50 full circle
The first time I wore his jersey, it felt like stepping into something staged.
I remember standing in front of my mirror, adjusting the sleeves, pulling it down like I could make it sit right if I just tried hard enough. I remember thinking about how it would look from a distance, how it would translate in photos, whether people would believe it.
That night, everything had edges.
This time, it doesn't.
I pull the jersey over my head without stopping to think, the fabric settling against my skin like it belongs there now, like it's not something borrowed or performed or temporary. I don't check myself in the mirror for longer than a second. I don't adjust anything twice.
I just... wear it.
Because I want to.
?
The arena is familiar in a way that feels almost unreal. Same place, same lights, same ice.
Same teams. My school against his. Just like the first time.
It should feel like deja vu, like I'm walking back into something I've already lived through-but it doesn't. It feels like standing in the same place after everything's changed, like the space stayed the same and I didn't.
Jess leans closer as we find our seats, already buzzing. "This is so full circle it's actually insane."
"I know," I say, but my voice comes out quieter than I expect.
Because I do know.
I can feel it.
Riley doesn't say anything at first, just looks out over the rink, then at me, like she's measuring something. "You're different this time."
"I know," I repeat.
And this time, I mean it.
?
The game starts, and I don't watch it the way I used to.
Before, I was always aware of everything else-the people around me, the way I was sitting, the way I reacted, the version of myself I was projecting into the space.
Now, I just watch.
I let myself follow the movement of the game, the speed of it, the rhythm. I let myself focus on him without pretending I'm not.
He's sharper tonight. Faster, more precise. Or maybe I'm just finally seeing him without filtering it.
Every time he's on the ice, I feel it-this pull, this quiet awareness that settles somewhere under my ribs and stays there.
Jess notices, of course.
She leans into my shoulder halfway through the second period. "You're doing the thing again."
"What thing?"
"The staring thing."
"I'm watching the game."
"You're watching him play the game."
I don't bother denying it. Because there's nothing to deny anymore.
The third period tightens.
The score's close, tension building in layers, the kind that makes the entire arena feel like it's holding its breath without realizing it.
And then-
everything breaks open.
The play shifts fast, almost too fast to follow, the puck moving cleanly through open space, and he's already there, already anticipating it, already ahead.
It happens in one smooth motion. Control.
Adjustment. Shot. Goal.
The sound hits immediately-loud, explosive, overwhelming-but I don't hear it right away.
Because before I even realize what I'm doing-
I'm on my feet.
And then I'm moving.
Jess grabs for my arm. "Wait-Madi-"
But I'm already slipping past her, already heading down the steps, the noise of the crowd folding in around me as I make my way toward the boards.
I don't think about it, I don't hesitate, I just... go.
By the time I reach the front, players are already shifting, the moment still unfolding on the ice, but I barely register any of it except him.
He turns, just slightly, but just enough. And then he sees me. For a fraction of a second, everything narrows.
The crowd, the noise, the game-none of it matters in the way it did before.
I stop at the boards, one side of the barrier between us, him still on the ice, skates angled toward me like he moved without thinking too.
There's a pause. Not long, just enough to feel it.
And then I lean forward, gripping the top of the boards, pulling him toward me in the same motion.
There's no calculation in it. No awareness of who's watching or what it looks like.
I just kiss him.
Right there, across the barrier, him still on the ice and me on the other side, the boards the only thing separating us-and somehow not separating anything at all.
He doesn't hesitate, not for a second.
One hand comes up instantly, steadying himself against the boards, the other finding me like it already knows where to go, like this is the most natural continuation of everything that's been building.
The arena reacts.
I hear it distantly-the shift in noise, the way people pick up on it, the way it turns into something bigger, louder, something that belongs to them.
But it doesn't reach me. Because this-
isn't for them.
It isn't for the cameras or the crowd or the story people think they're watching unfold.
It's just this moment.
Just us.
When I pull back, it's slower than it should be, my hands still curled into the top of the boards like letting go would break something.
He stays close for a second longer, breath uneven, eyes locked on mine in a way that feels different than anything before. Not surprised, not unsure, just... certain.
And I realize-
this isn't the same moment, repeated.
It's not a loop.
It's not a performance we've come back to perfect.
It's something else entirely. Something that doesn't need to be staged to matter. Something that doesn't need to be seen to be real.
And maybe that's why it feels bigger.
Because this time-
there's nothing about it that isn't ours.