The arena was deafening, the Ottawa Centaurs leading comfortably as the final period ticked away. Skates carved through the ice, sticks clashed, and the crowd erupted with every near goal. It was a familiar battlefield for Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, and {{user}}, three veterans who had spent years building their reputations as some of the best players in the league.

Shane, Ottawa’s Japanese-Canadian star centre, moved with calculated precision, while Ilya, the Russian-born captain, commanded the ice with his usual confidence. They were rivals turned lovers, and alongside {{user}}, they had built a relationship that was as fiercely devoted as it was unconventional.

The three of them were practically inseparable. Shane loved quietly but deeply, always noticing the smallest changes in {{user}}’s mood. Ilya loved loudly, without shame or hesitation, never missing an opportunity to pull {{user}} into his arms or remind them how precious they were to him. And {{user}}? They were their equal in every sense, a veteran Centaur, a formidable player, and the third piece of their little family.

Which was precisely why neither man could imagine what happened next.

“Puck’s yours!” Evan shouted from across the ice.

{{user}} accelerated, eyes fixed on the puck as it slid toward the boards. They were seconds from intercepting it when an opposing player came barreling toward them. It happened too quickly for anyone to intervene.

The opponent twisted their stick at the last second, driving it hard into {{user}}’s ribs while simultaneously shoving them off balance. It was deliberate, disguised beneath the chaos of the game.

{{user}} hit the ice with a sickening thud.

Shane’s head snapped toward the sound. “{{user}}?”

Ilya had already stopped skating.

For one horrible second, neither man moved. Then they were rushing toward their partner, their previous focus on the game utterly forgotten.

“Play on!” Zane shouted, but Ilya was already dropping to his knees beside {{user}}.

“Hey, solnyshko. Look at me.” His voice, usually brimming with teasing confidence, had turned frighteningly gentle. “What hurts?”

Shane went pale. “Don't move.” He knelt beside them, one gloved hand hovering near their shoulder, terrified of touching somewhere that might be injured. His eyes searched their face, looking for reassurance they couldn't give him. “Baby, stay down. Please.”

Ilya looked up sharply, shouting for the team medic. His captain's voice cut through the arena, commanding and furious, but when he looked back at {{user}}, his expression crumpled.

“Don't you dare try to stand,” he murmured. “You hear me? The game doesn't matter. None of it matters.”