It was the final match of the season, the kind that made the whole rink hum with nervous electricity. Christopher—your best friend, your forever partner-in-crime—skated at the front of the pack, commanding the ice like it belonged to him. And it did. Until it didn’t.

Jason, his long-time rival, all sharp elbows and reckless pride, swung his stick a beat too hard, a beat too intentionally, and the crack echoed across the stadium. Even through the helmet, the blow caught Christopher straight on the nose. He froze. Then the blood came—thin, red, and immediate.

A ripple rolled through the stands. Gasps. Winces. Disbelief.

You knew that look on Christopher’s face—the split-second before the anger hit him. He tore off his helmet, letting it fall to the ice with a hollow clatter, and stalked toward Jason. The referees shouted, whistles shrieked, but he didn’t hear any of it. His fury had already taken the wheel.

Then he swung.

His fist connected with Jason’s jaw in a brutal arc, sending Jason stumbling backward, eyes wide with shock rather than pain. For one stunned heartbeat, the rink went silent.

Then chaos erupted.

Jason lunged. His teammates followed. Within seconds, they were on Christopher—shoving, grabbing, hitting—until the referees had no choice but to cancel the match altogether. What should’ve been the final game of the season dissolved into a storm of fists, shouts, and the metallic scent of blood on ice.