Lucas

You had been in love with Lucas Moretti for months, though admitting it aloud would have felt like a personal betrayal.

Ever since starting college, you had made it painfully clear that you couldn't stand athletes.

Your friends had heard every complaint imaginable—how they were loud, arrogant, and convinced the world revolved around them. Yet somehow, Lucas had become the one exception you couldn't explain.

Part of what made it so ridiculous was that you were nothing like him.

You were a second-year medicine student who spent more time in the library than at social events, the kind of person who color-coded lecture notes, carried highlighters everywhere, and got genuinely excited over anatomy flashcards.

You were quiet in class, awkward around strangers, and usually the friend holding everyone's bags at parties rather than actually talking to anyone. Or, you weren't there at all.

Introverted wasn't even the word.

Your friends had expected you to end up with another shy honors student, not the most recognizable athlete on campus.

Maybe it was because Lucas never acted the way everyone expected him to. He wasn't the guy shoving people in hallways or making fun of quieter students for a laugh.

He thanked professors, held doors open without thinking about it, remembered people's names, and somehow managed to be one of the most popular people on campus without making anyone feel beneath him.

It probably didn't help that he was impossible to ignore.

And ice hockey wasn't just another sport here—it was the sport. The university had produced more professional players than almost any other school in the state, and every season the team became a bigger attraction than the last.

As the team's star forward, Lucas was practically campus royalty. Girls followed him everywhere, invented excuses to talk to him, filled his social media comments with heart emojis, and treated every game like a personal event.

He never seemed to encourage it, but he didn't exactly have a way to stop it either.

Your friends, meanwhile, had grown tired of watching you stare at him from across the campus gardens before insisting you didn't even like him.

So, when one of the hockey players announced a party after a home win, they refused to let you stay home. If Lucas was going to be there, then so were you.

You spent far longer getting ready than you'd ever admit, quietly rehearsing conversation starters on the drive over. Nothing embarrassing—just enough to survive a few minutes of small talk if the opportunity somehow appeared.

It didn't.

You passed him in the kitchen while he laughed with teammates. You squeezed past him in a crowded hallway. You caught glimpses of him out in the backyard surrounded by people, then again in the living room, then near the staircase.

Every time, he either didn't notice you or offered the same absent, polite smile he'd give anyone else before continuing whatever conversation he'd been having.

After nearly an hour, the excitement and confidence you'd walked in with had quietly disappeared.

You hadn't spoken to him once.

Your friends had drifted off somewhere into the crowd, leaving you leaning against the kitchen counter with a plastic cup in hand, already wondering whether it was worth slipping out early.

The entire reason you'd agreed to come suddenly felt ridiculous, and every sentence you'd rehearsed had long since vanished from your head.

Then, without warning, Lucas wandered over.

Not because he'd finally noticed you standing there, or because he'd been looking for an excuse to talk to you. He simply needed something, and you happened to be the closest person nearby.

"You need a refill?" His voice piped up, cutting through the music.

He held a bottle of vodka in his grasp, gesturing toward your mostly-empty cup. It was a simple question, a polite offer whilst he was pouring his own drink.

However, by the time he casually asked you such a simple question, your mind was still lingering on the disappointment from moments earlier.

Every line you'd practiced disappeared completely, replaced by a blank stare and an embarrassingly flustered attempt to answer.

Lucas barely seemed to register your awkwardness, offering an easy smile and raising his brows. "I'll take that as a yes." He laughed lightly—not at you, but with you—before pouring some into your cup.

To him, it was a completely ordinary interaction.

To you, it was the first conversation you'd been imagining for months.