"I'm deeply appreciative of fine athletic specimens." She winks. "Speaking of which, there's your boy."
My eyes find him immediately—gliding onto the ice with that effortless grace that always surprises me given his size. Even in full gear, Nate stands out—something about the way he moves, confident but controlled.
"Did you tell him you were coming?" Reese asks.
I shake my head. "Just the good luck text."
The announcer's voice booms through the arena as the starting lineup is introduced. When they call Nate's name, the crowd roars. He raises his stick in acknowledgment, turning in a slow circle as if taking in the energy of eighteen thousand fans.
For a split second, I wonder if he's looking for me. Then I shake the thought away. He has no idea I'm here.
The puck drops, and the game begins. I've always enjoyed hockey, but watching Nate play is something else entirely. He's everywhere at once—digging the puck out of corners, setting up plays, backchecking with ferocious determination. When he scores midway through the first period, the arena erupts, and I find myself on my feet cheering.
"Wow," Reese remarks as we sit back down. "You've got it bad, girl."
"Shut up." But I'm smiling.
By the second period, I'm completely caught up in the game. The Blades are playing well, up 2-0 against Nashville. Nate has a goal and an assist already. But what strikes me most is how different he seems from the player I remember from earlier this season. There's a focus that wasn't there before. He's still physical, still intense, but the recklessness is gone.
"He's playing clean," I murmur, more to myself than to Reese.
"What?" She leans in to hear me over the crowd.
"Nate. He's playing clean. No dirty hits, no after-the-whistle stuff." I point as he helps a Nashville player up after a collisionalong the boards. "That never would have happened a few months ago."
She studies me. "People can change, you know."
"I know." And watching him now, I believe it more than ever.
The second intermission arrives with the Blades still leading. Reese excuses herself to grab drinks, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I pull out my phone, scrolling absently through notifications when a text from my dad appears:
"Good game so far. Barnes is playing smart."
I stare at the message, trying to decipher whether there's a hidden meaning. Before I can overthink it, Reese returns with two beers.
"What’s running through your mind?" she asks, handing me a plastic cup.
I show her the text. "My dad’s commenting on Nate's play."
"Well, he's not wrong." She clinks her cup against mine.
I take a sip, the cold beer refreshing against my throat. "I'm still worried, Reese."
"What’s bugging you the most?"
"All of it. The press. The scrutiny. The uncertainty." I gesture vaguely at the arena around us. "His world is so public. Mine has always been pretty private—even with my dad being an NHL coach."
"True. But maybe you and Nate can balance each other out."
The teams skate back onto the ice for the third period. I watch Nate during the warm-up, the way he communicates with his teammates, the focused intensity in his movements.
And then it happens. He turns, glancing up into the stands, and our eyes lock. Even from this distance, I see the recognition flash across his face. For a heartbeat, we're the only two people in the arena. Then he breaks into a grin and gives me the smallest of nods before turning back to the game.
"Oh my god, he saw you," Reese clutches my arm. "Did you see his face?"
I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. That smile—it was like the sun breaking through the clouds.
The third period is a battle. Nashville scores early, cutting the Blades' lead to one. The tension in the arena ratchets up with each passing minute. Nate plays like a man possessed, throwing himself into every play, creating chances out of nothing.
