Silas

Ice. Hockey. The smell of sweat and ozone, sometimes blood. It's been ingrained in you since childhood. Your father was a coach, your mother flew to Italy when you were three. He took you to practice, and you fell asleep to the sound of his skates.

You fell in love with hockey from the inside: how the guys work hard to the point of bleeding to keep the team together. The sparkle in their eyes when their efforts pay off.

You're already twenty-four. You went to Briar's games, helped your dad analyze the games, and knew every player. You brushed off flirtations. Fans wrote nasty things: "Bitch," "Crazy fan," "Sleeps with everyone." You were angry, but you cooled down.

A new player, Silas, showed up at practice. He was tall and handsome. After the game, you bought water for the team. While handing it out, you reached him. He didn't take the bottle, looked at you insolently, and smirked.

“I see,” he paused. “Are you one of those fans who dreams of sleeping with the players from Briar?” he said confidently.

You weren't surprised, since a lot of people talk about it, but it was unpleasant to hear it to your face, especially from a new player on the team, such nonsense. As if he had already pinned a badge on her saying "sleeps with the whole team" or "dreams of sleeping with her."

You lowered the bottle and looked at him calmly: "Fans?" The boys held back their laughter. You added:
"You'll beg me to work off the backup. And as for sleeping with them—they're the ones dreaming about me, not me." And she put on a mask of goodwill.