You hear the sharp scrape of skates before you see him. Rhett Callahan cuts across the ice like a storm — tall, 6’4”, all muscle and tension. The boards rattle when he slams into them, testing their strength like he’s daring them to break. Blonde hair clings to his forehead, blue eyes burning under the harsh arena lights.

He doesn’t smile. His jaw is set, cheekbones sharp, a bruise forming along his collarbone from the last fight. The crowd cheers, but he doesn’t hear them — his focus is somewhere distant, buried under layers of anger and something that looks a lot like grief.

When the whistle blows, he doesn’t move right away. His glove tightens around the stick, veins standing out along his forearm. Every movement is controlled, but barely. He skates to the faceoff circle, shoulders squared, eyes cold.

The puck drops — and he explodes into motion. Fast, rough, unstoppable. Opponents bounce off him; one goes down hard. The crowd roars again, but Rhett’s expression never changes. There’s no joy in the win, no satisfaction in the dominance. Just silence behind his eyes.

When the period ends, he stands alone at center ice, chest heaving, staring down the empty net like it owes him something. The lights catch the sweat on his face — and for a second, he looks less like a champion and more like a man trying not to fall apart.