The puck left my stick in a flick—nothing fancy. Just efficient. Just inevitable.
Thwack.
The sound rang out, clean and final. A gunshot in an opera house.
Goal.
The crowd erupted—screams, cheers, outrage. Chicago fans howled like they’d been betrayed by the gods themselves.
I didn’t react.
No raised arms. No smirk. No joy.
Just the quiet satisfaction of inevitability fulfilled.
Slowly, I turned.
Mikel stood near the net, frozen. Still trying to process what had happened. His eyes found mine—and that’s where I held him.
No smile. No mockery. Just truth.
I warned you.
His fury broke through the disbelief like a crack in glass. But it was too late. The damage was done. Not just the score.
The message.
Tonight wasn’t about goals or glory. It wasn’t about fans or stats.
It was about dominion.
I had taken what mattered. On the ice. And soon, off it.
I skated away, leaving him in the wreckage of his own pride.
This was not the end.
Only the beginning.
The whistle blew.
I heard it, but I did not feel it. My pulse drowned everything else. I skated toward the bench, lungs burning, hands still flexing from the last shift.
Then the air cracked behind me.
Shouts. Snarls. Chaos.
I turned just as Petrov lunged at Jared—sloppy, reckless. Predictable.
Fists flew. Players crashed together like metal striking metal. A brawl. Not new. Not surprising. But it escalated too quickly. Too loud. Too many fists for too few officials.
“Watch your back!” someone shouted.
I didn’t have time to register it.
Crack.
Pain split across my jaw—sharp and immediate. Petrov’s fist. His anger. His mistake.
