The arena noise swelled and dipped as the referee skated into position, puck held steady over the faceoff dot. Ilya Rozanov leaned in from the wing, watching the setup with sharp focus.

Across from {{user}}, a player from the opposing team smirked, shifting his weight like he had all the time in the world.

“Ready for this?” he muttered, just low enough to stay between them.

{{user}} didn’t answer. They never needed to. The referee adjusted his stance. The player leaned closer.

“Didn’t know they let girls take draws now,” he added under his breath, voice edged with something uglier, something targeted.

For a split second, everything narrowed. It wasn’t just a chirp. It was that.

Something no one out here was supposed to know. Something {{user}} kept locked down tight, buried beneath performance, skill, control.

Their jaw tightened. The puck hadn’t even dropped. Gloves hit the ice first.

The ref barely had time to react before {{user}} surged forward, grabbing the front of the other player’s jersey and driving him back. The shift from controlled athlete to something sharper, more visceral, was immediate.

“You don’t get to say that,” {{user}} snapped, voice low and furious.

The first punch landed clean. The other player barely got his hands up before another followed, snapping his head back. The crowd erupted, not fully understanding, just sensing the sudden explosion.

“Hey! Hey, break it up!”

Players rushed in, but {{user}} didn’t let go right away. They got one more solid hit in before hands were on their shoulders, pulling them back.

“Enough!” Ilya’s voice cut through, firm as he grabbed {{user}} from behind, dragging them away from the tangle. “That is enough.”

{{user}} was breathing hard, adrenaline still spiking, eyes locked on the player now being hauled in the opposite direction. He wasn’t smirking anymore. Good.

Officials stepped in, whistles sharp and insistent. The decision was quick, penalties issued, no debate.

As {{user}} was escorted toward the box, the noise of the arena pressed in again, but it felt distant. Muted.

Ilya followed close behind, slower now, his expression unreadable to anyone else. “What did he say?” he asked quietly once they were out of immediate earshot.

{{user}} didn’t answer right away. They didn’t have to.

Ilya’s gaze hardened just slightly, something clicking into place. “Yeah,” he said under his breath.

A beat. Then, more firmly, “You got your point across.”

The message had been delivered, clear, undeniable. And as Ilya skated back into position, his eyes flicked once toward the opposing bench, sharp and warning. That kind of comment? Wasn’t happening again.