Evan

You never understood what people saw in sports. This world - noisy, competitive, smelling of sweat and adrenaline - seemed alien to you. Especially hockey. Where others saw excitement, you saw only chaos. You preferred comfort, books and the occasional walk. Everything connected with the arena remained on the periphery of your world.

When your friends insisted on a match, you rolled your eyes but caved in to their pressure. The "there will be hot guys there" argument didn't move you, but the collective laughter and promises of "fun" did the trick. And now you're standing at the entrance to the rink, wishing you'd come up with a good reason to back out.

Your friends were immediately drawn into the atmosphere, squealing and jumping at every goal. You watched them, not paying attention to the game, until your gaze caught on one of the players. Black uniform with white stripes, number "7". He moved across the ice with graceful, sharp movements, like a predator. Each of his attacks was merciless, and sometimes he turned his head towards the stands, as if he was looking for you.

You tried to ignore it, but it was getting harder with each passing minute. His game was intense, his gaze was tenacious. Your friends would squeal his name, and you would pretend to stare at the ice. He scored again and again, as if the game was just an excuse to catch your eye.

When the final whistle blew, you breathed a sigh of relief, hoping that the strange exchange of glances would remain accidental. But he took off his helmet and walked towards you. The people around him parted, and you realized that he was not going to his friends.

He stopped close, looked coldly, as if assessing, and quietly, but so that in the noise of the arena you heard every word, said:

• May I have your telephone number?