The city lights shimmered below them, scattering across the glass like broken stars.
Jack stayed quiet, letting the cold bite at his hands. He couldn't remember the last time he'd allowed himself to just stand still — no noise, no crowd, no expectations.
And somehow, that silence was louder than any arena.
It made him think of the question he'd been asked too many times — by reporters, fans, even friends:
"How do you feel after the injury?"
"Perfect. Just happy to be doing what I love."
That was what he always said.
And it was true. At least partly.
Jack loved hockey more than anything else. "In its essence, hockey is simple — two nets, one puck. Us against everyone," he had read recently in a book.
That was the game when they were kids — him and his brothers against the world. Frozen fingers, flushed faces, steam rising from their breath. They played even when there was no ice, firing pucks at the garage door until the neighbors complained.
For as long as he could remember, the three of them had dreamed of professional hockey.
But it turned out to be harder to understand than it looked. Suddenly it wasn't just about how good you were on the ice. There were expectations, million-dollar contracts, pressure, injuries that never quite healed.
And yet, Jack had learned to fly.
Every goal, every cheer, every jersey with his number gave him the same dizzying rush, the kind that made the world shrink until it was just him and the ice. It was intoxicating.
And then came the injury.
Jack didn't waste time on reflection or self-pity. He focused on recovery with the same ruthless precision he used to chase wins. After the surgery, his shoulder healed perfectly.
During his first game of the new season, everything looked the same — the rink, the crowd, the rhythm of play.
But the stick in his hand felt just a little heavier. He told himself he was imagining it. Nerves, maybe.
Тhen one day, an intern drew him, and the sketch unsettled something deep inside him.
Because in that drawing, it wasn't the player.
It wasn't the golden boy everyone thought he was.
Not even "Jack Hughes."
It was simply a twenty-four-year-old guy — one who was finally starting to wonder who he was when he wasn't flying.
The noise of the city faded behind him, replaced by the steady hum of traffic far below.
After a while, Jack straightened, pulling the sleeves of his suit jacket down and forcing his shoulders back into place. The air outside had gone sharp and thin, cutting through the quiet like glass.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been out there — long enough for the stars to blur into the city lights, long enough for the cold to bite through his composure.
When he finally turned back toward the ballroom, the warmth and color hit him all at once: golden light, music, motion.
Luke spotted him first. "Hey! There you are. Thought you bailed."
Jack forced a smile. "Just needed some air."
"You and your dramatic exits," Luke laughed, but it sounded nervous. He handed Jack a glass of champagne, the bubbles spilling over the rim.
"Come on," Luke said. "They're about to make a toast. The whole 'franchise family' thing."
Jack hesitated, glancing toward the podium where management and sponsors were gathering. Cameras were already turning their way.
"Go ahead," he said. "You're better at smiling for pictures."
Luke frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Jack didn't answer. He was already looking toward the crowd — at the carefully dressed executives, the players' wives, the reporters pretending not to listen.
And somewhere near the back, he saw her.
Amelia.
Still standing half in shadow, camera hanging loosely from her hand, watching everything but not belonging to it.
Their eyes met for a heartbeat — then Karen appeared beside her, whispering something that made Amelia stiffen and look away.
Luke followed his brother's gaze. "You don't have to take it all so seriously, you know."
Jack's jaw tightened. "I'm fine."
"You keep saying that like it's supposed to convince someone."
He didn't mean to react, but the words landed harder than they should have.
Maybe it was the music, or the flash of another camera, or just the weight of being seen again.
Jack turned sharply. "You think I like this?"
Luke blinked. "I didn't say—"
"Every minute of it feels fake," Jack said quietly, but his voice carried. "The smiles, the speeches, the..."
He stopped himself before finishing the sentence. Too many eyes were starting to turn their way.
Amelia froze where she stood, unsure whether to move closer or disappear.
Luke looked at his brother, something between concern and anger flickering across his face.
"Then why are you here, Jack?"
Jack's answer came out before he could filter it. "Because everyone expects me to be."
The tension still hung in the air long after the music covered it up.
Jack stayed where he was, glass in hand, staring at nothing. Conversations had already shifted, the crowd had swallowed the moment — but it pulsed quietly under his skin like an old bruise.
He caught sight of Amelia near the back of the room again. She was pretending to scroll through her phone, half-listening to Karen's chatter, half somewhere else. When her eyes briefly met his, she didn't look away.
A moment later, a waiter passed between them, carrying a tray. When he moved, Jack noticed a folded napkin on the edge of the bar — small, square, creased once down the middle.
He frowned, glanced around. No one was paying attention.
He unfolded it.
"You want to get out of here?"
Just eight words, written in neat, slightly slanted handwriting.
Jack blinked, the corners of his mouth twitching before he even realized it.
He looked up, and across the room Amelia lifted her eyebrows — barely a question, more like an invitation.
A minute later, he found her near the service corridor. Neither of them said anything as they slipped out through the side door, unnoticed.
The hallway beyond was quiet and dimly lit, smelling faintly of coffee and disinfectant — the unglamorous backstage of the perfect event.
"I didn't think you'd actually find it," she said, her tone light but unsure.
"I didn't think you'd actually write it," he replied, still holding the note.
They walked until the music was just a distant throb behind them. Outside, the parking lot was half-empty, the air sharp and cold.
Amelia shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat. "You didn't have to leave. I just thought... maybe you didn't want to keep pretending."
Jack let out a quiet laugh — the kind that sounded like it surprised even him. "You're not wrong."
"About pretending?"
He nodded. "I'm supposed to be good at it. Smiling, saying the right things. It's part of the job."
"Maybe you're just out of practice," she said softly.
For a moment, they stood in silence, the wind tugging at her hair, the neon lights from the arena painting their faces in pale blue.
Jack looked down at the folded napkin still in his hand, the ink smudged slightly from his grip.
"You know, most people just text."
Amelia smiled faintly. "Most people aren't you."
He raised an eyebrow, a trace of amusement breaking through the tension. "Well, you definitely got my attention."
She shrugged, hands still buried in her coat pockets. "I didn't have your number."
That finally made him laugh — a quiet, genuine sound that seemed to loosen something in both of them.
"Then I guess I owe you my number," he said, still smiling.
Jack slipped the napkin into his pocket, the corner of it peeking out like a secret he wasn't ready to share.
"Come on," he said after a moment, nodding toward the parking lot. "There's a diner a few blocks away. The kind that still serves coffee after midnight."
Amelia tilted her head, studying him as if trying to decide whether he was serious.
"And you actually drink coffee after midnight?"
He smiled. "No. But it's better than standing here pretending we don't want to leave."
She laughed quietly, the sound lighter than it had been all night. "Alright then."
They started walking — side by side, not quite close, not quite distant — their breath rising in pale clouds against the dark.
Behind them, the noise of the gala faded, swallowed by the city's hum.
