LOGIN(Kane) The arena tunnel after the game felt too narrow, the echoes of the crowd still ringing in my ears like a bad dream I couldn’t shake. I waited in the shadows until I saw my chance. Caleb was occupied with Coach and some university reps near the front of the Harrison bus. Perfect. I slipped out a side exit and caught up to Danica near the players’ parking area. She was alone for once, adjusting her gear bag under a streetlight. My heart hammered harder than it had during the entire game. I told myself this was strategy — get close, find weaknesses, use them. But the truth was simpler and more terrifying: I just wanted to talk to her. Hear her voice without helmets and hatred between us. “Jones.” She turned sharply, eyes narrowing when she saw me. “Harlow. What do you want? Another cheap shot when no one’s watching?” I raised my hands, trying to look harmless. It felt foreign. “No hits. Not tonight. I just… wanted to talk. You took some heavy contact out there. The
(Danica) The arena buzzed with pre-game energy, but my stomach twisted with something heavier than nerves. I stood near our bench during warm-ups, adjusting my gloves, when Kane Harlow skated over from the Wolves’ side. The crowd murmured. My teammates paused mid-stretch. Even the officials seemed to notice. Kane stopped in front of me, helmet under his arm, his usual cruel smirk softened into something almost… human. He held out a bottle of electrolyte drink — cold, unopened, the label facing me like an offering. “For the bruises,” he said quietly, voice low enough that only I could hear. “You took some hits last time. Figured you might need it.” I stared at the bottle, then at him. This was the same man who had tried to recreate his sister’s career-ending hit on me. The same man whose father was calling our AD, pressuring the university to pull me from the roster. Yet here he was, offering me a drink like it was the most normal thing in the world. His eyes held something I
(Caleb) The locker room felt smaller than usual after practice. I stood at the front, arms crossed, watching my team finish changing. The usual post-practice chatter filled the air — jokes, complaints about drills, the familiar rhythm of guys who had bled together for years. But today the atmosphere was off. The whispers about Danica and me had grown louder. The bets were no longer jokes. They were starting to feel like cracks in the foundation I had spent years building. I had heard enough in the tunnel. Kane’s teammates teasing him. The way they laughed about him catching feelings for Danica. The way Kane tried to deny it but couldn’t hide the truth in his voice. The way he had steadied her when she almost fell — not out of malice, but something darker. Something that made my blood run cold. I cleared my throat. The room quieted. “Listen up,” I said, voice low but carrying. “I overheard something in the tunnel after the last scrimmage. Kane’s guys were talking. Teasing
(Kane) The Wolves’ locker room smelled of sweat, icy hot, and the usual post-practice bullshit. I sat on the bench, unlacing my skates with more force than necessary, trying to drown out the noise in my head. The last scrimmage against Harrison still played on repeat — Danica Jones refusing to fall, her eyes meeting mine through the visor like she saw straight through every wall I had built. I told myself it was hatred. Contempt. The same righteous fury that had fueled me since Lila’s injury. But the lie was getting harder to swallow. My linemate, Jax, dropped onto the bench beside me with a shit-eating grin. “So, Captain,” he drawled, loud enough for half the room to hear. “You gonna admit it yet? That little Jones girl’s got you twisted. We all saw how you shoved me out of the way when she almost ate the boards. That wasn’t about the game. That was personal.” The room erupted in low laughter. Another teammate, Marcus, leaned over from his locker. “Yeah, man. You’ve been
(Kane) The ice felt colder than usual tonight. I stood at center ice during warm-ups, stick in hand, watching Harrison’s side of the rink like a man possessed. The crowd was loud, the lights bright, the usual pre-game energy crackling through the arena. But all I could focus on was her. Danica Jones. She glided across the ice with that same fierce grace that had haunted me since the first time I saw her. The way she moved — low, powerful, refusing to yield an inch — made something twist deep in my chest. I told myself it was anger. Contempt. The righteous fury I had carried since the day they carried Lila off on a stretcher. But the truth was getting harder to bury. She reminded me of Lila. Same fire. Same refusal to break. Same stupid, beautiful courage that had cost my sister everything. I hated her for it. Or at least… I tried to. The puck dropped for the first period. I lined up across from her, our eyes meeting through the visors. She didn’t flinch. She never
(Kane) I stood at the edge of the Wolves’ practice rink, stick in hand, watching the ice like it owed me something. The scrimmage against Harrison was still burning in my veins. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her — Danica Jones — refusing to fall. The way she absorbed my hits and got back up. The way her eyes met mine through the visor like she wasn’t afraid. Like she wasn’t just another girl playing where she didn’t belong. I hated her for it. Or at least… I told myself I did. The truth was more complicated. More dangerous. And I buried it deep, the same way I buried the memory of Lila being carried off on that stretcher two years ago. Lila had been everything Danica was trying to be — fast, fearless, unbreakable. My little sister had fought for her spot the same way Jones did. She took hits that would’ve broken lesser players. She laughed in the faces of boys who told her to go back to figure skating. And then one late hit from behind ended it all. Spinal fracture.
The house had finally gone quiet. I waited until well past midnight, heart hammering against my still-bruised ribs, before slipping out of my room. The hallway floorboards creaked under my bare feet like they were betraying me with every step. I’d changed into soft sleep shorts and a thin tank
The locker room had emptied hours ago, but the arena lights still hummed low overhead like they refused to let the day end. I stayed on the ice after the team cleared out, skating slow laps to work the stiffness from my bruised ribs. Every glide pulled at the deep purple marks Kane had left behin
The arena felt colder than usual when we stepped onto the ice for morning practice. The lights hummed overhead, casting long shadows across the fresh sheet. Most of the team was still sluggish from yesterday’s war, but Caleb moved like a man with something to prove. Or something to punish. He s
The Harrison University arena never slept. Even in the hush before practice, it breathed—cooling pipes humming low beneath the ice like a heartbeat, the faint echo of past games still clinging to the rafters. Tonight, that silence pressed against my ribs as I stood in the shadowed tunnel, skates







