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My brother’s stick connects with the puck in a violent crack that echoes through the arena.

Time freezes.

Every breath held as the black disk rockets across the ice like a bullet.

The goalie lunges, but the puck slides past him, hitting the back of the net with a satisfying thunk.

Archer raises his stick, his eyes searching for mine through the cage of his helmet.

The crowd erupts, but all I hear is the thunder of my own pulse as I rocket off the bench, my skates scraping against the boards.

“Fuck yeah, Archer!”

He glides toward me with the arrogance that runs in our blood like poison. Steam rises from his shoulders in the arena’s chill, and when he reaches the boards, he’s grinning like the devil himself.

“See that?” His voice carries that familiar edge of cockiness that makes coaches love him and opponents want to break his face.

My gloved hand crashes against his shoulder pad with enough force to rattle his bones. “Money shot! Right between his legs, baby.”

A laugh leaves his throat. He knows exactly what I’m talking about.

I knock my helmet against his. “Don’t forget the plan.”

Our eyes drift across the ice to the opposing team’s bench, where their right wing sits unknowing that he’s our target. Just for shits and giggles. Poor bastard has no idea he’s about to become the star of our little tragedy.

Archer’s gaze slides back to mine, and his grin turns feral. “He won’t know what hit him until he’s eating ice.”

When the second period begins, I’m caged on the bench like a rabid animal, forced to watch Archer weave between bodies.

Every stride is calculated, every movement a chess piece sliding into position.

The crowd’s roar becomes white noise—there’s only Archer, only the plan, only the beautiful inevitability of what’s coming.

Then Archer makes his move.

He drives his shoulder into the right wing. The kid goes down hard, and Archer’s on him before he can recover.

Fists fly.

Blood sprays across the ice.

Archer’s helmet goes flying, but he doesn’t stop swinging.

Except the kid’s tougher than we thought. He lands hit after hit while Archer staggers backward, blood pouring from his split lip. My hands clench into fists watching my brother take a beating.

I fucking snap.

My skates hit the ice and I’m charging toward the fight, ready to break every bone in that kid’s body. But their forward across the rink winds up for a shot, completely oblivious to the carnage behind him. The puck leaves his stick spinning through the air like a bullet.

Everything slows down.

Archer stumbles back from another punch just as the puck screams toward his head. I see it coming—see the exact moment it’s going to connect—and I can’t do a damn thing to stop it.

The puck hits his temple with a wet crack that cuts through every other sound in the arena. Blood explodes from the hit, and Archer drops from the impact. His body hits the ice with a sound that will haunt me forever.

“Archer!” A scream rips from my chest.

The arena goes dead silent.

I watch as the kid who was flying his fists at him seconds ago falls to the ground and crawls away in pure panic.

And then there’s a scream. My mom… somewhere in the stands, her voice recognizable, raw with terror.

I skate quickly and fall to my knees beside him before his body stops moving.

Blood runs through my fingers when I grab his head, hot and thick and wrong.

The puck left a crater in his skull, edges already turning black.

Blood streams from his ears and nose, and when I force his eyes open, there’s nothing there.

Nothing.

“Archer.” I shake him hard, pat his cheek, fucking anything to make him wake up. “Archer!”

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t move. I don’t even think he’s fucking breathing.

The other players stand around us in a circle, but they might as well be ghosts. I look up at their faces—some concerned, some horrified, some already backing away like death is contagious.

Something inside my chest cracks open, spilling poison into my bloodstream. A sound tears from my throat that doesn’t belong to me.

“RAAAAHHHHHHHH!”

It echoes through the arena, bouncing off these fucking boards. The sound of something breaking that can never be fixed.

Hands grab at me—teammates, officials, someone trying to pull me away from my brother. I swing wildly, connecting with whoever’s closest, my knuckles splitting against someone’s face mask.

The reality hits me that I’m swinging like a madman and Archer still isn’t moving.

“GET THE FUCK OFF ME!”

More hands. Stronger grips. They’re trying to drag me backwards as medical officials rush to Archer. Someone is successful at pulling me away. The view of Archer limp on the ground is wrong. So fucking wrong.

“Archer! Get up!”

I fight the guy off like a rabid animal, clawing my way back to Archer. Through the chaos, I hear that piece of shit forward who took the shot, somewhere behind me, his voice cracking with panic.

“No, no, no, no—I didn’t mean—oh God, I didn’t mean—”

White-hot rage floods my system. I spin toward his voice, ready to tear his throat out with my bare hands, but the guys have me locked down tight.

“You killed my fucking brother!”

Every muscle in my body screams to kill him, to make him pay for what he’s done, but—

My mom’s scream cuts through everything else, raw and endless, the sound of a mother watching her child die as she runs towards us.

She falls flat on her face from slipping on the ice.

I see the sheer panic on her face, and all the blood leaves my face.

This is real. This is actually fucking happening.

Coach is at my side. “It was an accident, Slater. They’re going to do the best that they can.”

The best that can is a bunch of fucking nonsense because my brother’s dead. He’s lying there dead on the ice.

My mom reaches him and screams, holding her youngest son, begging and pleading for him to come back. My dad just stands there with a pale face, staring at Archer like he’s seen a ghost.

The paramedics swarm the ice now, their hands working frantically over Archer’s body. One of them looks up and shakes his head at his partner. That tiny gesture—barely perceptible—hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest.

“Archer!” I fight against the hands holding me as they lift him onto the stretcher. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

His head lolls to one side, lifeless. Blood has soaked through the white sheet they’ve wrapped around him. They’re moving fast now, too fast, wheeling him toward the tunnel that leads to the ambulance bay.

I break free and run after them, my skates slipping on the concrete floor. “Archer, you’re going to be okay,” I say to him, the words spilling out like a prayer. “You’re going to be okay. Archer, you’re strong. The strongest person I know.”

My mom and I jump into the ambulance, tears spilling without permission. I can’t meet her eyes. I can only watch as the medics continue to work on him.

The hospital waiting room smells stale and like disinfectant. I’ve been pacing for a full hour. Mom sits in a plastic chair, staring at nothing, her mascara streaked down her cheeks in black rivers. Dad stands by the window, his face carved from stone, hands clenched tight at his side.

“Fuck!” I mutter, running my hands through my hair for the hundredth time. “I shouldn’t have told him to punch that right wing. It was over nothing—some stupid shit about him being better than me.”

Mom’s head snaps up. “It was a—”

“No, this is my fucking fault!” I slam my fist against the brick wall hard enough to break skin. “I egged him on. I made the plan. I—”

“Slater.” Dad’s voice cuts through my spiral, low and dangerous. “Stop.”

But I can’t stop. The words keep coming, each one a knife twisting deeper into my chest. “He’s seventeen fucking years old.

We were going to win this game and go to a fucking party.

We were supposed to go to college together, play hockey, make it fucking pro and win the Stanley!

He should here right now, celebrating his fucking win, but instead… ”

A security guard appears in the doorway, probably drawn by my breaking voice. I want to put my fist through his face just for looking at me wrong.

“Sir, I’m going to need you to keep it down—”

“Fuck you!” The words come out sharp and hot.

The guard takes a step back.

“Slater,” Mom whispers, but I’m already moving, pacing again, my hands shaking with the need to hit something, to break something, to make the world hurt as much as I do.

When the doctor finally appears, his mouth is moving but I can’t hear a goddamn word he’s saying. Something about trauma, about complications, about doing everything they could.

All I hear is the flatline tone in his voice.

I push past him, shoving through the double doors marked “Authorized Personnel Only,” ignoring the shouts behind me. My feet carry me down sterile hallways that all look the same until I find the room—302, the number burned into my retinas.

Archer lies in the center of the bed, so still he looks like a wax figure.

They’ve cleaned the blood away, bandaged his head, but nothing can hide the stillness of his body.

The way death sits in his bones, unmoving.

Machines beep around him but they’re just for show now.

I can tell by the way the nurses give my sympathetic eyes.

The sight makes something twist in my chest, and my legs give out. I reach for his hand. It’s cold. Completely, utterly cold.

The breath leaves my lungs in a rush, like someone’s punched me in the gut. His fingers don’t respond to my touch, don’t curl around mine. They just lie there, heavy and dead.

“No.” The word comes out as a whisper. “No, no, no—Archer, come on.”

I lean forward, pressing my forehead against his arm. Sobs tear through my chest, violent and ugly. My entire body shakes the bed he’s on, and I start gasping for air, wondering why the hell this is happening.