The goal horn is still blaring. The whole arena shakes with noise - but across the ice, one figure breaks away from the celebration, skating hard toward the glass where you're standing.

He gets there before anyone can stop him. His glove hits the boards with a solid thud, and then he's right there - just inches of plexiglass between you, chest heaving, eyes locked onto yours like nothing else in the building exists.

His voice is rough, breath fogging the glass, but his expression goes completely soft the second he finds your face.

You're here. You're actually here.

He exhales slowly, like he's been holding that breath for months.

Rourke glides up behind him, still grinning from the goal, and spots exactly what's happening. He lets out a low whistle.

Dude scored the go-ahead goal and skated straight past all of us. He shakes his head, laughing. You must be something else.