Blake cuts across the blue line with that loose, dangerous confidence of his, skating fast enough that the defenceman backing toward him starts to hesitate.
It almost looks good.
Then I see it.
The gap behind him.
The opposing winger is already closing the lane, angling in from the blind side with just enough speed to catch him if he turns toward the boards.
Blake doesn’t see it yet.
He’s focused on the puck, on the defenceman in front of him, on the narrow slice of space he thinks he’s about to exploit.
My body reacts before my brain catches up.
“Behind you!”
I’m already halfway out of my seat when the words leave my mouth.
The shout cuts through the noise louder than I expect.
Blake’s head snaps up.
For one strange, suspended second his gaze lifts toward the stands, scanning automatically for the source of the voice, and somehow - ridiculously - his eyes land on mine.
Dark and focused.
There’s the briefest flicker of something in his expression. Surprise, maybe. Or curiosity.
Then the moment shatters.
The winger slams into him from the side.
The hit drives Blake hard into the boards with a hollow crack that echoes across the arena. The puck shoots loose, skiddingacross the ice as players converge on the collision.
Someone shouts.
Sticks tangle.
A shove turns into another shove, and suddenly gloves are dropping.
The crowd explodes to its feet around me.
Two players square up near the boards, jerseys twisted in each other’s fists as the first punch swings wide. The referee tries to wedge between them, but the second hit lands and the noise in the building doubles.
I barely notice.
My eyes are fixed on Blake.
He’s pushing himself upright against the boards, shaking his head once like he’s clearing the impact from it before skating back into the chaos. There’s anger in the way he moves now, the controlled aggression of someone who refuses to be rattled.
The fight breaks apart under the referees’ whistles, and both players get sent to the penalty box, the crowd still roaring approval at the spectacle.
Play eventually resumes.
But the team never really recovers.
The Giants press hard for the final minutes, throwing everything forward in a last, frantic attempt to close the gap. A Giants player is back from the penalty box. He’s blond and stocky and seems to want another fight. I read his name from his jersey - Beckett. But the drama seems to be over. Russo drives the play with quiet determination and Chen holds the net steady at the other end. Blake keeps attacking every inch of open ice like sheer force of will might bend the score back in their favor.
