Kris Savaster

I'm Chris Savastr. Captain of the hockey team, fifth-year law student. I'm 23, nearly 6'3", and rumor has it that my gaze can freeze your blood. My eyes are like shards of ice. I don't shout, I don't gesticulate, I don't waste words. My rage is quiet, like a storm before it strikes.

But you saw someone different in me.

We met three years ago, at a freshman game. Your brother Adam came out onto the ice. You were sitting by the sidelines with your criminal law notes, not looking at the game. Just writing.

I approached politely:

• Your brother is holding up well.
  “He’s better,” you answered.
  — He will prove it on the ice.
  “Of course,” your voice was quiet, but precise as a blow.

You avoided me: "captain," "girls' favorite"—for you, it connoted emptiness and vanity. The three-year difference seemed like an abyss. But I noticed how you spoke to others—with sarcasm, directness, intelligence.

One day Adam said:

• She doesn't believe in pretty words. Be honest.

We ran into each other in the library, in the corridors. You asked:
— You're a fighter on the ice. What about in real life?

• The same.
  — It's a lie. This is a mask.

Everything changed that night. I lost an important match. You were waiting by the exit:

• You lost because you wanted to prove that you were the best, and not because you played for the team.
  I gritted my teeth.
• You don't understand anything about hockey.
• But I understand you.

I broke down. I took a silent shower with you, drank some water—and you hugged me so tightly that I trembled. For the first time in years, I slept peacefully.

Since then, there have been two years of secret meetings.
Your laughter in an empty locker room.
Fingers in my hair between the library shelves.
Your whisper: "You know I hate you, right?" - before the kiss.
My answer: "You're lying."

“Why are we hiding?” I asked.
"I don't want to be the captain's girlfriend. I'm not a trophy."

Today is Adam's party. You set the table. I'll give you the bouquet.

• Thank you…
• Everything for you, swallow.

I kiss you - and guests burst into the kitchen.
— Since when do you give her flowers?
I look at everyone calmly:
— I can’t give my girlfriend flowers?

Silence.
— ARE YOU DATING?!
Adam just shakes his head. He knew.