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The night feels different before they even leave.
It's the kind of air that surrounds the city when the Pittsburgh Penguins are one game from elimination, charged and anticipatory, making it hum in desperation wrapped in hope. The second Mel heads out of her apartment, it finds a home with her in the same way as the material of the black and gold jersey pressed against her skin. The player she has grown to love, Sidney Crosby stitched along her back feels purposeful, almost premeditated in a way that's impossible for her to even describe.
Frank notices her excitement immediately.
He's propped up against his car when she walks up to him, dressed in the jersey he had gotten her the first time. He's wearing his own jersey, Mario Lemieux stamped across the nameplate on the back, legacy woven into the fabric. He straightens a bit now at the sight of her, as he shyly glances down once at the jersey, and then again to her face with something softer, something kinder.
“Ready?” he asks as the the corner of his mouth lifts.
Mel grins a bit sheepishly, but mostly with pride, "Definitely."
This version of them is simple and quiet, something that's been forming since the first game. The strangeness has warmed to comfort, and the comfort is starting to harden into an expectancy more than a fear of the unknown.
Slightly closer now, voice tinged with excitement, she says with deliberate unease, “They’re down 3–1. But historically, teams in this scenario typically have a shot. Momentum shifts matter. And Philly,” she gestures lightly, almost academically, "well, they tend to overextend when they’re ahead. So hopefully it'll open up some gaps.”
Frank studies her for a moment, not interrupting, letting her finish the thought fully, because he's learned that Melissa King is at her best when she's allowed to complete the circuit of her thinking.
“And you like Pittsburgh’s chances,” he finishes.
She nods. “Statistically… yes. But also,” she pauses, her expression softening, "they just feel like the kind of team that doesn’t fold easily.”
He hums lowly, opening her passenger door wordlessly, as his gaze waits on her for just a moment longer than necessary. “Then we'll see if your instincts are right about this. God, I hope you are."
The drive is filled with something lighter than usual. There are fragments of conversation, small observations about traffic, about the way the sky deepens into evening, about nothing and everything all at once. Mel lays back into the rhythm of it, in to him, in the quiet realization that this is no longer something she can't quite name, but something more than just a common pastime. Now there's a hint of intention, even if neither one names it that.
Still, old habits linger.
She mentions work halfway through the drive, something about a patient from earlier in the week, something that would have been second nature to discuss before, but Frank stops her gently, not sharply or dismissively but softly, and it changes everything. “Can we talk about something else?” he says with a side eye and then glues his eyes back to the road. “Mel, we have a whole shift for that.”
She pauses.
He continues, quieter now, more deliberate. “I want to talk to you. Not Dr. King. Just… you.”
The words land with more weight than he probably realizes.
Mel looks at him for a moment, really looks at him, and something in her expression changes, something subtle but undeniable. She nods slowly, letting the shift happen. “Okay,” she says. "Sorry.."
"Hey, no, dont apologize. I just wanna... talk to you. Does that make sense?"
She takes a deep breath and nods. And thats that, as the rest of the car ride and finding of parking is filled with comfortable silence to small comfortable conversation. The arena greets them like a living thing as the moment they enter, the noise is such that Mel has to come to halt for half a second again. It's louder and fuller and more desperate than before. Each voice sounds a little sharper, like people are realizing what needs to happen.
Game five. Elimination looming. The entire building feels like it's holding its breath.
“This is insane,” she says under it, though there's a smile breaking through.
Frank watches as she takes it all in, the way her eyes travel across the ice, around the stands and everywhere else inbetween once again. It's something oddly gratifying, being the one who brought her this far into one of his interests and he cant help but see the way she has fallen into it.
“Just wait,” he replies. “It gets louder.”
They settle into their seats just as the teams hit the ice. Within moments Mel is leaning forward, barely touching her elbows to her knees, completely engrossed. The players move in that way they always have, smooth and elegant like a shadow puppet on a wall, the linesmen skate around in patterns looping and weaving like some kind of trance inducing spell, and she can't help but drop that comparison again.
She murmurs, "It really does look like a lava lamp..."
Frank chuckles under his breath. “Oh, you're still not over that, huh?”
“Absolutely not.”
The game begins.
The first period is tight, controlled, both teams testing each other, probing for weaknesses. Mel follows it more closely now, her earlier research giving her a framework to understand what she's seeing, and every now and then she leans slightly toward Frank to make a quiet observation, her voice low enough that it feels almost private despite the noise around them.
At one point, she comments, "They're doing a good job with the neutral zone."
He looks over at her then, again impressed.
The clock moves down, increasing the pressure. And then, less than two minutes away from the end of the first period, it breaks. The puck moves fast, so fast it feels like a mistake, an instant crack in the structure of this frozen world, and before Mel can see where it decides to end up, the building explodes.
Elmer Söderblom finds the net.
It's instantaneous, too quick to process in a second and then it hits like a falling tree all at once. Goal horn goes off right as the crowd erupts and Mel's on her feet without thinking about it and hands up instinctively as she turns to Frank in unadulterated joy.
“Oh my god!”
Frank's laughing as he's on his feet already swept up in the same surge thats happening around the building. The roar shakes the whole arena, the sound crashing down on them like something tangible, something you could feel in your chest.
“They needed that,” she says, almost breathless.
“They really did.”
Eventually, they settle back into their seats but the electricity drifts around just beneath the surface. Before long, the period finishes, the split between opener and second period feeling electric, tension released just enough for the rest of it to slip into place.
“Hotdog?” Frank asks, already standing.
She smiles. “Sure.”
They weave through the crowd together, the movement easy, natural. As they get to the stand, time slows momentarily, the sound of the arena receding from foreground to background. They lean on the counter as they wait, and for the first time that evening, conversation turns inward.
“Okay,” Frank says, handing her the food once it arrives, “no work. So tell me something I don’t know.”
Melissa ponders, bites just a piece of it, gives herself a moment to think. “I used to hate crowds,” she admits after a moment.
He raises an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yeah. I mean,” she waves her arms in a general whatever close to their surroundings, "this would have given me nightmares a few years ago..."
“And now?”
She looks back toward the arena, toward the ice that's just barely visible from where they stand, and smiles.
“Now I think I just… needed the right reason to be in one.”
Frank watches her as she says it, something thoughtful settling in his expression. “Good answer,” he says quietly.
They make their way back to their seats, the second period beginning just as they settle in again. The game picks up immediately, faster now, more aggressive, the stakes pressing harder against every play.
And then, another break, another opening. The puck moves, sharp and decisive, and before Melissa can even fully register the shift, the arena detonates again.
Connor Dewar scores.
No hesitation this time around.
They're both on their feet in an instant, instinct taking over and reacting immediately. Mel's hands reach for Frank without realizing it, fingers scrambling at his shoulders as she laughs, sound clear and unfiltered, as he wraps an arm around her. He pulls her to him almost instinctually as they bounce up with everyone else, cheering as they watch the players embrace each other in celebration.
The noise is overwhelming, the moment is overwhelming, and then suddenly they feel a mutual shift. Because for just a second, the world narrows. The arena and all of its sound seem to fade around them.
And Melissa realizes she's still holding onto him just as Frank realizes it at the same time. They stop moving, but neither of them steps back right away. Their eyes meet, and there's something there, something suspended, something that has been building quietly and steadily now finally coming into focus.
It's not rushed or forced but simply exisiting and then...
The game pivots back into focus. The next play happens nearly in an instant, the momentum swinging quicker than either of them can entirely digest it, and then just like that, the crowd disappears, sound going up a few octaves as the Flyers score.
Melissa blinks as the moment shatters almost immediately, her focus returning to the ice.
“Wait—what?”
Frank exhales, shaking his head slightly, “That’s playoff hockey for you.”
The energy resets, tightens again, the earlier lead feeling suddenly more fragile.
And then, another push, another surge as Philly finds the net again. The shift in the arena is palpable now, the tension returning with a sharper edge. Mel leans forward again, her earlier excitement now tempered with focus, with analysis.
“They’re capitalizing on the transition,” she says, almost to herself. “Pittsburgh’s getting caught too high.”
Frank glances at her, impressed even now. “Still like their chances?” he asks.
She hesitates, then nods. “Oh yea...”
Because, even now despite the changing lines, something about how the Penguins are playing, theres a stubbornness and persistence that can't be snuffed out. And with under two minutes remaining in the second period, it pays off.
It breaks through the traffic, through the bodies, through all that chaos and then when it goes in the back of the net, the building just explodes in celebration.
This time its Frank that brings her in without a second thought, the pair drawn back to that same tingling moment they had shared with the prior goal. They look at each other and smile through the celebrating people around them but with everything else going on around them, they come to the conclusion that the game is far from over. The outcome is still uncertain.
The second period ends and in much more of the same, they stay in their seats watching the intermission show, talking about everything to nothing at all. Without realizing how easy it is for them to stay in conversation, the third period starts and with more of the same it also never seems to settle.
The energy changes once the puck drops ad its both immediate and unmistakable. The desperation that had been circling the periphery of the second now takes on solid form, and the Flyers come out with one thing on their mind. All the Penguins seem to know is that their intent on every line they send over the boards is pressure, pressure and even more pressure.
Melissa feels it before she even fully processes it. “They’re going to push,” she says quietly, almost instinctively, her eyes locked onto the ice.
Frank doesn’t sit.
Neither of them do.
No one does.
The entire arena rises as one, a collective understanding passing through thousands of people at the same time. This is it. This is the period that decides everything. Seats become irrelevant. Comfort becomes irrelevant. All that matters is the ice.
The Flyers surge early.
They dial it to 11, relentlessly cycling the puck, pinning Pittsburgh deeper and deeper into their zone, probing every seam and matching up against every pairing seeking the slightest opening. Shots start to pile up, rebounds kicked out, sticks scrambling, bodies hitting the floor to lay down and block lanes.
Unbeknownst to her, Melissa reaches for Frank’s sleeve. "They're breaking too low," she says, and now there's tension in her voice. “They need to clear...”
A shot rips through traffic.
Saved.
The rebound kicks dangerously to the side.
Cleared, barely.
The arena exhales, but only for a second.
It starts again immediately.
Wave after wave, shift after shift.
The Flyers don't let up.
“They’re not getting clean looks,” Frank says, more to steady the moment than anything else, though his own focus never wavers from the ice.
Melissa nods, but she doesn't relax. “Not yet.”
Time moves differently now. Every second stretches, every play feels like it carries more weight than it should. The scoreboard seems to tick slower, almost deliberately, as if it understands what's at stake.
Five minutes pass, then ten and still no goal.
But it doesn't feel safe because it never feels safe, especially when the Flyers keep attacking.
A breakaway nearly forms, cut off at the last possible second. A shot clangs off the post, the sharp ping cutting through the arena like a siren.
Melissa lowers her chin as if in shame, reflexively tightening her grip. “Jesus.”
By inches, Frank shifts slightly closer to her side, not enough to attract attention, but just enough that his side is in line with hers.
“They’re holding,” he says quietly.
She nods again, but her eyes don't leave the ice.
The Penguins absorb everything. They become a wall to stop every push and every rush from Philly, save for the most desperate pushes, of course which is something that isnt always neat.
And as it goes longer the building becomes louder and louder.
Not in bursts now, not in reactions, but in a constant sustained roar that never fully drops, like the building itself is willing the clock forward, willing the outcome into existence.
“Look at them,” Mel says suddenly, her voice softer now, something almost awed threading through it. “They’re not breaking.”
Frank glances at her briefly, then back to the ice.
“They can’t.”
Another rush, another save, another clearance at the collective groan of everyone watching in anticipation.
The minutes begin to disappear.
Four left.
Three.
The Flyers pull their goalie.
The shift is immediate, the pressure doubling, tripling even. Every pass feels sharper, every shot more dangerous. The Penguins scramble, bodies collapsing in front of the net, sticks swinging, clearing attempts desperate but effective.
Melissa’s entire body is tense now, leaning forward, breath held without realizing it.
“This is insane,” she whispers.
Frank lets out a quiet exhale in agreement.
Two minutes.
The same number that had changed everything earlier now hangs over the arena again, but this time it feels heavier, more fragile.
The Flyers press harder.
One last push, one last chance, a shot—
Blocked.
Another—
Saved.
The puck is loose, and cleared with intention.
The crowd surges with it, the sound rising, rising, rising until it feels like it might tear through the roof.
Thirty seconds.
Mel doesn’t realize she’s holding Frank’s arm again until she feels his hand settle lightly over hers, steady, grounding, not pulling away.
Twenty seconds.
The Flyers try one last entry.
Stopped at the line.
The puck is sent down the ice.
Ten seconds.
The arena counts it down before the clock even reaches it.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
The horn sounds and the building erupts.
It’s louder than anything before, louder than the goals, louder than the near misses, louder than the entire night combined. It crashes over them in a wave so overwhelming that for a second, Mel cant even hear herself think.
“They did it!” she says, turning toward Frank, her face lit up, flushed with adrenaline and something brighter.
“They did,” he replies, and he’s smiling in a way that is unguarded, easy, the kind of smile that doesn’t show itself often.
Around them, people are hugging, shouting, celebrating like something has been pulled back from the edge.
Because it has, the series is still alive, and somehow, this moment between them is as well.
The arena begins to clear, neither of them hastening to exit. The energy subsides slowly, like the end of a storm, leaving something softer in its wake though no less intensly charged.
The walk out is slower than the way in.
Now, all they have is the glow of everything that has happened. They talk as they make the short trek to the car, a few quick reflections on the brighter side of life, some drawn observations about each other, but theres something else buried inside it all, that neither of them can quite put a name to yet.
At the front of her place, Mel stops for a second.
Its subtle but Frank notices. “What?” he asks gently.
She exhales, just once, steadying herself.
“Do you… want to come up?” she asks, her voice softer now, not uncertain, but careful. “Just for a bit.”
There's no assumption in it, no expectation, just an offering.
Frank regards her for a moment, not because he wavers but because he recognizes the gravity of what she's asking, the space that she's opening.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “I’d like that.”
When they enter her apartment, it's quiet. The silence that settles around them is almost abrasive compared to the noise of the arena, like something felt. Melissa passes through the space, shoes off, keys down, the rhythm offering a solidity she hadn’t known she wanted.
"You can have a seat," she says, waving her hand slightly.
She makes herself momentarily invisible in the kitchen and returns with two glasses of water, handing him one before sitting down next to him on the couch. Not too close, but not far either.
They talk, not about the game, not entirely at least. It comes up in fragments, in passing, but the conversation shifts naturally into something deeper, something more personal. They talk about things that don’t usually find space during shifts, about small pieces of themselves that feel almost unfamiliar to say out loud. Melissa tells him about how she used to overthink everything, how she still does sometimes. Frank tells her about the things he avoids thinking about entirely.
The hours slip without them noticing, and at some point, the conversation quiets. Not abruptly, just in the natural progression of things.
Melissa leans back into the couch, her head tilting slightly, her eyes heavier now, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to her.
“You can stay,” she murmurs, the words soft, almost half formed.
Frank doesn’t question it.
He shifts slightly, giving her space, but when she settles closer, when her shoulder brushes against his, he doesn’t move away.
It doesnt feel rushed or planned, but instead it simply happens.
At some point they're in her room, although neither of them can remember quite where the transition took place. The lights are dim, the space still, when they sink back into the bed it happens as naturally as any of them can begin to frame it. There's no urgency, or expectation, as Melissa rotates on her side so she's facing him again, the demeanor of the evening finally dying down to something that resembles quiet.
“Good game,” she murmurs.
A sort of laugh escaped Frank, a little breath. “Great game,” he replies.
Her eyes close first. It happens slowly, naturally right as her breathing evens out, just as sleep begins to take hold. Frank watches her for a moment longer, not out of hesitation, but out of something quieter, something steadier. Then he lets himself relax too, the tension of the night finally releasing.
He doesn’t move away, doesn’t create distance, but simply stays. And sometime in the quiet hours after the noise, after the tension, after everything that had built and shifted and settled, they fall asleep.
Side by side, not quite touching, but close enough that it matters.