Tyler’s POV
The first period was a blur of motion, but every stride felt heavier than it should. My skates cut across the ice cleanly, my stick work crisp, but there was a drag in my muscles I couldn’t shake. The hits from Cole and his crew still lived in my body—bruises blooming under my gear, a cut on my hand throbbing each time I gripped the stick, ribs sore enough to make breathing a little tighter than normal.
I shoved it all down, locking my focus on the puck and the rhythm of the game. This wasn’t the time to be cautious. The arena lights, the roar of the crowd, the pounding of skates—it was all fuel. I pushed harder, ignoring the ache in my thigh and the faint sting at the corner of my lip where an old split had reopened.
They couldn’t know I wasn’t at one hundred percent. Not
