The inside of the arena buzzed with noise — the clash of pucks on sticks, skates scraping the ice, scattered cheers from early spectators. The teams were already warming up on the rink, skating drills in clean arcs and launching rapid-fire shots at their goalies.
Claire, Jade, Amber, and Tom found seats a few rows up, center-ice. Tom had barely sat down before he started leaning forward, eagle-eyed.
"He's been itching for this all week," Claire muttered to Jade, who was busy admiring the way one of the players adjusted his helmet.
Once warm-ups wrapped, the two teams lined up at center ice — an old-school touch for a high school game. The players skated forward one by one, shaking hands or tapping gloves. A few exchanged stern nods. Then each team backed off to their respective nets.
The opposing team crouched, smacking their sticks on the ice before giving a sharp, unified shout.
"Rockhill!"
Claire's school team followed suit, huddling tight with arms around each other's shoulders, then let out a low, powerful roar:
"Southridge!"
"That was kinda cool," Jade whispered, surprised.
Their first line took the ice.
Chris stood at the center.
"Which one's your boyfriend again?" Jade asked, eyes scanning the rink.
Amber pointed toward the goalpost. "That's him."
Tom nodded in approval. "Good kid. One of the best goalies in the league this year."
The puck dropped — and within thirty seconds, Southridge was already pressing hard. Chris weaved in from the right, drawing two defenders toward him, then passed behind his back. His left-wing caught it in full stride, flicked it once to the center, who fired it past the stunned goalie before the opposing team could even react.
The arena exploded in cheers.
Jade jumped. "Wait — that was, like, textbook."
Amber clapped, smiling wide. "Told you!"
The first period thundered forward — high-paced and brutal, but clearly in Southridge's favor. When the buzzer sounded, they were up by two.
Tom, however, wasn't clapping. He leaned back, arms crossed, a pinched expression on his face.
Claire caught it. "What's with the face?"
"Nothing," he replied vaguely. "Just watching."
They returned to their seats after the short break. The second period began, more heated now. Rockhill came out swinging — literally. Shoulder checks landed hard, elbows hovered dangerously close to illegal zones, and more than once Chris was slammed into the boards.
Claire squinted. "They're unusually rough with him, huh."
Tom didn't respond right away.
"…And his teammates look way sharper than last time," Claire added. "Like they've leveled up or something."
Tom shook his head. "No, that's not it. There's no way every single one of them improved that much in two months."
He leaned forward, muttering under his breath. "No way…"
Then his eyes widened.
"Oh my God. That's brilliant."
Jade perked up. "What is?"
"Look — he's holding the puck longer than he should," Tom said, pointing at Chris, who was currently dancing the puck between two defenders. "Just an extra second. It draws defenders to him — forces them to shift their lines. That gives his teammates more room to move, more space to pass and shoot."
Claire raised an eyebrow. "That sounds… risky."
"It is," Tom said, practically giddy. "Only someone really confident would dare to do it."
Jade stared at the rink, impressed. "Is that why he's getting hit more?"
"Exactly!" Tom beamed. "He's baiting them. Setting them up so the others can—"
Claire cut in. "Dad. You know he hates getting hit more than necessary."
Tom waved it off. "He knows what he's doing. The coach probably has a—"
"Plan?" Jade interrupted, pointing toward the Southridge bench.
All three of them turned.
The coach was pacing frantically, chewing his thumbnail, eyes darting like a cornered rabbit.
Tom's expression froze.
"…Maybe not."
The third period started with tension thick in the air. Rockhill was trailing — and they knew it.
Their desperation bled into their play. Hits got harder, checks got dirtier, and their stick work turned sloppy with frustration. Southridge held the lead, but it was clear the opposing team was getting reckless.
Claire narrowed her eyes as another shoulder sent Chris crashing into the boards.
She leaned toward her dad. "Isn't this starting to look like that game?"
Tom didn't answer right away. He rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled slowly. "It's fine."
Claire gave him a flat look. "You don't sound convinced."
Jade glanced between them. "What game?"
Tom shifted uncomfortably. "A few months back… similar setup. The team got real rough. Third period, Chris had enough — went after two guys like a freight train. Didn't stop until the ref threw him out."
Jade's brows lifted. "Wait — he fought them?"
"'Hunted them down' might be more accurate," Claire muttered.
Jade blinked. "…Is he, like, violent?"
Tom hesitated. "No. He's usually composed. But when someone crosses the line — especially with cheap shots — well… let's just say he doesn't let it slide."
The girls turned back to the ice — just in time to see a blur slam into Chris from the side.
He didn't see it coming.
The arena gasped as his body hit the boards and crumpled to the ice. For a split second, everything paused.
Chris didn't move.
Claire gripped the railing. "Damn it—"
"Fuck, I felt that," Chris muttered to himself, blinking hard as his mind reeled.
He pushed himself up, shaky but steady. "Boys, stop," he called out to his teammates before things turned ugly.
Hearing his voice, the team froze.
Chris glided toward the player who hit him, tapped him on the shoulder, and said — more to his team than the guy —
"Why get riled up? They're doing this because it's all they've got."
Then he leaned in a little closer and added, in a lower voice,
"If you didn't catch that — I mean you're all trash."
The Southridge bench erupted — players banged their sticks against the boards, shouting and cheering.
And then, as if the moment needed punctuation, the same Rockhill player threw a cheap hook — his glove connected with Chris's face. His helmet, already loose from the hit, flew off.
The referee's whistle shrieked.
Chris didn't flinch.
He raised both arms slowly, a predatory grin spreading across his face.
The ref didn't hesitate — the Rockhill player was ejected.
Chris spit out a bit of blood, picked up his helmet, and headed to the bench. The Southridge coach was already grinning as he reached out and ruffled his captain's hair.