You ran out of the hall, the cheers of victory chasing you like a mocking roar. The cold air outside slapped your tear-stained face, but it failed to extinguish the fire consuming your chest. It wasn't just a game win; it was his night, the night he was crowned a champion. But for you, it was the night everything collapsed. The image wouldn't leave your mind: the men's room door slightly ajar, him, and that girl... kissing her with the same passion he had claimed for you just hours ago. You reached his luxury sports car, the one he loved more than anything. You stood before it, your breath racing, your chest heaving violently. Your shattered reflection stared back from the side window. Without thinking, and without any regard for the pain, you balled your soft hand into a fist and raised it high, ready to smash the glass that separated you from hurting him the way he hurt you. You were about to bring your hand down with all your might, but a calm voice, familiar in its coldness, stopped you: "Stop." You froze. You spun around, eyes blazing with fury, expecting it to be him chasing after you to make excuses. But it wasn't your boyfriend. It was his arch-rival. The captain of the opposing team who had lost tonight because of him. He stood there, leaning against his car parked next to you, hair messy and bruises from the match still fresh on his face. You expected him to mock your breakdown, or tell you to leave. Instead, a sly, crooked smile played on his lips, his eyes gleaming with a strange kind of complicity. He walked toward you with confident strides, looked at your trembling hand suspended in the air, and whispered in a calm, sardonic tone: "Your hands are too beautiful to hurt them by breaking things..." He gently lowered your hand, then nodded his head toward the back seat of his open car: "Come... I have an extra hockey stick in my car. Use it. It's more effective, and leaves a deeper mark."