“Grab a couple of quiet clips,” I say. “No tags yet. Atmosphere only.”
Phones stay low. Lenses catch breath fog and blade scrape, and the way the crowd hums when it senses blood but hasn’t seen it spill yet.
Two minutes in, it’s still zero to zero, and New York is getting rough.
Not strategic rough. Not clean pressure. Frustrated rough.
I see it before it happens.I always do.
Their winger drives the crease late, way too late, momentum unchecked. He doesn’t even pretend he’s stopping. He plows straight through the blue paint, skates carving snow into Deacon’s pads, shoulder clipping him as the puck sails wide. Then, because apparently, we’re choosing violence tonight, he slashes Deacon’s glove on the follow-through. Hard. Deliberate. The kind of move that’s supposed to earn you a very cozy seat in the box.
The ref looks directly at it and does nothing.
The crowd explodes, half fury, half disbelief. Deacon goes down on one knee, mask snapping back slightly, glove hand tight to his chest. He stays upright, because of course he does, but I clock the tension in his shoulders. That wasn’t an accident. That was a message.
Aleks reacts instantly. He doesn’t think. He launches. He’s already on the winger before the puck even resets, shoving him backward with both hands, skates churning, chest to chest. He plants himself in front of Deacon like a human barricade, stick horizontal, eyes wild.
“You don’t touch him,” Aleks snaps, loud enough for a mic to pick it up and to blare through the system, “Ever.”
The winger laughs, because of course he does. Laughs like he didn’t just get away with something nasty or because he did.
Aleks shoves him again. Harder this time. Gloves come up. Sticks tangle. A scrum starts, ugly and tight and vibrating with almost-fight energy. Deacon rises fully now, one hand on thecrossbar, the other steadying Aleks’s shoulder. It’s subtle. A grounding touch. A command without words.
Aleks stills. Barely. But he listens.That’s important.
The whistle finally blows, late and useless. Offsetting minors are threatened but somehow never materialize. New York skates away clean, smug, daring anyone to say something about it.
I don’t move. I don’t swear. I just smile slowly, already cataloging angles.
Nalani leans closer. “They really just did that.”
“They did,” I say. “And they’re on camera doing it.”
Claudia hums beside me, pleased in that terrifying way. “That clip,” she says softly, “is going to age beautifully.”
Deacon resets in the crease, taps his posts twice, calm restored like he manufactured it himself. Aleks circles back, jaw tight, eyes never leaving the opposing bench.
The crowd is fully awake now. Protective. Loud. United.
New York wanted to rattle the goalie. Instead, they woke the whole damn team.
And I’ve got atmosphere for days.
The next play, Aleks goes hard into the boards, shoulder-first, a clean hit that somehow still feels personal. He barely flinches, already moving, already hunting space like pain isn’t felt, it’s just a suggestion.
The camera follows the puck and my eyes follow him. He doesn’t rush, he prowls.
Then the horn sounds for a shift change.
Theo Rivera hops the boards first, smooth and unbothered, like he didn’t just watch his teammate get targeted. Koa follows, jaw loose, eyes sharp. Dash brings up the rear, rolling his shoulders like he’s settling into a fight he didn’t start but will absolutely finish.
“So hot,” Noelle sighs.
“I love that for you,” I whisper to her.
New York’s second line chirps immediately. Sticks tapping. Mouths running. One of them leans in too close, says something meant to land. Theo just smiles. The puck drops.
New York plays ugly. Hooks at Koa’s hands. A subtle knee that isn’t subtle at all. Koa, being who he is, the size of a mountain, flicks him off like an irritating bug. Dash gets cross-checked in the ribs, away from the play, and the refs conveniently turn away. The crowd boos in waves, the sound rolling like a threat.
