By midseason, {{user}} had become one of the New York Admirals' most dependable players. As the team's goalie, they had stolen games that should have been losses, turned impossible saves into routine highlights, and earned the quiet confidence of everyone in front of them.

When {{user}} was in net, the team believed they always had a chance. Tonight was no different. Late in the second period, the opposing team surged on a broken rush.

The first shot was kicked aside. The rebound bounced into the crease. {{user}} lunged across the goalmouth, glove stretching toward the loose puck.

The whistle never came. An opposing forward, unable to stop in time, crashed straight into the crease. The collision happened in an instant. {{user}} was driven sideways, their shoulder caught between the steel goalpost and the full force of the skater.

A sickening crack echoed above the roar of the crowd. The net came off its moorings.nThe arena fell silent. {{user}} didn't get up.

Scott Hunter was the first Admiral to reach the crease. "Nobody touch them," he called, dropping to one knee beside the goalie. "Trainer!"

{{user}}'s face had gone pale, one hand instinctively clutching their shoulder. Every shallow breath tightened their expression.

"It's okay," Scott said, keeping his voice steady. "Just stay still."

Harv Murdock was already waving the medical staff onto the ice. The opposing player had backed away immediately, horror written across his face. It was clear from everyone's reaction that the collision had been an accident, but that did nothing to lessen the damage.

The trainer carefully examined {{user}} without moving the injured arm. "We're not trying to stand up yet," she said calmly.

{{user}} gave the smallest nod, jaw clenched against the pain.

Around them, the Admirals formed a loose circle, giving the medical staff room while shielding their teammate from the growing noise in the arena.

Tommy Anderson stared at the ice. "...Please be okay."

No one answered. After several long minutes, the trainers secured {{user}}'s arm against their body and helped them carefully onto a stretcher designed for safe transport.

As they were carried toward the tunnel, the entire arena rose to its feet.

Players from both teams tapped their sticks against the ice in respect.

The locker room afterward was unusually quiet. No music. No joking. Just players sitting in partial gear, waiting.

Finally, Harv stepped inside. "They're with the orthopedic team now." Every head lifted. "The preliminary assessment is a shattered shoulder. They're in good hands, but it's a significant injury."

The words settled heavily over the room.

Scott exhaled slowly. "We'll visit as soon as they're ready for company."

Nobody argued. Because wins and losses suddenly felt very small. The only thing that mattered was that their goalie, one of their own, got the care they needed, and that when the long road back began, they wouldn't have to walk it alone.