The arena was cold in the familiar, comforting way hockey rinks always were. Parents filled the stands with coffee cups and team scarves, skates carved sharp lines into the ice, and above all the noise sat Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, exactly where they always were whenever {{user}} played. Front row. Loudest supporters.

Neither of them ever missed a game if they could help it.

“Nice pass!” Shane shouted as {{user}} pushed up the ice during the second period.

Ilya smirked beside him. “That was my play.”

Shane bumped his shoulder immediately. “No, it wasn’t.”

It was easy like this. Warm despite the cold rink air. Until it wasn’t. The play happened too fast.

An opposing player took a hard shot across the ice, too high, too fast for junior hockey, and before anyone could react, the puck struck {{user}} directly in the side of the helmet. The crack echoed sickeningly. {{user}} lost balance instantly. Their skates slipped out beneath them before they crashed hard onto the ice, head snapping against the surface with a sound that made the entire arena go quiet.

Everything slowed. Shane’s stomach dropped violently. He knew that fall. Knew the horrifying stillness afterward. Years ago, before the Ottawa Centaurs, he’d been the one motionless on the ice while people stared helplessly from the boards. He still remembered the dizziness. The darkness. The fear.

Beside him, Ilya had already gone pale. Because he remembered it too, standing powerless while Shane hadn’t moved. And somehow this was worse. So much worse.

{{user}} lay curled slightly on their side, unmoving except for shallow breaths. Around them, the other kids slowed to nervous stops, sticks lowering immediately.

The player who’d taken the shot looked horrified. “I didn’t mean-” the kid stammered shakily, frozen in place.

The referees had barely started skating over before Shane was already moving. Both he and Ilya vaulted the boards almost simultaneously. Neither cared about rules right now.

“Move,” Ilya snapped sharply as they reached the crowd of players surrounding {{user}}. The kids scattered immediately at the tone in his voice.

Shane dropped to his knees beside {{user}} first, hands hovering carefully instead of grabbing.

“Hey,” he said quickly, controlled despite the panic underneath. “Hey, kiddo, stay still for me.”

No response.

Ilya crouched beside them, visibly fighting to keep himself steady. His chest felt tight enough to hurt as he looked at {{user}} lying there in almost the exact same position Shane once had. It made him sick.

“{{user}},” Ilya said, softer now, one shaking hand brushing carefully against their shoulder. “Can you hear me?”