58
Hannah
I put Nate’s jersey on three hours before the game.
This is unnecessary. Absurd, actually. The game doesn’t start until seven, and Ella and I aren't leaving the dorm until six-fifteen.
I still have to finish my hair, attempt to eat something that won't sit like a brick in my stomach, and emotionally survive the fact that I am about to walk into a sold-out arena wearing Nate Wilder’s name on my back for the entire campus to see.
So, naturally, I put it on at four. Then I stand in front of the full-length mirror on the back of our door and stare.
The jersey is massive. It’s not "oversized" in that cute, curated way you see in catalogs; it’s "swallowed by a professional athlete" big.
The heavy, ventilated fabric is stiff, the sleeves pooling around my elbows until I roll them back, and the hem reaches my mid-thigh.
His number, bold and sharp in navy and white, sits across the arms, and across my shoulder blades, stitched in clean, unapologetic block letters, is his name.
WILDER.
I turn slightly, looking over my shoulder.
My stomach performs a slow, foolish somersault.
The last time I wore one of Nate’s jerseys, it was a tactical maneuver.
It was fake. It was a costume designed to draw Ethan’s eye and provide Nate with a cover story.
Tonight, there are no maneuvers. No Ethan-focused strategies. No denials.
Tonight, I am wearing it because I want to. Because he is my boyfriend. Because I want to walk into that rink and let him look up into the stands and see me there, not as a project or a partner in a deal, but as the girl who chose him.
“Oh, Han.”
I catch Ella’s reflection in the mirror. She’s leaning against the doorframe, one hand pressed over her heart, Gerald Reed-Wilder tucked under her other arm.
“Don’t,” I warn, though my voice is shaky.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You are looking at me with Narrative Payoff Face.”
“It’s a beautiful face! And it’s not just fabric, Hannah. It’s a public declaration of romantic intent with a side of stadium nachos.”
I turn around, the heavy jersey swishing against my leggings. “You have to stop talking like I’m a character in a book.”
“I refuse. Gerald also finds the character development inspiring.” She crosses the room and adjusts one of the sleeves, folding it back so my hand actually emerges. “There. Less like a toddler playing dress-up, more like a hockey girlfriend.”
My cheeks heat before I can stop them. Ella sees it, her smile turning soft and genuine. “You’re really happy, aren't you?”
The words land in the room, making everything else quiet. I look down at the number on my arm—his number. “I am,” I say quietly. “It’s a little terrifying, but I am.”
My phone buzzes on the desk.
**Nate:** *You still coming?*
I stare at the text. He knows I’m coming. I’ve told him three times. But I can read the subtext beneath the casual question. *Are you still with me? Are you still brave enough to show up like this?*
**Hannah:** *Obviously. I’m already wearing the jersey.*
**Nate:** *Already?*
**Hannah:** *I’m emotionally punctual.*
**Nate:** *Send proof.*
My face goes hot. Ella leans in, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Send it, Han. Malfunction him before the first period.”
I lift my phone, angle the camera toward the mirror, and take a photo. My hair is still in messy waves, my face is flushed, and the jersey is so big it makes me look fragile—but the name *WILDER* is clear in the reflection. I send it.
The dots appear. Stop. Appear. Stop.
**Nate:** *Hannah.*
**Nate:** *You can’t send that before a game. I’m supposed to focus.*
**Hannah:** *Then focus. On hockey, Wilder.*
**Nate:** *Trying. You look beautiful. I’ll see you in the stands.*
**Hannah:** *I’ll be there. For you.*
**Nate:** *For me.*
I set the phone down, my heart thrumming.
The girl I was at the start of this semester—the girl who thought she could plan her heart out like a syllabus—feels like a stranger.
I didn't know Nate would see me before I knew how to see myself.
I didn't know that the fake version of us would be the only thing that ever felt real.
The rink is a literal furnace of energy. Ridgemont games are a campus-wide blood sport, and the second Ella and I step into the arena, the noise wraps around us like a physical weight. The air is cold, sharp with the scent of fresh ice and popcorn.
I tug at the sleeves of Nate’s jersey as we find our seats three rows up from the glass.
People notice. I see the whispers, the nudges.
A girl in the row in front of us sees the name on my back and her eyes go wide.
A few hockey players I recognize from Nate’s team pass by on the lower level, spotting me and grinning like they’ve just won a bet.
I wait for the panic to set in. I wait for the urge to hide. But as the lights dim and the Northwood intro music blares, all I feel is a steady, humming yes.
The team bursts onto the ice in a flurry of navy and white. I spot Carter first, then Mason. Then Nate.
He circles once, taking a warmup shot, and then his head lifts. He’s searching the stands. I stop breathing. His eyes find me—even through the helmet and the distance, I know the exact second he sees the jersey. He slows his pace, his gaze anchoring on me for a long, private beat.
The corner of his mouth lifts. Just for me. He taps the blade of his stick once against the ice—a tiny, secret gesture—and then skates away.
“Malfunction confirmed,” Ella screams over the roar of the crowd.
The game is brutal. Ridgemont plays like they’re trying to settle a grudge from a previous life. Bodies slam into the boards with enough force to make me flinch. Nate is everywhere—focused, centered, and dangerous.
Halfway through the first period, he buries a puck into the back of the net.
The arena detonates. I’m on my feet, screaming his name until my throat hurts.
Nate skates backward toward the bench, his eyes finding mine again.
He lifts his glove and taps his chest, right over the logo, then points his stick toward me in the stands.
My face catches fire. Someone behind me yells, “Wilder’s girl!” and for the first time, I don’t want to correct them.
During the intermission, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from an unknown number.
**Ethan:** *This is Ethan. I saw the stream. You look happy. I’m still hurt, but I mean it when I say I hope you are. Good luck tonight.*
I press the phone to my chest, my eyes stinging. It doesn't fix the damage I did, but it lets the guilt take a breath. It’s a release valve I didn't know I needed.
Nate scores again in the third period—a beautiful, calculated wrist shot on the power play. He skates straight to the glass below our section and presses two gloved fingers to his lips, tapping them against the glass in a public kiss.
The student section goes absolutely feral. I cover my face, laughing and crying all at once.
Northwood wins 3-2. The final horn is a deafening release of tension. I wait in the lower hallway afterward, my nerves jangling with post-game adrenaline. Carter and Mason come out first, suits on, hair damp from the shower.
“There she is,” Carter says, pointing at the jersey. “Nate’s secret weapon.”
“He scored twice for that jersey,” Mason adds. “I’m taking the credit for the luck.”
Then Nate appears. The hallway goes quiet in my head. He’s in a navy suit, his shirt open at the collar, a small cut near his cheekbone. He looks tired, sharp, and intensely alive. He walks straight to me, ignoring everyone else.
“Hi,” I say, tilting my head back to look at him.
“Hi.” His gaze drops to the jersey, his hand settling on my waist, pulling me into his space. “You wore it.”
“I said I would.”
“I know.” He leans down, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You have no idea what that did to me out there.”
He kisses me right there, in front of the team, the families, and half the student body. It’s a real, certain, public kiss. My hands rise to his jacket, curling into the fabric as I melt into him.
“Are you happy?” he asks when he pulls back, his thumb brushing my cheek.
I look at him—at the boy who didn't do relationships until he found the girl who made him want to stay. “Yes,” I say, and I’ve never meant anything more. “I’m happy with you, Nate.”
Later, in his apartment, barefoot in his jersey and eating cold pizza, he leans against the counter and watches me.
“You steady me, Hannah,” he says quietly. “Coach told me to let you. He was right.”
I walk over to him, lacing my fingers behind his neck. The word *Love* is breathing between us now—unspoken, but undeniable. I don’t need to say it tonight. I just need to be here.
I fall asleep in his bed with his arm around me and his name still on my back. For once, I am not dreaming of a choice I have to make. I’m just dreaming of the life we’re finally starting to live.