Page 28

Seattle is pissed. They lost a game they thought they’d win, and frustration is boiling over on the field. It starts small—a shove here, a few choice words there. But I know what’s coming before it fully ignites.

I move fast, stepping away from the medical staff and toward the middle of the field where Dominic and Seattle’s number six, Jason Maddox, are chest to chest, their voices sharp over the din of the crowd.

Maddox is in Dominic’s face, hands clenched into fists, his mouth twisted into something ugly. “Bullshit calls all game, Carter. You know it.”

Dominic doesn’t back down.

“You lost. Own it.” His voice is calm, lethal.

Maddox lunges first.

His hands go straight for Dominic’s jersey, but before I can blink, Callum is there, shoving Maddox back. That’s all it takes. Chaos erupts.

Players swarm in, shoving, shouting. The refs are blowing their whistles, but no one’s listening. Seattle is angry, and my guys are not about to let them throw punches unchecked.

I rush forward, trying to get to the center before it gets worse. My job is to deal with injuries, not break up fights, but right now, those two things might go hand in hand.

Then it happens.

Out of nowhere, a Seattle forward barrels sideways, completely oblivious to where I am. His massive shoulder slams into my back, sending me stumbling forward.

Pain explodes in my ribs as I hit the ground hard.

For a second, I can’t breathe. The world tilts, the roar of the crowd distant compared to the ringing in my ears.

Then I hear it.

A furious roar, deeper than anything else happening on the field.

Graham.

I barely get to my hands and knees before I see him storming across the field, zeroed in on the player who hit me.

The moment Graham reaches him, he grabs the guy by the jersey and yanks him back so hard I hear fabric tear.

The Seattle player barely gets a word out before Graham’s fist is cocked, shoulders tight, pure fury rolling off him in waves.

And then all hell really breaks loose.

Players are diving in to separate them, but Graham is past the point of reason. His face is pure, unfiltered rage. His jaw is clenched, his knuckles white against the Seattle player’s jersey.

He’s not letting go.

Seattle’s players are yelling. The refs are blowing their whistles. Dominic is suddenly there, gripping Graham by the arms, trying to pull him off.

But Graham doesn’t move.

“You knocked her over, you reckless piece of⁠—”

I push to my feet, ignoring the sharp throb in my ribs. I don’t care that my shoulder is aching. I don’t care that my entire body is screaming at me to sit down.

Because I need to get this under control before Graham does something that’ll get him ejected from his own damn team.

I shove through the bodies, heading straight for the injured player still on the ground. It’s Max Dupont, our left wing, He’s clutching his knee, his face twisted in pain. My hands move automatically, checking for damage, assessing the injury even as chaos explodes around me.

In my peripheral vision, I see Dominic yank Graham back, his muscles straining, his voice sharp.

“Graham, let go! Let go!”