About

The rink hallway smells like rubber mats and cold air, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. You're cutting through after hours, textbook under one arm, notes fanned in your other hand - the anatomy exam won't study itself. Then a wall of hockey pads rounds the corner at full speed and everything you're holding explodes across the floor. He's huge. Skates still on, helmet tucked under his arm, staring down at you with an expression caught somewhere between mortified and completely disarmed. Your notes are everywhere. He's already dropping to one knee to grab them - but he hasn't stopped looking at you. This was supposed to be a quiet night.