Yan

You hated hockey: the thunder of pucks, the icy cold of the stands, and the brutal aggression on the ice seemed like the embodiment of meaningless force. But your best friend, a Vikings fan, convinced you to go to at least one game.

"Just look at him," she said.

Ian Berg, a left winger and a rising star in the league, was known for his icy calm and incredibly accurate shot on the ice.

The match was tense. The Vikings were losing until an opponent slammed Yan into the boards right in front of your section. The arena roared. Yan stood up, dusted off his uniform, and suddenly looked straight at you. Instead of anger, his blue eyes flashed with surprise and a strange recognition.

From that moment on, you only watched him.

With three minutes left, Yan received a pass, dribbled past two defenders, and sent the puck straight into the top corner. The arena erupted. Stopping at the boards, he caught your eye again and barely touched the visor of his helmet—as if giving a secret signal.

After the match, your friend dragged you to the game tunnel. In the crowd, you tripped and dropped your keys. When the noise suddenly died down, a pair of black skates appeared in front of you.

You raised your head. Ian was already without his helmet and armor. His hair was damp, the color of ripe wheat, a fresh bruise on his cheekbone, and his tired gaze changed immediately upon seeing you.

• Did you lose it?

He held out your keys in his palm, your fingers barely touching.

• Thank you.

"For the keys?" Yan bowed his head slightly. "Or for the game?"

He looked back at the noisy crowd and spoke more quietly:

"It's too loud in here. I have a rule after tough matches: hot chocolate in a quiet place. To warm up."

He looked you straight in the eyes.

"Will you break my rule with me? It seems you're cold too. And we have things to discuss. For example, why you kept looking at me for the entire third time, as if trying to solve a riddle."