcorn and hot dogs hangs thick in the air. You find the end of a line that seems to be moving at a glacial pace and pull out your phone, scrolling through Instagram to distract yourself from the overwhelming Islanders-ness of your surroundings.

You’re halfway through an article about a recent Supreme Court decision when the guy behind you speaks.

“Tough line, eh?”

His voice is light, with a casual, almost musical lilt to it. You glance back over your shoulder, offering a noncommittal, polite hum in response. He’s tall, with an easy smile and a wave of dark, unruly hair that falls perfectly across his forehead. He’s wearing a simple black t-shirt and jeans, but he wears them with an unconscious confidence that suggests he’s used to being looked at. He’s handsome. Annoyingly so.

“Always the way,” he continues, undeterred by your lack of enthusiasm. “You wait ‘til the break, you and ten thousand other people have the same bright idea.” He gestures with the hand that isn't holding his own phone. “Gotta have a plan. Send a scout during the last song of the opener. That’s the pro move.”

You manage a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll remember that for next time.” You turn back to your phone, hoping the conversation is over. You’re not here to make friends. Especially not with someone who looks so comfortable, so at home in this place.

A few minutes of silence pass. The line inches forward.

“So, you a big fan of the opener?” He asks again.

You sigh internally. “They were fine.”

“Just fine? Ouch.” He chuckles. It’s a nice sound, low and genuine. “I thought they were pretty good. You here for Noah, then?”

“Is there another reason to be here?” The question comes out sharper than you intend.

He raises an eyebrow, the easy smile faltering for just a second. “I mean, I guess not tonight. Fair point.” He shifts his weight. “I’m Mat, by the way.”

You don’t offer your name in return. You just nod. “Okay.”

The silence that follows is a little more awkward this time. You can feel his eyes on the side of your head. You risk a tiny, sideways glance. He’s looking at you with a puzzled sort of curiosity, a small frown playing on his lips. He looks familiar, but you can’t quite place him. A model? An actor from a show you half-watch?

The line moves again, a glorious surge of two full steps. You’re almost at the counter.

“Alright, look,” he says, his voice a little closer now. “I feel like I’ve seriously offended you somehow, and I’ve only said about twenty words. Is it the scout comment? Was that too much? I can be a bit of a hockey nerd about strategy, it just comes out.”

Hockey. The word hangs in the air between you. And suddenly, it all clicks into place with a sickening thud. The familiar face. The confidence. The fact that he’s here, at UBS Arena, looking like he owns the place. You’ve seen that face in post-game interviews, on sports blogs, in the nightmares of Rangers fans everywhere.

Mat Barzal.

Number 13. The flashy, infuriatingly talented centerpiece of the New York Islanders.

The blood in your veins turns to ice.

You turn to face him fully, your polite, disinterested mask dropping away to reveal the pure, unadulterated disdain that has been simmering under the surface since you crossed the Queens border. Your eyes narrow.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

His friendly confusion deepens. He glances down at his plain black t-shirt as if checking for a stain. “Kidding about what? The hockey nerd thing? It’s true, ask anyone.”

“No,” you say, your voice low and dripping with contempt. “This. You. Here.”

He blinks, a slow, perplexed motion. “I … work here sometimes? Is that a problem?”

“A problem?” A harsh, incredulous laugh escapes your lips. “It’s an abomination.”

His smile is completely gone now, replaced by a look of genuine bewilderment. He takes a half-step back, as if you might physically lash out at him. “Whoa. Okay. I’m clearly missing something huge right now. Did I, like, cut you off in traffic on the way here? Steal your parking spot?”

“Worse,” you say, the word like a stone. “You play for the Islanders.”

He stares at you for a beat, waiting for the punchline. When it doesn’t come, his face breaks into a disbelieving grin. “Wait, is that what this is? Seriously? A rivalry thing?”

“A rivalry thing?’” you echo, your voice rising slightly. “It’s not a ‘thing.’ It’s a fundamental divide in the fabric of the universe. It’s good versus evil. It’s taste versus … whatever you call that thing you guys do on the ice.”

He actually laughs, a full, surprised sound that makes a few people in front of you turn their heads. “Wow. Okay. You’re … you’re really passionate about this. I’ve seen fans get into it, but this is a whole other level. You’re a Rangers fan, I take it?”

“I’d rather be a fan of the IRS than a fan of the Islanders,” you spit back.

“Damn.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking both amused and utterly baffled. “That’s harsh. The IRS? They’re ruthless.” He leans against the counter behind him, crossing his arms. The posture is casual, but his eyes are fixed on you, trying to figure you out. “So what, I’m not allowed to get a pretzel at a concert in my own arena because my jersey is the wrong color for you?”

“It’s more than a color,” you say, leaning in slightly, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s a moral failing.”

“A moral failing,” he repeats slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching. He’s trying not to smile, and it’s making you even angrier. He thinks this is a joke. A cute little quirk. He doesn’t understand that this is theology to you.

“Look, I’m sorry that my existence offends you so deeply,” he says, his tone shifting from amused to something a little more serious. “I was just trying to make conversation while we wait for overpriced beer.”

“Don’t bother,” you say, turning your back to him as you finally reach the front of the line. “I don’t fraternize with the enemy.”

“The enemy?” He calls after you, his voice a mix of disbelief and something else you can’t quite place. “We’re at a folk concert!”

“Two waters, please,” you say to the vendor, your voice clipped and businesslike. You slap your card on the counter, refusing to look back, though you can feel his gaze burning a hole in your Columbia hoodie.

You grab the two plastic bottles and turn, intending to push past him without another word. But he’s standing right there, blocking your path. He’s not smiling anymore. There’s a challenge in his eyes now, a flicker of competitive fire that you’ve seen on TV a hundred times, right before he dangles through three defensemen.

“You never even told me your name,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s a statement. A demand.

“That’s because you don’t need to know it.”

“I think I do,” he insists, his voice softer now, more intimate. It’s a stark contrast to the noisy chaos of the concourse around you. “Someone who hates me that much, that personally? I feel like I should at least know what to call you.”

Your heart is hammering against your ribs. This is ridiculous. You’re a law student. You’re rational. You’re composed. But something about his unwavering focus, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the most interesting puzzle he’s ever seen, is undoing all of that.

“It’s Lundqvist,” you say, the name leaving your lips before you can stop it. You see a flicker of recognition in his eyes, but it’s not the one you expect. He doesn’t connect it. Not yet. To him, it’s just a common Swedish surname.

“Lundqvist,” he repeats, testing the sound of it. “Well, Lundqvist. It’s been … memorable.”

From the arena bowl, a massive, earth-shaking roar erupts. The lights dim, and the opening chords of Noah Kahan’s first song blast through the speakers. The main event is starting.

It’s your escape hatch.

“I have to go,” you say, pushing past him. Your shoulder brushes his arm, and for a split second, you feel a jolt of warmth through his t-shirt and your hoodie.

“Hey, wait!” He calls out.

But you don’t wait. You plunge back into the moving river of people, weaving and dodging, the two cold water bottles clutched in your hands. You don’t look back. You just run, your pulse racing, his voice echoing in your ears over the sound of the music.

When you finally collapse back into your seat, breathless, Ana and Becca are already on their feet, screaming the lyrics.

“What took you so long?” Ana shouts over the music, taking a water bottle from your trembling hand. “Did you get lost?”

You just shake your head, your eyes fixed on the stage, where Noah Kahan is bathed in a single spotlight. But you don’t see him. All you see is a pair of confused hazel eyes and a disbelieving smile.

“You okay?” Becca mouths, her brow furrowed with concern. She saw your face.

“Fine,” you mouth back, forcing a smile that feels brittle and fake.

You try to lose yourself in the music, to sing along with your friends and forget the last ten minutes ever happened. But it’s impossible. The interaction plays on a loop in your head. The casual confidence in his voice. The way his smile disappeared. The intensity in his eyes when he asked for your name.

You, a Lundqvist, just had a ten-minute, high-stakes, verbal sparring match with Mat Barzal in the heart of enemy territory.

And the most infuriating part of it all, the part that makes a hot, confusing flush creep up your neck, is that for a fleeting moment before you knew who he was … you thought he was charming.

You look out over the sea of cheering fans, the colored lights washing over their faces. He’s out there somewhere. In a suite, probably. Watching the same show. Breathing the same air. And he knows your name. Or, at least, your last one.

The coat of legacy suddenly feels a few sizes too tight. The concert has just started, but for you, the drama is already well underway.

***

The last song fades, the final chord hanging in the air like dust motes in a sunbeam before being devoured by a tidal wave of applause. The house lights flash on, stark and unforgiving, revealing a sea of flushed, smiling faces. It’s over. The collective dream has ended. For everyone else, at least. For you, it never even began.

You were a ghost at the feast, physically present but mentally a million miles away, stuck in a ten-minute loop on a crowded concourse. You clapped when Ana and Becca clapped, sang along to the choruses you knew by heart, but the words were ash in your mouth. The joy of the music was muted, filtered through a strange, new static you couldn’t tune out.

“That,” Becca declares, her voice a hoarse whisper, “was spiritual. I think my soul left my body during Northern Attitude.”

“It was incredible,” Ana agrees, gathering her jacket. “Totally worth the trek into enemy territory.” She nudges your shoulder gently. “Even you have to admit that, Y/N.”

You offer a weak smile. “He’s a great performer.”

They both stop and look at you. The exodus from the arena swirls around you, a chaotic ballet of fans shuffling towards the exits, but your little trio is a sudden island of stillness.

“Okay, what’s going on?” Becca asks, her fun-loving demeanor melting away to reveal the sharp perception that always surprises you. “You’ve been weird for the last ninety minutes. You were practically vibrating when you came back with the waters.”

“I’m not weird,” you lie, starting to move towards the aisle. “I’m just tired. Long week of classes.”

“Don’t you dare pull the ‘law school is hard’ card on us,” Ana says, falling into step beside you. “We’re in the trenches with you, remember? This is something else. Spill. Was the concession guy a jerk?”

You let out a short, sharp laugh that sounds more like a cough. “The concession guy? No, he was fine. It was the guy in line behind me.”

The slow-moving crowd forces you into a single-file line. Becca is in front of you, Ana behind, effectively bracketing you in. There’s no escape.

“Ooh, a guy in line,” Becca says, twisting her head back, her eyes gleaming with interest. “Was he cute? Please say he was cute. We need a fun story to cap off the night.”

“I didn’t really notice,” you lie again, the words feeling clumsy and foreign on your tongue.

“Liar,” Ana singsongs from behind you. “Your ‘I am being evasive’ tell is your left eyebrow does this little twitchy thing. It’s doing it right now. I can feel the vibrations through the floor.”

You sigh, scrubbing a hand over your face. There’s no getting out of this. They’ll wear you down eventually, with the precision of a perfectly crafted cross-examination. “He was … conventionally attractive, I guess.”

“‘Conventionally attractive’?” Becca scoffs. “Listen to you. You sound like you’re drafting a legal brief. Use real words. Was he hot?”

You stay silent, focusing on the back of the jersey in front of you. A name you don’t recognize. A prospect, maybe.

“Her silence speaks volumes,” Ana interprets for the court. “The defendant is pleading the fifth, which in girl-code, is an admission of extreme hotness.”

“Okay, fine,” you snap, your voice a frustrated whisper-shout. “He was objectively handsome, if you like that tall, athletic, ‘I’ve never had to try a day in my life’ kind of thing.”

“I do!” Becca exclaims. “That is my absolute favorite kind of thing! So what happened? Did he have a terrible opening line? Did he have a girlfriend with him? Does he secretly stan the Devils?”

“Worse,” you mutter, the single word a repeat of your earlier conversation, but this time filled with exhaustion instead of venom.

You finally break free from the bottleneck of the aisle and spill back out onto the main concourse. It’s still packed, but you can breathe again. You find a slightly less crowded spot near a closed concession stand.

“Worse than a Devils fan?” Ana asks, her brow furrowed. “I’m not sure that’s mathematically possible.”

You take a deep breath, like a swimmer preparing to plunge into icy water. “His name is Mat Barzal.”

The name hangs in the air for a second, meaningless. Then, you see the slow-dawning horror on Ana’s face, followed by the confused, delighted gasp from Becca.

“Wait,” Ana says, her voice flat with disbelief. “Like … the Mat Barzal? Islanders Mat Barzal?”

“Number thirteen,” you confirm, your tone grim.

Becca claps her hands together, a single, sharp sound. “No! Shut up. You ran into Mat Barzal? And he hit on you?”

“He did not ‘hit on me,’” you say defensively. “He made annoying small talk in the pretzel line.”

“That’s how it starts!” Becca insists, grabbing your arm. “The flirty banter! The meet-cute! It’s the inciting incident! This is a rom-com, Y/N! You’re the hard-as-nails Rangers fan with a secret heart of gold, and he’s the charming rival who makes you question everything!”

“He made me question my will to live, that’s about it,” you grumble. “It was horrible. He was so … smug.”

“Or,” Ana interjects, her lawyerly brain kicking in as she analyzes the situation, “was he just friendly, and you perceived it as smug because of your deeply ingrained, and admittedly well-founded, institutional bias?”

You glare at her. “Don’t use my own legal reasoning against me. He was smirking. And he called it ‘a rivalry thing.’ The audacity.”

“Okay, that part is a little dismissive,” Ana concedes. “But what did you do? What did you say?”

“I told him I don’t fraternize with the enemy.”

Becca groans. “Y/N, no! That’s what you say in chapter five, after the sexual tension has been building! You skipped ahead!”

“And then,” you continue, ignoring her, “I might have mentioned that his chosen profession constitutes a moral failing.”

Ana winces, rubbing her temples. “Okay, that might have been a bit much.”

“It was perfect!” Becca argues. “It’s establishing your character! He knows you’re not just some puck bunny. You’re a formidable opponent! He’ll be obsessed. He’ll be trying to figure you out for weeks.”

“I doubt it,” you say, though a tiny, treacherous part of you replays the look in his eyes when you walked away. The way he shouted after you. “He probably just thinks I’m insane.”

“So, did he know who you were?” Ana asks, the question you’ve been dreading.

You shake your head, the motion stiff. “No. I don’t think so. He asked for my name and I … I panicked. I just said Lundqvist.”

The three of you stand in silence for a moment, processing the weight of that single word.

“Oh, honey,” Ana says, her voice full of sympathy. “You dropped a nuclear bomb and walked away.”

“He won’t figure it out,” you insist, more to convince yourself than them. “Lundqvist is like the Swedish equivalent of Smith. He’ll never connect it.”

“A guy like that? A pro athlete?” Becca says, shaking her head. “They’re competitive. He’s not going to let some girl who looks like you call him a moral failure and then just forget about it. He’s going to investigate. Trust me. The game is afoot.”

“There is no game,” you say firmly. “It was a weird, five-minute interaction that is now over. We’re going to get in the Uber, go home, and I am going to devote the rest of my weekend to memorizing the nuances of civil procedure. End of story.”

But as you walk out into the cool night air, the LIE a ribbon of headlights in the distance, you know Becca is right. It doesn’t feel like an end of a story. It feels like a page has just been turned.

***

The sound of the car door closing is a dull thud in the quiet of his garage. Mat leans his head back against the leather headrest, the engine ticking as it cools. The echoes of the concert are still ringing in his ears, a faint phantom of bass and acoustic guitar. But it’s not Noah Kahan’s voice he hears in his head.

It’s yours.

“You play for the Islanders.”

The sheer disgust in your voice. He’s dealt with hecklers, with angry fans shouting at him from behind the glass, with bitter keyboard warriors online. That’s all just noise. White noise. Part of the job.

This was different. This was surgical. It was a quiet, personal kind of hatred, delivered from two feet away by a woman with eyes that flashed like a storm warning over the Atlantic.

“Dude, you good?” Bo Horvat’s voice cuts through the silence from the passenger seat. “You haven’t said a word since we left the parking lot. You usually give me a full breakdown of the setlist.”

Mat scrubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, man. Just … tired, I guess.”

“Tired? Or thinking about whoever it was you were talking to at the concession stand?” Bo asks, a knowing smirk in his voice. “I saw you from a distance. Looked pretty intense. Didn’t look like it went your way, either. Which is, you know, a new look for you.”

Mat sighs, turning the key to cut the auxiliary power. The garage plunges into darkness, save for the faint glow of the dashboard. “It was the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had in my life.”

“Weirder than that time in Montreal when the old lady tried to pay for her hot dog with a pocketful of buttons?”

“Weirder,” Mat confirms. “She hated me, man. Like, truly, genuinely hated my guts.”

Bo laughs. “Okay? So she’s a Rangers fan. Welcome to New York. Half the people in this city hate our guts. It’s part of our charm.”

“No, it wasn’t like that,” Mat insists, trying to articulate it. “It wasn’t like, ‘Oh, you’re an Islander, boo.’ It was like I had personally wronged her great-grandparents. Like I’d burned down her village. And she was … man, I don’t even know.”

He trails off, remembering the way she stood her ground. The intelligence in her eyes. The way her whole demeanor shifted from polite disinterest to righteous fury in a split second. Most people, when they recognize him, get flustered or excited. They ask for a picture. They tell him he needs to shoot more on the power play. They don’t look at him as if he’s a stain on the fabric of humanity.

“So she was hot, then,” Bo concludes sagely. “This level of post-rejection brain-scramble only happens when they’re really hot.”

Mat can’t help but smile in the darkness. “Yeah, Bo. She was not hard to look at.”

“So what’s the problem? You’ll never see her again. Erase it. Plenty of other, uh, non-hateful fish in the sea.”

“I don’t know,” Mat says, and this is the part he can’t explain, the part that feels like a glitch in his own wiring. “I kinda want to see her again.”

Bo is silent for a moment. “Okay, now you’re just being a masochist. She told you she hates you. What are you gonna do, show up at her door with a sign that says, ‘I come in peace’?”

“She gave me her last name,” Mat says, the words tasting like a clue. “Lundqvist.”

“Lundqvist,” Bo repeats. “Swedish. There are a million of ‘em. Good luck with that. Probably for the best, man. A Rangers fan that intense? That’s like dating a landmine. You’re better off.”

Maybe he is. Bo’s right. It’s insane. He should go inside, drink a protein shake, watch some highlights from the evening’s games, and forget all about it. He should forget about the flash of anger in her dark eyes and the way she said his name like it was a curse.

But as he walks into his sterile, modern house on the North Shore, the advice feels impossible to follow. The encounter has dug in under his skin. It was a challenge. And if there’s one thing Mat Barzal has never been able to do, it’s back down from a challenge.

He showers, the hot water doing nothing to wash away the conversation. He wanders into the kitchen, the open-plan living space feeling vast and empty. He’s not tired. He’s wired, restless. He grabs his phone from the kitchen island, his thumb hovering over the Instagram icon.

It’s a stupid idea.

He opens it anyway.

He types ‘Lundqvist’ into the search bar. The results are a digital flood. annalundqvist, erik_lundqvist, lundqvist_photography, viktorlundqvist78. Thousands upon thousands of them. Public profiles, private profiles. People in Sweden, people in Minnesota, people all over the world. It’s hopeless. Anonymity in a crowd of namesakes.

He tosses his phone onto the couch with a frustrated sigh and walks over to the wall of windows overlooking the dark, placid waters of the Long Island Sound. The whole thing is ridiculous. He’s acting like a teenager. He’s a professional athlete. He has a game in three days. He should be thinking about zone entries and defensive pairings, not some mystery woman who despises his existence.

He stands there for a long time, watching the distant lights twinkle on the Connecticut shoreline. But the idea won’t let him go. There has to be another way. He thinks back to the concert, trying to visualize the scene. The crowd, the noise, the phone screens everywhere.

People post everything. They post pictures of their tickets, videos of the show, selfies with their friends. And when they post, they tag the location.

The idea hits him with the force of a perfectly executed one-timer. It’s a long shot, a digital needle in a haystack, but it’s a shot nonetheless.

He retrieves his phone from the couch, his heart starting to beat a little faster now, the thrill of the chase taking over. He goes to the search page, taps on ‘Places,’ and types in ‘UBS Arena.’ He clicks on the location, then on the ‘Recent’ tab.

The screen fills with the collective memory of the night. A torrent of faces and lights. He starts to scroll.

It’s an exercise in patience. He scrolls past blurry videos of the stage, the audio a distorted mess. He scrolls past endless smiling selfies, group photos, pictures of half-eaten pretzels and overpriced beers. Best night ever with my girls! Noah Kahan, you are my everything! Stick Season in the homeland!

His eyes start to glaze over. Every face begins to look the same. Maybe this was a mistake. She was probably the one person in the entire arena who didn’t post a single thing. She seemed too serious for that, too intense.

He keeps scrolling. Down and down, back through the hours. He’s scrolling through posts from an hour ago, then two, then three. He’s back to the time of the opening act. His thumb is starting to ache.

He’s about to give up. He’ll give it one more minute, then he’ll put the phone down and go to bed. He does a few more fast, desperate flicks of his thumb.

And then he stops.

The photo jumps out at him, a sudden point of clarity in the digital chaos. It’s a group shot of three women, silhouetted against the bright lights of the stage. The caption reads, It’s a damn shame what we’re not. @noahkahanmusic with my favorites. Two accounts are tagged in the photo. @anareid_esq and @ynlundqvist.

He zooms in. The girl on the right is the mediator, the one who looks like she has her life together. The one in the middle is the free spirit, a wide, joyful grin on her face. And the one on the left … it’s you.

It’s Lundqvist.

You aren’t looking at the camera. Your head is turned slightly, a small, genuine smile on your face as you listen to something one of your friends is saying. The harsh arena lighting catches the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw. In this photo, you aren’t the furious adversary he met on the concourse. You look happy. Relaxed. Beautiful.

His breath catches in his throat. He found you.

His thumb moves, almost of its own accord, and taps on the tag: @ynlundqvist.

The profile loads. A simple, elegant selfie for the profile picture. A bio that just says Columbia Law ‘27. And, to his immediate and immense frustration, the little lock icon and the words This Account is Private.

Of course it is.

For a moment, he feels defeated. A locked door at the end of the treasure hunt. But then he looks closer. Below the private account notice, there’s another line. A line that makes the hair on his arms stand up.

Followed by ckreids, mika.zibanejad, shesty_official, and 12 others you follow.

Kreider. Zibanejad. Shesterkin.

The pieces start to slam into place, the loud, chaotic clang of a slot machine hitting the jackpot.

Lundqvist.

A Rangers fan whose hatred runs so deep it feels biblical.

Followed by the core leadership of the current New York Rangers.

Columbia Law. A sharp, intelligent woman who could dismantle him with a few well-chosen words.

It’s not Smith. It’s not a common name. Not in this context. In this context, in this city, in the world of hockey, ‘Lundqvist’ only means one thing. It means royalty. It means The King.

Mat lets out a low whistle, sinking back into the cushions of his couch. He stares at the screen, at the private profile that holds the daughter of his team’s greatest modern rival. Henrik Lundqvist’s daughter. He’d just spent ten minutes bickering with Henrik Lundqvist’s daughter. He’d called her passionate. He’d been amused by her loyalty. He had no idea he was staring into the epicenter of an entire Rangers dynasty.

A slow grin spreads across his face. It’s not a grin of amusement anymore. It’s a grin of pure, unadulterated disbelief at the sheer, cosmic poetry of the situation. This is insane. This is completely, certifiably insane.

Bo’s voice echoes in his head. That’s like dating a landmine.

And maybe he’s right. This is a terrible idea. Fraternizing with the enemy is one thing; trying to fraternize with the enemy’s princess is an act of war. It could end in disaster. It could end in public humiliation. It could end with him getting verbally eviscerated in a way that would make a Don Cherry rant look like a gentle compliment.

But as he looks at your locked profile, a feeling crystallizes in his chest. It’s the same feeling he gets when he’s down by a goal with a minute left to play. It’s the same feeling he gets when he sees a seam in the defense that no one else sees, a high-risk, high-reward play that could change the whole game. It’s a cocktail of adrenaline, audacity, and an unshakeable belief in his own ability to make something impossible happen.

He doesn’t want to just figure you out anymore. He wants to know you. He wants to know what you’re like when you’re not defending your team’s honor against the likes of him. He wants to see you smile like you are in that picture, and he wants to be the reason for it. He is, he realizes with a jolt, completely intrigued. The fact that you are who she are doesn’t scare him off. It does the exact opposite. It makes the entire proposition a thousand times more compelling.

This is no longer about a random, pretty girl at a concert. This is about the story. A story so ridiculous, so unbelievable, it has to be real.

His thumb moves with newfound purpose. It hovers over the blue button for a fraction of a second, a silent declaration of intent.

Then, he presses it.

Follow Request.

The button turns a flat, unassuming white.

Requested.

The shot has been fired. The puck has been dropped. He has no idea what happens next. You could ignore it. You could block him. You could take a screenshot and send it to all your Rangers-playing mutuals for a good laugh at his expense.

Mat places his phone face down on the cushion beside him. He leans his head back, closes his eyes, and for the first time all night, he lets himself truly smile.

***

The next day is a blur of blue-book citations and the finer points of contract law. You’re in your happy place, a small, secluded carrel on the silent floor of the Columbia Law Library. This is your sanctuary. Here, the world is orderly. It’s logical. Every argument has a counter-argument, every problem has a precedent. It’s a fortress against the chaos of the outside world.

But today, the fortress walls have been breached. A certain number thirteen keeps skating through your thoughts, disrupting your focus.

Your phone, set to silent, buzzes on the table beside your laptop. It’s the group chat.

Becca: Has the enemy made contact yet?

Ana: Leave her alone. She’s studying.

Becca: This is more important than studying! This is life! Romance! Cross-city rivalries! It’s basically Romeo and Juliet but with more checking and less teen suicide.

You roll your eyes, but a smile touches your lips.

You: There’s no romance. He was an annoyance. And I have 150 pages of reading for Torts. Talk to me tomorrow.

Becca: He’s totally going to slide into your DMs. I give it 24 hours. He’s going to say something charmingly self-deprecating.

You: He doesn’t know my Instagram handle. And even if he did, I’m private. Checkmate.

Ana: The checkmate is you doing your reading so we can pass this class and become high-powered attorneys.

Becca: Booooring.

You put the phone down, determined to ignore it. You manage a solid twenty minutes of focused reading, highlighting a particularly dense passage on promissory estoppel, when the phone screen lights up with a different kind of notification. Not a text. Not an email.

An Instagram notification.

matbarzal requested to follow you.

You stare at the screen. You stare at it so long that the screen goes dark. You tap it back to life, just to make sure you weren’t hallucinating.

It’s still there. The name. The request.

Your blood runs cold, then hot, then cold again. A wave of something that feels suspiciously like panic crashes over you.

How?

How did he find you? It’s impossible. You didn’t give him your first name. You’re private. There are thousands of Lundqvists. Your username gives nothing away.

Becca’s voice rings in your ears. He’s going to investigate. Trust me.

He investigated. He must have gone through the location tags. The thought of him scrolling through hundreds of photos, searching for your face, is both deeply creepy and, to your utter mortification, a little bit flattering. He didn’t just forget about you. He went looking.

Your thumb hovers over the notification. Two options sit side-by-side, a digital fork in the road. Confirm. Delete.

Delete. The obvious choice. The sane choice. You delete the request, and this whole absurd saga is over. He gets the message loud and clear. You weren’t kidding. You want nothing to do with him. It’s clean. It’s final. It’s what any self-respecting, legacy-carrying Rangers fan would do.

But your thumb doesn’t move.

You’re thinking about the look on his face. The genuine, unguarded confusion. The flicker of a challenge in his eyes. He had no idea who you were. Not really. He didn’t know he was not just poking a random Rangers fan, he was poking the daughter of the King himself. The sheer, beautiful irony of it is almost too much to bear.

What would happen if you hit Confirm?

He’d see your photos. Photos of you at the Garden, wearing your father’s jersey. A picture of you and your dad on the ice after his retirement ceremony. A picture of your dog, a golden retriever named Shesty. It would take him approximately thirty seconds to connect the dots.

And what then?

A wicked, dangerous curiosity starts to bloom in your chest. It’s the same impulse that makes you want to argue a losing point in class just to see if you can win. It’s the thrill of the intellectual spar.

He fired a shot. Deleting it is a defensive move. Accepting it … accepting it is returning fire. It’s raising the stakes. It’s a silent, loaded message. You have no idea what you’ve just gotten yourself into.

Your heart is hammering against your ribs, a frantic, syncopated rhythm. This is a terrible idea. It’s a stupid, reckless, dramatic idea.

You press Confirm.

The blue Confirm button fades to a placid, non-committal white. Requested becomes Following. It’s a simple, two-word change on a screen, but it feels like pulling a pin from a grenade. You’ve just granted the enemy access to the fortress. You’ve handed him the key to the archives, a curated history of your life for the past eight years.

You hold your breath, half-expecting your phone to explode. Nothing happens. The library remains silent, the only sound the gentle hum of the ventilation and the distant, soft cough of a fellow student drowning in case law. You stare at his name in your follower list, nestled absurdly between your cousin in Stockholm and a food blogger you followed for a good focaccia recipe. matbarzal. It looks like a typo. A glitch in the matrix.

You take a screenshot and send it to the group chat without comment. The response is instantaneous.

Becca: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Ana: You did NOT.

Becca: YOU DID!!! THIS IS HAPPENING! I’M THE CAPTAIN OF THIS SHIP! I’M GOING DOWN WITH IT IF I HAVE TO!

You: It was a strategic decision. Reconnaissance.

Ana: You accepted a follow request from the star player of your father’s arch-rival team and you’re calling it ‘reconnaissance’? Have you been reading CIA interrogation manuals instead of your Torts textbook?

You: He can’t hurt me if I know what he’s looking at.

Becca: HE’S LOOKING AT YOU! HE’S OBSESSED! HE WENT ON A DIGITAL MANHUNT FOR YOU! A MANHUNT! BE MORE ROMANTIC, YOU CAN’T!

You silence your phone and slide it face down on the table, your heart thumping a nervous rhythm against your ribs. You try to focus on the words in your textbook, on the dense legal prose that usually feels like a comforting puzzle. But the letters swim before your eyes. All you can think about is him, a guy you’ve known for less than fifteen minutes, scrolling through your life. What is he seeing right now? What is he thinking?

***

Mat feels a jolt, a surge of pure, unadulterated victory, as the notification pops up on his screen. Y/N Lundqvist (@ynlundqvist) accepted your follow request. He lets out a triumphant laugh in the quiet of his living room. It’s a bigger thrill than it has any right to be. It’s definitely a bigger thrill than his last shootout goal.

He taps on your profile, and this time, the lock is gone. The grid of your life opens up to him. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and begins to scroll.

He tells himself this is research. It’s due diligence. He’s just trying to understand the person who called him a moral failing with such conviction. It’s not stalking if the door is open. You opened the door. You practically invited him in. This is his logic, and he’s sticking to it.

He starts from the bottom, from your earliest posts six years ago. Grainy photos from high school. Trips to Sweden in the summer, the light soft and golden. Pictures of a younger, goofier-looking Chris Kreider and Mika Zibanejad at a team holiday party, where you look about sixteen.

He keeps scrolling, moving forward in time. The pictures get better, the captions wittier. He sees you move into your dorm at NYU for undergrad. He sees you celebrating the end of finals, surrounded by the same two friends from the concert, Ana and Becca. 

Then he gets to the hockey content. And there’s a lot of it.

There are pictures of you at Madison Square Garden, so many of them, from every conceivable angle. In the stands with your friends. Down by the glass during warm-ups. In the tunnel, looking serious. A shot of you wearing a vintage #35 jersey, the name RICHTER across the back. He respects the deep-cut choice.

He finds a picture of your dog, a stunningly fluffy golden retriever. The caption: Shesty, you’re my besty. Mat groans and smiles at the same time. It’s such a pure, fan-girl thing to do, so at odds with the formidable, acid-tongued woman he met.

And then he finds it. A photo from a few years back. It’s on the ice at MSG. The lights are low, the stands are empty. You’re standing next to your dad. Henrik is in full gear, his mask off, arm slung around your shoulder. You’re both beaming, identical smiles of unforced joy. The caption is simple: Bring your daughter to work day.

Seeing it, seeing the undeniable proof, still sends a strange shock through him. It’s one thing to deduce it,it’s another to see it in living color. The King and his princess. He studies the photo for a long time, looking at your face. The pride in your eyes. The easy, loving way you lean into your father’s side. This is the source code of your loyalty. This is why you looked at him like he was something you’d scraped off the bottom of your shoe. Half of his career had been, in some small way, about trying to beat the man in this picture.

He keeps scrolling, past graduation photos, past pictures of your first day of law school, past a stunning shot of you in a navy blue dress at a charity gala, looking elegant and completely out of his league. He sees a whole person. A smart, funny, driven, fiercely loyal person who loves her dog, her friends, her family, and a hockey team that he’s paid to hate.

And it does nothing to deter him. In fact, it does the opposite. The puzzle of you is more intricate and more compelling than he ever imagined. He’s not just intrigued anymore. He’s hooked.

He scrolls all the way back to the top of you feed, his mind made up. He has to shoot his shot. A guy like him gets shot down, he gets back up and tries a different move. This calls for a different move. Something bold. Something that acknowledges the absolute absurdity of the situation.

He navigates to her profile and hits the ‘Message’ button. The blank text box appears, the cursor blinking expectantly. He thinks for a moment, a grin playing on his lips. He types, deletes, and types again. Finally, he settles on it. It’s cocky, it’s a little bit dumb, but it’s honest.

He hits send.

***

You’re half-asleep in your carrel, the words of a particularly dense Supreme Court ruling blurring into an incomprehensible legal soup. The party of the first part, hereinafter referred to as “appellant,” asserts that the precedent established in Marbury v. Madison …

Your phone buzzes, a sharp, insistent vibration against the polished wood of the table. You glance at it, annoyed at the interruption. It’s another Instagram notification. But this one isn’t a like or a comment. It’s a message request. From matbarzal.

Your fatigue vanishes, replaced by a jolt of pure adrenaline. Your fingers feel clumsy as you tap the notification, opening the app. A new message sits at the top of your inbox.

matbarzal: So now that I’ve done a full background check and confirmed I am, in fact, the enemy, I have a proposition.

You read the message once. Twice. A proposition? The sheer arrogance of it makes you let out a small, incredulous laugh. You can picture him typing it, that easy, confident smirk on his face.

Your fingers fly across the keyboard before you can second-guess yourself.

You: A proposition? Are you trying to trade me a slightly-used defenseman for a conditional fifth-round draft pick? Because I’m not interested.

You watch the small icon that indicates he’s seen the message appear almost instantly. He’s waiting for your reply. The thought sends a ridiculous flutter through your stomach.

The three little dots appear. He’s typing.

matbarzal: Damn. That was my second offer. The first one is dinner.

You: Dinner? As in, eating food? Together? In public?

matbarzal: That’s the general concept, yeah. My treat. Think of it as … reparations. For all the emotional distress my career has caused you.

You can’t help it. You smile. A real, genuine smile. He’s leaning into it. He’s not pretending their encounter didn’t happen. He’s using your own language against you. It’s clever. Annoyingly clever.

You: Reparations are usually monetary. And the level of distress we’re talking about would bankrupt your entire organization.

matbarzal: See? That’s why I’m offering dinner instead. I’m a savvy negotiator. I’ll even cross enemy lines and come to you. Name a place in Manhattan. Someplace nice, so you can’t say I didn’t try.

This stops you. He’s offering to come all the way into the city. From Long Island. On a weeknight. That’s … effort. That’s a real gesture. It’s not the low-effort, “wanna grab a drink sometime?” That you’re used to.

What are you doing? This is Mat Barzal. He’s the on-ice manifestation of everything you’ve been taught to root against. Going to dinner with him is treason. It’s consorting with the enemy. It’s a betrayal of the blue, white, and red.

But … you’re also a twenty-four-year-old woman who has just been asked out on a real date by a handsome, persistent, and surprisingly witty man. And the curiosity is killing you. What is he like when he’s not in a hockey arena or a crowded concourse? What would you even talk about? The whole idea is so preposterous, so utterly insane, that it’s almost appealing.

Maybe you’re coming down with a fever. Maybe the lack of sleep from studying has finally broken your brain.

You: There’s a place near me called Marlow’s. It’s quiet. If you’re serious.

matbarzal: Never been more serious about anything in my life. Marlow’s. Friday at 8?

You stare at the message. Friday. That’s two days away. It’s real. You’re actually contemplating this. You take a screenshot and send it to your friends.

Becca: SAY YES SAY YES SAY YES IF YOU DON’T SAY YES I WILL BREAK INTO YOUR APARTMENT AND HIJACK YOUR PHONE AND SAY YES FOR YOU

Ana: Marlow’s is a good choice. Public, but respectable. Good lighting. You can make a quick exit if he starts talking about the 1980s.

Ana: For the record, I think this is a clinically insane thing to do. But I also want to hear every single detail about it.

You look back at his message. Friday at 8? The blinking cursor waits for your answer. You take a deep breath. To hell with it.

You: Fine. But if you show up in anything with an Islanders logo on it, the deal is off.

The reply is instantaneous.

matbarzal: Wouldn’t dream of it. It’s a date.

A date. He called it a date. Your stomach does a nervous flip-flop. You’ve just agreed to go on a date with Mat Barzal. Your father would have a heart attack. Your younger self would disown you. Your current self … your current self has no idea what she’s just done.

***

Friday arrives with a sense of surreal inevitability. You spend the entire day in a fog of distraction, unable to focus in any of your classes. Every time you look at your notes, you see his name, his easy smile.

By seven o’clock, your apartment looks like a tornado has ripped through your closet. Sweaters, jeans, dresses, and blouses are strewn across your bed in a monument to your indecision.

“It’s just dinner,” you say to your reflection. Your reflection looks unconvinced.

You video call your friends, propping your phone up on your dresser.

“Okay, crisis,” you announce. “I have nothing to wear.”

“You have a closet the size of my entire apartment,” Ana says dryly from her own desk, a textbook open in front of her. “What’s the vibe you’re going for?”

“The vibe is ‘I am an intelligent, sophisticated woman who is completely unfazed by this ridiculous situation and is merely here out of a sense of anthropological curiosity,’” you say, holding up a black silk blouse.

“Okay, so you want to look hot,” Becca translates, munching on popcorn from her couch. “The black blouse is good. Classic. Serious. But also, you know, hot. Wear it with your dark wash jeans. The good ones. And the ankle boots. It’s effortless.”

You follow her instructions, the clothes feeling both like armor and a costume. You do your makeup with more care than you’d ever admit, a little extra mascara, a touch of highlighter. You tell yourself it’s because the lighting at Marlow’s is dim.

At 7:58, your phone buzzes with a text from a DM.

matbarzal: Hey, it’s Mat. I’m outside.

Your heart leaps into your throat. He’s here. He’s real. He’s standing on the sidewalk outside your building on the Upper West Side. You take one last look in the mirror, smooth down your blouse, and grab your purse.

“Wish me luck,” you mutter to the empty room, and walk out the door.

The evening air is crisp and cool. You see him instantly, leaning against a black stone retaining wall a few feet from your building’s entrance. He’s not what you expected. He’s not wearing a flashy designer jacket or trendy sneakers. He’s dressed in a simple, well-fitted charcoal grey sweater, dark pants, and clean leather shoes. He looks … normal. Understated. He looks handsome, and your stomach does another nervous lurch.

He spots you and pushes off the wall, a small, almost nervous smile on his face.

“Hey,” he says, his voice softer than you remember it from the concourse.

“Hi,” you reply, clutching your purse strap like a lifeline. “You found it okay.”

“Yeah, I have a GPS. It’s this crazy new technology,” he teases, and the tension breaks a little. You both smile. “You look … you don’t look like you’re about to call me a moral failure, so that’s a good start.”

“The night is young,” you retort, but there’s no heat behind it. You fall into step beside him as you start walking towards the restaurant, a comfortable distance between you. “I’m surprised you came. I was half-expecting you to cancel, claiming a ‘lower-body injury.’”

He laughs, a real, genuine sound that echoes slightly in the quiet street. “Nah, I’m not afraid of a little away game. Besides, I told you. I’m here to repent.”

The restaurant is just as you remembered: cozy, dimly lit, with the gentle hum of quiet conversations. The host leads you to a small table in a secluded corner. It’s perfect. Private enough for a real conversation, public enough for a quick escape.

Once you’re seated, a strange silence falls between you. The safety of the witty text messages is gone. This is real life. He’s sitting right there, across from you, looking at you with those curious brown eyes.

The waiter saves you, arriving to take your drink orders. You both order a glass of wine. When he leaves, Mat leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table.

“So,” he begins, “your dog is named Shesty.”

You’re caught off guard. “You looked.”

“Of course I looked,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I had to see what I was up against. The dog, the jerseys, the picture on the ice at the Garden … you’re even more of a Rangers fan than I thought.”

“And you still showed up?” You ask, genuinely curious. “You’re either brave or incredibly stupid.”

“Probably a little bit of both,” he admits with a shrug. “It’s how I play hockey, too. So, tell me. Law school. That’s … serious.”

“It’s a lot of reading,” you say, taking a sip of water. “What about you? Is hockey all fun and games, or is there some reading involved?”

“Oh, tons of reading,” he says, his expression deadpan. “We have to read the other team’s power play formations. It’s brutal. It’s not exactly Marbury v. Madison, but it’s dense stuff.”

You stare at him, completely shocked. “You know Marbury v. Madison?”

He grins. “My sister had a Hamilton phase. Some of it stuck.” He leans back as the waiter delivers your wine. “See? We’re not all just dumb jocks.”

“I never said you were a dumb jock,” you protest.

“You didn’t have to,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “Your face at the concert said it all. First, it said ‘Oh, this guy is kind of charming.’ Then it said ‘Wait, I know that face.’ And then it said ‘Ew, it’s a dumb jock from the wrong side of the tracks.’”

You feel a hot blush creep up your neck, because he’s not entirely wrong. “My face is not that expressive.”

“It really is,” he says, taking a sip of his wine. “And I find it … fascinating.”

The conversation flows surprisingly easily after that. You keep the banter going, a safe and comfortable rhythm for both of you. You debate the best pizza in New York (a topic on which you can find some rare common ground). He tells you a hilarious story about a rookie talent show that involved a magic act gone wrong. You tell him about a terrifying cold-call experience in your criminal law class.

You find yourself relaxing. The tension in your shoulders starts to fade. He’s a good listener. He asks questions about your life, about your friends, about what you want to do after you graduate. He seems genuinely interested.

“So why law?” He asks as your main courses arrive. “Was it always the plan?”

You shrug, arranging the pasta on your plate. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve always liked arguing. And I wanted to do something that was … mine. Something that had nothing to do with my dad.”

The name hangs in the air between you. You’ve both been dancing around it all night.

“That must be tough,” he says quietly, his playful demeanor gone for a moment, replaced by something more serious.

“What?”

“Having a dad like that,” he clarifies. “I mean, it’s gotta be amazing, obviously. He’s a legend. But it’s a lot to live up to. A big shadow to get out from under.”

You look at him, surprised by his perception. “Yeah,” you admit, your voice softer than you intend. “Sometimes. Everyone just assumes … they assume a lot of things. That my life has been easy. That I haven’t had to work for anything.”

“No one gets through Columbia Law without working for it,” he says with certainty. “I don’t know you, but I know that much.”

His simple, unequivocal belief in you sends a warmth spreading through your chest. “What about you?” You ask, turning the tables. “Is there a lot of pressure? Being the guy for the Islanders?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, always. You win, you’re the hero. You lose three in a row, and the fans want to trade you for a bag of pucks. It’s part of the deal. You just have to block out the noise and play your game.”

You nod, understanding completely. “Block out the noise.”

“Exactly,” he says, his eyes meeting yours across the table. In that moment, the rivalry, the logos, the colors — it all melts away. You’re just two people who understand the strange, specific pressure of living a public life, of carrying the weight of other people’s expectations. It’s a common ground you never would have expected to find.

The rest of dinner passes in a comfortable blur. You talk about music, about travel, about the best and worst cities to visit on road trips. You find yourself laughing, a real, unforced laugh, more times than you can count. You’re not just having a surprisingly nice time. You’re actually … enjoying yourself. You’re enjoying him.

When the check comes, he snatches it before you can even protest.

“Reparations,” he reminds you with a wink.

He walks you home, the city lights casting a soft glow around you. The silence between you is comfortable now, filled with the unspoken energy of a successful first date.

When you arrive at the steps of your building, you both stop, a familiar, awkward dance.

“So,” you say, turning to face him. “Thank you for dinner. It was … not what I expected.”

“Is that a good thing?” He asks, a hopeful smile playing on his lips.

“Yes,” you admit. “It was a very good thing.”

“Good,” he says, his voice low. He rocks back on his heels, his hands in his pockets. “I had a really good time, Y/N.”

It’s the first time he’s said your first name. It sounds different coming from him. It sounds nice.

“Me too,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t move to kiss you. He doesn’t try to invite himself up. He just stands there, looking at you with an expression you can’t quite read. It’s a mix of amusement, respect, and something else, something deeper.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m glad I’m a moral failing. Best decision I ever made.”

And with a final, charmingly lopsided grin, he turns and walks away, leaving you standing on the steps of your building, your heart doing something wild and unfamiliar in your chest.

You watch until he turns the corner, a silhouette against the city lights. Then you turn, unlock your door, and lean against it, a slow, disbelieving smile spreading across your face. You pull out your phone, your thumbs already moving to text your friends.

You have no idea what any of this means, or where it’s going. All you know is that you just went on a date with the enemy.

And you desperately want to do it again.

***

The thing about a secret is that it has its own gravity. It pulls everything inward, creating a small, dense universe for two. For three months, you and Mat have been living in that universe. It’s a universe of late-night texts that turn into 4 a.m. phone calls, of stolen afternoons in your quiet Upper West Side apartment, of him driving into the city just to have coffee with you for an hour between his practice and a team meeting.

It’s a universe where he’s not Mat Barzal, star center for the New York Islanders, and you’re not Y/N Lundqvist, daughter of a Rangers icon. You’re just Mat and you. In here, the rivalry is a joke you share, a source of endless, affectionate banter. Out there, in the real world, it’s a chasm you both pretend isn’t waiting to swallow you whole.

“I’m just saying,” Mat’s voice comes through your phone, a low, sleepy rumble, “it would be a sign of good faith. A gesture of non-aggression.”

You’re sitting at your small kitchen table, the early morning light filtering through the window, a steaming mug of coffee warming your hands. You’re smiling. “Let me get this straight. You want me, a Lundqvist, to go to Madison Square Garden for a Rangers-Islanders game and wear … what, exactly?”

“A Barzal jersey,” he says, the mock-seriousness in his tone making you laugh. “I’ll even get you one that’s not that disgusting shade of orange.”

“Your blue and white is a cheap imitation of our blue and white,” you say, taking a sip of coffee. “It’s plagiarism. I could probably sue you for copyright infringement.”

“Add it to my tab,” he says without missing a beat. “But seriously. It would be kind of hot.”

“It would be grounds for my father to write me out of the will,” you retort. “And for every single person I’ve ever met to stage an intervention. I’m not wearing an Islanders jersey, Mat. Not now, not ever.”

He sighs dramatically. “Fine. But don’t come crying to me when you’re the only person in the building not supporting the winning team.”

“Oh, we’ll see about that,” you say, the old, ingrained competitiveness flaring up. “Shesty’s been on fire lately. Your power play has been … anemic.”

“Anemic? Ouch. You’ve been reading sports blogs again, haven’t you?”

“I’m a law student,” you say primly. “I do my research. I’m prepared to present a thoroughly researched, well-reasoned argument for why the Rangers are the superior hockey club in every conceivable metric.”

“I’d love to hear it,” he says, his voice dropping a little, turning sincere. “But I’d rather just see you. Are you still coming tonight?”

The question is laced with a vulnerability that always takes you by surprise. For all his on-ice confidence, he is endlessly, touchingly insecure about this one thing: that one day, the chasm will be too wide, and you won’t want to cross it anymore.

“Of course I’m coming,” you say softly. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Even if I score a hat trick?”

“Especially if you score a hat trick,” you lie. “I want a good view of the crushing disappointment on your face when you still lose 4-3.”

He laughs, a warm, familiar sound that feels more like home than you’re ready to admit. “Alright, Counselor. I’ll see you tonight. Try not to boo me too loud, okay? You might hurt my feelings.”

“No promises,” you say, and hang up, the smile lingering on your face.

The secret is safe in these moments. It feels manageable, even fun. A game within the game. But as the day wears on, the gravity begins to shift.

You meet Becca and Ana at your usual pre-game spot, a crowded bar a few blocks from the Garden. The place is a roaring sea of red, white, and blue. Every TV is tuned to the pre-game analysis, the faces of your father’s old teammates-turned-commentators talking strategy. The energy is electric, a familiar, intoxicating buzz you’ve known your whole life. It’s your world.

“Okay, for the last time, you can’t look happy if he scores,” Becca says, leaning over the table, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. She’s wearing a Zibanejad jersey and has blue streaks in her hair. “You have to look disgusted. A single, solitary tear of patriotic sorrow would be a nice touch, but I don’t want you to over-act.”

“I’m not going to look happy if he scores,” you say, rolling your eyes as you take a sip of your beer. You’re wearing your own jersey, a classic, blue home jersey with LUNDQVIST and the number 30 stitched across the back. It feels like a statement. A shield.

“This is still the craziest thing that has ever happened,” Ana says, shaking her head in bewildered amusement. She’s more subdued in a simple white and blue Rangers sweatshirt. “Do you know how many group chats I’m in that are currently debating Mat Barzal’s underlying analytics? And I’m sitting here, across from his secret girlfriend. It’s a violation of the social contract.”

“I’m not his secret girlfriend,” you protest, hating the term. “We’re just … private.”

“‘Private’ is when you don’t post about him on Instagram,” Becca counters. “‘Secret’ is when your boyfriend is the star of the team your entire family has a blood feud with, and telling your father would cause him to spontaneously combust. You’re in a secret relationship, honey. It’s romantic. Embrace the drama.”

You sigh. “It’s not dramatic, it’s just … complicated. And I don’t want to talk about it tonight. Tonight, I’m just a fan. I am here to watch the New York Rangers defeat their lesser, Long Island-based rivals. That’s it.”

Your friends exchange a look, a silent conversation that says, sure you are. But they let it drop.

Walking into Madison Square Garden is a feeling you’ll never get tired of. It’s not just an arena, it’s a cathedral. Every corner holds a memory. The spot where your dad first taught you how to hold a stick. The hallway where you bumped into a scowling John Tortorella after a tough loss. The specific echo of the goal horn, a sound so ingrained in your DNA it could be your heartbeat.

You make your way to your seats, prime territory in the lower bowl, a few rows up from the glass. As you settle in, you can feel the familiar pre-game jitters, the same ones you’ve had since you were a little girl. But tonight, they’re tangled with a new, sharp thread of anxiety.

The lights go down for the pre-game hype video. The roar of the crowd is a physical force, pressing in on you. You roar with them, losing yourself in the collective, tribal passion. For a few minutes, you can forget. You can just be a Rangers fan.

Then the teams skate out for warm-ups, and the complication comes skating right towards you.

The Islanders are in their white away jerseys, the ones Mat tried to sell you on. He looks bigger on the ice, faster, more powerful than he does when he’s lounging on your couch watching Netflix. He skates with a fluid, effortless grace that you used to despise and now, to your eternal confusion, find breathtaking.

He doesn’t look at you. Not at first. He goes through his drills, stickhandling with that lightning-quick, mesmerizing rhythm. You watch him, your eyes tracking his every move. Ana and Becca are watching you, you can feel it.

Warm-ups are a carefully choreographed chaos. Pucks fly everywhere. Players stretch, joke, and fire shots on net. The glass separating you from the ice feels impossibly thin.

About halfway through the session, Mat peels off from his line drill. He skates a slow, deliberate circle in the corner, looking casual, almost bored. Then, he lifts his head, and his eyes scan the crowd. It’s a subtle movement, one no one else would notice. But you know what he’s looking for.

His eyes find yours.

Across the shouting fans and the thick pane of glass, you lock eyes. A small, almost imperceptible smile touches his lips. It’s a secret, just for you. A little pocket of your private universe in the middle of this roaring arena. Your heart does a stupid, traitorous flip.

He skates towards the boards, right in front of your section. He has a puck on the blade of his stick. This is normal. Players toss pucks to fans, especially kids, all the time. A little girl a few seats down from you starts screaming his name, her hands pressed against the glass.

But he doesn’t look at the little girl. He keeps his eyes on you.

He glides to a stop directly in front of you. He leans against the boards, the epitome of nonchalant cool. He holds your gaze for a beat longer, a silent question in his eyes. Then, with a practiced, easy flick of his wrist, he flips the puck over the glass.

It’s a perfect arc. It soars over the screaming girl, over the outstretched hands of a dozen other fans, and lands with impossible, pinpoint accuracy directly in your lap.

It happens so fast you don’t even have time to react. The puck is just … there. A cold, solid weight against your jeans. It’s a slap of shock. Your hands instinctively close around it.

Becca gasps beside you. “Oh my god.”

Ana just whispers, “No.”

You look down at the puck. It’s a standard, black rubber disc, but there’s something on it. A message, written in shaky silver sharpie. It’s not an autograph. It’s one word.

Reparations.

Your breath catches in your throat. It’s your joke. Your word. A callback to your first date, to the DMs that started it all. It’s a piece of your secret world, and he’s just thrown it out into the open.

You look up from the puck, a million frantic thoughts racing through your mind. And that’s when you see it.

You’re on the Jumbotron.

The camera operator, sensing a potential cute fan interaction, has zoomed in. But they didn’t get the little girl. They got you. Your face, fifty feet high, broadcast to eighteen thousand people. The camera lingers on you, then pans down to the puck in your hands, then cuts to Mat, who is now skating away with a self-satisfied smirk on his face, tapping his stick on the ice once, a gesture of acknowledgement.

The crowd around you is buzzing. A low murmur starts to ripple through your section. People are turning to look at you. They saw it. They saw him skate directly to you. They saw him give you the puck. They’re putting the pieces together. The name on your back. The player on the ice. The targeted, deliberate nature of the gesture.

A guy in front of you turns around. “Hey, aren’t you-”

Your phone starts to buzz in your pocket. Then it buzzes again. And again. A relentless, frantic vibration. It’s not just the group chat. It’s everyone. Friends from college. Relatives. People you haven’t spoken to in years. The secret is out. The gravity has collapsed. The universe has just gone supernova.

You feel a wave of hot, prickling panic. Your face is burning. You want to disappear. You want to slide under your seat and cease to exist. You look at your friends, your eyes wide with sheer terror.

Becca’s expression is a wild mix of horror and exhilarated glee. “He did not just do that,” she mouths, her eyes as wide as dinner plates.

Ana looks genuinely concerned. “Are you okay?” She whispers, putting a hand on your arm.

You can’t answer. You just stare at the giant screen, which has mercifully cut away to a commercial. But the damage is done. Eighteen thousand people, plus whoever is watching at home, just witnessed Mat Barzal make a very public, very personal gesture to Henrik Lundqvist’s daughter.

You look out at the ice. He’s back in his line, laughing with Anthony Duclair about something. He glances up at you one more time, and this time, he gives you a full, unabashed wink.

He did this on purpose.

The arrogant, infuriating, wonderful, terrible man did this on purpose. He didn't just blow up your secret; he launched a tactical nuke at it.

The lights dim for the player introductions, and the roar of the crowd feels different now. It feels like it’s directed at you. The game hasn’t even started, and you’ve already lost.

***

The next two and a half hours are a masterclass in cognitive dissonance. You are a walking, breathing contradiction. Every fiber of your being, every neuron conditioned by two decades of unwavering loyalty, is screaming for the Rangers. You jump to your feet when they score, a raw, guttural yell of pure joy tearing from your throat. You groan in agony when the Islanders clear the puck on a power play. You join in the derisive chants aimed at the visiting team.

But every time number thirteen touches the puck, your heart seizes.

You watch with a nauseous blend of pride and dread as he weaves through the neutral zone, his speed and skill undeniable. You find yourself holding your breath when he drives to the net. When a Rangers defenseman lines him up for a big hit along the boards, you flinch, an involuntary, protective reaction that you immediately try to mask with a cough.

Becca notices. She gives you a gentle, knowing nudge. “It’s okay,” she mouths. “You’re allowed to not want him to get decapitated.”

The score is tied 1-1 late in the second period. The game is a tense, brutal affair, exactly what a rivalry game should be. Big hits, post-whistle scrums, incredible saves at both ends. Your dad, who is on the broadcast for the night, is probably loving this. The thought sends a fresh wave of panic through you. He’s in this building. He’s going to hear about this.

Then, it happens. A turnover at the Rangers’ blue line. The puck squirts out to Mat. He’s got a step on the defenseman. He’s in on a partial breakaway. It’s just him and Shesterkin.

The world slows down. You see the play developing in agonizing slow motion. You see him deke, a move you’ve seen him practice a hundred times on YouTube compilations you’d never admit to watching. He pulls the puck to his backhand, forcing Shesterkin to commit. Then, with infinite, infuriating patience, he tucks it around the goalie’s outstretched pad and slides it into the empty net.

A pocket of Islanders fans in the upper deck erupts. The rest of the Garden falls into a stunned, angry silence.

And you … you don’t know what to do. Your mind is a short-circuiting mess of conflicting emotions. Part of you wants to scream in frustration. Part of you … part of you is bursting with a secret, forbidden pride. He did it. He scored. It was a beautiful goal.

You stay seated, your hands clenched in your lap, your face a carefully constructed mask of disappointment. But your heart is pounding.

Ana leans over. “That was a disgusting, filthy, reprehensible goal,” she says, her voice dripping with the appropriate level of fan-like disgust. Then she adds, in a much quieter voice, for your ears only, “He’s really, really good at hockey.”

You just nod, unable to speak.

The Rangers tie it up in the third, sending the Garden into a frenzy. The game ends in a 2-2 tie and goes to overtime. A single point is secured, but the rivalry demands a winner. The three-on-three overtime is a frantic, back-and-forth thrill ride. Your nerves are shot. You’re standing the whole time, clutching Becca’s arm.

In the end, it’s a moment of pure Rangers magic. Panarin walks in and wires a wrist shot past Sorokin. The Garden explodes. You’re screaming, jumping, hugging your friends, caught up in the pure, unadulterated ecstasy of a rivalry win. For a moment, you forget everything else. You are just a fan, and your team has won.

As the players line up for handshakes, you watch Mat. His shoulders are slumped in defeat. He skates off the ice, his head down. And despite the victory, your heart aches for him.

***

The walk out of the arena is a chaotic blur. The victorious energy of the fans is infectious, but you can’t fully share it. Your phone, which you’ve ignored all game, feels like a lead weight in your pocket. You know what’s waiting for you.

When you finally look at it in the relative quiet of the street outside, it’s even worse than you imagined. Dozens of text messages. A handful of missed calls, including two from your mother. And the social media notifications … hundreds of them. You’ve been tagged in dozens of posts. Screenshots of you on the Jumbotron are everywhere. Barstool Sports has already posted it with the caption: Looks like Mat Barzal has been fraternizing with the enemy 👀 Is that who we think it is? The comments section is a war zone.

“This is a nightmare,” you whisper, feeling the blood drain from your face.

“It’s not a nightmare, it’s a news cycle,” Ana says, putting a comforting arm around your shoulder. “It’ll last for forty-eight hours, and then everyone will move on to the next shiny object.”

“Unless your dad addresses it on the post-game show,” Becca adds, helpfully.

“Not helping!” You and Ana say in unison.

Your phone buzzes with a new text. It’s him.

Mat 💕: You can’t be mad at me. We got a point.

The audacity. The absolute, sheer, unmitigated gall of the man. You’re so angry you can’t even see straight.

You: A point? I am currently the number one trending topic on hockey Twitter. My grandmother has called me twice. I might have to enter the witness protection program. And you’re talking about a loser point?

The reply comes back instantly.

Mat 💕: So you’re a little mad.

Mat 💕: Meet me. Parking garage. Level C. I’ll come to you.

You show the text to your friends. Becca’s eyes light up. “The parking garage! The drama! Go! Go settle this!”

Ana looks more hesitant. “Are you sure you want to do this now? When you’re this angry?”

“Yes,” you say, a cold, determined resolve settling over you. “I am going to have a calm, rational, and frankly terrifying conversation with him. Right now.”

You say goodbye to your friends and make your way to the players’ parking garage, a place you haven’t been in years. The security guard, a man named Frank who has known you since you were ten, just nods and lets you through.

The garage is quiet and cavernous, smelling of concrete and exhaust fumes. The sounds of the departing crowd are a dull roar in the distance. You find a spot under a flickering fluorescent light on Level C and wait, your arms crossed tightly against your chest.

A few minutes later, you see him. He’s changed out of his gear and is wearing a simple team-issued sweatsuit. His hair is still wet from the shower. He looks tired. As he gets closer, you see the apprehensive look on his face. He knows he’s in trouble.

He stops a few feet away from you. “Tough loss,” he says, his voice quiet.

“Don’t,” you say, holding up a hand. “Don’t you dare start with small talk. What was that? What were you thinking?”

He shoves his hands in his pockets, looking down at his shoes for a moment before meeting your gaze. “I was thinking that I was tired of hiding.”

The answer is so simple, so direct, that it completely disarms you. “Hiding? Mat, we’re not hiding. We’re being smart. We’re being private.”

“Private? Or scared?” He challenges, his voice still soft, but with an edge of steel. “Y/N, I … I hate it. I hate that I can only see you in your apartment. I hate that when I have a good game, I can’t look up and find you in the crowd and know that you’re happy for me. I hate that when I have a bad game, I can’t see you after. I hate feeling like I’m some dirty little secret you’re ashamed of.”

“Ashamed?” The word is a punch to the gut. “I have never, not for one second, been ashamed of you.”

“Then why are we hiding?” He asks, taking a step closer. “From your friends? From your family? From the whole world? What are we so afraid of?”

“My father, for starters!” You exclaim, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “The media! The fans! Both sets of fans, who are certifiably insane! Did you see what they’re saying online? They want me exiled! They want you traded! People are losing their minds!”

“So let them,” he says, his voice rising with passion. “Let them lose their minds. Who cares? It’s just noise. You taught me that. Block out the noise. This,” he says, gesturing between the two of you, “is what’s real. Not them.”

He takes another step, closing the distance between you. He gently takes the puck, which you’re still clutching, from your hand. He looks at the word scrawled on it.

“I know the timing was bad,” he says, his voice softening again. “And I know I should have talked to you about it first. I’m sorry for that. I am. But I’m not sorry for what I did. I’m proud of you. I’m proud that you’re with me. I want to be able to flip you a puck during warm-ups. I want to take you to dinner and not have to worry about who sees us. I want to be your boyfriend out in the real world, not just in your apartment.”

He looks up from the puck, his eyes searching yours. They’re full of a raw, honest emotion that makes your anger melt away, replaced by a wave of overwhelming love.

“I’m falling in love with you, Y/N,” he whispers, the words echoing in the quiet of the garage. “And I don’t want to do that in secret anymore.”

And just like that, all the fight goes out of you. The fear, the panic, the anger — it all dissolves in the face of his simple, terrifying, beautiful truth. He’s right. You’ve been so focused on the legacy, on the rivalry, on what everyone else would think, that you haven’t let yourself think about what you actually want.

You want this. You want him. In the real world.

Tears prick at your eyes. “You’re an idiot,” you say, your voice thick with emotion.

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”

“You are,” you agree, a wet, shaky laugh escaping you. “You are absolutely my idiot.”

He closes the final inch between you and wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a tight embrace. You bury your face in his sweatshirt, inhaling the familiar scent of him. You can feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your cheek.

You stand there for a long time, holding each other in the dim light of the parking garage, a silent truce declared. The secret is out. The world is waiting. It’s going to be complicated and messy. There are phone calls you’ll have to make, starting with your dad. There will be articles written, and fans will argue, and it will be a story for a while.

But as you stand there, wrapped in his arms, you realize you’re not scared anymore. The two of you, your tiny, secret universe, is strong enough to handle the noise.

You pull back just enough to look at him. “For the record,” you say, a mischievous glint in your eye. “You played well tonight. But that goal was still disgusting.”

He throws his head back and laughs, a full, joyous sound that fills the empty garage. “I love you, you crazy, impossible Rangers fan.”

“I love you too, you arrogant, reckless Islander,” you reply.

He leans down and kisses you. And it’s not a secret, stolen kiss in the safety of your apartment. It’s a kiss out in the world, under the fluorescent lights of the Madison Square Garden parking garage. It’s the end of the secret. And it’s the beginning of everything else.

***

Six Months Later

The elevator ride up to your family’s apartment is unnervingly silent. You’re holding Mat’s hand, and his is so clammy it feels like he just stepped out of a sauna. He’s trying to play it cool, rocking back on his heels and staring up at the floor indicator, but his jaw is clenched so tight you’re worried he might crack a tooth.

“Breathe,” you say softly, squeezing his hand.

“I am breathing,” he says, his voice a little too high. “This is my normal, relaxed breathing. Can’t you tell how relaxed I am?”

“You look like you’re about to face a five-on-three penalty kill in the Stanley Cup Final,” you observe.

“This is a thousand times more terrifying,” he insists, turning to you, his eyes wide with a sincere, primal fear you haven't seen since you told him you were adopting a second cat. “He’s your dad. He’s Henrik Lundqvist. What do I say to him? ‘Hi, Mr. Lundqvist, sir, love what you’ve done with the place. Sorry my entire professional existence is dedicated to destroying the legacy you so carefully built.’”

“Okay, first of all, dial down the drama,” you say, reaching up to straighten his collar. He’s wearing a soft, grey cashmere sweater you picked out, a peace offering to the fashion gods your father prays to. “Second, just be yourself.”

“The self that plays for the Islanders?”

“No, the self that makes you watch terrible reality television and knows all the words to Noah Kahan songs,” you clarify. “The charming, funny, non-hockey-player self. And whatever you do, do not mention the 2014 Final.”

“It’s literally the first thing I thought of when the elevator doors closed,” he admits, looking miserable. “My brain is my own worst enemy.”

The elevator dings softly and the doors slide open to their floor. The walk down the hallway feels like a mile. You can hear the faint sound of your younger sisters laughing and a dog barking from behind the door. You give his hand one last reassuring squeeze. “You’ll be fine. He’ll love you.”

“He will not,” Mat mutters, but he squares his shoulders and lets you ring the bell.

The door swings open, and the first one to greet you is Shesty, who barrels out into the hallway, his tail wagging so hard his whole body wiggles. He jumps up on you, licking your face, then immediately turns his attention to Mat.

“Hey, buddy!” Mat says, his voice full of relief as he crouches down to scratch the golden retriever’s ears. “See? At least your dog likes me.”

“Shesty has notoriously poor judgment,” a deep, familiar voice says from the doorway.

You look up. Your father is standing there, leaning against the doorframe. He’s not in a suit or a jersey, just a simple pair of dark jeans and a crisp white shirt. He looks like a dad. A very tall, very handsome, very intimidating dad who happens to be a first-ballot Hall of Famer.

“Hi, Dad,” you say, stepping forward to give him a hug.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says, kissing the top of your head. His eyes, however, are on the man still petting his dog.

Mat stands up slowly, wiping his hand on his pants before extending it. “Mr. Lundqvist. It’s an honor to meet you. I’m Mat.”

Your dad looks at Mat’s outstretched hand for a beat too long before finally taking it. The handshake is firm, professional. It lasts exactly three seconds, which feels like an eternity.

“I know who you are,” your dad says, his expression unreadable. “You drift to the half-wall on the power play too often.”

Mat blinks, momentarily stunned. “Oh. Uh, thanks for the tip.”

“Henrik, for heaven’s sake, let them in,” your stepmother, Therese, says, appearing behind your dad. She shoos him away from the door with a gentle wave of her hand and envelops you in a warm hug. Her smile is a beacon of sanity. “Y/N, darling, it’s so good to see you.” She then turns to Mat, her eyes kind. “And you must be Mat. It is so wonderful to finally meet you. Please, ignore my husband. He’s forgotten his manners.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Lundqvist,” Mat says, his shoulders relaxing a fraction of an inch.

“Call me Therese. Come in, come in. The girls are dying to meet you.”

The apartment is just as you remember, a perfect blend of Scandinavian minimalism and New York warmth. Your half-sisters, Charlise and Juli, are peeking around the corner from the living room. At fourteen and eleven, they’re in the throes of terminal cool, but you can see the excitement in their eyes.

Dinner is … surprisingly nice. Yes, the first fifteen minutes are excruciatingly awkward, filled with stilted talk about the September weather and the traffic on the West Side Highway. But Therese is a masterful conversationalist, and your sisters, once they get over their shyness, are a relentless interrogation squad.

“So, do you hate the Rangers?” Juli asks, her fork halfway to her mouth.

“Juli!” Therese scolds.

Mat, to his credit, just laughs. “I don’t hate them. It’s my job to try and beat them.”

“But do you think they’re, like, bad?” Charlise presses, leaning forward with the intensity of a seasoned prosecutor.

“I think,” Mat says, choosing his words carefully as he glances at your dad, “that they’re a very skilled, very competitive team. And that the rivalry is one of the best in sports.”

Your dad, who has been silently observing this exchange while cutting his steak with surgical precision, finally speaks up. “It is a good rivalry,” he concedes, his tone neutral. “It is better when the right team wins.”

You jump in before Mat can respond. “So, Charlise, tell Mat about your swim tournament last weekend.”

The conversation steers into safer territory. They talk about swimming, about school, about Mat’s family back in British Columbia. You watch, fascinated, as your family gets to know this man you’ve fallen in love with. They see the version of him you see: the kind, funny, surprisingly down-to-earth person who exists outside of a hockey uniform. You can see the icy exterior of your father beginning to thaw. Mostly.

After dinner, as you and Therese are clearing the plates, your dad stands up.

“Mat,” he says, in a tone that is not a question. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

Mat flashes you a wide-eyed look of pure panic. You give him a subtle, encouraging nod. You can do this.

You watch as your father leads him down the hall towards his office.

“Don’t worry,” Therese says, stacking plates beside you. “The first time Henrik met my father, he spent twenty minutes talking about the importance of proper butterfly technique.”

In the office, surrounded by a gleaming collection of trophies, signed jerseys, and framed photographs, your father closes the door.

“She’s a good girl,” he says, his voice low as he turns to face Mat. He gestures to a photo on his desk of you as a little girl, wearing one of his jerseys that swallows you whole. “She’s my first. I’ve spent her entire life trying to protect her.”

“I know, sir,” Mat says, his voice steady.

“The jersey you wear,” your dad continues, his gaze intense, “for my family, for this city, it represents the opposition. The thing we fought against for twenty years. You have to understand what it means for her to be with you. The loyalty she must have for you, to cross that line.”

Mat doesn't flinch. He meets your father’s gaze head-on. “Sir, I understand completely. And I know I’ll never be able to change the logo on my chest. But I hope you know that when it comes to her … my loyalty is never, ever in question.” He takes a breath, the words coming straight from his heart. “I love your daughter.”

Your father studies him for a long, silent moment. The air is thick with the unspoken history of a thousand battles on the ice. Then, a slow, almost imperceptible nod. He walks over to Mat and claps a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Good answer,” he says, his voice gruff. Then, a ghost of a smile touches his lips. “But if you score on Shesterkin in overtime this season, you and I are going to have a problem.”

Mat lets out a shaky laugh, a wave of relief washing over him. “Understood, sir.”

When they emerge from the office a few minutes later, the dynamic has shifted. There’s a new, fragile respect between them. The goodbyes are warmer, easier. Therese gives Mat a hug. Your sisters ask him to sign a napkin.

The final handshake between Mat and your father is different this time. It’s not a challenge, it’s an acknowledgement.

As the elevator doors close, Mat slumps against the wall and lets out a long, slow breath, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead.

“So?” You ask, a wide grin spreading across your face. “You survived.”

“Mostly,” he says, pulling you close and wrapping his arms around you. “I’m pretty sure your dad threatened to slash my tires if I score a big goal this year.”

“That’s how you know he likes you,” you say, resting your head against his chest.

“He has a weird way of showing it,” Mat murmurs into your hair.

“You get used to it,” you say, tilting your head up to kiss him.

Letters I’ll never send

NYU

Wrong house

The devil doesn’t wear Prada.

The Islanders

Silent treatment

Text messages I’ll never read