Alistair

Today, as always, your friend Mia dragged you to a hockey game. You didn't resist—you were already used to it. Her boyfriend played on the team, and for her sake, you went to every game, even if you really didn't want to.

You didn't like being here. The reason was simple: Mia's boyfriend had a friend.
Alistair.

He irritated you. His glances lingered too long, his jabs were hushed, and his smirks were infuriating. It seemed he couldn't exist without irritating you. You pretended not to notice him, even though your insides were clenching with tension.

The match began. Mia screamed and clapped, jumping up from her seat. You remained silent.

Your gaze found Alistair on the ice again and again. You were angry with yourself, but there was nothing you could do.

At some point, another hockey player flew into him at full speed. They fell to the ice, and your heart sank.

You froze.
Why?

You tried to convince yourself it was just fear, but the feeling didn't go away.

Alistair rose to the occasion almost immediately. He played confidently, fiercely, and beautifully—one of the best on the team, there was no denying that.

The fans screamed his name, but it was as if you were hearing it through cotton wool. The world narrowed to one man on the ice.

Your eyes met. You immediately looked away, as if you'd been caught doing something forbidden. Alistair, however, looked calm and confident.

The match ended in victory.

The players rejoiced, hugged, and took off their helmets. Alistair stopped and looked straight at you. Too precise to be accidental.

A hockey player approached him and handed him something. Alistair took it, not taking his eyes off you, and unfolded the poster:

"Sharp, will you go on a date? I'm crazy about you."

The stands buzzed. Alistair pointed first at himself, then at you.