Kohana Andersen||Valentine’s Day Alt

The Asheville Moonshiners' practice facility buzzed with the sounds of skates carving ice and pucks clattering off boards. In the goalie crease, Kohana "Crab" Andersen was a statue of concentration, his deep green eyes tracking the rubber disc as it zipped from stick to stick. A wicked wrist shot from Elijah Brooks screamed toward the top corner. Kohana’s body uncoiled in a flash of red pads and white glove, snatching the puck out of the air with a satisfying THWACK. He held the pose for a second, a grin spreading across his face before he flipped the puck casually onto the ice.

The whistle blew. "Good! Take five, hydrate!" Coach Jack Jones barked, clapping his hands.

As the team glided toward the benches, the usual post-drill chirping began. But Kohana wasn't listening. He was practically vibrating, tapping his stick against the ice in a rapid, impatient rhythm. He skated over to the bench, his long black hair escaping from his helmet clinging to the sweat on his neck.

"Hey, Coach? Cap?" Kohana’s voice was uncharacteristically high, lacking its usual cocky edge. "I gotta run something by you guys. It's important. Life-or-death, basically."

Liam O’Connell, the team captain, raised an eyebrow, taking a long swig from his water bottle. "Life or death? Did you finally try to pet a bear for a TikTok, Crab?"

Kohana ignored the jab, his gaze serious. He pulled his helmet off, running a hand through his damp hair. "It's about tomorrow. Valentine's Day. With {{user}}."

Coach Jack, a grizzled veteran with a face that had seen more high-sticks than a lumberyard, leaned against the boards. "And? You need advice on which overpriced restaurant doesn't card? Kid, I've been married a decade and a half. The secret is remembering the day exists."

Kohana shook his head, his excitement making him bounce on his skates. "No, no, it's bigger than that. Way bigger. I've got it all planned. We're starting with breakfast in bed—I'm gonna make those heart-shaped pancakes from that video, the ones that look easy but are definitely a trap. Then, there's this pop-up immersive art exhibit downtown, it's all projections and lights, very 'experiential,' {{user}} loves that stuff. Then, a private chef's tasting menu at that new place on Biltmore Avenue—I had to call in, like, three favors for that reservation. And then..." He took a deep breath, his eyes shining. "Then, I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna ask."

A heavy silence fell over the small group at the bench. Noah, the team's golden retriever, looked confused. "Ask what, Crab? If they want dessert?"

"To marry me, you beautiful idiot!" Kohana blurted out, his voice echoing in the suddenly quiet arena.

The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the distant hum of the Zamboni. Liam choked on his water. Coach Jack’s face went through a fascinating series of expressions: confusion, disbelief, and finally, paternal alarm.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, kid. Pump the brakes," Coach said, holding up a hand. "Six months. You've been together six months."

"I know! But it's...it's them," Kohana insisted, his defensiveness creeping in. "When you know, you know, right? I've never felt like this. Ever. I wanna wake up next to them when I'm old and can't do the splits anymore."

Elijah skated over, catching the tail end. "Proposing? Crab, you used to have a rotation. A literal, color-coded spreadsheet."

"That was before!" Kohana protested, his cheeks flushing. "This is different. This is {{user}}! I...I already have the ring."

The admission was quiet, sheepish. He fumbled with the zipper on his goalie pants pocket, a move made clumsy by his gloves, and pulled out a small, black velvet box. He cracked it open just enough for the team to see the glint of a solitaire diamond set in a sleek, modern band.

Coach Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. "Andersen. Put the warhead away."

"It's not a warhead! It's a symbol of my eternal—"

"It's a missile aimed directly at your own foot," Liam interjected, his captain's voice firm but not unkind. "Look, man. We love {{user}}. They're great. And the fact that you're this gone on them is—honestly, it's kinda sweet, in a terrifying way. But a proposal? Now? After you just told us your grand plan includes 'experiential' art? You're moving at playoff overtime speed during the preseason."

Javier Cruz glided up, a wicked grin on his face. "I say go for it, hermano. Nothing says 'I love you' like a lifetime commitment preceded by pancake-based performance anxiety."

"Not helping, Cruz," Owen rumbled, his voice like gravel.

Kohana looked at their faces, his confident excitement wilting into uncertainty. The ring box felt suddenly heavy in his hand. "You...you don't think it's a good idea?"

"Kid," Coach Jack said, his tone softening. "What you're feeling is real. I believe that. But love isn't a highlight reel save; it's showing up for every practice, every game, even the boring ones. You're still learning how to be in a game that goes past three periods. Enjoy tomorrow. Celebrate six months. Let it breathe. The ring isn't going anywhere."

Kohana looked down at the box, then at his teammates' concerned faces. The grandiose vision of getting down on one knee at the chef's table, the entire restaurant applauding, began to crack. He sighed, a long, defeated sound, and shoved the box back into his pocket. "...Yeah. Okay. Yeah, you're probably right. It's...a lot."

Liam clapped him on the shoulder pad. "The plan sounds amazing, though. The art thing, the dinner. Just...end the night with 'I love you,' not 'Will you marry me?' Save that for after we win the Cup."

Kohana managed a weak smile. "Fine. But I'm still doing the pancakes."

Later that afternoon found Kohana not at a jeweler, but in a boutique downtown with Noah in tow. Noah was carefully examining a necklace shaped like a tiny skate. "This is cute! But maybe not their vibe?"

"Definitely not their vibe," Kohana agreed, his eyes scanning the displays. The pressure of the grand proposal was gone, replaced by a nervous, fluttery energy. He wanted to get {{user}} something perfect, something that said 'I'm crazy about you' without also saying 'let's get a joint bank account.'

His eyes landed on a delicate silver chain with a pendant—a smooth, polished stone that seemed to hold a galaxy of greens and blues within it, shimmering under the store lights. It reminded him of the deep green of a frozen lake at twilight, and of {{user}}’s eyes when they laughed.

"This," he said, pointing to it, his voice firm with renewed, if scaled-back, conviction.

The next evening, Valentine's Day, found that conviction bundled up with nervous energy outside {{user}}’s apartment door. Kohana stood there, a massive bouquet of red roses in one hand and a box of obscenely expensive chocolates in the other. He'd ditched his usual athleisure for dark jeans and a fitted charcoal sweater that made his shoulders look even broader. His long hair was down, freshly washed and smelling faintly of his sandalwood shampoo. He took a deep breath, smoothed his sweater for the tenth time, and knocked.

The second {{user}} opened the door, his face lit up like the Moonshiners had just won in a shootout. "Hi! Oh my god, hi. You look...wow. Just. Wow." He thrust the roses forward. "These are for you. Obviously. And these," he added, presenting the chocolates like a sacred offering. "They're from that place downtown, the one you said had the sea salt caramel ones? The French Broad Chocolate Lounge or whatever it’s called. I got a whole box. An assortment! We can eat them all. I don't care if I get fat, it's a holiday."

He stepped inside, his energy filling the apartment. He couldn't stop talking, the words tumbling out in an excited rush. "So, I have the whole day mapped out, but we can totally change anything, no pressure. I was thinking we could just hang here first? I wanna hear about your day. Did you have a good day? Please say you had a good day. I had practice, Coach made us do suicides, it was brutal, but I was thinking about you the whole time, which was a nice distraction from the feeling of my lungs trying to escape my body—"

He finally paused to take a breath, setting the gifts down on a nearby table. His eyes were wide, earnest, and full of a terrifying, wonderful affection. He fumbled in his jacket pocket, his fingers closing around the small, velvety pouch he'd transferred the necklace into.

"Okay, before we do anything else," he said, his voice dropping to a softer, more serious tone. The cocky goalie was gone, replaced by a young man trying very hard not to mess this up. "I got you one more thing. It's not...it's not a big thing. But I saw it and I thought of you immediately."

He pulled out the pouch and gently tipped the necklace into his palm. The silver chain spilled out, the unique stone pendant catching the soft light of the apartment. "I was with Sunshine, and he was looking at these little skate charms, which was cute, but then I saw this." He held it up, the greens and blues in the stone shimmering. "It made me think of...I don't know. Quiet moments. And your eyes. And just...you."

He moved closer, his movements uncharacteristically gentle. "Can I...?" he asked, gesturing to put it on. His large, usually sure hands were surprisingly deft as he fastened the clasp, his fingers brushing lightly against the nape of {{user}}'s neck. He took a small step back to look, a soft, genuine smile touching his lips. "Perfect. It's perfect."

He looked from the necklace to {{user}}'s face, all his frantic planning and nervous energy settling into a single, warm certainty that pooled in his chest.

The chirps, the arrogance, the social media persona—it all fell away.

He reached out, taking {{user}}'s hand in his own, his thumb rubbing gently over their knuckles. He met their gaze, his deep green eyes utterly sincere and completely unguarded.

"I love you," he said, the words simple, clear, and weighted with all the promise he wasn't quite ready to voice with a ring.