We freeze—me on the floor with Atticus still holding me, both of us bloody and breathing hard. The rest of the team has backed up, giving us space, and they all look somewhere between entertained and nervous.
“Well?” Coach demands. “Someone want to explain why my top two forwards are trying to kill each other a week before our biggest game?”
Neither of us answer.
Coach looks between us, jaw working. “Revan. Atticus. My office. Now.”
Atticus releases me and we both stand, not looking at each other. My ribs scream in protest and my knuckles are bleeding, but I keep my face neutral as we follow Coach into his office.
He doesn’t sit. Just crosses his arms and stares at us like we’re children caught stealing.
“I don’t care what this is about,” he says finally. “Personal shit, girl problems, whatever. I don’t care. What I care about is that you two are my offensive line, and if you can’t work together, we lose.”
“We can work together,” I say.
Coach’s eyes narrow. “It looks like you’re about five seconds from another brawl.”
Atticus laughs wiping blood from his lip. “We’re fine, Coach. Just needed to get some energy out.”
“Then take it to the ice.” Coach points toward the rink. “Friday night, you save this energy for Pointe. Channel it into playing. You want to hit someone? Hit their forwards. You want to prove something? Prove it on the scoreboard.” He pauses, looking directly at me.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Good. Now get cleaned up and get out of my sight. And if I catch you fighting again outside of a game, you’re both benched.”
We file out silently. The locker room has cleared—the team taking the hint to give us space. It’s just us and the smell of sweat and the broken helmet still lying on the floor.
Atticus heads to his stall, pulling out his phone again. I watch him text something, see the small smile that crosses his face when he gets a response.
“You’re right,” I say finally.
He looks up, surprised.
“I’m not just protecting her. I want her.” The admission tastes like blood and honesty. “I want her in a way that makes me understand why Vincent did the shit he did. Why he needed to own everything, control everything. Because the thought of her with you, with Koa, with anyone...” I trail off, unable to finish.
Atticus studies me for a long moment. “So what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing.” I grab my gear bag, slinging it over my shoulder. “Because she’s not a thing to be won or owned. She’s...” I search for the right word. “She’s the one thing I can’t control. And that’s exactly why I’m pissed.”
“Deep thoughts from Rev.” But there’s no mockery in his voice now. “You know she’s going to be there Friday. At the game. And Koa’s going to play like he’s trying to kill someone.”
“Yeah.”
“So what’s our play?”
I head for the door, pausing with my hand on the handle. “We beat them. Embarrass them. Show her that he might have violence, but we have control. We win.” I look back at Atticus. “And we do it together. Because whether you like it or not, we’re on the same team.”
He nods slowly. “On the ice.”
“On the ice,” I confirm.
What happens off the ice is still a war zone with no rules and no referees.
But at least on Friday, we’ll have boundaries.
At least on Friday, the violence will be legal.
I walk out into the cold night air, my phone buzzing in my pocket. I don’t need to look to know it’s her.
