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.