The whistle blew again, and the scrimmage turned savage.
Kane came at me on the very next shift like a man possessed. No pretense of playing the puck—just a straight line, shoulder lowered, eyes locked on the number on my back. I saw the hit coming a heartbeat too late. I tried to spin away, but the boards rushed up to meet me. The impact rattled through my spine, pain exploding white-hot across my shoulder where his elbow had found the gap in my pads.
The arena—small crowd of scouts, university staff, and a handful of die-hard fans—let out a collective gasp.
I stayed on my feet. Barely.
Caleb was there before I could draw a full breath, shoving Kane back with a controlled but furious check that sent the rival captain skating backward. “Watch the f*****g elbows, Harlow.”
Kane laughed,
