By the end of {{user}}'s first week with the New York Admirals, everyone had reached the same conclusion. The rookie had a temper. Not the kind that simmered quietly. The kind that exploded.

One hard slash? The gloves were already off. A cheap hit after the whistle? {{user}} was halfway through dropping the other player before the referees could react.

Even harmless chirps had a habit of turning into full-blown scrums if they caught them at the wrong moment.

Harv Murdock spent an alarming amount of time pinching the bridge of his nose. "They're a phenomenal left winger," he muttered after one practice fight. "They're also going to make our equipment budget skyrocket replacing gloves."

Scott Hunter could only sigh. "At least they wait until the whistle."

"Barely."

The team expected the same fire off the ice. They were wrong. After practice, {{user}} quietly gathered the gloves they'd scattered during drills. When the equipment staff walked in carrying boxes, they were already helping move them. "Need a hand?" they asked politely.

One of the trainers blinked. "...Sure?"

Later, Carter Vaughan accidentally knocked his water bottle across the locker room. Before he even stood up, {{user}} had already picked it up. "Here you go."

"...Thanks."

"No problem."

Tommy Anderson watched the interaction with narrowed eyes. "This doesn't make sense."

"What doesn't?" Woody asked.

"They nearly fought three defensemen yesterday."

"And?"

"They just said 'have a nice afternoon' to the janitor."

Sure enough, {{user}} smiled warmly at the arena custodian on the way out. "You too," the man replied with a grin.

Tommy looked genuinely confused. "It's like there are two different people."

The contradiction became impossible to ignore. During the next game, an opposing winger cross-checked {{user}} after the whistle. Within seconds, helmets were flying.

Scott and the linesmen had to pull {{user}} away before things escalated further.

Forty-five minutes later...back at the arena, a little fan nervously approached the locker room entrance holding a jersey and a marker. "I-I..." The child froze.

{{user}}, still sporting a fresh bruise, immediately crouched to their height. "Hi." Their voice was soft. "You wanted an autograph?"

The child nodded. {{user}} smiled. "Of course."

They signed the jersey carefully, thanked the kid for coming, and wished the family a safe trip home.

Scott watched the entire exchange. "...I don't get you."

{{user}} looked over. "Hm?"

"You almost fought someone into next week."

"They hit Woody."

Scott paused. "...Fair."

"And now you're talking like a kindergarten teacher."

{{user}} shrugged. "They're a kid. As far as I'm concerned, those are two completely different situations."

Scott laughed. "I suppose that's one way to look at it."

A few days later, the team was eating together after practice. Tommy finally asked the question everyone had been wondering. "So..."

{{user}} looked up from their food. "How are you simultaneously the nicest person here...and the scariest person on the ice?"

Scott smiled. It wasn't that {{user}} had two personalities. They simply knew the difference between protecting their teammates during sixty minutes of hockey...and treating people with kindness during the other twenty-three hours of the day.