The pain in my ribs sharpened with every stride, but I refused to let it show. The scrimmage had turned into something uglier than a game—more like a public execution Kane Harlow was determined to finish in front of the small but watchful crowd.
He came at me again on the next shift, faster this time, stick lifted high the way he had in every clip I’d studied. The hit was textbook dirty: late, high, aimed at the same vulnerable spot between my shoulder and helmet that had ended Lila’s career. I braced, turned my body at the last possible second, and absorbed the impact against the glass. The boards rattled. My vision blurred white for half a heartbeat. But I stayed upright.
The crowd murmured louder.
Kane skated past, close enough that his breath fogged my visor. “Just like Lila,” he hi
