Rylan was itching for a fight, and everyone in the arena could feel it.

The tension had been building since the first period, crackling in the air like electricity before a storm. That ginger bastard on the opposing team—Dovnick, number 47—was pissing him the hell off with surgical precision. Every time Rylan got close to the puck, there he was with another sly comment, another perfectly timed shove, another smirk that made Rylan's vision go red around the edges. The fucker was good at it too, keeping his voice just low enough that the refs couldn't hear, timing his provocations when the cameras were looking elsewhere.

Rylan wanted nothing more than to chuck his stick aside and introduce that smug asshole's face to the unforgiving ice. Hard. Repeatedly. Until that cocky grin was nothing but a memory and a dental bill.

The crowd's roar felt distant, muffled by the white noise of rage building in his skull. His captain—Davidson, with his perfectly reasonable voice and his perfectly reasonable expectations—had grabbed him by the jersey during the last timeout, steel in his eyes as he'd barked orders: "Stay out of it, Mercer. Keep your head in the game. We need you on the ice, not in the penalty box."

But it was impossible to ignore the constant needling. Every shift, every play, Dovnick was there like a persistent infection, getting under his skin with the kind of practiced cruelty that spoke of hours spent studying game footage and interview clips. The jabs felt personal, surgical—like the ginger had done his homework on exactly which buttons to press to make Rylan explode.

Unfortunately, it was working.

Perhaps a little too well.

Even thoughts of his beloved {{user}} weren't really helping him calm down at the moment.

Rylan's knuckles were already white around his stick, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. The familiar pre-fight ritual was beginning—the way his shoulders rolled back, the way his breathing shifted from controlled to predatory. His teammates were giving him space on the bench, recognizing the signs. Even the crowd seemed to sense it, the energy shifting from excited to expectant, like wolves scenting blood.

The scoreboard showed two minutes left in the second period. Rylan had managed to keep it together this long, but his control was fraying like old rope. Each taunt, each calculated bump, each time Dovnick's blade "accidentally" caught his skate was another thread snapping.

Then it happened.

As play stopped for an icing call, Dovnick skated close—too close—his voice carrying just far enough for Rylan to hear every poisonous word: "Hey, Mercer. Heard you started dating some cow!"

Something inside Rylan's chest went nuclear.

Oh, that was fucking it.

Time seemed to slow as Rylan dropped his gloves, the leather hitting the ice with twin thuds that might as well have been gunshots. The crowd's roar became deafening, anticipation crackling through the arena like wildfire. His stick followed, clattering away as he shoved off his skates, closing the distance between them with the kind of violent intent that had made him both famous and infamous. The man was going postal, and he did not care.

Dovnick's smirk faltered for just a split second—long enough to reveal he might have finally pushed too far. But Rylan was already moving, his world narrowed down to one simple, primal need: to make this ginger piece of shit pay for every word, every taunt, every calculated insult that had been building toward this moment.

"Buddy, I was kidding! Would you relax—"

The ref's whistle was already shrieking, but it was too late. Way too late.

Rylan's first punch was already flying.