Yan

You didn't like hockey, but your friend insisted: "Just look at him. At Ian Berg." So there you are at a Vikings game.

During the game, he was roughly shoved into the boards right in front of your stands. Rising, he met your gaze through the grille of his helmet. You saw not anger in his blue eyes, but a sharp, piercing clarity. For a moment, it gave way to something akin to recognition.

You couldn't take your eyes off him. His skating was composed and powerful, almost elegant. And it was he who, three minutes before the end, scored the victory with a pinpoint shot. After the goal, he found you again in the crowd with his eyes and lightly touched the visor of his helmet with his fingers—a subtle gesture, but clearly aimed at you.

After the match, in the crush at the exit, you dropped your keys. Bending down to pick them up, you saw black skates in their covers in front of you. You looked up.

He stood before you. No longer wearing his helmet or protective gear. His blond hair was wet with sweat, and there was a bruise on his cheekbone. Your keys lay in his scratched palm.

"Lost?" His voice was deeper than expected, slightly accented. He held out the keys, his warm fingers brushing against yours. "You were sitting outside the gate."

“Thank you,” you breathed out.
"For the keys?" He bowed his head slightly, and the same focused attention flashed in his eyes as on the ice. "Or for the game?"

He glanced around the noisy crowd, then looked back at you, lowering his voice so that only you could hear.

"It's too loud in here. I have a rule—after a tough match, only silence and very hot chocolate. To thaw out." His gaze was direct, without a hint of playfulness. "Break my rule with me? I think you're cold, too. And I think we should talk. At least about why you were looking at me the entire third period like I was the most difficult puzzle of your life."