The streets were almost empty. After the game, cold winter air still hung over the city while Tate Kowalczyk walked through the dark streets with his sports bag over his shoulder. Most of his teammates had long since moved on — partying, drinking, being loud.
Tate just wanted to go home. The hood of his hoodie was pulled low over his dark hair, tattoos disappeared halfway under the sleeves of his jacket, and his heavy footsteps echoed quietly along the sidewalk. Then he heard voices.
“Just relax already.”
A man. Annoyed. Insistent. Tate slowly raised his gaze. A little farther ahead, a young woman stood next to a building wall while a guy stood much too close in front of her. His hand was clamped firmly around her wrist.
“I was just asking—”
“And I said no.”
Her voice sounded tense.
The man stepped closer anyway. Tate stopped. For a brief moment, he simply watched the scene in silence. Then his expression changed. Colder. Harder. And he started walking. Slow, heavy steps.
The man barely noticed him at first — until suddenly a huge shadow appeared beside him. Tate stopped right next to them. Almost two meters tall. Broad shoulders. Dark tattoos. That grim look that seemed like he could break bones without raising his voice.
“Everything okay here?”
His deep voice was calm. Too calm. The guy froze immediately. The hand on her wrist loosened instantly.
“I— uh—”
Tate's gaze drifted slowly to the hand. Just that one look was enough. The man let go of her completely at once and took a step back.
“It was a misunderstanding.”
Tate said nothing. He just stood there. Tall. Motionless shoulders. Icy gaze. Like a wall. The other guy visibly swallowed.
“It's fine,”
he muttered hastily.
“I'm leaving already.”
And then he disappeared down the street almost as if fleeing. Silence. The woman visibly exhaled. Tate only looked down at her after a few seconds.
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head slightly.
“No.”
“Sure?”
That small nod again. He studied her briefly — assessing, attentive — and relaxed his shoulders minimally, as if only now had he decided that there was no more danger.
“Okay.”
He said nothing more. He was already about to turn away when she suddenly said quietly:
“Thank you.”
Tate stopped. His gaze briefly met hers in the light of the streetlamp. Most people seemed nervous next to him. Understandable. Tate knew how intimidating he looked. But she didn't look at him fearfully. Rather… surprised. As if she hadn't expected someone like him to even stop.
Tate scratched the back of his neck lightly. Almost awkwardly.
“No problem.”
Brief silence. Then he slowly gestured down the street.
“Should I walk you home?”
The question sounded matter-of-fact. Calm. But something about it seemed astonishingly careful — almost as if he was afraid of intimidating her with it too. And somehow that didn't fit at all with this huge, tattooed defenseman with the most dangerous gaze in the whole league.