“I don’t know if I’d go that far.”
After a short break, the second period starts, and the energy shifts. The game is more physical now, more aggressive. Players are hitting harder, skating faster, emotions running higher. I can feel the tension building, like a storm gathering on the horizon.
Zayden has the puck now, skating toward the opposing goal. He’s fast—all grace and skill and determination—but the defenseman closing in on him is faster. Bigger.
The hit comes out of nowhere.
One second Zayden is skating; the next he’s slamming into the boards. His helmet bounces off the glass. His body crumples. The crowd gasps collectively, and Tori grabs my arm hard enough to bruise.
“Zay—” she breathes.
But I’m not watching Zayden.
I’m watching Banks.
He was across the ice when the hit happened. Now he’s moving, skating toward the defenseman who delivered the blow with a speed that seems impossible for someone his size. His stick clatters to the ice. His gloves follow.
Oh no.
Oh no, oh no, oh no.
The other player sees him coming. He barely has time to drop his own gloves before Banks ison him.
The fight is nothing like the movies. There’s no dramatic circling, no trash talk, no buildup. It’s immediate and brutal—two men grabbing each other’s jerseys and throwing punches with everything they have.
Banks takes a hit to the face. His head snaps back, and there’s blood on his lip.
I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He absorbs the punch and delivers one of his own, connecting with the other player’s jaw. Then another. And another.
The crowd is screaming. Tori is screaming. I’m frozen in my seat, unable to look away, unable to process what I’m seeing.
This is the man who watches Bake Off and shares his protein bars.
This is the man who’s currently beating another human being bloody in front of twenty thousand people.
The refs finally intervene, pulling them apart. Banks’s lip is split, blood streaming down his chin. His knuckles look raw and swollen. But his expression is calm. Almost serene. Like this is just another day at the office.
They escort him to the penalty box, and he goes without protest. He sits down on the bench, grabs a towel, and presses it to his mouth.
Then he looks up.
Into the crowd. Scanning. Searching.
His eyes find mine.
I don’t know what my face looks like, but I can guess.Horrified. Shocked. Maybe a little scared.
Something flickers across his face—concern, maybe, or regret—and he holds my gaze for a long moment before looking away.
“Holy shit,” Tori breathes beside me. “That was intense.”
I can’t speak. My heart is hammering. My hands are shaking.
“Hey.” Tori touches my arm. “Are you okay?”
“Is that normal?”
