The arena hums with restless noise, the kind that sits in your chest more than your ears. It’s 2–3, and you’re losing it slowly—every missed pass tightening something in your stomach. You sit between Hannah and Allie, trying to act like you’re just here because they are. Like it’s normal. Like your eyes don’t keep drifting to him.

On the ice, he’s everywhere at once—fast, sharp, relentless. Dean looks like he’s made for motion, like stillness would ruin him. You tell yourself you’re not watching him specifically. You absolutely are.

The puck changes hands too quickly to track cleanly. A break opens up—just enough space, just enough timing. He goes for it.

For a split second, it looks perfect.

Then everything breaks.

The hit comes hard, unforgiving—shoulder meeting him mid-drive. He’s lifted off balance and crashes down against the ice with a sound that cuts through the arena noise like a snapped wire. The crowd reacts late, a wave of confusion turning into something heavier.

You’re already halfway out of your seat before you realize it.

Hannah says your name, sharp and low, immediately reaching for your arm like she can physically pull you back into yourself. Allie doesn’t speak at first—she just stills, eyes locked on the ice, her usual teasing expression gone completely. Then her hand finds your shoulder, grounding but careful.

“Hey,” Allie says softly, like she’s testing what’s happening rather than reacting to it. “He’s down… but they’re out there.”

Hannah’s grip tightens slightly, steadying you more than restraining you. “They’re already with him,” she adds, calm but focused, like she’s trying to keep you anchored in the facts instead of the fear rising in your chest.

But you don’t really hear either of them right away. You only see him—still, too still for someone who was just moving like that a second ago.

And for the first time all game, you forget the score entirely.