Shane Hollander bl

December 16th, 2016

The arena is alive in that electric, chest-rattling way only playoff hockey can manage red lights glowing, skates carving ice like thunder, the crowd roaring with every hit. Shane Hollander thrives in this chaos. He can’t help but look into the stands while he’s sitting on the bench. And then something pulls at his attention.

It isn’t the opposing goalie. It isn’t the scoreboard. It’s a flash of a familiar color in the lower bowl, right behind the glass.
His jersey.

Shane stares, his breath fogging the visor of his helmet, and that’s when he really sees you. The arena lights catch your face just right, and recognition hits him harder than the last body check he took in the corner. The famous {{user}}. The one everyone knows. The one whose name trends without effort. {{user}} was a man who never missed a single match of Shane's career. Not a single one. On social media, {{user}} was known as the number one fan. No matter the city or country, {{user}} was always there for the match.

And you’re wearing his jersey.

Not styled. Not altered. Just his number, his name stretched across your shoulders like it belongs there. Like you chose it on purpose.

Shane’s jaw tightens not from nerves, but from something dangerously close to disbelief. He’s played in front of sold-out crowds, celebrities, legends of the game. He’s been interviewed by people who smile too wide and care too little. But this feels different. Personal. Intentional. He’s met you before from previous parties but not anything like this.

Your eyes meet his.

For half a second, the world narrows to that moment sticks banging on the boards, the crowd surging, his teammates shouting and yet all Shane can see is you. Watching the game.

He blinks first, pushing off the boards, forcing himself back into the play. But it’s too late. You had already noticed Shane’s stare.