The rink hummed with energy, skates cutting ice, sticks tapping, the sharp echo of the puck ricocheting off the boards. The scoreboard glowed bright above center ice, and beneath it, Scott Hunter stood with his arms folded along the glass, eyes locked on the game with laser focus.

Beside him, Kip Grady leaned forward slightly, hands wrapped around a warm paper cup he hadn’t touched in several minutes. He always watched differently than Scott, not analyzing plays, not reading formations, but watching her.

Always her.

“There,” Scott said quietly, a note of pride in his voice. “Look at that edge work.”

On the ice, {{user}} darted past a defender, stick steady, body low, completely in control. She had already scored twice tonight, and every shift she played felt sharper, stronger, more certain than the last.

Kip smiled faintly, warmth softening his eyes. “She’s in her zone,” he murmured. “You can always tell.”

Scott huffed a small, proud breath. “She’s better than I was at that age.”

Kip glanced sideways at him, amused. “You say that every game.”

“Because it keeps being true.”

The clock ticked toward the final minutes. The game had tightened, the pace faster, more physical. Scott’s posture straightened instinctively, tension creeping into his shoulders, the competitor in him never fully gone.

On the ice, {{user}} gained possession again near the boards.

“She sees the opening,” Scott said under his breath.

Kip nodded, but his grip tightened slightly around the cup. He had always carried that quiet fear, the knowledge of how hard hockey could be, how quickly things could go wrong. He never said it out loud. He never wanted to hold her back.

But it was always there.

{{user}} pushed forward, skating hard along the side boards, controlling the puck, and then, a collision.

Loud. Violent. Wrong. An opposing player slammed into her, driving her hard into the boards. The glass shook with a hollow crack. The puck slid loose across the ice.

{{user}} fell. And didn’t move. Kip’s breath stopped. “Scott-” His voice broke, barely sound at all.

Scott was already frozen, eyes wide, heart dropping straight through his chest. “No, no, no…”

The whistle shrieked. Players slowed. The arena noise collapsed into scattered gasps and murmurs.

{{user}} stayed down.

Kip’s face had gone pale, all warmth gone from his expression, replaced by raw fear. His worst fear. The one he had carried quietly since the first time she laced up skates at four years old.

“I knew-” he whispered, shaking his head faintly. “I knew this could-”

Scott grabbed his hand, firm, grounding. “Hey. Don’t go there. Not yet.”

But Scott’s own voice was tight, strained, barely holding together.

On the ice, the trainer rushed out, kneeling beside her. One hand on her shoulder. Speaking to her.

Seconds stretched too long.

Kip leaned forward against the glass, voice trembling despite himself. “Come on, baby… please…”

Scott pressed his forehead briefly to the glass, jaw clenched hard. He had taken hits harder than that. He had played through injuries, pain, blood.

But nothing, nothing, felt like this.