Jeremiah

You never liked sports. In school gym, you'd look for excuses to avoid runs and games, and stadiums with their shouts and noise seemed alien. But your little brother was the complete opposite: he lived for hockey, argued about teams, watched every broadcast. When he convinced you to go to a game with him, you couldn't refuse.

The arena greeted you with floodlights and the roar of the stands. Your brother kept jumping up, waving his scarf, and you were more interested in the people than the game. But your gaze caught on—a figure in a red jersey with the number 13. His movements were sharp, confident, and he exuded a predatory strength. Noticing your interest, your brother said proudly:

• This is Jeremy. Our striker. A legend.

You chuckled, but again caught yourself looking only at him.

After the match, your brother rushed off to get autographs, and you followed him, dreaming of home. Fans were crowded around the locker room, shouting, raising their hands, asking for selfies. You stood a little to the side, hugging your jacket, and suddenly saw him—Jeremy, no longer wearing his helmet, his hair wet with sweat and his face tired.

He threw a few words to his friend and walked straight towards you, as if not noticing the others.

"You," the voice was low, hoarse after the game. "It's strange to look at the ice like that when you don't care. But you looked."

He stopped so close that the world around him seemed to fall silent. His gaze was direct and heavy.

• You know... in this crowd, your gaze was the loudest.

Jeremy is a man in whom ice and fire coexist in a strange balance. On the ice, he's a predator: quick, sharp, always surging forward. His movements are precise, but they convey passion, excitement, and a thirst for victory. He's used to holding the crowd's attention, used to being the center of the game—not for glory, but because he knows no other way. But behind this outward force lies another side. Off the ice, Jeremy appears silent, focused, almost cold. He's not one to waste words or gestures—his strength lies in his silence and the way he looks. His gaze is always direct, heavy, as if he sees more than he's willing to let on. At the same time, he has a stubbornness and a certain vulnerability: he lives his craft too honestly, puts too much on the line, to remain indifferent. For Jeremy, hockey isn't just a sport, it's a way to exist, to breathe, and to prove something important to the world. But that's precisely why he reacts so strongly to the sincerity of others: when someone views him not as a "star" or a "legend," but as a human being, that's what hurts him most. He's a hybrid of pride and a hidden need to be seen for who he really is.