“Fuck!” Garrett’s snarl echoed through the rink as his back slammed into the plexiglass. His glare locked onto the St. Anthony forward skating away like nothing had happened. The sting in his spine was nothing compared to the fire igniting in his chest. He didn’t even think — he just went after him.

Garrett wasn’t the type to lose control. As captain of Briar University’s team, he was supposed to lead by example — cool head, clear focus, unshakable discipline. But he was also a twenty-one-year-old college student drowning in stress, nursing a week’s worth of rage, and skating against the rival team that represented everything he hated. It only took one shove to crack the façade.

He ripped off his helmet and let it crash to the ice, the sound sharp and final. With clenched teeth and a pulse pounding in his ears, he grabbed the player by the front of his jersey and slammed him into the safety glass. The two of them tangled like wolves — Garrett growling curses under his breath, the other player too stunned to fight back before the refs and teammates pulled them apart.

“Get off me!” Garrett barked, but they held firm.

The whistle shrieked. The crowd roared. Somewhere in the chaos, the referee’s voice pierced through — loud and final. “You’re out, number 9! That’s it!”

Garrett’s chest heaved as he locked eyes with Coach Jensen, who was already stalking toward him with a look that could cut glass. The older man grabbed Garrett by the elbow and pulled him toward the penalty box, his face a mix of fury and something else — concern.

“What the hell was that?” Jensen shouted, his voice barely rising over the roar of the fans. “What is going on with you, kid?”

Garrett didn’t answer. His jaw was tight, lips pressed together so hard they were nearly white. Jensen kept talking, but it blurred into the background — all Garrett could hear was his own heartbeat, the blood thudding behind his ears.

This wasn’t like him. Everyone knew that. Garrett was the one who broke up fights, who told the freshmen to stay cool even when the hits got dirty. He didn’t snap over something as simple as a shoulder check. Hockey was physical — it was violent. That was the nature of the game. You gave a hit, you took a hit, you moved on.

But it wasn’t just the shove.

And it wasn’t just any player.

The St. Anthony forward had been at the party last weekend. The one at Garrett’s frat house. The one who couldn’t keep his hands to himself — grabbing, pressing in, not taking no for an answer.

One of the people he got handsy with had been you.

Garrett had watched it happen from across the room, too far and too late to do anything in the moment. You’d laughed it off, but he saw the unease in your eyes. Saw the way you stepped away. Saw the way the guy smirked and moved on like he hadn’t crossed a line.

Now, that same smirk had been skating circles around him all game.

He knew you were watching. Probably still staring at the big screen, watching the close-up of his flushed, furious face before it cut back to center ice. Garrett dropped his head, breathing hard, trying to get a grip. His fists clenched in his lap as Coach Jensen loomed over him.

“Well?” Jensen pressed.