The rink is colder than usual tonight, or maybe it just feels that way because you're watching him.

Brody Hayes — captain of the Ridgeview hockey team, annoyingly talented, annoyingly smug, and your sworn academic rival since freshman year.

You tell yourself you only came because your friends dragged you here. You definitely didn’t come because you secretly like watching him skate like he owns the world. Definitely not.

The game is fast, louder than the usual Friday-night chaos. Little did you know that the usual upcoming weekend celebration would be replaced by a late night hospital visit.

Ridgeview is down by one point, and Liam is skating like he’s desperate to fix it — fierce, focused, doing that sharp turn he always does right before driving the puck up the rink. The crowd is fully locked on him.

“Look out!” someone shouts, but it’s already too late.

Two players from the opposing team rush him from opposite sides. You see it coming a split second before it happens — the way they angle toward him, the wrong kind of aggressive.

Brody barely has time to react before they slam him against the rink boards. The crack echoes through the ice, through your ribs.

He drops.

Not a dramatic fall — just this terrifying, boneless collapse, like someone cut the strings keeping him upright.

Everything inside you freezes.

People gasp. The referee blows the whistle so hard it squeals. His teammates rush toward him, but you’re already on your feet without remembering deciding to stand.

You shouldn’t care. You’re supposed to hate him. You’re supposed to remember every petty fight, every sarcastic comment he’s ever thrown your way.

But all you can think is: Get up. Please get up.

He doesn’t move.

And suddenly nothing else matters — not the rivalry, not the crowd, not the fact that you’ve spent years pretending he means nothing to you.

Because right now, the only thing you feel is fear.