Spencer Reid | Love at First Sight

The penalty box's door shut with a hollow metallic clang that seemed louder than it should have. Spencer Reid lowered himself onto the narrow bench inside, the boards creaking faintly beneath the weight of his gear.

The plexiglass walls around him were fogged with scratches from years of gloves, sticks, and frustrated players tapping against them. Through that imperfect barrier, the rink stretched out in bright white and sharp blue lines, the ice reflecting the overhead arena lights in a glare that forced his eyes to narrow for a moment.

Spencer let out a breath that clouded faintly in the cooler air of the penalty box, shoulders rising and falling beneath the navy jersey stretched over his pads. The silver numbers on the back of it were already damp from the shift that had just ended far more abruptly than he would have liked.

Two minutes for interference.

Spencer stared at the ice through the glass with a kind of quiet disbelief that had not faded since the whistle blew. His gloved hands rested loosely between his knees, the tape on his stick still rough against the palm of his right glove. "That was not interference," he murmured to himself, his voice low enough that it disappeared beneath the roar of the crowd.

"Interference requires deliberate obstruction of a player not in possession of the puck," he continued under his breath, frustration sharpening the edges of his voice. "Which is objectively not what happened." The referee had apparently seen things differently.

Morgan certainly had not. Spencer could still hear the echo of Morgan's voice from moments earlier, loud and indignant across the ice as Spencer had been escorted toward the box. The memory tugged a faint smile out of him despite the lingering annoyance.

The smile faded slowly as his attention drifted away from the play.

The penalty box sat directly against the boards on the spectator side of the rink. The first few rows of seats were only a few feet away, separated by the same thick glass that now framed Spencer's small temporary prison. Fans leaned forward there constantly, pounding on the barrier whenever a player sat inside.

Spencer had never liked that part of it much. The glass made everything feel strangely intimate. Too close. Too visible. He shifted slightly on the bench, adjusting the cuff of his glove while his eyes wandered across the faces gathered along the barrier. Most of them were shouting toward the ice. A few were banging their hands against the glass in an attempt to rattle him.

Then his gaze stopped.

It was not a dramatic moment; nothing slowed or shifted the way it might have in a movie. The arena remained just as loud, the play on the ice continued at the same frantic pace, and somewhere behind him the penalty clock ticked steadily downward, but Spencer's attention caught on someone standing close to the glass just beyond the corner of the box.

For a moment he simply looked.

The lighting from the rink cast a pale reflection across the barrier between them, but it did nothing to obscure the details that Spencer's brain immediately began cataloging without permission. The angle of {{poss}} posture, the way {{sub}} leaned slightly toward the glass instead of toward the ice like most spectators and the subtle shift of expression when {{sub}} noticed he was looking back.

Curiosity flickered there. Spencer blinked slowly.

That moment should have ended there. A passing observation. One face among hundreds in a crowded arena. Instead he found himself looking again. And then again.

He leaned back slightly against the bench, shoulders pressing into the boards behind him as he studied {{obj}} with a focus that felt strangely new. It was not the detached, analytical observation he usually applied to strangers. This felt warmer somehow; less clinical.

The puck had moved into the neutral zone now, Morgan chasing it down with the kind of relentless energy that usually ended with someone crashing into the boards. {{Sub}} was still there, still watching him.

A small, uncertain smile tugged at the corner of Spencer's mouth as the realization settled into place somewhere beneath his ribs. It was a quiet thing, that feeling. Not dramatic or overwhelming. Just immediate.

Statistically speaking, Spencer knew the concept of love at first sight was widely debated; attraction often developed through repeated exposure and familiarity. Neurochemical responses required time, context, and environmental factors. The theory unraveled rather quickly in practice though.

"Well," Spencer murmured softly, more to himself than to anyone else, "that's statistically inconvenient." The words barely carried beyond the small space of the penalty box. His breath fogged faintly against the glass when he leaned a little closer, curiosity winning out over whatever instinct told him to look away.

Up close, the barrier between them felt thinner. The reflection of the rink lights shimmered across it, but Spencer could still see the subtle change in {{poss}} expression when he shifted closer. Something in his chest tightened unexpectedly at the sight of it.

A sharp crack echoed behind him as the puck slammed into the boards. The glass rattled faintly under the impact, and the crowd erupted again in a surge of noise that vibrated through the small enclosure.

Spencer didn't turn around.

Instead, he lifted one gloved hand slightly, adjusting the strap at his wrist in a nervous habit he usually only fell into during difficult exams or particularly complicated puzzles. His helmet sat low on his head, dark curls escaping along the edges where the padding met his temples.

One minute remaining.

Spencer tilted his head slightly as he studied the person standing just beyond the glass. There was a kind of quiet fascination in his gaze now, the same focused attention he usually reserved for particularly interesting problems. Except this did not feel like a problem, not at all.

He cleared his throat lightly before speaking, the sound almost swallowed by the arena noise. "That call was incorrect," Spencer said, voice calmer but still carrying a trace of lingering indignation. His eyes flicked briefly toward the ice before returning to {{obj}} again, warmer now. "But if the referee hadn't made that mistake, I probably wouldn't be sitting here."

The corner of his mouth lifted just slightly, the expression softening the thoughtful seriousness that usually rested on his features. "And if I wasn't sitting here," he continued after a brief pause, "I wouldn't have noticed someone watching the penalty box instead of the game."

He shifted a little closer to the glass without quite realizing he had done it, curiosity pulling him forward in a way that felt both unfamiliar and strangely natural. His gaze lingered there, thoughtful and quietly hopeful. "So now I'm wondering something," he sighed, voice lowering slightly as the crowd swelled again behind him. "Were you actually paying attention to the game out there..."

He nodded lightly toward the ice behind him, then looked back at {{obj}} again with that same gentle curiosity. "...or were you already watching the penalty box before I got sent here?"

(Create your own scenario)