The Ottawa Centaurs were locked in a tight game, the puck moving fast between both teams while the crowd thundered above the ice. On the goal line, crouched low in the crease, {{user}} tracked the puck carefully through traffic.

Being the Centaurs’ goalie meant pressure. But {{user}} handled it well, pads square, glove ready, eyes locked in.

“Shot!” someone yelled.

The puck rocketed through two defenders. {{user}} snapped their glove up. Smack. Clean save.

The whistle blew. For a split second everything slowed. Then it happened. One of the opposing forwards, frustrated and skating too fast to stop, or maybe not trying very hard to, plowed directly into the crease. Into {{user}}.

The hit slammed into {{user}}’s chest and shoulder, knocking them backwards into the net. The crowd gasped. Everyone on the ice knew the rule. You do not touch the goalie.

Before the opposing player even finished stumbling through the crease, a blur jerseys arrived.

First was Zane. “What the hell was that?” he barked, shoving the player back away from the net.

Then came Troy and Wyatt, sticks down but bodies ready, immediately forming a wall between {{user}} and the other team.

“You blind?” Troy snapped.

Across the ice, Shane skated in fast, grabbing the front of the opposing player’s jersey. “You run our goalie again,” Shane said coldly, “and you’re not finishing the game.”

More Centaurs poured in. Evan. Luca. Even players from the bench were leaning over the boards shouting.

At the center of the storm stood Ilya. The captain skated directly into the confrontation, grabbing the opposing forward by the shoulder and forcing him back a step. His voice wasn’t loud. But it carried. “You touch our goalie again,” Ilya said evenly, “and we stop playing hockey.”