(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 whos
