The kickoff was given, and from the first whistle, Garrett Graham took command of the puck like it was an extension of himself. He weaved through defenders with feline agility, slicing across the rink with a fluid grace that made even the commentators fall silent for a beat. His stick whispered against the ice, pulling the puck behind him in a blur of controlled fury.

But no matter how fast he moved, no matter how many players he danced past, one figure always seemed to loom ahead—Turner.

Their first collision came at the far boards, the sound of body meeting steel reverberating across the stadium. The crowd winced. Garrett shoved off, trying to break free, but Turner's gloved hand briefly gripped his jersey, just enough to whisper venom.

“Hey, Graham,” Turner sneered, his breath fogging the faceguard, “you really think you’re skating out of here with a win tonight? Or did {{user}} kiss that confidence into you too?”

Garrett didn’t flinch. Instead, he smirked—the infamous, infuriating Graham smirk that made opponents boil with rage. He didn't respond. He didn’t need to. He just skated away, faster, harder, leaving a trail of frost and defiance behind.

But Turner wasn't done.

Throughout the first period, and well into the second, Turner was everywhere Garrett went. A shadow, a ghost, a provocation in human form. Garrett tried to stay focused. He had to. His team was counting on him, and above them all, in the top tier of the stands, sat his father—Phill Graham, the legendary name, the legacy.

Still, every shift, Turner chipped away. A stick jab here. A hip check there. Nothing flagrant enough for a penalty, but enough to sting, to distract, to provoke.

Midway through the second period, with the score deadlocked at 2–2 and tension thick enough to slice, Turner struck harder.

As Garrett coasted near center ice to line up a pass, Turner came in from the blindside—an elbow aimed square at Garrett’s shoulder, the same one he’d injured the season before. The pain lit up his nerves instantly, but it wasn’t what made his vision go red.

It was the way Turner smiled after the hit—calm, smug, full of contempt.

Garrett turned, furious, ready to bark back, but Turner leaned close and whispered loud enough for only him to hear:

“Come on, Graham… Show us what you're really made of. Think big daddy Phill would be proud of this crap? Or did you go soft since you started screwing that little slu—”

That was the last word Turner got out.

Garrett exploded.

He launched himself at Turner with the force of a cannon shot, his gloved fists already swinging. The first punch landed square on Turner’s jaw, snapping his head sideways. The second hit his ribs, and the third—well, no one was sure it landed before Turner responded with a blow of his own.

The two captains collapsed to the ice, grappling, rolling, fists flailing. The crowd erupted into chaos—gasps, cheers, shrieks. It wasn’t a fight. It was a war breaking out in the middle of a hockey game.

"Get in there! Get them apart!" one of the refs shouted.

Three officials dove into the fray, struggling to separate the two titans. Garrett still strained forward even with two referees holding him back, eyes burning, teeth clenched.

“That’s enough, Graham! You’re out!” the head ref barked, stepping in with a glare sharp enough to cut.

Garrett didn’t resist. Not really. He stood, breathing heavily, helmet tilted from the brawl, blood trickling from his lip. He didn’t look at the refs. He didn’t look at the fans.

He looked at Turner.

Turner, still on his knees, wiped his mouth with his glove and grinned through swelling lips. “Daddy’s boy’s got a temper,” he mouthed.

The stadium roared around them, a frenzy of sound and judgment.

As Garrett was escorted off the ice, his eyes caught his father's in the stands—expression unreadable, arms crossed, statue-still.

But it wasn't that cold silence that burned him most.

It was {{user}}—rushing down the stairs, their eyes wide with worry.

He hadn’t just lost control.

He’d let Turner win.