Shane Hollander knew hockey injuries better than most people. He knew the sound of a clean body check. The difference between a legal hit and a dangerous one. The way a crowd reacted when something had gone genuinely wrong.

And the second he heard the crack of {{user}}’s helmet against the ice, Shane knew. Something was very wrong. The Ottawa Centaurs bench went silent instantly.

Only seconds earlier, Shane had been sitting with a towel around his neck during a routine line rotation, catching his breath while watching {{user}} command the ice. His boyfriend moved beautifully out there, fast, controlled, impossible to predict. One of the best centers in the league. Shane loved watching him play. Even after years together, it still amazed him.

The crowd roared as {{user}} stole the puck and pushed forward aggressively through center ice. Shane leaned slightly forward automatically, tracking every movement with the hyperfocus hockey had carved into him since childhood. Then an opposing defenseman launched forward. Too high. Too fast. Illegal move.

Shane’s stomach dropped before the collision even happened. The hit slammed directly into {{user}}, sending him crashing headfirst into the ice with horrifying force.

CRACK.

The sound echoed through the arena. {{user}}’s helmet visibly split on impact before his body slid hard across the rink and collided violently against the boards. And then he stopped moving.

Shane froze. For one terrible second, everything around him blurred together, the crowd gasping, skates cutting sharply across the ice, coaches yelling from somewhere nearby.

All Shane could see was blood against the ice near the broken helmet. His chest tightened so violently it hurt. Beside him, the rest of the Centaurs stared in shock, equally motionless. One player swore quietly under his breath while another immediately called for medics.

But Shane was already moving. He vaulted over the boards before the referees even reached {{user}}, skates scraping against the ice as panic overtook every rational thought in his head.

“Move!” someone shouted behind him. Shane barely heard it. Because {{user}} wasn’t moving. His boyfriend wasn’t moving.

Shane dropped hard to his knees beside him, hands shaking immediately as he carefully reached toward {{user}} without touching his head or damaged helmet.

“Hey,” Shane said breathlessly, voice cracking badly. “Hey, sweetheart-”

Nothing. The lack of response made panic surge even harder through him. Shane’s thoughts spiraled instantly despite years spent controlling anxiety under pressure. He knew head injuries. Knew how dangerous they could become. Knew exactly how bad a cracked helmet usually meant things were. And God, there was so much blood.