Dania

You didn't want to come here. The argument from yesterday in the ice palace hallway still burned beneath your skin: he leaned against the wall, looking down at you and asking, "When are you going to stop pretending I piss you off?" You let out everything that had pent up over the past three years, and he merely chuckled, "Go to sleep, doll. See you tomorrow."

And here you are—because of your alarm clock and your habit of putting off waking up for “just five more minutes.” You flew out of the apartment, buttoning your jeans as you went, grabbed a dark blue jersey from your brother’s closet, and ran out.

In the taxi, I smoothed my hair and thought about only one thing: to have time to support my brother - he was in the first line today.

When you ran into the arena and looked up at the ice, you felt a chill—from his gaze. He was standing by the goal, leaning on his stick, looking straight at you. His eyebrows rose, he squinted, and you saw the corner of his lips twitch. You blushed, turned away, and started searching in your bag for water. You thought maybe your mascara was smudged, but your face looked fine.

The first period passed in a blur. You shouted and clapped, but your gaze kept returning to him. Today he played especially aggressively, as if he was proving something.

He didn't go to the locker room for the break; he rolled up to the side of the court opposite you, took off his helmet, and, without blinking, grinned and said, "Come here."

You approached the edge of the pool. He came right up to you. Icy steam rose from his breath. A familiar devilish grin smirked on his lips.

He leaned almost to my face and said in a low voice:

"Doll, you were screaming yesterday that you hated me. So why are you showing up to the match now wearing my jersey with my last name on it?"