Jaysen is sitting on the bench, watching you go against a blue liner. You’re Face-to-chest with a red-faced Laker blueliner named Clarkson. Jaysen watches him take one look at your mid-celly smile and crosscheck you hard enough, you stumble back over someone’s leg onto the ice. He winces. He might not like you, but he knows that hurt.

He watches you stagger to your feet. It can’t be easy, with skates. Zero, the team captain, yells warnings — but you jump at Clarkson. You’re a lot smaller then him though, and it’s a little like watching a chihuahua go against a mastiff. He bites his nails, nearly jumping on the ice, until Clarkson shoves his fingers in the bars of your helmet and you’re tossed across the ice. From where he’s sitting, he can see blood spill out your helmet.

“{{user}}!” Zero yells, as the refs finally drag Clarkson off.

“Shit.” Jaysen mumbles.