On the ice, play resumed.
Taranis dropped into his stance, eyes locked forward, and I watched him track the puck with the same lethal focus he'd turned on Brady Collins. The crowd was still buzzing, still replaying what had happened, but Taranis looked utterly unbothered.
A shot came at him hard. He caught it cleanly, held it, forced the whistle.
Another rush. Another save. Routine. Controlled.
Like he hadn't just terrified me and half the arena with how easily he'd shifted from calm to dangerous and back again.
"You really think he's okay?" I asked quietly, not looking at Max.
There was a pause. Then Max's voice, gentler than before. "Yeah, Cinder. He's okay. But it's nice that you're worried."
I didn't respond.
Couldn't.
Because worried didn't begin to cover what I was feeling as I watched Taranis move in his crease, all that contained power coiled tight under his skin, and wondered what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of that kind of passion.
Wondered what it would cost him to offer it. What ithadcost him.
I was already on my feet when the horn sounded.
Second period ended in noise and shoving and adrenaline still spreading through the bench, but all I could see was Taranis—helmet half off, chest heaving, knuckles scraped raw from dropping his gloves for a kid who was his to protect.
“Sit,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “I need to check you.”
He grinned, all heat and victory. “I’m fine, Cin—”
I didn’t wait for permission. I never did. I stepped in close and put my hand against the side of his neck.
Ice.
Not cold from sweat evaporating. Not rink chill. My fingers jerked back on instinct, heart slamming so hard it stole my breath.
“No,” I said. “No, no—Taz, you’re freezing.”
He laughed, breath fogging. “It’s an ice rink.”
“This isn’t that.” I pressed my palm to his forearm this time, then his wrist, searching for warmth that wasn’t there. His skin was pale, almost waxy under the lights. “I need warming protocols. Now. Blankets. Heated fluids. I want his core temp checked.”
The noise around us dimmed, like someone had turned the volume down on the world.
“Taz,” the coach said, distracted, already half-turned toward a defenseman. “You good?”
“I’m good,” Taranis said easily. “I just got in a fight. Happens.”
My mouth went dry. “Coach, he’s hypothermic.”
That got a look. Uncomfortable. Skeptical. The look I hated most.
“He’s been moving for forty minutes,” the coach said. “He’s sweating.”
“That doesn’t matter,” I snapped. “This isn’t exposure.”
Taranis frowned now, finally catching the edge in my voice. “Cinder—”
“I need you to listen to me.” My hands were shaking, and I curled them into fists so no one would see. “If he stops shivering—”