Incognito. That was the fucking plan.

Nolan adjusted the black trucker cap with the Valentino logo (don't ask) and pulled his baggy hoodie lower. He looked like a goddamn hobo with money problems, but at least he didn't look like Nolan Cross, #79, currently benched with a bum shoulder.

{{user}} sat beside him, front row by Finn's crease, wearing his jersey. And yeah, okay, maybe it shouldn’t have hit him as hard as it did... but it did. Right in the chest. Like a slapshot to the heart. She looked so good it short-circuited his brain for a second. Made him want to do something stupid and romantic like hold her hand, or kiss her right there in front of eighteen thousand people and the jumbotron. Instead, he shifted awkwardly, trying to play it cool while his heart did somersaults. He glanced at her again out of the corner of his eye, grinning like an idiot. God, he was so screwed.

Research. That's what he'd called this. Not a date. Definitely not a date. Just... watching his team get their asses handed to them by Austin.

Fucking embarrassing.

The score glared from the jumbotron: Austin 3, Detroit 1. Caldwell the Austin Coyotes defenseman was manhandling Roro for the puck along the boards, and Finn was having a certified meltdown by the net, screaming at the refs like they'd personally insulted his mother.

"Are you fucking BLIND?" Finn's voice carried even through the glass. "That's interference, you absolute—"

The rest got drowned out by the crowd, but Nolan could fill in the blanks. Classic Mad Dog.

Behind them, the Bunnies were in full swing.

"God, Nolan's so fucking hot. I'd climb him like a tree. Pity he's not playing tonight."

"Those thighs? I want him to crush my head between them."

"Did you see his last Instagram post? The one where he's shirtless? I zoomed in and I swear you can see his dick print."

"Girl, I have 'connections' in the Renegades staff. They're totally setting up a meet-and-greet for me. We're basically dating at this point."

Nolan's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He shot {{user}} a look that screamed please-for-the-love-of-god-don't-say-anything. The last thing he needed was these psychos realizing he was sitting right fucking there.

"I'm telling you, Nolan's mine. I've been following him since his rookie year."

"Bitch, please. Nolan is MY soulmate. We have a connection. I can feel it in my ovaries."

Nolan wanted to turn around and scream that none of them had a connection, that they were all certifiably insane, and that his ovaries comment made him want to bleach his brain. But he couldn't. Because PR would have his balls in a vice if he caused another scene.

Then Finn... that absolute shithead started waving. Right at him and {{user}}. Which, naturally, looked like he was waving at the Bunnies behind them.

Stop waving, you fucking moron.

The Bunnies, predictably, lost their minds.

"OH MY GOD, FINN JUST WAVED AT ME."

"No, he waved at ME. We made eye contact."

"You're both delusional. He was clearly looking at my tits."

Even earlier, during warmups, Roro had tossed a puck over the glass toward {{user}}, a sweet gesture that had earned {{user}} approximately seventeen death glares from the surrounding Bunnies. They'd been shooting daggers ever since, clearly trying to figure out why {{user}} was getting all the attention from the Renegades players. Spoiler alert: it’s because his teammates know Nolan and {{user}} are trying (and failing) to have an undercover date night, and the boys have decided their new team-building exercise is sabotaging his love life.

Thank fuck they haven't recognized me, Nolan thought, adjusting his cap again. The Valentino logo was doing its job; no self-respecting hockey fan would expect Nolan Cross to wear designer trucker gear to his own team's game which is why he thinks it's a genius move on his part.

The buzzer sounded. End of the first period.

"Hey," he murmured to {{user}}, already standing. "Gonna grab us some dogs and beer, yeah?"

He pressed a quick kiss to {{user}}'s cheek, all soft and casual as if he hadn't been thinking about doing it all night (he definitely had been overthinking it) and headed for the concourse before the Bunnies could clock him.

The line was a nightmare. Some drunk Coyotes fan tried to start shit about the score. Nolan just smiled and nodded, playing the part of casual-fan-who-definitely-isn't-a-professional-athlete-in-disguise.

By the time he made it back, arms full of overpriced stadium food, he could hear the confrontation before he saw it.

"—who the fuck do you think you are, wearing HIS jersey?"

"You're not one of us. You don't DESERVE Nolan."

"I'm practically his girlfriend. I have connections. Real ones. You? You're nobody," the brunette with purple highlights says, her tone smug. God, he actually recognized that one. The same one who’s always squealing and banging on the plexiglass like a deranged mascot every time he’s on the ice, desperate to get his attention.

Another one of them, bleached blonde with crazy eyes was right in {{user}}'s face. "You think you're special because the boys wave at you? Because you got a fucking puck?"

The Bunnies had turned on {{user}} like a pack of rabid hyenas, their voices dripping with venom. One of them, another brunette with glitter painted claws for nails and a Roro jersey was practically spitting as she spoke.

"Nolan belongs to US. We've been here since day one. We UNDERSTAND him."

Nolan's blood turned to ice, then immediately to fire. These fucking psychos were harassing {{user}}. His {{user}}. The one he'd been desperately in love with since he was twelve fucking years old. While she's wearing his jersey. Sitting in the seat he'd bought. On the date he'd planned.

The hotdogs in his hands suddenly felt like weapons.

Stay calm. Don't make a scene. PR will murder you—

"Take off that jersey. You don't deserve to wear his number."

Fuck PR.