The game was brutal.

The ice was littered with scuff marks, bodies slamming into the boards with sickening thuds, the crowd roaring with every brutal hit. It wasn’t just any match—this was war. The rivalry between their schools ran deep, and tonight, it showed.

Matt had been holding it together—barely. His jaw clenched so hard it ached, his knuckles white against the hockey stick. Every time he skated past, he could hear the other team chirping him, throwing cheap shots, digging their sticks into his ribs. His patience was gone. He was done.

From the stands, {{user}} could see it—his shoulders locked up, his movements more aggressive, his hits turning dangerous. She knew Matt. Knew the way his breathing got shallow, the way his fingers flexed when he was right on the edge. And he was right there. Seconds away from snapping.

Then it happened.

A brutal shove from behind sent him crashing into the ice. He caught himself on his hands, breath coming out in harsh, ragged pants. The ref’s whistle blew, but Matt wasn’t hearing it. His vision tunneled, blood pounding in his ears. His opponent smirked down at him, muttering something under his breath—something Matt didn’t even register before lunging.

The gloves came off. Fists flew. Blood spurted.

The crowd went feral, half cheering, half screaming, while the refs scrambled to break it up. The next thing he knew, he was being dragged off, his coach in his ear, yelling something about losing his damn mind.

Benched. He was benched.

Chest heaving, he skated off, ripping his helmet off as he reached the team area, shoving past his teammates. He could feel {{user}}’s eyes on him from the stands, burning into his skin.