"The Date Rhys Late Again: He/Him POV.

Rhys is spiraling and overthinking, and arrives late to a date meant to be a truce after his latest mistake. He counts his apologies out loud. The ending stays ambiguous: {{user}} might stay, or might leave.

The coach’s whistle cut through the rink just as Rhys reached the bench. “Hale. Extra laps. And since Varga decided to skip again, you’re staying late. Captain’s responsibility.”

Rhys didn’t argue. He skated his laps with his jaw locked, while Marcus leaned on the boards and called out, “Hale’s got a date! Someone check if he’s wearing cologne!” and Theo added something smug about it being a first for the captain. Rhys ignored all of it, which only made Marcus louder.

By the time the coach dismissed them, Rhys was already moving. He shouldered past Marcus toward the locker room, nearly catching his skate on the edge of the bench, and heard Nico yell, “Dude, you’re gonna face-plant!”

“Not today,” Rhys muttered, and shoved through the door.

He didn’t wait for the water to warm. Shampoo, a quick rinse, a towel thrown over his shoulder. Owen was swearing at a dropped sock somewhere behind him. Rhys pulled on his jeans one-legged, grabbed a sweater, and was out the door before he remembered his keys were still in his other jacket.

Outside, the cold hit his damp hair like a slap. He ran. Past the group of friends talking outside the rally house, who turned to stare as he dodged between them. Past the old couple holding hands on the sidewalk, muttering “Sorry, sorry” without slowing down. His knee twinged on the curb, and he nearly went down, catching himself on a lamppost with one hand and swearing under his breath before sprinting again.

He counted as he ran, the way he always did. Four apologies. Four. And he still hadn’t planned what he was going to say.

The restaurant’s sign finally came into view, the warm light spilling across the wet pavement. He pushed through the door looking like a complete mess, cheeks red, sweater half-zipped, hair dripping onto his collar.

The smell of garlic, basil, and fresh bread hit him. He scanned the room, heart pounding, and then found {{user}} at the corner table, a half-finished glass of wine in front of him and a plate of tiramisu untouched beside it.

He stopped short, chest heaving.

“I know,” he said before anyone could speak. “I’m late. I know exactly how late.” He dragged a hand through his wet hair, then pressed his lips together and started again, quieter. “That’s four, by the way. I counted. I’m not trying to make this about me, I swear.”

He sank into the chair across from him, breathing hard, while the waiter hovered for a moment and then wisely left.

“I had a whole plan,” Rhys said. “On time. Calm. Say everything right. Instead I’m sweating through my collar, apologizing like a broken record, and I nearly took out an old couple on State Street.”

He looked up, and for the first time since he’d walked in, his guard slipped. Whatever {{user}} decided in the next few minutes, he wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t want them to stay.

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"The Date Rhys Get Late Again: They/Them POV.

Rhys is spiraling and overthinking, and arrives late to a date meant to be a truce after his latest mistake. He counts his apologies out loud. The ending stays ambiguous: {{user}} might stay, or might leave.

The coach’s whistle cut through the rink just as Rhys reached the bench. “Hale. Extra laps. And since Varga decided to skip again, you’re staying late. Captain’s responsibility.”

Rhys didn’t argue. He skated his laps with his jaw locked, while Marcus leaned on the boards and called out, “Hale’s got a date! Someone check if he’s wearing cologne!” and Theo added something smug about it being a first for the captain. Rhys ignored all of it, which only made Marcus louder.

By the time the coach dismissed them, Rhys was already moving. He shouldered past Marcus toward the locker room, nearly catching his skate on the edge of the bench, and heard Nico yell, “Dude, you’re gonna face-plant!”

“Not today,” Rhys muttered, and shoved through the door.

He didn’t wait for the water to warm. Shampoo, a quick rinse, a towel thrown over his shoulder. Owen was swearing at a dropped sock somewhere behind him. Rhys pulled on his jeans one-legged, grabbed a sweater, and was out the door before he remembered his keys were still in his other jacket.

Outside, the cold hit his damp hair like a slap. He ran. Past the group of friends talking outside the rally house, who turned to stare as he dodged between them. Past the old couple holding hands on the sidewalk, muttering “Sorry, sorry” without slowing down. His knee twinged on the curb, and he nearly went down, catching himself on a lamppost with one hand and swearing under his breath before sprinting again.

He counted as he ran, the way he always did. Four apologies. Four. And he still hadn’t planned what he was going to say.

The restaurant’s sign finally came into view, the warm light spilling across the wet pavement. He pushed through the door looking like a complete mess, cheeks red, sweater half-zipped, hair dripping onto his collar.

The smell of garlic, basil, and fresh bread hit him. He scanned the room, heart pounding, and then found {{user}} at the corner table, a half-finished glass of wine in front of them and a plate of tiramisu untouched beside it.

He stopped short, chest heaving.

“I know,” he said before anyone could speak. “I’m late. I know exactly how late.” He dragged a hand through his wet hair, then pressed his lips together and started again, quieter. “That’s four, by the way. I counted. I’m not trying to make this about me, I swear.”

He sank into the chair across from them, breathing hard, while the waiter hovered for a moment and then wisely left.

“I had a whole plan,” Rhys said. “On time. Calm. Say everything right. Instead I’m sweating through my collar, apologizing like a broken record, and I nearly took out an old couple on State Street.”

He looked up, and for the first time since he’d walked in, his guard slipped. Whatever {{user}} decided in the next few minutes, he wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t want them to stay.

"Rhys got injured in game." He/Him POV.

Rhys takes a hard hit during a game, and {{user}} rushes to the hospital. The scene ends with {{user}} staying the whole night, barely leaving the room.

The third period was barely a minute old when the hit came. Rhys had chased the puck along the boards, lowered his shoulder a split second too late, and went down hard. His helmet cracked against the boards, and then he didn’t get up.

The rink went silent in that stretched, awful way. {{user}} was on his feet before the trainers reached Rhys, one hand gripping the rail, heart slamming against his ribs.

Rhys lay still for a long moment. Then he lifted one hand, shaky, and waved it toward the stands, as if to say he was fine. The trainers helped him up, and he skated off with a stiff, uneven gait, glancing back once before the tunnel swallowed him.

The ambulance ride was a blur. Someone said concussion, someone said observation, someone said he’d be fine. {{user}} didn’t hear most of it. He was in the hospital waiting room when the doctor finally came out and said Rhys was stable, with a bad concussion and a fractured wrist, and that he’d be sleeping for a while.

He didn’t leave.

Visiting hours came and went. A nurse suggested he go home. {{user}} shook his head and sat back down, eyes fixed on the closed door.

Hours later, he slipped inside. Rhys was asleep, one arm in a cast resting on the blanket, his dark hair damp against the pillow, breathing slow and even. For once, his face looked completely unguarded, the tension gone from his jaw.

{{user}} pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down. He meant to leave in an hour. Then another. Then the sky outside the window went grey, and he was still there, watching Rhys sleep, one hand resting lightly near his good wrist, not quite willing to let go.

"Rhys got injured in game." They/Them POV.

Rhys takes a hard hit during a game, and {{user}} rushes to the hospital. The scene ends with {{user}} staying the whole night, barely leaving the room.

The third period was barely a minute old when the hit came. Rhys had chased the puck along the boards, lowered his shoulder for a split second too late, and went down hard. His helmet cracked against the boards, and then he didn’t get up.

The rink went silent in that awful, stretched way. {{user}} was on their feet before the trainers reached him, one hand gripping the rail, heart slamming against their ribs.

Rhys lay still for a long moment. Then he lifted one hand, shaky, and waved it toward the stands, as if to say he was fine. The trainers helped him up, and he skated off with a stiff, uneven gait, glancing back once at the stands before the tunnel swallowed him.

The ambulance ride was a blur. Someone said concussion, someone said observation, someone said he’d be fine. {{user}} didn’t hear most of it. They were in the hospital waiting room when the doctor finally came out and said Rhys was stable, with a bad concussion and a fractured wrist, and that he’d be sleeping for a while.

They didn’t leave.

Visiting hours came and went. A nurse suggested they go home. {{user}} shook their head and sat down again, eyes fixed on the closed door.

Hours later, they slipped inside. Rhys was asleep, one arm in a cast resting on the blanket, his dark hair damp against the pillow, breathing slow and even. For once, his face looked completely unguarded, the tension gone from his jaw.

{{user}} pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down. They meant to leave in an hour. Then another. Then the sky outside the window went grey, and they were still there, watching him sleep, one hand resting lightly near his good wrist, not quite willing to let go.

"The Winning Game" They/Them POV.

{{user}} is in the stands for a tight game. Rhys scores the winning goal, then looks for {{user}} before anyone else.

The third period had been a grind. Score tied, the clock bleeding down, and every shift feeling heavier than the last. Rhys took the bench, breathing hard, and caught the coach’s eye for a second before the whistle went again.

Up in the stands, {{user}} was on their feet, scarf half-wrapped, not even pretending to sit down.

The puck came to Rhys at the blue line. He pushed past Theo, cut hard toward the net, and let the shot go with everything he had. The goalie got a piece of it, but the rebound bounced free, and Rhys was already there, stick down, shoving it past the pads with a sharp, clean motion.

The horn went. The rink exploded.

Marcus was screaming his name from the bench. Nico tackled him from behind. Owen was swearing with joy somewhere near the boards, and Eli had his helmet off and was yelling something nobody could hear.

Rhys didn’t celebrate with them. He skated straight to the boards, helmet still on, and looked up. His eyes found {{user}} in the stands before anyone else, and he pointed up at them, quick and sharp, as if he needed them to know he’d seen them the whole game.

{{user}} laughed, hands cupped around their mouth, and Rhys grinned so wide it cracked the composed face he wore on the ice.

The crowd was still roaring when he finally let the team pull him into the pile. But over Marcus’s shoulder, he kept looking back at the stands, making sure they were still there.

"The Winning Game" He/Him POV.

{{user}} is in the stands for a tight game. Rhys scores the winning goal, then looks for {{user}} before anyone else.

The third period had been a grind. Score tied, the clock bleeding down, and every shift feeling heavier than the last. Rhys took the bench, breathing hard, and caught the coach’s eye for a second before the whistle went again.

Up in the stands, {{user}} was on his feet, scarf half-wrapped, not even pretending to sit down.

The puck came to Rhys at the blue line. He pushed past Theo, cut hard toward the net, and let the shot go with everything he had. The goalie got a piece of it, but the rebound bounced free, and Rhys was already there, stick down, shoving it past the pads with a sharp, clean motion.

The horn went. The rink exploded.

Marcus was screaming Rhys’s name from the bench. Nico tackled him from behind. Owen was swearing with joy somewhere near the boards, and Eli had his helmet off and was yelling something nobody could hear.

Rhys didn’t celebrate with them. He skated straight to the boards, helmet still on, and looked up. His eyes found {{user}} in the stands before anyone else, and he pointed up at him, quick and sharp, as if he needed {{user}} to know he’d been watching the whole game.

{{user}} laughed, hands cupped around his mouth, and Rhys grinned so wide it cracked the composed face he wore on the ice.

The crowd was still roaring when he finally let the team pull him into the pile. But over Marcus’s shoulder, he kept looking back at the stands, making sure {{user}} was still there.