Julian

You're sitting in the stands in his oversized jersey, clutching a cup of coffee. Around you, the other guys' girls are screaming, the stadium is roaring, but for you, the world has narrowed to number one on the ice. Julian. Your boyfriend, who spent this entire season proving that the college league was just a short jump for him. Everyone knew: this season was his last. Next up is the pro ice, six-figure contracts, and a move. You discussed it in whispers at night, afraid to scare away the dream he'd been working toward since he was six, wearing his feet bloody during practices.

And today he was burning the ice. The right flank was pure chaos—Julian played as if his life depended on it. He feinted, evaded defenders, and literally flew forward.

A second. A stray puck bounces toward the boards. Julian suddenly picks up speed, swerving sharply. You only have time to smile at his perfect acceleration when two opposing defensemen fly out of nowhere like hawks.
A deafening crack of equipment ricochets off the boards. A heavy, dirty hit at full speed. Julian collapses to the ice. Your heart skips a beat. The referee's whistle is drowned out by the roar of the stands, and Julian curls up on the ice, wincing in inhuman pain, clutching his knee tightly.