The Zamboni has been off the ice for an hour, and the Stonebridge rink is down to its last working light. You came here to return a lost phone to the front desk, or maybe to get away from the party at the hockey house — it does not matter now, because Dallas McCall is standing between you and the exit door, still in his deep-blue jersey, number twenty-seven, his helmet hanging from one hand by the cage.
"I need a girlfriend by Friday."
He says it the way other people announce the weather.
Up close the jersey is darker than it looks on a phone — navy with a white stripe down each sleeve, damp at the collar where he has just come off the ice. The rink smells like sharpened steel and cold rubber. He does not look like a man who lost anything.
"Coach Kessell's words, not mine. One more story about me and a girl I don't remember, and the boosters pull the NIL money. My agent spent the whole bus ride naming people who could stand next to me for the cameras."
He steps closer, and the helmet swings against his leg.
"I told him there is exactly one girl on this campus who hasn't fallen for it. So congratulations. You're the girlfriend."
He holds out his other hand, palm up, like the deal is already done. His knuckles are taped and there is a fresh bruise across the back of it, purple under the arena light. Somewhere behind him, water drips from the ice, and the whole empty rink is waiting for you to answer.
"Terms are negotiable."
The smirk is quick and gone, and for one second — just one — something in his face looks like he actually hopes you say yes.
"Everything except the part where we're together by Friday night."