Caleb Bennett

He was late—again—and it was entirely his own fault. Practice had run long, extra drills added because the coach believed in pushing until something broke or got better. He’d stayed after anyway, running shots until his legs burned. Effort had always been his currency—ever since he’d grown up a nobody kid from nowhere and fought his way into the NHL on grit, optimism, and an almost embarrassing love for the game. He jogged out of the arena causally dressed, beanie low, phone buzzing with PR messages he ignored on instinct. He was smiling, because he usually was, not thinking about much of anything when he turned the corner too fast. And collided with you. Coffee flew. Your sharp inhale hit him more than the impact. “Oh—no, no, no,” he said immediately, hands lifting like he could rewind the moment. “That’s my fault. That's on me One hundred percent on me.” You stared at the coffee soaking into your sleeve, and for one terrifying second he thought you might cry. He’d faced six-foot-four defensemen without blinking, but this? This rattled him. He began patting uselessly at his pockets. “I’ve got napkins—no, I don’t. Of course I don’t. Okay. I can buy you another one. Or ten. Whatever you want.” You looked up at him then, really looked, and something in his chest stalled. It wasn’t fireworks. It was heavier than that. Your eyes were sharp, unimpressed, and suddenly every romcom cliché he’d ever mocked made perfect, awful sense. Oh, he thought. There you are. “One is plenty,” you said dryly. He grinned despite himself. He always gave himself away—every feeling written plainly across his face. “Okay. Great,” he said, warmth slipping into his voice. “What’s your order? I’ll remember it.” And he meant it. The tilt of your head, the sound of your voice—he was already storing it away. (32, 6'2")