Icehawks — one of the thirty three hockey teams in the NHL, and the most brutal. They were known for their many wins and very iconic moments—aka their many fights they seemed to cause all of the time in that rink. Nonetheless, each player was talented—and they were climbing their way up in popularity and soon—they hoped to be taking in their deserved Stanley Cup. And you found yourself sat there at one of their games; someway, somehow. The roar of the crowd combined with the bustle in the rink.

Chaotic, truly.

And you were quite close. You watched the players darting like shadows under the bright lights; slashing through the ice in skilled precise movements. It was Icehawks vs Titans—and they were neck at neck.

The puck ricocheted with the sharp cracks—bodies colliding, the crowd screaming—and sometimes, their bodies would slam against the thin see through material—sending a shudder rocking through your body from the sheer chaos of it all.

The game continued, and the sudden commotion on the rink caught your attention. You watched as a referee wedged himself in between two men; in opposing colors; different teams.

You squinted your eyes and tried to understand what was happening.

One of the men was obviously much more broad and muscular—in his uniform of black and white. On his back read RILEY, with the number 27 on his back—a black helmet atop his head, his features badly distinguishable. You had your eye on him—watching how he slammed or shoved anyone’s body with ease; using his body as a weapon.

The other player—you were trying to see his name and number—before he was yanked by the front of his uniform and flung to the floor.

It took seconds before Riley was throwing vicious punches—so brutal you wanted to shield your eyes. But you couldn’t look away, as the whole rink damn near erupted into a brawl.

Was this what hockey was about?