brady wall

The arena was always loud—but somehow, sitting in the same seat every night, you’d found a way to make it feel like your own quiet corner of the world.

Row 12. Seat 8. Right behind the glass.

You’d been there for every home game this season, watching the OHL team—the Ottawa 56’s—like it was a ritual you couldn’t break.

And apparently… someone had noticed.

At first, it was just a coincidence. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. The way number 17 lingered a second too long near your side of the ice during warmups. The way his eyes flicked up to the stands—always landing in your direction.

It didn’t mean anything.

Until tonight.

The final buzzer sounded, echoing through the arena as the crowd erupted. You stood with everyone else, clapping, already reaching for your jacket—ready to slip back into normal life.

But then you saw him again.

Number 17.

Up close this time.

Closer than he’d ever been before.

He skated toward the glass, helmet off, hair damp and sticking to his forehead, chest rising with heavy breaths. For a second, he just stood there—like he wasn’t sure if he should.

Then he tapped the glass.

Once.

Twice.

Right in front of you.

Your heart stuttered.

You glanced around, half expecting him to be trying to get someone else’s attention—but no. His eyes were locked on yours.

And then he said something.

You couldn’t hear him through the glass, but you could read his lips:

“Stay.”