i knew from the start • cale makar

chapter two

cale's pov

there's a kind of quiet that feels louder than noise. she had that kind of quiet.

i don't usually notice people like that.
i mean — i notice people. you have to, in my world. teammates, reporters, coaches, fans. i've gotten good at scanning a room, figuring out who wants something from me before they even say a word. i'm used to eyes. i know the feeling of being looked at.

but this wasn't that.

this was something else.

she was sitting behind a fold-up table, half-hidden by a stack of donation forms and a crooked stack of gloves. didn't look like she wanted to be there. didn't look like she wanted to be seen.

but i saw her anyway.

and i couldn't unsee her after that.

i caught her eyes across the rink — and yeah, maybe i held the stare a beat too long. maybe i was curious. maybe something about her felt different. and then she looked away, fast, like it startled her. like the moment had reached out and touched her shoulder, and she didn't know what to do with it.

neither did i.

i told myself i was just going to check in like everyone else. keep it casual. quick. polite. but somehow my feet moved slower when i got to the table. like something in me wasn't in a rush anymore.

"hey — where do we check in?"

she looked up, and there it was again.

those eyes.

brown, i think. deep and soft and hard to read — the kind of eyes that looked like they held things they didn't talk about. like there were stories behind them no one had been patient enough to listen to.

her voice came out soft. barely a sound. "uh— here," she said, clearing her throat. "sorry. you're in the right spot."

i nodded, holding back the urge to say something stupid just to make her talk again.

when she asked for my name, i handed her the slip and watched her fingers wrap around the pen too tight. she said it softly. almost to herself.

"cale makar."

and for some reason, hearing her say it like that made me feel... known.
not recognized. not in that fake oh-my-god-i-love-you way i get sometimes. not like she'd memorized my stats or followed me online. it was quieter. more personal. like she was trying the name out. wondering if it fit the version of me standing in front of her.

it felt strange — being seen without being analyzed.

"that's me," i said, because i didn't know what else to say. her eyes flicked up again, and for the first time i saw her smile.

barely. but it was there.

the kind of smile that slips out when your brain's too full and your heart forgets to stay quiet.
and i felt it — a pull.

nothing heavy. just... there.

the table was in between us, and she had a job to do, and i had skates to put on, and the whole rink was buzzing with noise and people and reminders of reality. but somehow, in that one small space between words, i didn't feel like a hockey player. i didn't feel like anything i usually am.

i just felt like a guy talking to a girl who looked like poetry wrapped in stillness.

i wanted to ask her name.

i wanted to know what she was thinking.

i wanted to know what it was that passed between us — and if she felt it too, or if my head was playing games.

but i didn't ask.

because the moment didn't ask for more.

it asked for patience.

so i gave it that.

i smiled again — and this time, hers stayed just a little longer.

then i turned, slowly, and walked toward the locker room.

and maybe i should've let it end there. maybe that should've been it.

but even as i laced up my skates and forced my head back into the game, i knew — i was going to look for her again.

maybe not now. maybe not here.

but somewhere.

because sometimes you don't know what you're looking for
until you see it
and realize you've been waiting all along.