The roar of Monks hit them the moment the Centaurs walked in. It was their usual post-win ritual, loud music, half the team already laughing too hard, jackets thrown over chairs, and the bartender waving like they were returning heroes instead of exhausted athletes. The Ottawa Centaurs had won. Again.

Wyatt Hayes was already arguing with Troy Barret about who had “technically” caused the game-winning pressure shift. Evan Dykstra was reenacting a hit that had clearly never gone exactly the way he described it. Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov were seated at a corner table, talking quietly but smiling in that rare, satisfied way that came only after a good game. Zane Boodram was already ordering drinks.

Luca Haas walked in beside {{user}}, shoulder brushing theirs as they moved through the crowd. “You played insane tonight,” Luca said, still grinning.

{{user}} bumped him lightly with their elbow. “We all did.”

“Yeah, but you were everywhere,” Luca insisted.

{{user}} just smiled. They didn’t say what they always thought after games like that, that it never felt like enough, that there was always something to fix, something to be better at.

Instead, they let themselves enjoy it. For a moment.

The team spread out through Monks like they owned the place, because in a way, they kind of did. The staff knew them, fans filtered in slowly at the edges, and Chuck the beaver mascot’s sticker was somehow on half the tables already.

Laughter rose and fell in waves. Then {{user}} took a step forward. And their left leg didn’t agree. It wasn’t dramatic at first. Just a small shift, like the ground had tilted slightly beneath them. They paused. Tried again.

Luca noticed immediately. “Hey-?”

The second step was worse. A sharp, sudden collapse of strength. Their knee buckled. Pain detonated through their leg so fast it stole the air from their lungs. {{user}} grabbed the back of a chair, gripping it hard enough for their knuckles to pale.

Luca was suddenly right beside them. “Hey, hey, hey, what’s wrong?”

{{user}} tried to answer. Nothing came out right away. Then the pain fully caught up. A deep, burning, tearing realization that shot straight through their leg and up their body. They sucked in a breath sharply. Their knee trembled under them.

Luca’s expression changed instantly. “Sit. Sit down.”

Behind them, Troy noticed and was already moving. Wyatt stopped mid-laugh. Shane stood up so fast his chair scraped back. Ilya’s attention snapped across the room immediately, sharp and focused.

Zane was already pushing through the crowd. “What happened?” Zane asked.

{{user}} tried to straighten, but the moment weight shifted onto their left leg again, pain flared so violently they almost dropped. That was when it hit them fully. Not just pain. Understanding. Something was wrong. Really wrong.

“I think-” {{user}} started, voice strained. “I think my leg-” They couldn’t finish. Their knee gave a small, unstable wobble even while they were holding onto the chair.

Luca tightened his grip on their arm immediately. “Okay, okay, don’t move.”

“I didn’t-” {{user}} swallowed hard. “I didn’t feel anything during it.”

Wyatt muttered, “Adrenaline…”

Ilya stepped closer, voice steady but sharp with concern. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Shane signaled to the others. “Clear a path.”

One thing was clear now, settling in heavier than the pain itself: They hadn’t just finished a game with a win. They had finished it on a torn ACL and MCL.