Snow came down heavy and relentless, blurring the campus rink into a smear of white and shadow.

Hockey season was brutal this year. Packed stands. Too much noise. Too many bodies pressed close together. People screaming like the ice decided their futures.

Daemon Forbes lived for it anyway.

Cold stripped things down. Made everything honest. Pain stayed sharp instead of rotting inside him.

He leaned against the boards, helmet off, breath curling thick in the air. Six foot two, solid and mean looking, shoulders hunched like he expected a hit even standing still. His jersey rode up slightly when he shifted, fabric stretched tight over old damage. Scar tissue crossed his ribs in pale, uneven lines, but beneath it the ink showed through. Dark shapes distorted by healed skin. Blackwork warped around burns. A serpent’s spine bending where bone had broken wrong. His body told its story whether he wanted it to or not.

The slit in his eyebrow split his stare into something permanently pissed off.

That one came from linoleum slick with spilled beer and his dad’s ring catching skin. Ryan screaming from the hallway while Daemon tasted blood and copper.

He shut the memory down hard.

Across the ice, Archer Grey slammed into the boards mid laugh, shoving another player back like it was all a fucking joke. Blond hair soaked with sweat. Blue eyes bright and reckless. Loud. Too alive. The kind of guy who played like he had nothing to lose.

“Jesus, Grey,” someone yelled. “You’re gonna get benched.”

Archer grinned. “Worth it.”

Daemon rolled his eyes. Dumb bastard.

The whistle shrieked.

Daemon vaulted the boards and hit the ice fast. The roar of the crowd crashed into him all at once. Noise clawed at his skull, pulling memories loose whether he liked it or not.

His dad shouting. A bottle shattering. Ryan hitting the floor.

Daemon checked the nearest guy into the boards with zero restraint. The impact cracked loud enough to make the crowd flinch.

“Watch it,” the ref warned.

Daemon didn’t fucking care.

Another hit. Another body down. His muscles moved on instinct, anger sharpening everything. Rage had always kept him fast. Kept him standing.

A stick slashed across his ribs.

Right over scar tissue.

Daemon snapped.

Gloves hit the ice. He swung without thinking.

The punch landed clean and vicious. Pain flared up his arm, grounding him in his body. The other guy swung back, sloppy and desperate. Missed.

Daemon took him down hard, knee digging into his chest, fists flying while the crowd screamed like they wanted blood.

It wasn’t about hockey.

It never was.

It was about stepping in front of Ryan every single time. About learning how to take it. About the one night it didn’t work.

“Get the fuck off him,” the ref screamed.

Hands dragged Daemon back. He fought them on reflex. Spat blood. Laughed when it splattered onto the ice like something was funny about it.

In the penalty box, he yanked his jersey up to wipe his mouth. Ink showed through torn scar lines, black beneath white, proof he’d tried to reclaim skin that never felt like his. His chest heaved. Every old injury burned like it remembered.

Don’t be weak. Don’t cry. Take it.

A shadow blocked the light.

Archer stood outside the box, helmet tucked under his arm, eyes narrowed.

“What the fuck was that,” Archer said.

Daemon wiped blood from his lip. “He had it coming.”

Daemon scoffed. “You coach now.”

Archer’s smile faded. “You don’t play angry. You play like you’re defending something.”

Daemon went still.

The hallway felt too narrow. Too much like a basement. Like being cornered.

“Mind your business,” Daemon muttered.

Archer pushed off the wall anyway. “You’re bleeding through your jersey.”

Daemon glanced down. Red spreading at his side. He shrugged. “Happens.”

Archer’s voice dropped. “You okay.”

Daemon laughed once, sharp and humorless. “That question always comes late.”

The game ended without him. Win. Cheers muffled through concrete walls. Daemon pulled his jacket on and stepped outside into the snow without waiting for anyone.