Evan leans over the boards beside me. “You planning to knit them apology scarves too?”
“You planning to take a penalty because your feelings got loud?”
Evan grins. “My feelings are tactical.”
“Your feelings are expensive.”
Roman leans across two players. “Can both of you flirt with defensive responsibility later?”
“He’s not my type,” Evan says.
I do not look away from the ice. “He requires supervision.”
The rookie beside Colt whispers, “Is that what flirting is?”
Colt says, “In this room? Unfortunately.”
Then Finn gets hit.
Open ice. Neutral zone. Head down for a beat because he is tracking a pass.
Chicago’s eighty-six cuts across and lifts the elbow.
Deliberate.
Targeted.
Finn drops straight down.
No stumble. No attempt to rise. Just stick clattering away and body hitting ice with dead weight.
I am already moving.
Training takes over before rage can.
Do not move him.
Protect the spine.
Get medical.
I drop to one knee beside Finn while the rest of the ice erupts behind me. Gloves fly. Bodies collide. The bench surges. The crowd screams for blood.
I put one hand out without touching Finn.
“Stay still,” I say, voice level. “Medical’s coming.”
Finn’s eyes are open and unfocused.
Dr. Aris and Maren Ellis slide in beside us. Maren stabilizes Finn’s head while Aris checks his pupils. Her voice cuts through the noise, calm and hard.
“Ryan, give us space.”
I move because she is the only person on the ice whose authority matters more than mine.
The official skates over, face tight. “I saw it.”
I stand.
