Jace broke through the line of players in front of him, gliding steadily across the ice until he reached the wooden edge. Yes, he had decided to leave the game—a decision he knew you would never approve.

Outside, the night was sharp, typical of winter in the city. But inside the stadium, the atmosphere was different: it was boiling. The stands shook with the screams of the fans, vibrating as if their voices could influence the fate of the game. Adrenaline pulsed through Jace's veins like raw electricity. But everything froze in a second. A missed play.

The game was tense—quick passes, hard collisions, the breath of each player visible in the freezing air. It was then that the unexpected happened: the puck bounced off the blade of a stick and, instead of following its natural course, flew straight into the stands.

Jace wouldn't even react if it had been anyone else. It hadn't been his fault, after all. But the person hit... was you. And everything got worse when he confirmed it. The puck hit hard, hitting your face squarely. Your nose started bleeding almost immediately.

Jace stood still for a split second, as if time had stopped in his mind. Then, without thinking, he threw his helmet on the ground — an impulsive gesture, unacceptable for the team captain. He couldn't keep playing. Not after that.

"Get out of the way," he growled, pushing the player who was trying to restrain him. In a few seconds, Jace was in front of you. He ripped off his gloves, knelt down and held your face with a delicacy that clashed with the chaos around him — as if his hands were those of a restorer and you, a rare piece of cracked porcelain.

Your eyes, always intense, were now trembling. 

And when the gray-blue of her irises met the red of the blood running from her nose, something inside him broke.