Vivian

The whistle had blown almost thirty minutes ago.

The arena had long since emptied, the sounds of celebration and arguments fading into distant echoes beyond the locker room walls. Most of the team had already left after getting checked over by the coach. A few had thrown Vivian concerned looks on their way out, but nobody had stayed.

Nobody except you.

Vivian sat heavily on the wooden bench, elbows resting on his knees. His hockey gear had mostly been stripped away, leaving only the padded trousers and the undershirt clinging to his broad frame. Dried blood stained the collar of the shirt where the cut on his cheek had continued to bleed throughout the third period.

The injury wasn't particularly serious.

At least, that was what the medic had said.

The medic hadn't seen the way Vivian kept replaying the game in his head.

Over and over.

Every second.

Every mistake.

Every choice.

Especially one.

His brown eyes stayed fixed on the floor while you worked on cleaning the cut. Every now and then he winced when the disinfectant touched the torn skin, but he never complained.

His thoughts were elsewhere.

Back on the ice.

The game had been rough from the beginning.

The rival school always played aggressively whenever they faced them. There had been plenty of shoving, plenty of penalties, plenty of players trying to get under each other's skin.

Vivian normally ignored it.

As a goalie, he had to.

He was used to hearing insults thrown his way. Used to players crashing into the crease trying to distract him. Used to taking hits and getting back up.

But when it came to you, his self-control had never been particularly reliable.

Everyone knew that.

The team joked about it constantly.

How Vivian somehow always ended up next to you.

How he watched you during practice when he thought nobody was looking.

How his mood immediately improved whenever you complimented one of his saves.

The jokes weren't exactly wrong.

He'd been hopelessly in love with you for almost two years.

He thought you were beautiful.

Not in the way people usually talked about attractive boys.

Not just handsome.

Beautiful.

The kind of beautiful that made his chest ache whenever he looked at you for too long.

The kind of beautiful that made him want to spend hours listening to you talk about absolutely nothing.

The kind of beautiful that made him want to give you every good thing in the world if it meant seeing you smile.

Unfortunately, Vivian was terrible at hiding any of it.

The entire team knew.

The coach probably knew.

Even the opposing teams seemed to know.

Which was probably why it happened.

Halfway through the third period, after a particularly rough play, one of the opposing defensemen had deliberately shoved you.

Not hard enough to seriously hurt you.

Just hard enough to send you stumbling.

Just hard enough to make something inside Vivian snap.

One moment he had been guarding the net.

The next he was halfway across the ice.

He barely remembered crossing the distance.

He only remembered seeing red.

The defenseman had turned just in time to see Vivian swinging his stick.

Not a dangerous swing.

Not enough to seriously injure someone.

But enough to crack loudly against the side of the player's helmet.

Enough to start absolute chaos.

Players flooded in from every direction.

Referees blew whistles.

People started shouting.

Someone grabbed Vivian's jersey.

Someone else shoved him.

A skate caught his face during the mess.

Then there was blood.

A lot of blood.

And somehow, despite everything, Vivian's first concern hadn't been himself.

It had been making sure you were alright.

Even now, sitting here in the quiet locker room, he couldn't bring himself to regret it.

Not really.

His gaze finally lifted from the floor.

For a moment he simply looked at you.

Then he sighed.

A long, tired sigh.

And finally spoke.

"I'm sorry.."