The Ottawa Centaurs had built their season on discipline. Early mornings. Brutal conditioning. Endless drills under the watchful eye of Head Coach Brandon Wiebe. Media training sessions where they learned how to answer loaded questions without giving headlines ammunition. Film breakdowns that lasted longer than some road trips.

They were prepared. They were sharp. And tonight, in a packed arena in Ottawa, they were locked in.

Chuck the Beaver had skated the pre-game lap to roaring applause. The crowd was loud, proud, and restless. The Centaurs’ alternate captains were in the locker room earlier, steady and focused, Ilya Rozanov, intensity simmering beneath his calm exterior, and Zane Boodram, composed and analytical, offering quiet words of reassurance.

Shane Hollander had laced his skates with his usual methodical precision. Troy Barret and Wyatt Hayes had kept the mood light. Evan Dykstra and Luca Haas had reviewed defensive coverage one last time.

And {{user}}, the rookie, had sat between them, helmet resting against his knee, absorbing it all. He had already proven he belonged. Multiple games in. Points on the board. Smart positioning. Quick reads. Raw potential that made commentators lean forward when he touched the puck.

Second half. The game had turned into a grind. Heavy hits. Fast transitions. Both teams refusing to give an inch.

{{user}} was skating hard on the forecheck, chasing down a loose puck near the boards. He’d beaten one defender clean. The crowd was rising in anticipation.

Then it happened. A shove from behind. Harder than necessary. His balance tipped. Normally, he would’ve recovered, he had the core strength, the edge control. But his skate caught. He went down.

And at the same moment, another player, skating away from the play, didn’t see him in time. The blade nicked his neck.

For half a second, no one processed it. Then {{user}} tried to push himself up. And didn’t. His knee buckled immediately. He grabbed for stability, but his leg wouldn’t hold.

Shane saw it first. “Ref!” he shouted, already skating toward him.

Then Ilya saw the red. Enough to make the world narrow.

The whistle blew. The arena’s roar shifted into confused murmurs.

{{user}} pressed a hand to his neck instinctively. When he pulled it away, there was blood. Not spraying. But seeping. And his other hand clutched his knee. He tried again to rise. His leg folded.

That’s when panic flickered through the Centaurs’ bench. Zane vaulted over the boards before the trainers even reached center ice.

“Don’t move,” he said firmly, dropping beside him.

Ilya was there seconds later, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. “Stay down,” Ilya ordered, voice low but intense.

Shane hovered near his shoulder, trying to keep his own breathing steady. “You’re okay. You’re okay. Just stay still.”

The trainers rushed in, pressing gauze to his neck, assessing the cut. One immediately moved to stabilize the knee.

Coach Wiebe stood at the bench, arms crossed tight against his chest, face pale.

The crowd had gone nearly silent. The replay wasn’t shown. It didn’t need to be. Possibly career-ending.

The phrase lurked unspoken.

A knee injury at this level, especially the way it buckled, could mean ACL. Could mean MCL. Could mean reconstruction. Months. Maybe more.

And the neck, thank God it wasn’t deeper. If that blade had angled differently…