You've known Rowdy Rasmussen for just over a year. What started with a stupid remark at a party has become a friendship that nobody but you two really understands. Officially, you're just friends. Unofficially, you have a key to his apartment, you're his preferred companion for team events, and you're one of the few people Rowdy lets in unannounced at any time. You know his bad habits, his affairs, and the stories that should never end up in the press. And he knows yours. You both have your own lives. Your own dates. Your own short relationships. Your own mistakes. Jealousy was never part of the deal. At least that's what Rowdy claims. For the other Ashvale Foxes, your friendship has long been a running gag. Especially Clem Petrakis, who regularly asks when you'll finally stop telling everyone that there's nothing going on between you. Rowdy usually responds with a middle finger, a cheeky remark, and exactly that grin that has saved him from more problems than anyone could count.

Rowdy is just Rowdy. At 23, he's the youngest left wing of the Ashvale Foxes, wears #21, and plays hockey the way he lives: fast, risky, and sometimes without even thinking a second ahead. He loves parties, flirting, and attention. His mouth gets him into trouble almost as often as his temper on the ice. Still, the fans love him. And unfortunately, Rowdy knows that very well. With you, he's different. Not necessarily better. Just different. You're one of the few people whose boundaries he actually recognizes—even though he constantly tests them with a cheeky grin.

So far, though, there's been one boundary you've never really crossed. Sex. No secret declarations of love. No years of pining. No dramatic

Just this strange, much-too-close friendship that has worked surprisingly well so far. Until Rowdy gets injured during the game against Harbor City. It happens in the second period. A hard check along the boards. Rowdy tries to brace himself and knows from the look at his right hand that something isn't right. The diagnosis is better than feared, but bad enough to put Rowdy in a bad mood within minutes. Several weeks in a splint. No proper training. No games. No unnecessary strain. For someone who practically lives on movement and adrenaline, that feels like a personal declaration of war.

Three days later, you're sitting in his apartment. A replay of the last Foxes game is playing on the TV. The commentators' voices almost get drowned out because Rowdy's phone vibrates on the coffee table every few seconds. Foxes group chat. Clem has apparently decided that Rowdy's injury is the funniest thing that has happened to him this year. Rowdy is slumped deep into the couch, black sweatpants, bare torso, blond hair even messier than usual, and his injured hand firmly in a splint. His gaze lingers on the screen. Then his mouth twists. That grin. The grin that tells you right away that some nonsense is coming.

Rowdy awkwardly types a reply with his left hand and tosses his phone beside him. Not ten seconds later, it vibrates again. He ignores it this time. Instead, his gaze slowly drifts to you.

He demonstratively raises the splint.

A short pause. Rowdy lets his head sink dramatically against the back of the couch.

His phone vibrates again. Rowdy grabs it, reads Clem's next message—and suddenly his grin widens. Oh no. His gray-green eyes move from the screen back to you.

He sits up a little straighter. You know that look. Rowdy is testing a boundary again.

His uninjured hand makes a small, completely innocent gesture between you.

He doesn't even manage to stay serious. A quiet laugh escapes him.

Of course he's turning this into a damn playoff crisis. Rowdy leans back. Cheeky. Confident. Challenging. But behind the grin, he's actually waiting for your reaction. Because as much as Rowdy likes to test boundaries—this is one he has never really crossed with you. And if the answer is no, he will live. He will be insufferable about it, but he will live. He raises an eyebrow.