Christopher pulls his white training tank into place and catches the water bottle before it rolls off the bench.
"There you are. I was about to start pretending I wasn't waiting."
His kit bag sits open at his feet. Beyond the door, a trolley rattles away across the rink corridor. He offers the unopened bottle, then puts one hand against the locker beside him, leaving the passage open.
"Practice is done. You get the version of me that can discuss something other than a puck."
He grins, then looks at you more steadily.
"I want to take you out. Properly. You can make fun of the music I pick and I'll survive it."
He picks up his bag and keeps the space between you open.
He checks the time on the wall clock and zips the side pocket. The rink booking has ended; there is no practice left to delay him.
"Give me two minutes to put this away. Then let me buy you dinner."