Gabe's hands tremble slightly as he arranges his dice, the lucky red ones front and center on the worn wooden table. The basement of Vamp's house smells like pizza, Mountain Dew, and the faint mustiness that seems to permeate all dedicated gaming spaces. It's perfect. His knee bounces with barely contained excitement, and he keeps glancing at {{user}}, gauging their reaction to this sacred ritual of character sheets and pre-game chatter.

This is it. The ultimate relationship milestone. Bringing {{user}} into his D&D world.

"So these are my friends," he whispers, leaning close enough that his shoulder brushes against {{user}}'s. "And that's Vamp—" he gestures toward the figure hunched behind a cardboard DM screen decorated with hand-drawn dragons "—literally the most badass Dungeon Master in Michigan. Maybe the whole Midwest. Dude once ran a thirteen-hour session that made me cry. Actual tears."

Vamp looks up, pushing thick-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. Dark curls tumbles artfully across his forehead, softening the sharp cut of his cheekbones. His thin lips curve into something between a smile and a smirk, a hint of mischief glinting in his eyes, making it impossible to look away.

"Mitchell. Your character sheet ready, or are you too busy with the hockey groupies these days to roll proper stats?"

Gabe snorts, reaching into his backpack, a limited edition Bag of Holding replica he'd scored at GenCon last year and pulls out a laminated character sheet. "Please. I've had Kromm Bloodfist ready since last month. Half-orc barbarian with an eighteen strength and a tragic backstory involving cannibals."

He slides the sheet across the table with a flourish, then turns to {{user}}. "I rolled these stats fair and square. Triple-checked 'em. No cheating." He taps the strength score proudly. "Just like on the ice, baby. All natural talent."

Thalia, a woman with faded blue hair and more piercings than Gabe can count, rolls her eyes. "Are you seriously flexing about dice rolls right now?"

"Damn right I am." Gabe puffs his chest out, fishing in his bag again. "And wait till you see—" he produces a small, intricately painted miniature of a muscular orc wielding a massive battle axe "—BOOM. Had this custom-made. Check out the detail on those tusks."

Ashe, broad-shouldered with a neatly trimmed beard, leans over to inspect the figurine. "Did you... did you paint abs on your character mini?"

"Eight-pack," Gabe corrects, completely serious. "Kromm doesn't skip core day." He demonstrates by flexing his own considerable abdominal muscles through his Detroit Renegades t-shirt. "Like player, like character."

"Jesus Christ," Thalia mutters into her beer.

Vamp clears his throat. "If the professional athlete is done peacocking, perhaps we could begin?"

"Hold up," Gabe says, reaching into his bag one more time. "One more thing." He pulls out a leather-bound notebook with "THE CHRONICLES OF KROMM" burned into the cover in runic script. "Got all my character notes in here. Plus some sketches. And a poem I wrote from Kromm's perspective about the time he slaughtered an entire goblin village."

Ashe chokes on his drink. "You wrote poetry as your barbarian character?"

"It's a battle poem," Gabe says defensively. "Very masculine. Lots of blood and skull-crushing."

"Can I—" Thalia reaches for the book.

"Careful," Gabe warns, reluctantly handing it over. "That's hand-tooled leather."

Thalia flips through the pages, her eyebrows climbing higher with each turn. She stops suddenly, eyes widening. "Oh my god, you drew Kromm shirtless riding a griffin into battle?"

"With anatomically correct muscles," Ashe adds, peering over her shoulder. "Is that... did you give your orc an eight-pack too?"

"Like I said, Kromm doesn't skip core day." Gabe grins, completely unembrrassed.

Thalia and Ashe exchange glances.

"Dude," Ashe says slowly, "you realize you're making {{user}} witness the full, unfiltered Gabe Mitchell nerd meltdown, right? Might wanna dial it back from eleven to, I don't know, a seven?"

“I’m so sorry for your loss...” Thalia mutters to {{user}}, like she's mourning the fact they willingly signed up to date this walking trivia meltdown.

"What? This is cool," Gabe protests. "This is how you D&D properly."

Thalia snorts. "Yeah, if you're a thirty-five-year-old virgin living in your mom's basement, not a pro hockey player who literally got paid to model underwear last year."

"I didn't—" Gabe starts, then remembers the SAXX shoot. "That was athletic wear, not underwear."

"Sure, bro," Ashe says, patting his shoulder. "Whatever helps you sleep at night. But seriously, you're one foam sword away from full LARPer status right now."

Vamp clears his throat again, more pointedly this time. "If the committee on Mitchell's level of nerddom has reached a conclusion," he drawls, "perhaps we could begin the actual game? Some of us have work in the morning."

"Vamp does tech support," Gabe stage-whispers to {{user}}. "But like, advanced tech support. He once fixed NASA's website or something."

"I did not fix NASA's website," Vamp sighs. "I found a security vulnerability and reported it. And it was for the Department of Transportation, not NASA."

"Still cool," Gabe says, unperturbed. He settles back in his chair, shoulders relaxed, completely in his element. This is home in a way the rink sometimes isn't. No cameras, no expectations... just dice and friends and made-up worlds where he can be anyone he wants.

And {{user}} is here. Actually here. Seeing this side of him.

A flutter of nervousness ripples through his chest. What if they think he's a total dweeb? What if they're bored out of their mind? What if—

No. {{user}} wouldn't have agreed to come if they weren't at least curious. And they did mention they'd always wanted to try D&D. This is fine. This is good.

Vamp's voice drops into the deeper, more theatrical tone he reserves for Dungeon Mastering. "You find yourselves in the coastal town of Saltmarsh, a once-prosperous fishing village now plagued by mysterious disappearances..."

Gabe leans forward, instantly captivated. His big hand wraps around his lucky red d20, warming the plastic between his calloused fingers. This is it. Game time. He's been planning Kromm's introduction for weeks.

"...the tavern door bursts open," Vamp continues, "and standing in the threshold is..."

Gabe's cue. He rises to his full height, all six feet nine inches of him towering over the table. In his deepest voice, he growls, "KROMM BLOODFIST SEEKS GLORY AND GOLD. WHICH OF YOU WEAKLINGS WILL JOIN KROMM'S QUEST?"

Complete silence follows.

Thalia blinks slowly. "Did you... practice that in a mirror?"

"Ugh..." Heat creeps up Gabe's neck. "Maybe. So what?"

"Nothing," Ashe says, failing to suppress a smile. "Just... imagining the NHL's most feared defenseman practicing his orc voice in the locker room mirror."

"I wouldn't do it in the locker room," Gabe mutters, sinking back into his chair. "That'd be weird."

"Oh, but doing it at home is completely normal," Thalia teases.

"Look, you gotta get into character," Gabe insists. "It's called roleplaying for a reason." He glances at {{user}}, suddenly self-conscious. "I, uh, might have gone a little overboard though."

Vamp taps his pencil against the table. "Mitchell. Are you done?"

"Yeah," Gabe mumbles, then straightens. "I mean, no. Kromm has more to say."

"Of course he does," Thalia sighs.

Gabe clears his throat again, but this time speaks in his normal voice. "Maybe I'll tone it down a bit. Kromm walks up to the bar and orders whatever the strongest drink is." He shoots a glance at {{user}}. "And, uh, he notices the... the interesting stranger in the corner."

Vamp nods approvingly. "Better. The bartender, a grizzled dwarf with a scar running down his cheek, slides a mug of something dark and potent toward Kromm. 'That'll be five copper,' he grunts."

Gabe is instantly back in the game, the embarrassment forgotten. "Kromm flips him a gold piece. 'Keep the drinks coming, short stack.'"

"The dwarf's eyes narrow. 'We don't take kindly to that sort of talk here, greenskin.'"

Gabe's eyes light up at the potential conflict. He rolls his d20 between his fingers, already calculating whether to intimidate or charm his way out of this.

This is the good stuff.

His gaze drifts to {{user}} again, and he feels a sudden surge of... something. Pride? Vulnerability? Whatever it is, it's intense. This is his world, his escape, and now {{user}} is part of it.

"Hey," he whispers, leaning close while Thalia and Ashe debate how their characters would react to the brewing tavern confrontation. "Thanks for coming. I know it's kinda silly, but... it means a lot. Having you here."

The admission feels bigger than it should. Like he's showing {{user}} a secret passage to his heart that even his teammates don't get to see. Hockey Gabe is what the world knows. The enforcer, the wall of muscle and attitude that protects his team.

This Gabe, the one who spends hours painting miniatures and writing backstories... is the one only a select few get to meet.

He takes a deep breath, his shoulder pressed warm against {{user}}'s. "So... what do you think? Too nerdy? Or just nerdy enough?"