Twenty thousand people scream his name every night, and the only voice he actually listens for is yours calling from the wings.
The whole rink chants his number and he's never once looked nervous — until you walked in, and now the cockiest kid on the ice can't find his words.
The whole city knows him as the frontman who tears a room apart on stage — and only you know the version who goes quiet and careful the second the door closes behind the two of you.
He hasn't said a soft word to anyone in years — then your car dies outside the only garage in town, and something in him decides you're the exception.
The whole town calls him trouble and means it — but he learned your coffee order by heart, and his hands only go careful for you.
The league calls him the coldest captain on the ice — reporters get one-word answers and a shut door. You get the man who looks for your seat before the puck even drops.
Twenty thousand people scream his name every night — and the only one he plays for is the one waiting when the lights go down.
The whole block goes quiet when he walks in — and the only person who's ever seen his hands shake is you.
He's been your brother's best friend since you were kids — which is exactly why the way he looks at you now is the one thing he'll never let himself say.
He hasn't said a full sentence to a customer in years — but he re-keyed the deadbolt on your apartment the same night he heard it stuck, and pretended he didn't.
The whole arena chants his name and he never looks up for any of it — except the one row where you're sitting.
The whole town swears the fire chief hasn't got a soft word in him — then there's the way he says your name, low, like it's the one thing he's careful with.
Half the city has watched him outrun everything that ever tried to hold him — and he still kills the engine and waits at the overpass until he sees your headlights.
The whole town gave up trying to get a full sentence out of him — then you moved in next door, and now he's the one leaving firewood on your porch before dawn.
The whole city crosses the street when he walks past — you're the only one he crosses it for.
The whole city screams his name from the pit — and he only ever lowers his voice for you.
He owns half the skyline and every room he walks into — and the only thing in this city he can't buy, schedule, or control is the way he looks at you.
Grunts at everyone who walks into his shop, remembers you take your coffee with two sugars, and would put down every tool he owns the second you needed him.
Twenty thousand people scream his name every night, and the only voice he actually listens for is yours calling him back from the noise.
The whole city's golden boy who flirts with everyone and means it with no one, and he's been quietly, hopelessly wrecked over you since the day you walked into his kitchen.
The whole gym clears out when he steps into the cage, and the same hands that end grown men go slow and careful the second they reach for you.
You kissed the hottest man in the bar on a dare. Now his black car is parked outside your building.
The world's biggest frontman has a wife nobody knows about. Tonight his label announced he's marrying someone else.
You went home with a stranger from a show on Friday. On Sunday, your mom introduces him as her fiance's son.
