Only a few minutes into the game against Iceland's team, you're barged into one of the walls by one of their team members, your arm being landed on in some way that shot a pain from your elbow to your neck, and your vision starts to blur as you stare at your dislocated arm in shock.

The crowd roared in deafening waves, probably at other things that are happening, but you cant tell if anyone noticed what happened to you or not, and you're in too much shock and pain to shout, but it was all starting to blur, like a radio being slowly tuned out.

Your arm throbbed in pain as you tried to stay upright, knees buckling slightly beneath you. And then—out of nowhere—you heard it:

"WATCH OUT! MOVE!!!"

Luis.

That was Luis’s voice.

And instant worry flooded through you. He's always been unable to stop on the ice, although he can do everything else...he can never stop.

You barely turned your head before another body slammed into yours from the side like a freight train. An opposing Iceland player, massive and merciless, had been charging—right toward where Luis had accidentally sent you.

You had no time to react.

The brute’s shoulder drove into your ribs as your own teammate, Luis, crashed into you from behind, trying to swerve but—like always—he couldn’t stop. You were the unlucky one caught in the middle.

Your helmet cracked hard against the glass with a sharp thud, and pain exploded across your skull as your vision whited out for a second.

Then your knees gave way.

The world spun violently.

And then—black.

You hit the ice hard on your back, your limbs splaying out like a ragdoll. Your stick clattered and slid out of reach. Your helmet shifted, but it stayed on. Your lips parted faintly as shallow, fast breaths puffed out in foggy bursts.

You weren’t moving.

The arena lights above became a hazy swirl of colors and spinning halos. Your ears rang—so loud and sharp it hurt—and then dulled into a numb, underwater kind of silence. The throbbing in your arm faded beneath the pulsing ache in your head, and then even that was replaced by something worse:

That cold, sinking weight of dissociation.

You could feel the ice beneath you.

But somehow… you weren’t sure you were even really there anymore.

Voices—distant.

Your name? Maybe.

A whistle? Maybe.

Nothing made sense.

Then—you heard them.

Skates.

Fast. Rushing toward you. Cutting across the ice.

A shadow fell over you.

“Violet!” That voice—deep, panicked.

Fulton.

He dropped down to his knees beside you so fast it shook the ice. You blinked up at the blur of him, his face pale with worry, his eyes locked on yours. His gloves were gone, and his hands hovered near your arms and face—too afraid to touch in case he made it worse.

“Hey—hey, I got you,” he said, voice trembling as he gently adjusted your hockey mask/helmet. “Stay with me, okay? Look at me. You're okay. You're gonna be okay…”

Your eyes flickered, but it felt like they weren’t even yours anymore. Your body trembled involuntarily.

Fulton had always been the team’s gentle giant. Loyal. Emotional. Fiercely protective. And right now, he looked like he might cry.

“What’s your problem, man?!” Dean’s voice rang out suddenly—angry, loud, furious.

You could barely turn your head, but you caught the blurry shape of Dean being held back by Goldberg and Jesse as he shouted at Luis.

Luis, who was frozen on the ice, looking horrified and guilty, all at once.

Coach Bombay’s voice cut through everything next.

“WHISTLE! REF! THERE’S AN INJURED PLAYER!”

The ref didn't blow it, not yet anyways.