That was it. No goalies. No refs.
Just hell.
We knew what it meant.
No line changes. No offsides. No rules.
Just bodies. Blades. And brutality.
The second the puck hit the ice, the world ignited.
Harding slammed into Ryder with a body check that echoed across the glass like a gunshot.
Williams weaved between Parker and Crown like a fucking phantom, laughing as he spun away from a stick to the ribs.
Hudson took a shot from the blue line and followed it straight into someone’s spine.
Blood hit the ice.
No one stopped.
That was the Wraiths.
You didn’t stop until your body broke, or your blade did.
Ryder caught me mid-sprint and threw his shoulder into my ribs.
I didn’t fall.
I snapped my head back and drove my elbow into his jaw.
He laughed.
I kept going.
Every ounce of rage I hadn’t poured into Kennedy, I burned here.
I skated like my lungs didn’t matter. Checked like I wanted to cave a rib.
Every slash, every hit, every collision—therapy in destruction.
My vision tunneled until it was just the ice and the hit and the next one coming.
No names. No friends. No rules.
Just pain.
And it was beautiful.
Practice wound down like a fight that ended without a winner.
Blood. Bruises. Silence.
No celebration. No cool down.
Just guys dragging themselves off the ice with busted lips, swollen knuckles, and adrenaline still spiking under skin.
This was our therapy.
