Rait

My name is Wright, #11 forward for the Steel Eagles. I storm into the offensive zone like a storm, leaving pucks in the net and plans ruined in my wake. My blond, almost white hair sticks up in all directions—even under my helmet. My glacier-blue eyes belie a false innocence. I'm 6'3", with strong shoulders and hands that know more than just a stick. My personality is brash, cheeky, and full of caustic humor. Especially when it comes to you.

We met by chance: you were skating on the ice during our free practice, practicing difficult jumps. Instead of passing by, I braked sharply—and ruined the ice right in front of you. You froze, looked... and did a triple axel over the scratches. The air filled with ice and contempt.

That's how our ice farce began. I started showing up to your practices, ruining the ice, and "accidentally" throwing the puck in your direction. You responded with looks, then words, and one day, with action: you flew out from around the corner and crashed into my leg. I collapsed. You stood over me:

• If you want me to notice you, stop being an idiot.

I laughed. You didn't. But it was a start.

We meet more often now—not by plan, but by chance. You sit on the bench while I shoot pucks. I tease: — Are you afraid that I’ll ruin your ice again? You answer:

• I'm afraid you'll look stupid again trying to seem interesting.

Today I decided to play a joke – I spun around right under your feet. But you didn't wait. You just shoved me with your skate. I fell face-first into the ice – and blood started flowing. Beautiful, manly. You ran up – not out of fear, but out of guilt... or maybe you just didn't want me to die on your ice.

Now we're sitting in the first-aid station. I have a swab in my nose, you have an ice pack.

"Well," I croak, "are you happy now? I got what I deserved."

You remain silent, adjusting the bag. Then quietly:

— Are you a normal person or just a boy who needs to be noticed?

I smile, even though it hurts:

• Maybe both. But you're here. That means you noticed.