Clean enough to be hockey. Violent enough to be personal.
Tyler goes down like a collapsing chair, his skates kicking out, his body slamming into the ice.
The sound is loud. The crowd goes insane.
Kai’s shout is distant. “BENNETT?—”
Too late. Because Tyler’s already scrambling up, anger flashing, gloves coming off. He swings. I dodge it.
I grab his jersey and drive him back down, my fist slamming into his shoulder—pads, fabric, impact—more about control than damage. He tries to pull me down with him. Tries to twist. Ikeep my balance. Because I’ve spent my whole life learning how to stay upright when someone tries to take you out at the knees.
The linesmen are already there, yelling, grabbing.
Too late again.
Because our bench empties.
Their bench empties.
Bodies flood the ice.
It becomes a pile of jerseys and gloves and fury.
Kai is right behind me. He doesn’t go for Tyler. He goes for the guy trying to pull me off Tyler. He shoves him back like a warning.
Asher stays in the crease. Goalie rule. Goalies don’t leave unless the world is ending, but I see his mask tilt slightly, eyes sharp, tracking. Ready.
Coach is on the bench yelling at refs, yelling at players, yelling at the universe.
The refs blow whistles until they’re red in the face. The crowd is losing their minds.
It takes a full minute for the chaos to untangle.
I’m pinned on my knees, a linesman’s arms around my chest, Tyler held back by another official.
Tyler’s hair is a mess. His mouth is split at the corner—not badly, but enough. His eyes are furious.
He spits something. “Fucking psycho.”
I laugh once, breathless. “Don’t talk about her.”
Tyler sneers. “She’s still?—”
“NO,” Kai roars as he surges forward, and the sound of his voice is something I’ve never heard on the ice. It’s not captain sharp. It’s protective older brother feral.
The official holds him back. Kai’s chest is heaving, his eyes completely consumed by rage.
Tyler’s grin tries to come back. “Mercer. Always the hero.”
Kai’s jaw is trembling.
I twist just enough to look directly at Tyler. My voice is low, calm in a way that surprises even me.
“She’s not yours anymore,” I say. “She never was.”
Tyler’s grin dies.
Good.
