I planted my skates, used my weight, my strength, driving them back from the crease until there was space—clear space—around Tyson. Collins swung, clipped my shoulder, and I barelyfelt it. All I could see was our rookie scrambling to his knees, gasping, eyes wide. Mine locked onto Collins.
Not today.
Not in my crease.
Not my kid.
The refs finally got between us, arms hooked under mine, dragging me back as I forced myself to stand down, to breathe, to pull the ice back inside where it belonged. I got a two-minute penalty, but goalie penalties were a little different. Unless it was a major infraction, we weren’t sent to the penalty box. Swapping with Adar Levin would be too chaotic for a couple of minutes. Tyson got sent instead. I met his gaze apologetically, but he just grinned looking like it was an honor.
And the crowd loved it.
Cinder
I watched with my heart in my mouth, expecting to be needed—already mentally cataloging what I'd grab first from the medical kit, already calculating response times if someone went down hard. But then the line came to sit down, as Marchand, Varga, and Bissette jumped the boards.
All of them—Max, Keegan, and Cole dropped onto the seats near me, still buzzing with adrenaline, talking over each other like they couldn't get the words out fast enough.
"Did you see Taz?" Max was grinning so wide I thought his face might split. "Fucking finally. I've been waiting all season for him to lose it on someone."
"He didn't lose it," Ash leaned over, calm as ever. "He was controlled. Just... emphatic."
Cole laughed, the sound bright and surprised. "Emphatic. That's one word for it. He threw Collins like he weighed nothing."
"Because Collins is a dick," Max added. "And Tyson's what, twenty-two? Of course Taz went nuclear."
I sat there, frozen, listening to them talk about Taranis like what he'd done was normal. Expected, even. Like stepping out of the crease to physically remove two full-grown men from his rookie player was just another Tuesday.
"He's so calm usually," I heard myself say, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
Max turned to me, eyes bright. "Oh, he is. That's what makes it terrifying when he's not." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Taz doesn't fight often. But when he does? It's because someone crossed a line they shouldn't have."
"Like hurting one of ours," Ash said quietly.
"Especially the kids," Cole added. "Tyson's barely been with us four months. Taz has been looking out for him since day one."
I looked back at the ice, where Taranis had returned to his crease, resetting his stance like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't just terrified an entire opposing team into backing the hell off. His movements were precise, controlled, every inch the veteran goaltender who'd seen it all and handled it with ruthless efficiency.
But I'd seen something else in those few seconds before the refs pulled him back.
I'd seen rage.
Not the hot, explosive kind that burned out fast. The cold kind. The dangerous kind. The kind that came from somewhere deep and ancient and absolutely certain of its purpose.
Protect.
My chest tightened.
"He's okay?" I asked, trying to sound professional. Clinical. Like I was asking about any player who'd just been in an altercation.
Max glanced at me, something knowing flickering across his face. "He's fine. Better than fine, probably. Taz gets weird when he holds things in too long."
"Weird how?"
"Just... tense. Quiet." Max shrugged. "Fighting's good for him sometimes. Lets the pressure out."
I wanted to ask what kind of pressure. Wanted to ask if this was normal for him, if he did this often, if there was something I should be watching for medically. But the questions stuck in my throat because asking them would reveal too much.
Would reveal that I'd been watching Taranis more carefully than I had any right to. That I'd noticed the way he moved differently after stress. That I'd cataloged the cold that had crept into his skin at the game and filed it away as something that didn't make sense but mattered anyway.