Carter Hayes | BOSTON BLIZZARDS

The locker room before a game always had its own rhythm, its own pulse. Some guys thrived on chaos—loud music thumping through the speakers, towels snapping, half a dozen conversations happening at once. Others needed quiet, isolation, that monk-like focus. Carter Hayes…he was somewhere in between. He tuned it all out, absorbed it like white noise, only taking in what mattered. Sitting at his stall, already half-dressed in his gear, he laced up his skates with slow precision, methodical as ever.

Across the room, Nicholas was chirping Matteo about his hair gel, Logan was pretending to box with one of the trainers, and Matteo was, predictably, scrolling through his phone, probably DM’ing some girl he planned to “meet up with” after the game. Erik was quiet, cleaning his skates before the game. Carter didn’t bother adding to the noise. He never did. Instead, he ran his thumb along the edge of his blocker, checking for frays. Ritual. Control. Small details that grounded him.

“Hayes, you ever loosen up in here, or what?” Logan called over, bouncing on his toes like a boxer about to fight twelve rounds.

Carter didn’t even look up, just tugged at his strap and muttered, “Winning’s loose enough.”

That got a laugh from a few of the guys, and Logan threw his hands up like he’d just been knocked out by Carter’s deadpan. Nicholas leaned in, grinning like the devil himself. “Careful, Logan. That’s Hayes’s sense of humor. Blink and you’ll miss it.”

Carter smirked faintly, but didn’t take the bait. He grabbed his helmet, studied the cage for any dents. Another ritual. Then, without thinking, he closed his eyes and hummed—just under his breath, almost silent. Something classical. The habit had followed him since he was a kid, the piano lessons burned into his muscle memory. Chopin, maybe. Or Debussy. His teammates had never noticed, not really.

Coach came in, gave the rundown, the same speech about discipline and drive, and then they filed out.

Warmups passed the way they always did. Carter went through his stretches, gloved hand tapping each post — left, right, left again — a ritual that had carried him since juniors. When the puck dropped, he settled into his crease like a statue. Calm. Focused. Reading plays before they unfolded.

The Titans weren’t a bad team. They played quick, hungry hockey. Early in the first, Carter made a save with his pad, stretched to the limit. The crowd roared, Boston faithful on their feet, pounding against the glass. He didn’t celebrate, didn’t even blink. Just reset, ready for the next rush.

But it didn’t take long before Montreal broke through. A sharp wrister from the slot — too much traffic in front, a deflection he had no chance on. The red light flared behind him. The Titans celebrated. The crowd groaned.

Carter cursed under his breath, rolling his shoulders as if to shake the goal off. He reached for the puck, frustration guiding him more than intention, and launched it toward the boards the way he usually did when he wanted the shift reset quickly. Nine times out of ten, some eager fan in the stands snagged it like a souvenir. This time wasn’t one of those nine. The black disk cut through the air and instead of being caught, it struck someone.

A woman.

He saw her flinch, her head snapping slightly from the impact. For a split second, his chest went cold, a sinking pit forming immediately in his stomach. “Shit,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. The game, the goal, the crowd noise — it all faded under the sharp jab of guilt.

He skated hard toward the glass, ignoring the linesman trying to reset the play. His mask was pushed up onto his head, hazel eyes locking on the spot where the puck had hit.

And then he saw her.

She was pretty — too pretty for this to be the way he noticed her. Wide-eyed, startled, her hand half-raised as if debating whether to touch the spot the puck had hit. She wasn’t bleeding, thank God, but that didn’t make the guilt in his chest ease any faster.

“Hey—” his voice carried through the plexiglass, low and calm but edged with worry. He pressed closer, gloved hand against the barrier like he could cross it if he wanted. “You okay?”

She looked at him, and Carter felt the air shift. Something about the way her eyes met his through the glass — startled, yes, but steady too. He wasn’t the type to get thrown off balance by a glance, but here he was, chest tightening in a way that had nothing to do with adrenaline or the game.

The ref was already whistling at him to get back in his crease, the play about to reset, but Carter didn’t move. Not until he saw her nod — slow, tentative, but enough. Only then did he push off, mask dropping back into place, skating backward with his usual composure.

Nicholas was chirping at him from the bench the second he returned to the net. “Jesus, Hayes, trying to take out the fans now? That’s one way to get a date.” Carter ignored him. Or tried to. His eyes flicked once more to the stands, to where she was seated. She was still there, still watching, maybe still rattled. He dragged in a breath through the bars of his mask, forcing his attention back to the ice. Focus. Reset. Don’t let the guys see you rattled.

The game dragged on, and though Carter locked back in, part of him kept drifting — eyes flicking to the section where she sat, checking she hadn’t left, making sure she really was alright. He hated himself for being distracted, but the guilt sat like a weight on his chest heavier than his pads.

When the final horn blew, and the locker room filled with the usual chaos of sweat, laughter, and frustration, Carter moved slower. He showered, dressed, but the thought stayed with him: he owed her something. More than a glance through the glass.

After slipping past a knot of reporters, Carter found himself in the private concourse where fans filtered out. His hair was damp, messy, and he’d traded his gear for his usual understated look — fitted joggers, a grey hoodie under his leather jacket.

And then he spotted her.

She was standing near the exit, phone in her hand, still a little flushed from the chaos of the game. Carter hesitated only a second before walking over, quiet but steady.

“Hey,” he said, voice calm, deliberate, as he slid his hands into his jacket pockets. Hazel eyes softened with something uncharacteristically vulnerable. “About earlier…” He exhaled, shaking his head.

“That puck wasn’t supposed to find you. I just—wanted to make sure you’re okay.” He held her gaze, serious but sincere. Then, after a pause, the corner of his mouth tugged — the barest hint of his dry humor.

“Guess I owe you more than an apology. Coffee, maybe. On me. And no flying objects this time.”