What a fucking idiot.
His stick was already gone, gloves hitting the ice a second too late to matter, his balance shot from the cheap hit he’d taken at Zee seconds earlier—the one the refs hadn’t called, the one I hadn’t forgotten.
He swung wide. Sloppy.
I skated in. Closed the space with one smooth glide, driving my shoulder into his chest. Instantly, I felt the air leave him in a sharp, ugly rush as I buried another punch into his ribs—short, controlled.
The boards rattled behind him. The glass shook. The crowd lost whatever was left of its mind.
“Back off our kid,” I sneered, low enough no one else would hear it.
He tried to answer. It came out wet and useless.
His next swing clipped my shoulder—nothing. I absorbed it, reset my footing, and drove my fist up and across, catching him clean along the jaw. His head snapped back this time, body lagging behind it like it had missed the cue.
That was the one.
The fight left him before he hit the ice.
He went down hard, skates slipping out from under him, hands dragging uselessly across the surface as the refs finally surged in—arms between us, voices loud and pointless now that it was already over.
I let them take my weight, let them push me back a stride without resisting, my chest rising slow and steady while everything around me stayed loud.
Inside—nothing.
My hands throbbed, heat trapped, pulse heavy and deep. I flexed once, feeling the tight pull across my knuckles.
Petrov was on his knees now, trainers already on him, blood running from a split above his eyebrow, dripping down onto the ice.
He didn’t look at them. He looked at me. The kind of resentment that came from being handled in front of a full arena—reduced to a moment he couldn’t take back.
I held his gaze just long enough to make the message stick.
Then I turned away to take my punishment.
Worth it.
The crowd was still bustling, a low, satisfied roar that rolled through the arena like distant thunder. They loved it. Always had. Violence dressed up as purpose, easy to cheer from behind glass.
The horn had already gone, but the noise lingered—the entire crowd still on its feet, energy bouncing off the rafters, not ready to let the moment go.
I pushed toward the bench, legs heavy, adrenaline burning off in uneven waves.
Behind me, Petrov was still being helped down the tunnel. In front of me, the boards rattled as someone slammed a stick against them in celebration.
We’d won. Barely. Not the kind of win that built anything. The kind that bought you another night before the cracks showed again.
I leaned into the boards, forearms braced, head dipping for a second as I pulled in a breath that tasted like sweat and rubber and something metallic underneath.
By morning, the league would have opinions. Fines. Calls. Statements drafted by people who had never stepped onto ice with blood in their mouth, explaining to the rest of us how the game was supposed to be played.
I exhaled slowly and straightened.
Didn’t matter.
The game moved on.
So did I.