“Hmm,” he says quietly.
I don’t even have to ask. “You hate it.”
“I don’t hate it,” he replies, eyes still on the ice.
The Giants cycle the puck around the offensive zone, but passes are just slightly off target, and the timing isn’t slick enough.
Markus watches for another minute.
“The forward is good,” he says finally. “Aggressive.”
“Zane Blake.”
“The captain has potential. And your goalie’s saving them from embarrassment. But the rest of it…” Markus trails off, watching a sloppy turnover near the blue line. “…they’re panicking.”
I huff out a quiet laugh.
“Thank you.”
Willow glances between us.
“You sound like two scouts.”
The game continues.
It’s fast and messy and frustrating in exactly the same ways as the opening match. The Giants have flashes of brilliance - Blake threading a beautiful pass through traffic, Chen making a glove save that gets the crowd on their feet - but it’s never quite right.
Halfway through the second period the puck slides to the left wing.
The play collapses quickly after that.
A defender steps in hard, sticks clash, and suddenly the winger slams awkwardly into the boards.
The sound carries across the rink like a crack.
The crowd surges to its feet immediately.
Players converge, shoving.
Right in the center of it is Zane.
He squares up instantly, shoulders tense, stick already discarded on the ice as the pushing turns into punches.
The arena erupts.
But I’m not watching the fight.
My attention snaps to the player who went down.
He’s still on the ice near the boards, one leg twisted slightly beneath him while the rest of the chaos explodes around the fight.
That’s wrong. Very wrong.
“Hold on,” I mutter, leaning forward.
Markus notices immediately.
“What?”
