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"Wow," Reese remarks as we sit back down. "You've got it bad, girl."

"Shut up." But I'm smiling.

By the second period, I'm completely caught up in the game.

The Blades are playing well, up 2-0 against Nashville.

Nate has a goal and an assist already. But what strikes me most is how different he seems from the player I remember from earlier this season.

There's a focus that wasn't there before.

He's still physical, still intense, but the recklessness is gone.

"He's playing clean," I murmur, more to myself than to Reese.

"What?" She leans in to hear me over the crowd.

"Nate. He's playing clean. No dirty hits, no after-the-whistle stuff." I point as he helps a Nashville player up after a collision along the boards. "That never would have happened a few months ago."

She studies me. "People can change, you know."

"I know." And watching him now, I believe it more than ever.

The second intermission arrives with the Blades still leading. Reese excuses herself to grab drinks, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I pull out my phone, scrolling absently through notifications when a text from my dad appears:

"Good game so far. Barnes is playing smart."

I stare at the message, trying to decipher whether there's a hidden meaning. Before I can overthink it, Reese returns with two beers.

"What’s running through your mind?" she asks, handing me a plastic cup.

I show her the text. "My dad’s commenting on Nate's play."

"Well, he's not wrong." She clinks her cup against mine.

I take a sip, the cold beer refreshing against my throat. "I'm still worried, Reese."

"What’s bugging you the most?"

"All of it. The press. The scrutiny. The uncertainty." I gesture vaguely at the arena around us. "His world is so public. Mine has always been pretty private—even with my dad being an NHL coach."

"True. But maybe you and Nate can balance each other out."

The teams skate back onto the ice for the third period. I watch Nate during the warm-up, the way he communicates with his teammates, the focused intensity in his movements.

And then it happens. He turns, glancing up into the stands, and our eyes lock. Even from this distance, I see the recognition flash across his face. For a heartbeat, we're the only two people in the arena. Then he breaks into a grin and gives me the smallest of nods before turning back to the game.

"Oh my god, he saw you," Reese clutches my arm. "Did you see his face?"

I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. That smile—it was like the sun breaking through the clouds.

The third period is a battle. Nashville scores early, cutting the Blades' lead to one. The tension in the arena ratchets up with each passing minute. Nate plays like a man possessed, throwing himself into every play, creating chances out of nothing.

With two minutes left, he intercepts a pass at center ice, splits the defense, and snipes a shot into the top corner. The arena explodes. His teammates mob him against the boards, and over their shoulders, he looks up into the stands. Right at me.

The final buzzer sounds. Blades 3, Predators 1. The crowd roars its approval as the players converge for the post-game handshakes. I'm caught up in the moment, clapping and cheering with everyone else, when Reese grabs my shoulder.

"Elena," she says, pointing. "Look."

Nate has broken away from his teammates. He skates directly to the glass in front of our section, stops, and points—straight at me. No hesitation, no ambiguity. A deliberate gesture that says, "This one's for you."

Heads turn. People start looking between him and me, connecting the dots. I feel my face flush hot.

I'm frozen in place, caught between wanting to hide and wanting to acknowledge him. In the end, my feelings win. I raise my hand in a small wave, and his smile widens.

Then his teammates pull him back into their celebration, and the moment breaks.

"Well," Reese says, eyebrows raised to her hairline. "That was subtle."

"What was he thinking?" I'm still processing what just happened. "Everyone saw that."

"I think that was the point, El." She gathers her coat. "He's making a statement."

As we make our way through the crowded concourse, I check my phone. Social media is already buzzing. Someone tweeted a photo of Nate pointing at me with the caption: "#1 Barnesy Fan? #BladesWin #WhosThatGirl"

"It's starting already," I show Reese the tweet. "This is exactly what I was afraid of."

"But?" She looks at me knowingly.

"But I'm also kind of thrilled," I admit. "That he would acknowledge me so publicly. That he wants everyone to know."

Outside, the night air is crisp with early winter. We join the stream of fans heading for the parking garage, everyone still buzzing from the win.

"So what now?" she asks. "Are you going to talk to him?"

I pull my coat tighter around me. "I think I have to now.”

"Are you ready for that? For what being with him really means?"

The question echoes my earlier fears, but something has shifted. Seeing Nate play tonight—seeing the changes in him, the growth, the focus—has reminded me of all the reasons I fell for him in the first place.

"I don't know if I'll ever be completely ready," I say honestly. "But I do know that what we have is worth fighting for. Worth figuring out."

My phone buzzes with a text from Nate: "Take you to dinner? ;)"

I stare at his message, thinking about all the complications that lie ahead. But I also think about his arms around me at night. The way he looks at me like I'm the only person in the room. The man he's working so hard to become.

"I'm going to text him back," I tell Reese as we reach her car. "Tell him I'm ready to talk."

"About time." She unlocks the doors with a beep. "Just promise me one thing?"

"What's that?"

"When you two get married, I get to be maid of honor and McCoy better be a groomsman."

I roll my eyes but can't help smiling. "You're getting way ahead of yourself, girl."

But as I slide into the passenger seat, I find myself wondering what it might be like—building a life with Nate Barnes.

Okay, now who’s the one getting ahead of herself?