The Live Feed

Summer

Friday night arrived with the force of a freight train.

The Eastern University arena was completely sold out.

Ten thousand fans packed the stands, a sea of blue and white jerseys chanting, screaming, and stomping their feet until the concrete structure vibrated.

But tonight, the atmosphere had an additional, electric edge: three high-definition HypeTV production cameras were mounted on the glass, their red lights glowing brightly.

I was sitting in the VIP family box, right behind the home bench.

It was a prime location, meaning every time the broadcast cut to a reaction shot of the crowd, my face would be front and center.

"Remember, Summer," Sarah Sterling's voice hissed into the tiny earpiece concealed in my right ear. "When Jaxson comes out of the tunnel, stand up. Clap. Look nervous, but proud. Give the internet their reaction gif."

I took a deep breath, clutching the railing. My knuckles were damp.

I wasn't acting anymore I actually was nervous. I had spent the last two days reviewing game footage for my journalism portfolio, and I knew how brutal the sport could be.

But more than that, I knew what this specific game meant for Jaxson.

If he made a mistake tonight, the scouts would blame his off-ice distractions.

The stadium lights suddenly died, replaced by flashing blue strobes.

The crowd erupted into a deafening roar as the team erupted from the tunnel, the blades of their skates throwing up shards of ice.

Leading the pack was number 44. Jaxson Reed.

He looked massive in his full armor, his dark blue jersey stretched over his frame, the Captain's C shining on his chest.

He skated a tight lap around the zone, his movements incredibly fluid and powerful, before stopping right in front of the home bench.

Before he took his position on the blue line, he looked up.

Through the crowded glass and the flashing lights, his amber eyes found mine unerringly.

He didn't smile—he never smiled before a game but he gave me a single, firm nod.

A silent acknowledgment of our contract. Our partnership.

"Beautiful," Sarah whispered in my ear. "Great eye contact. Now stand up, Summer!"

I stood up, clapping as the puck dropped.

The game was a bloodbath.

The rival team, the State Warriors, were playing dirty, deliberately targeting Jaxson every time he touched the puck.

They were trying to provoke him, trying to get him to snap and take a penalty that would confirm the media's "ticking time bomb" narrative.

"He’s holding back," Chloe muttered beside me, her eyes glued to the ice. "He’s playing too safe. He’s terrified of getting a whistle."

She was right.

Every time a State player shoved him after the whistle, Jaxson just skated away, his jaw clenched, his hands clamped tightly around his stick.

But because he was hesitating, State scored their first goal midway through the second period.

The arena went quiet, a low murmur of disappointment rippling through the stands.

"Come on, Reed!" a fan shouted from the rows below us. "Get your head in the game! Stop worrying about your reality show!"

I felt a sudden, fierce rush of heat in my chest. It was an entirely unjournalistic emotion—pure, defensive anger.

These people didn't know what he was carrying. They didn't care about his sister, his family, or the pressure crushing him.

They just wanted entertainment.

By the start of the third period, the score was tied 1-1. The tension was suffocating.

State had the puck in our zone, executing a dangerous power play.

Suddenly, their star forward, Chad—the same guy who had taunted us in the courtyard—caught a pass at the circle.

He spun, driving a brutal, heavy shot toward our net. Our goalie made the save, but the rebound popped straight out into the slot.

Chad lunged for it, his stick raised high.

But before he could make contact, a blue streak crashed into him.

Jaxson.

He didn't use his fists. He didn't break any rules.

He executed a flawless, devastatingly clean hip check that sent Chad flying backward onto the ice, the puck sliding harmlessly away into the corner.

The crowd exploded into a deafening cheer.

"Yes!" I screamed, jumping out of my seat, my hands slamming against the VIP box glass before I could even think about Sarah’s instructions.

Down on the ice, Chad scrambled to his feet, his face twisted in fury. As the referee blew the whistle to stop play,

Chad skated directly up to Jaxson, shoving his stick into Jaxson's chest.

"Hey, Reed!" Chad barked, his voice loud enough to echo off the glass near my box. "Nice hit! Too bad your little girlfriend is only staying until the network check clears! We all know she thinks you're a thug!"

Jaxson went entirely still.

The arena around them was roaring, but between the two men, the air was dead.

I held my breath, my heart stopping.

Don't do it, Jaxson, I pleaded silently, my hands pressing harder against the glass.

Don't let him get to you.

Jaxson slowly lowered his gaze to Chad's hands on his jersey.

Then, he looked up at the VIP box. He looked directly at me.

He took a slow, deep breath, his broad chest rising and falling.

Then, with a chillingly calm expression, he simply reached out, tapped Chad’s stick away from his chest with his own, and skated toward the bench.

He didn't fight. He didn't take the bait.

"Oh, the ratings on this are going to be historical," Sarah's voice crackled in my ear, filled with greedy delight. "The restraint! The growth! The power of love!"

I sank back into my seat, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

I didn't care about the ratings.

I didn't care about Sarah's show. All I knew was that Jaxson Reed had just looked into the face of his own destruction, and he had chosen to survive. For his sister. For his team.

And, maybe, just a little bit, because of me.