Again: doesn’t mean that I like it.
I keep my eyes on the ice as the puck drops. The Wolves come out exactly the way we expected them to: hard on the forecheck, bodies finishing checks a beat late, sticks chopping at hands along the boards. They’re built heavy through the shoulders, a team that likes to wear opponents down by the third, and the Icebox answers them in kind.
The crowd isferaltonight. Every Moose hit sends a shockwave through the stands, boots stomping metal bleachers hard enough that I can feel the vibration through the bench. Every time a Wolves player drifts too close to our crease, the boos rain down, thick and personal.
Midway through the second, the game tightens. Theo carries the puck cleanly through neutral ice, cutting wide along the boards to buy space. He’s already bracing for contact—because you always are in this league—but the hit comes wrong.
Late, and from behind.
The Wolves defenseman drives him straight into the glass with his numbers exposed, shoulder slamming into Theo’s spine hard enough that the boards rattle and the sound cracks through the rink.
Theo goes down, and doesn’t move.
The whistle shrieks, but it barely registers as the Icebox detonates around us. I’m on my feet before the whistle finishes blowing, fury ripping through me so fast it burns white behind my eyes. Connor is already there, gloves flying as he slams into the Wolves player like a missile, momentum and rage carrying them both into the boards.
Theo still isn’t getting up.
Coach turns and looks at me, and I swear, it’s as though I can read his mind at this point: the way he’s weighing risk against necessity in real time.
“You good?” he asks.
I don’t look at my shoulder. I don’t need to.
“Yes.”
I’m over the boards on the next whistle, shoulder screaming in protest but locked down by adrenaline and something colder, steadier,deeper. The Wolves clock it immediately. Their captain’s eyes track me as I take my first stride, calculating angles and measuring distance like he’s deciding whether tonight is worth it.
Good.
We play mean after that: mean, but disciplined. Every shift is tight and controlled, every move intentional. I finish checks where I can without exposing my shoulder and keep my stick active, clog passing lanes, making my presence unavoidable. Every stride feels like borrowed time, and I spend it like it matters.
Still, under it all, I feelher.
The bond hums sharp and startled, a spike of shock and fear that isn’t mine but lands in my chest all the same, knocking the air out of me for half a heartbeat.
My shoulder aches as I push through the next shift. I keep it tucked, protecting the joint when I finish checks and let my left side do more of the talking. Adrenaline helps.
So does anger.
Theo’s gone down the tunnel, and the pack closes ranks around his absence without discussion. Connor plays like he’s possessed, crashing the net on every shift, chirping nonstop at the Wolves’ defensemen. They chirp back—mostly cheap shots, including some comments about Theo that earn them a warning from the refs and a promise from Marco that they’ll regret it later.
Connor buries a rebound off a broken play, jamming the puck home through traffic and pure spite. He takes a cross-check to the ribs for it, shoves back, and has to be hauled away before gloves come off again.
The Icebox loses its collective mind.
The Wolves answer back in the third, of course: a greasy goal off a deflection, the puck clipping a shin pad and fluttering just enough to beat our goalie. On the next shift, one of their forwards mouths off at our bench, pointing down the tunnel like he’s proud of himself.
I skate past and shoulder-check him with my good side: clean, buthard, just enough to send the message. My injured shoulder flares anyway, but I ride it out, teeth clenched.
It was worth it.
The tension coils tighter with every minute. Every whistle, every shove after the play, every glance from the Wolves’ bench daring us to lose control.
It’s late third period, at a tie game, when Coach taps the boards and meets my eyes again.
“One more.”
I nod.
