The final minutes of the scrimmage blurred into a war of attrition.
Kane came at me relentlessly, each shift more personal than the last. He didn’t need to say Lila’s name anymore — the ghost of her hovered between every check, every glare, every calculated hit that echoed the one that had ended her career. I absorbed another heavy shoulder in the neutral zone, pain flaring down my bruised ribs, but I refused to go down. The crowd’s murmurs grew louder. Phones were out. The story Coach wanted was writing itself in real time.
Caleb stayed on the ice far longer than strategy dictated. He shadowed me like a second skin, breaking every line rotation, his body always angled between me and Kane. The jealousy and protectiveness pouring off him were palpable — a living, breathing thing that made
