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The crack of my stick against the puck echoed in my ears as it soared past the goalie’s outstretched glove and into the back of the net.

The arena erupted in cheers—shouts of my name mingling with applause and roars that reverberated through my bones. I raised my arms in celebration, allowing myself a moment to bask in the glory.

But even as my teammates rushed to congratulate me, all I felt was a hollow echo deep inside me.

This victory should have felt monumental; it should have filled me with pride and joy because I scored for my country.

But instead, all that buzz faded into an empty ache that swallowed me whole.

The high from scoring dissolved quickly, replaced by an overwhelming absence that settled heavily on my chest.

Knox wasn’t there to share this triumph with me—to see what we’d built together on and off the ice. All those early mornings, those late-night conversations about dreams and fears—they suddenly felt meaningless without him standing by my side.

I had scored a goal, but without him here to witness it? It left an ache so profound it overshadowed every cheer and every congratulatory slap on the back.

I glanced at the bench again, searching for his familiar face among all those watching us play—his expression proud yet guarded—but he remained absent. And in that moment of victory surrounded by noise and light, all I could feel was darkness creeping in.

What did it matter if I played well when he wasn’t here?

The atmosphere was electric; the ice glistening under the arena lights as we prepared for the face-off against Canada. The buzz of the crowd faded into a low hum in my ears as I focused on my breathing, letting the rhythm steady me.

“Guess sleeping with the coach paid off, huh?” one of them sneered, her eyes sparkling with malice. The other girls laughed, and I could feel their gaze boring into me like daggers.

“Hope you’re better on your knees than on skates,” another chimed in, smirking as she adjusted her helmet.

I clenched my jaw, every word stinging more than I cared to admit. I had prepared for this; I had steeled myself against it. They thought they could get under my skin with their petty taunts and jabs. But they didn’t know me—not really.

Knox had taught me better than to let their words affect me. Every session he’d pushed me in practice, every battle drill we’d gone through together—it had hardened me. He showed me how to take a hit and keep moving forward without flinching.

“Nice try, America Junior,” I shot back coolly, forcing a confident smile even though my heart raced beneath my gear. “But it’s clear you’re just jealous you can’t keep up.”

The Canadian girl narrowed her eyes at me, momentarily taken aback by my composure before she quickly masked it with a haughty laugh that echoed through the rink. I knew I couldn’t let them see how much their words cut deep. If they sensed any weakness, they would pounce.

As we lined up for the puck drop, I focused on the game—the rhythm of skating beneath my feet, the feel of the stick in my hands—and not on their jibes or taunts.

The referee’s whistle pierced the air, and we were off—skating hard and fast across the ice like our futures depended on it. And in that moment? It felt like they did.

Late in the second period, the score remained tied.

“Bet Callahan taught you more than just drills.” One of the girls sneered from across the rink, her voice dripping with mockery.

“Yeah, that psycho? Guy’s a fucking joke,” another chimed in, laughter spilling from her lips. “No wonder he’s not here. Ruined his career and now he’s ruining yours.”

And that? That was it. I felt something inside me snap—a line crossed that shouldn’t have been touched. You could talk about me all you wanted, but you did not fucking talk about him.

I didn’t think about the consequences; I just dropped my gloves.

The ice felt different beneath my skates as I surged forward, adrenaline pumping through my veins. I swung first—my fist connecting hard with the girl’s helmet before snapping back and landing on her jaw. The impact sent shockwaves up my arm, but I didn’t care. The rage fueled me.

She staggered back, surprise etched on her face before anger took over. The cheers of our teammates faded into background noise as we squared off.

The fight became a blur of punches and shoves—both of us lost in our own worlds of fury. Her hands grabbed at my jersey as we grappled for control, but I was done letting someone else dictate how this played out.

She grunted but retaliated quickly—her fist finding its way to my cheek. Pain flared for a moment, but I brushed it off like it was nothing compared to what they had said about Knox.

We hit the ice, gloves tangled, refs rushing in. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

Every time someone like Chambers called Knox a disgrace, every time they looked at me and saw only his mistake, it fueled the fire in my chest. I wanted to scream that he was more than that—that he deserved better than to be remembered as a has-been who had thrown it all away.

I pushed against her, determined to make my point, my fist connecting with her face again.

The clang echoed in my ears, drowning out the crowd’s roar.

The rush of adrenaline filled my veins as I fought back against every taunt that had been thrown at us both—the whispered judgments, the mocking laughter. This was my fight now.

“Get off her!” I heard one of my teammates yell as chaos erupted around us.

Bodies collided on the ice as refs struggled to pull us apart, but I didn’t care. My focus narrowed to the girl whose name I couldn’t even remember—the one who dared insult Knox when she knew nothing about him.

In a blur of motion, we were pulled apart—my breath coming hard and fast as I glared at her through the throng of officials and players trying to separate us. But even as they held me back, my heart raced with the thrill of standing up for what mattered most.

The whistle blew harshly—cutting through the tension like a knife—and reality slammed into me with brutal force: ejected from the game for fighting. The ref’s voice was muffled as he gave me a penalty; all I could hear was the pounding in my chest.

As they led me off the ice, anger swelled inside me like a tidal wave threatening to overflow. I felt alive and reckless and completely out of control—but this wasn’t just a momentary lapse; this was me refusing to let them silence me.

When I finally stepped into the locker room, breathless and flushed with heat from both exertion and rage, all eyes were on me—wide with surprise and confusion at what had just unfolded on the ice.

I sat on the bench in the locker room, blood drying on my knuckles, adrenaline still thrumming through my veins. The chaos of the rink faded into a low hum, but the memory of the fight played vividly in my mind..

Coach Callahan stormed into the room, his face a mask of fury. “What were you thinking, Evans? You can’t just throw punches like that! You’ve jeopardized everything!”

But I didn’t regret it—not for a second. I had taken a stand. I was a fighter.

As Coach paced back and forth, ranting about discipline and consequences, I looked down at my jersey—the one with Team USA emblazoned across the front. For so long, it had felt like the finish line—the culmination of every sacrifice, every bruise and tear.

But now?

It felt different. It felt like part of a journey that was still unfolding.

The weight of that realization settled over me as I traced my throbbing fingers along the fabric. This jersey mattered—it was a symbol of everything I had fought for. But in that moment, another truth emerged: he mattered more.

Knox Callahan had stepped into my life and turned it upside down in ways I never expected. He’d shown me what it meant to push boundaries—to fight not just for victory but for something deeper than accolades or approval.

I straightened up on the bench, determination coursing through me like wildfire. The whispers from the other girls didn’t matter anymore; their judgments were nothing compared to what Knox had awakened in me.

I wasn’t going to choose between them any longer. I wanted both—the jersey and him. If anyone could understand how important that choice was, it would be Knox.

Because I would have both—I would fight for both—and no one would take either away from me again.