Page 76 of Breakaway Daddies

Rowan doesn’t even hesitate. His gloves hit the ice with a sound that cracks through the rink like a gunshot. Jack barely has time to react before Rowan’s on him, fists swinging, teeth clenched, a snarl ripping from his throat.

Jack’s helmet goes flying.

Thomas is in the mix a heartbeat later, coming in from the side with that chaotic speed that makes him dangerous on and off the puck.

He doesn’t even care who’s in his way. He justknowssomeone insulted her.

“You don’t get to talk about her!” he shouts, eyes wild, voice sharp as shattered ice.

They collide. It’s chaos. Elbows, fists, grunts. Sticks clatter to the ground, the crash of it echoing around the empty arena like a warning bell.

“Shit,” I hiss, already skating over.

No time to think. Just move.

I wedge myself between Thomas and Jack, shoving hard with both arms as Thomas tries to lunge again.

“Enough!” I bark, chest heaving.

Thomas jerks back, panting, his helmet hanging lopsided.

“He basically called her a slut, Bruno,” he growls, voice shaking. “You heard it.”

I did.

It’s still ringing in my ears.

Rowan’s got a split lip and blood trailing down his chin. Jack’s hunched over, cradling his shoulder, face twisted in pain. It’s hard to say who got the worst of it, but we all look wrecked.

Coach’s whistle explodes through the air. One long, furious blast.

“All of you, off the ice. Now!”

His voice is like thunder in the silence that follows. Even the boards seem to flinch.

We skate toward the bench like we’re walking to the gallows. My breath’s fogging in front of me, my gloves are shaking, and in my chest, there’s this hollow ache.

We’re unraveling.

Right here.

Right now.

And if we don’t pull ourselves together, we’re not just going to lose this game.

We’re going to lose everything.

The locker room feels like a tomb.

No music. No chirping. No bullshit jokes about who smells the worst or who botched their tape job.

Just the wet, dull thud of gear hitting the floor and the sound of our breathing, harsh and uneven, echoing off the tile like we’re all trying to pretend we’re fine and failing miserably.

I sit on the bench, hunched over, fingers working at the knots in my skate laces like they’re the only thing holding me together. Left over right. Tug. Undo. Right over left. Repeat.

If I move slow enough, maybe I won’t have to talk. Maybe I can just sit here and let the silence stretch out until it swallows everything that just happened.

But of course, I’m not that lucky.

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