Nathan "Major Charming" Hawthorne I New York Panthers

The club is loud enough to rattle bone.

Bass thunders through Nathan’s chest, lights cutting the dark in sharp flashes of blue and gold. Sweat still clings to him, hair damp from the shower he barely took time to enjoy. Wins feel better when they’re loud, when the night stretches out in front of him like a dare. Sweat and perfume and the metallic tang of spilled drinks hang in the air, mixing into a heady chaos that seems to hum just under his skin.

His teammates crowd the high table—laughing, shoving, replaying goals with exaggerated hand motions and bad impressions of the refs. Someone shoves a drink into his hand.

“To falling on your ass in front of half the city,” a winger says, grinning. “Legendary.”

Nathan lifts his glass. “I aim to entertain.”

He takes a sip, scanning the room out of habit—

And freezes.

She’s near the bar.

Not dancing. Not drinking much. Leaning against the counter like she belongs there, hair loose over her shoulders, eyes tracking the room with quiet awareness. She looks different out of the rink lights. Softer. Sharper. Real in a way that hits him low and immediate.

His chest tightens.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

Ryder follows his gaze. Then Connor.

“Oh no,” Scott says immediately.

Nathan doesn’t look away. “What?”

“That’s not just a girl,” Scott adds. “That’s a bad decision.”

Nathan frowns. “Explain.”

Scott snorts. “That’s his sister.”

The word lands heavier than any hit tonight.

Nathan’s jaw tightens as realization clicks into place—same eyes, same stillness, the resemblance he missed earlier because he wasn’t looking for it.

His rival’s sister.

The room doesn’t get quieter, but something inside Nathan does.

“Well,” Ryder starts, leaning back, arms crossed. “This should be interesting.”

“Don’t,” Connor teammate warns. “I’m serious. Don’t do it.”

“Actually,” Preston else cuts in, grinning slow, “do it.”

Heads turn.

“What?” Nathan asks.

“If you talk to her,” Preston continues, “and she doesn’t shut you down in under thirty seconds, we buy your drinks for a month.”

“And if she does?” Nathan asks.

Preston shrugs. “You still talked to her.”

Nathan huffs a laugh, eyes still locked on her. “That’s not a bet. That’s a dare.”

“Exactly.”

She glances up then—like she feels him looking.

Their eyes meet across the club.

Recognition sparks. Surprise. Something unreadable.

Nathan’s pulse kicks.

“Ten seconds,” Ryder says behind him. “You won’t make it past her last name.”

Nathan sets his glass down.

“Watch me.”

He crosses the floor before his brain can catch up, weaving through bodies, the music swallowing everything but the awareness humming between them. The crowd parts enough for him to slip through, pulse of bodies and light and noise pressing around him, heat brushing his jacket, shirt still faintly cool from the shower he ditched in favor of the win. He walks like he belongs in this moment, and maybe he does—because he chooses to.

He stops just close enough to be felt, leaning his elbow lightly on the lacquered bar. The conversation he had rehearsed evaporates; all that remains is a grin that feels stupid, sincere, and entirely him.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, sliding under the music. “Funny running into you off the ice. Didn’t think I’d get a front-row seat to... judgment tonight.”

She doesn’t answer. Perfect.

Nathan chuckles. “Full honesty? I know who you are.” He tilts his head, playful. “And yeah... your brother’s terrifying on the ice. But I figure a little danger keeps things interesting.”

He leans just a fraction closer, letting his fingers brush lightly against the back of her wrist—a playful, deliberate touch. “Maybe we’re technically rivals by association,” he says, grin crooked, mischievous. “But I’m feeling lucky tonight. I’m gonna shoot my shot.”

He lets his hand linger, a punctuation, before moving it back casually. “Let me buy you a drink. I’ll be awkward if I have to. I’ll probably tell dumb stories about how I fell on my face. But I’ll also be sincere.”

The edges of his grin soften. This is not the show he puts on for fans; this is him, clumsy, eager, and honest.

“If you say no, we’ll laugh about it later,” he murmurs. “If you say yes... maybe I’ll get whacked by your brother someday and earn a story worth telling.”

He tilts his head, eyes bright, voice dropping slightly, teasing but steady. “You don’t have to decide now if you wanna give me a shot. Just let me buy you a drink?"

Postgame spills into the tunnel in a mess of noise and bodies. Helmets tucked under arms, sweat cooling, voices overlapping with plans and trash talk. Nathan’s halfway to the locker room when he sees her down the quieter side hallway.

Waiting.

“I’ll catch up,” he says, already drifting sideways.

Ryder whistles. Scott stage-whispers, “That’s a terrible idea.” Nathan lifts a hand in a lazy wave without looking back. “You say that like I don’t thrive on those.”

Okay.

Okay, idiot. You’re doing this.

Every step feels louder than the last. He can feel the eyes on him. The bets. The inevitable group chat that’ll be ruthless by morning. Don’t trip again. Please don’t trip again.

“Hey,” he says when she looks up, flashing a quick grin. “Promise I wasn’t stalking you. That would’ve required planning.” Smooth. Very smooth.

He rubs the back of his neck. “You waiting on him? Because if so, I should probably be braver than I feel right now.”

He nods down the hallway. “I’ll be honest—I don’t love that I can feel his presence like a jump scare waiting to happen.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “For the record, your brother played like an absolute menace tonight.”

A beat. “Which is impressive. And rude. Mostly rude.” He shifts his weight, glances once over his shoulder, then back to her. “I’m Nathan. In case the falling into the glass didn’t properly introduce me.” God, stop talking.

“I don’t usually do that,” he adds quickly. “Fall. Or embarrass myself. I mean—I do, but not publicly. And not because someone smiled at me.”

He points lightly at her. “That part? Fully your fault.” Footsteps echo faintly somewhere nearby.

“Look,” he says, lowering his voice just a touch. “This is probably a bad idea. Like, statistically. If we’re doing math.”

He gestures vaguely behind him. “There’s a whole hallway of guys back there watching me throw my life away in real time. I think Ryder got odds going.” A breath. Steadier now.

“But I figured I’d regret not asking more than I’d regret getting punched.” He meets her eyes. Holds them.

“There’s a diner a few blocks from here. Good food. Zero jerseys. I won’t talk about hockey unless provoked.” A pause. “Tomorrow. Or whenever you’re free from... enemy affiliations.” Another glance down the hall. Closer footsteps now.

“If your brother shows up,” he adds, deadpan, “I will immediately claim I’m lost and looking for the bathroom.” God, that was fucking horrible joke. Nathan was surprised she didn’t start walking away. No. RUNNING away. She was still here. That should be a good sign? Right? He looks back at her, grin softening, honest now. “So. Coffee? Pancakes? A front-row seat to me trying not to make another bad first impression?” Nathan waits.

Heart loud. Smile crooked.

“I already fell once tonight,” he says, grin tugging crooked and ridiculous across his face, “so if I’m risking anything else... I’d rather it be for you.”