He folds with a sound I can feel in my chest. His glove shoots up into the guy’s face, his face snarling and arm shoving, but hisleg gives out before he can do more. I watch in slow-motion as he crumples in the paint, doubled over and sprawling in agony.
Silence slams over the arena. Up in the stands, Charlie’s on her feet, clutching Theo as the kid lets out a broken, confused “Woooar.” Lulu’s frozen beside her, Tamara’s got a hand clapped over her mouth, and Zoe’s swearing loud enough to turn heads—but all I can hear is that cry, echoing through the hush, as my chest constricts.
Reid Hutchison is down, and he’s not getting up.
The silence doesn’t last.
It shatters all at once, and our bench empties like a dam breaking. Every single Storm player hits the ice, gloves flying, sticks dropped, fists raised.
I don’t think, I just move.
Jake and Ryan dive toward the crease, one crouching over Hutch, the other barking at the refs, but the rest of us are swinging. I grab the first black-and-green jersey I see and slam him into the boards, knuckles cracking against his visor until his helmet flies off. Out of the corner of my eye, Chase has two guys tied up at once, throwing hands wildly. Eli’s helmet is already off, his face a snarl as he tackles someone twice his size.
The Dallas bench spills too, and then it’s a warzone. Twenty men, maybe more, scrapping across the ice like it’s open season. The refs whistles are shrieking, but it’s useless, swallowed by the roar of the crowd. Even Coach Benson’s leaning so far over the boards, I think he’ll fall—veins bulging as he screams at their coach, who’s just as red-faced, spitting fury back.
I drive my fist into a Dragon’s jaw, feeling the crunch all the way up my arm. My breath saws ragged in my chest, blood already in my mouth. Someone yanks me from behind, arm around my neck, and I slam an elbow back and spin, both of us crashing hard enough to rattle the glass.
It takes forever—refs wrestling guys apart, linesmen dragging bodies off—to even begin to calm the storm.
By the time order is forced back onto the ice, medics are kneeling at Reid’s side. His mask is off now, his face tight with pain, sweat slicking his hair as they check him over. The sight makes my throat burn.
The arena rises as one when they bring the stretcher out, the noise shaking my skull. Fans are on their feet, clapping, stomping, chanting, “HUTCHY, HUTCHY, HUTCHY!” until the roof of the barn feels ready to lift clean off.
I glance up into the stands. Charlie’s still clutching Theo, Tamara’s pale as a sheet, Zoe’s still cussing under her breath, but it’s Lulu I lock onto. Hands pressed to her mouth, tears shining, her whole body trembling.
My chest seizes, and my hand twitches on my stick, wanting to lift it, to reach for her, to do something. Anything. But all I can manage is a ragged nod, hoping she sees it, hoping she knows.
Her eyes stay locked on mine, and it hollows me out.
I swallow hard and skate closer to where Reid is, chest heaving and fists still throbbing from the fight, as the ref makes the call. Dallas’s forward is gone—game misconduct, five-minute major, tossed from the night. The bastard barely even looks back as he’s shoved toward the tunnel.
But none of that matters. Not when Reid’s being stretchered off the ice, Lulu’s tear-streaked cheeks are replaying in my mind, and the rest of us are still seething, fists aching for more.
The horn finally blows, and we drag ourselves off, still furious, still bleeding. The locker room’s a furnace—guys pacing in half their gear, snapping tape, slamming water bottles, and swearing under their breath.
Nobody sits still, and no one says Reid’s name, but he’s everywhere.
Coach Benson storms in, red-faced, veins bulging. “You settle the fuck down and play hockey,” he barks, then adds softly. “They’ve sent Hutchy to the hospital. That’s all we know.”
The silence that follows is heavier than the fight. Helmets clatter to the floor, and Chase suddenly boots a trash can into the wall. Eli’s got his head in his hands, muttering murder. I can’t get the taste of blood out of my mouth, and it’s only making me hungrier.
By the time the ice is ready again, the only thing I want is to finish what we started.
The second opens with our backup goalie in the crease. He’s solid, quick on his feet, but he’s not Hutch. Nobody is. The Dragons know it too, swarming the net, hacking at his pads after every whistle, jabbing him with sticks just to see if we’ll bite.
And we bite. Every fucking time.
Eli lays a guy out so hard, he loses his stick. Chase gets whistled for cross-checking after a scrum in the corner. Even Jake, calm as a saint most nights, is barking at the refs until his face goes purple.
The whole bench feels it. Hutch isn’t just our goalie, he’s one of us—the good bastard who’s been here since the start, who’ll chirp you for missing an open net and then buy you a beer after. Without him, it’s like the spine’s been ripped out of the team, and we’re fucking furious about it.
Dallas plays into it, grinning wider with every late hit, every sneaky slash, and the refs pretend not to see half of it. The barn’s still on our side, but you can feel the momentum wobble, the Storm not quite holding together.
It’s during a faceoff in the second period when the real chirping starts.
The Dragon lined up across from Eli smirks, his voice just loud enough to carry. “How’s your little sister, Parnell? She need me to tuck her in tonight?”
Eli’s jaw locks. He doesn’t flinch or rise to it, but I feel the heat roll off him.
