Quietly Yours = Luke Hughes

The rink was still quiet when they arrived.

Players hadn’t trickled in yet. Staff were busy in their own corners. The ice had just been cleaned, fresh and untouched, and the cold air wrapped around them like a soft reminder that the day hadn’t fully started.

Margo’s laptop bag hung off one shoulder, but Luke gently tugged her by the hand before she could step toward the media room.

“Wait,” he murmured.

She paused, letting herself be pulled down the hallway instead, past the locker room, past the gym, all the way to the far side of the arena where the tunnel opened up to the ice. It was empty. Still. Silent.

“Five minutes,” Luke said, voice hushed. “Just us.”

He sat on the bench where players usually rested mid-drill, and Margo followed, settling beside him. Their shoulders brushed. His hand found hers again like it had done earlier that morning.

“I used to come out here before games,” he said softly. “Just to breathe. Think. Sometimes to get out of my own head.”

Margo leaned her head on his shoulder. “You never told me that.”

“There’s a lot I didn’t tell you,” he admitted, glancing at her. “Like how being around you made it harder to concentrate because I always wanted to make you laugh. Or how I used to scroll your old Michigan photos during bus rides.”

She let out a soft laugh. “You were obsessed.”

“Still am,” he said, not even trying to hide the affection in his voice.

She looked at him then—really looked at him. The way his hair curled under his cap, the faint bruise still shadowing his knee, the quiet steadiness in his eyes that had replaced all the nerves and avoidance.

And when she leaned in to kiss him this time, it was slow. Natural. Like breathing.

“I like this,” she whispered against his lips.

“Me too,” he said, brushing his thumb under her chin. “No scripts. No pretending.”

They sat there for a moment longer, tucked away from the world, wrapped in cold air and warmth only they could feel.

Five minutes. Stolen, but theirs.