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“I’m sure you will,” I reassure him. “With a legacy like that, how could you not?”

His answering grin is blinding. “Thanks, man. That means a lot.” His mouth pops open, and he slaps his forehead. “Oh, shoot! Where are my manners? I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Gerard. Gerard Gunnarson.”

He sticks out his hand, and I accept it gladly. I’m surprised to find that his palm is as smooth as butter. I was expecting calluses and rough patches of skin.

His grip is firm, but it doesn’t hurt. It’sas if he knows the amount of power that’s in his body, and he’s being careful not to squeeze too hard.

I open my mouth to tell him my name, but before I can get a syllable out, a booming voice calls out from the entrance of The Brew. “Gerard!”

Gerard’s eyes widen comically, and his cheeks flush an even deeper shade of red. He’s the spitting image of a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Oh man, that’s my dad,” he says apologetically, already gathering his backpack and standing up. “I totally forgot he wants me to meet the dean. I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

I nod in understanding while also trying to hide my disappointment that my conversation with a cute guy has been cut short.Story of my life.

Gerard slings his backpack over his shoulder and gives me one last blinding smile. “It was really nice meeting you…uh…” He trails off, realizing he never got my name.

I attempt to tell him again when his dad yells even louder, “Gerard!”

Gerard cringes, and it’s adorable how even the tips of his ears blush. I watch him go, admiring the way his hockey jersey stretches across his back. And the way his jeans mold perfectly to his ass.

Right as he’s about to disappear from view, he stops abruptly and spins around. He presses his face against the glass window, and his breath fogs up the pane as he waves enthusiastically.

I can’t stop the laugh from bubbling out of me. This guy is ridiculous.

Ridiculouslycharming.

I wave back, and his grin somehow grows wider.

After one more exaggerated wave, he pushes off the window and walks away, leaving behind his massive handprint on the glass.

Did that really just happen? Did I have a conversation with a cute hockey player and live to tell the tale?

It feels surreal. Like something out of a cheesy rom-com. The grumpy introvert and the sunny jock bonding over coffee.

As I gather my things and head out of The Brew, I’ve decided that Iwillgo here. Come hell or high water.

Present Day

The roarof the crowd is deafening as I take my seat next to Jackson in the stands of Infinity Arena. The place is packed to the rafters with BSU students and fans decked out in the school colors and waving banners.

Down on the ice, the team warms up. My eyes are immediately drawn to the tallest figure. The one wearing the number seven.

Gerard Gunnarson.

He moves around the ice in a way that shouldn’t be possible for someone so big. His skates carve effortless patterns as he and his teammates pass the puck back and forth in a game of Keep Away.

I’ve never told anyone that I met Gerard once before. Talked to him. Been worthy of his presence.

Because I barely believe it myself.

And I’m not surprised he doesn’t remember me. The encounter was so brief that he’d have to have an eidetic memory to recall it. Considering he was freaking out over his missing hockey stick this morning, I think it’s safe to say he does not.

I’ve worked hard to suppress the memory of our first meeting. But every time I see his grinning mug on a poster or social media, I’m immediately reminded of how that gigantic smile was once focused on me.

That’s the real reason why I go to these godforsaken hockey games. Why I brave the drunken crowds and the bone-chillingcold. I want to remember what it was like to be on the receiving end of Gerard’s kindness. His childlike wonder. His unbridled optimism.

His sunshine.