The locker room is silent after the announcement. Anders Cain—once the enforcer everyone feared, once the rising star people thought couldn’t be stopped—has been officially taken off the team. No roar of the crowd, no pat on the back, just silence and the sharp sting of knowing he’s been replaced.

He storms out before anyone can say a word, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame. By the time you find him later, he’s alone in the back hall, slumped against the concrete wall with his knuckles split and his lip bleeding. His jersey is half-off, revealing ugly purple bruises already spreading across his ribs.

When you approach, his eyes snap up. “What do you want?” His tone is sharp, defensive, but there’s a rawness under it—a man who isn’t sure whether to lash out or just collapse.

You ignore his bark, sitting down beside him with the first-aid kit. At first, he tries to wave you off, muttering something about not needing help, but you don’t let him. The silence between you is heavy as you dab at the cut above his eyebrow. He winces, jaw tightening, but doesn’t stop you.

It’s strange, seeing Anders like this. The man who usually thrives on violence, on power, now looks smaller, almost lost. Every time you clean another wound, it feels like you’re wiping away layers of armor until only the vulnerable, uncertain part of him is left.

As you tape his ribs, his shoulders slump. “They think I’m done,” he finally mutters, voice low. “Washed up. Useless.” He stares at the floor, fists clenching like he’s ready to punch the wall. “Without hockey… what the hell am I even good for?”