The rink echoed with the sharp rhythm of blades carving into ice, the steady thud of pucks against boards, and Coach Brandon Wiebe’s voice cutting clean through it all.

“Again!” he called.

The Ottawa Centaurs didn’t slow. They never did.

{{user}} pushed forward with the rest of them, lungs burning, legs heavy but controlled. Sweat clung under his gear, breath coming out in short bursts as he chased the drill like it was the last shift of a tied game.

That was how he played. All in. Every time. It was why the team respected him, not just as a rookie anymore, but as one of their own.

He’d told them early on. About the fainting. No sugarcoating. No excuses. Just the truth. And they’d adapted. Quietly. Without making it a thing.

Now, near the end of practice, something shifted. Subtle at first. A flicker in his vision. A slight disconnect between his body and the ice beneath him.

{{user}} slowed. Not enough to draw immediate attention, but enough.

Ilya Rozanov noticed first. He always did. The captain’s head turned slightly, eyes locking onto {{user}} with sharp awareness. “Hey-” he started, low.

Zane Boodram followed his gaze instantly. “Hold up,” Zane called, voice louder this time, cutting through the drill.

Coach Wiebe’s whistle blew. Everything stopped.

{{user}} exhaled, trying to steady himself, but the feeling deepened, dizziness creeping in, the world tilting just enough to be dangerous. He knew this part. And so did they.

“Easy,” Shane Hollander said, already skating closer but not too fast, not reckless.

“Don’t move,” Troy Barret added from the other side, keeping his distance just enough not to crowd him on the ice.

Because that was the risk. Hard ice. No give. If he went down wrong…

“I got you,” Ilya said, voice calm, steady as he approached carefully, positioning himself just close enough to catch if needed without throwing {{user}} off balance.

Zane mirrored him on the other side. A quiet safety net. {{user}}’s knees wobbled slightly.

“Sit if you can,” Evan Dykstra called from a few feet away. “Slow.”

No panic. No shouting. Just controlled, practiced awareness. Because they’d prepared for this, even if they hoped they’d never need to use it.

The rink stayed silent except for the sound of skates shifting cautiously. Coach didn’t bark orders this time. He watched, trusting his captains, trusting the team.

Every single Centaur on that ice was ready to catch him if he fell.