He smirks wider, pushes off, and glides past me, shoulder brushing mine just enough to spark a reaction. The hit’s small, but the intent burns.
I inhale deep; the chill of the ice biting in my lungs. My gloves squeak when I tighten my grip.
Milton taps the butt of his stick against mine, voice steady. “Breathe. He wants you off your game.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t give it to him.”
“Yeah,” I say, exhaling through my nose. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”
Warm-ups wrap up and we skate off, the ice crew already moving out with shovels and towels. The air hums with noise: fans chanting, the announcer hyping the crowd, spotlights cutting across the rink. I stand along the bench with my helmet tucked under my arm, shoulder to shoulder with Milton as the anthem starts.
Everyone goes quiet.
The music echoes through the arena; deep and heavy, the kind that hits your chest more than your ears. Helmets come off. Heads bow. For a second, all the noise and anger in me settles into one steady heartbeat.
When the last note fades, the crowd erupts again. We bang our sticks against the boards, a quick salute, and the buzzer sounds to signal game start.
We take our spots on the ice.
The world narrows to sound and motion; to the scrape of blades, the thud of bodies slamming into boards, the hardclickof the puck against sticks.
Lennox flies down the right wing, fast as ever. I match him stride for stride, the boards vibrating with every hit.
The crowd loses its mind.
He slams into me, stick tangling with mine. I give it right back, harder. The referee’s whistle stays silent. Good. Let us play.
Milton shouts from the other side of the rink, “Shift!”
I pull back, lungs burning, chest heaving. Adrenaline floods everything. Every muscle in me feels alive, wired, ready to explode.
We switch lines, glide toward the bench. Coach Miles shouts orders that none of us really hear. I sit, catch my breath, eyes fixed on Lennox across the ice.
He’s laughing with one of his linemates, that same smug grin splitting his face. My teeth grind together so hard it’s a wonder they don’t crack.
Milton drops down beside me, sweat already slicking his temples. “You good?”
“Fine.”
“You look like you want to kill him.”
“I always want to kill him.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “At least wait ‘til period three.”
I grin despite myself, just a flicker. Then the buzzer goes again, and I’m back on my feet, heart already hammering for the next play.
This is the part I live for—the blur of speed, the hit, the roar. The way every thought burns off like fog until there’s only the ice and the fight.
Because when I’m out here, nothing else matters. Not the coach. Not the bullshit emails. Not the matchmaker.
Just the game.
Just the blades.
Just the fury.
