Coach Vasquez’s voice cuts through: “BACK ROOMS! MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!” Pure command. It’s the only thing I can hear over the ringing in my ears.
I try to process. Are we under attack? No, too slow, too rational. Just move.
The nearest exit is a skate-sharpening tunnel behind the home bench, a blind run past where at least two guys are already flat on the ice. I slip once, recover, dig hard, dig harder.
The rink is longer than I remember it ever being.
My legs are not listening, my brain is just a slow stutter, and every breath is knife-cold and hot at the same time.
Another pop, closer, this time it’s definitely a gun. There is no other sound in the world like that.
I see Darius before I even realize I’m looking for him.
He’s halfway down the slot, hunched, all six-three of him tucked in like a turtle. We lock eyes for a half-second, pure animal fear in both faces, and then he’s running too, matching me stride for stride.
Neither of us says a word.
We reach the end boards just as two more shots rip through the air, and a body, someone in our colors, no idea who, careens into the wall, leaving a trail of red that’s too thin and too bright to be anything but blood.
I dry-heave mid-stride but keep going.
We make the tunnel.
The air is instantly warmer, but the cold has followed us inside, lodged in our bones, marrow-deep.
The other guys are already ahead, a stampede down the corridor toward the locker hall. I hear Coach’s voice again, less a word than a bellow, “Keep moving! Don’t stop!”
I want to obey. I really do. But my feet are slipping, every muscle turned to shit, my heart somewhere in my throat.
It’s only when Darius shoulder-checks me into the wall, hard, like he’s sending a message that I remember how to function.
We round the first corner, nearly collide with a trash can, and keep running.
The overhead lights are humming, bright and weirdly sterile, the world reduced to concrete and rubber mats.
Behind us, the noise is lessening, but it’s replaced by something worse, the muffled sound of crying, of bodies hitting the ground, of confusion so total it feels like drowning.
Up ahead is the main crosshall, the intersection that leads to the locker rooms, coaches’ offices, and the main exit.
There’s a skid mark on the tile, black and sticky. We turn right and almost trip over him.
Cap is there.
Ryan Holt, our captain, our goddamn golden retriever of a leader. Face down, arms spread in the classic crucifix, but there’s nothing Christ-like about it.
His jersey is torn open, shot to ribbons, and the back of his helmet is gone, like someone cored an apple through his skull. Blood pools out from under him, pooling so fast it’s like the floor is tilting.
I freeze. I can’t not freeze. I have never seen a dead body before, not up close, not like this.
Darius is faster, or maybe he’s just better at ignoring the impossible. He grabs my sleeve, and it’s not gentle.
His fingers dig in, right above the elbow, and for a second it’s like being yanked out of a dream. But it’s not a dream; it’s so much fucking worse.
He pulls me forward, and I follow, because the alternative is standing here forever. We have to step over Cap’s body.
My foot lands half in the blood and I almost lose it, knees buckling, stomach revolting, head spinning like I’ve just been spun upside-down for a hundred years.
Behind us, a door bangs open and Coach Vasquez stumbles out, one hand clutching her hip. Her hair is matted to her forehead, eyes wild.
