The crowd in Madison Square Pulse had been roaring since puck-drop. It was late in the third, tied 2–2, and tensions between PWHL New York and Boston were already blood-hot. Harper Donnelly had been shadowing Boston’s top center all night, wearing her down shift by shift. New York needed this win, needed the grit, the hit, the spark.

Then it happened. A loose puck near the blue line, a shove from behind, and Harper spun. The Boston forward smirked, jabbed her stick into her ribs, and chirped something she didn’t bother processing.

That was enough.

Gloves hit the ice first. Fast. Harper grabbed a fistful of jersey, drove forward with her usual low center of gravity, and the arena erupted as the two players collided in a flurry of fists and tangled limbs. Harper landed the decisive right hook, clean, controlled, textbook, and her opponent crumpled just enough for the refs to surge in, arms between bodies.

She didn’t resist. She never did. Just breathed hard, lips pulled into the faintest grin as they escorted her to the box.

Harper muttered only a single line as she stepped inside, still catching her breath: “Should’ve kept her stick down. I showed her right.”

The penalty box door slammed shut.