Prologue
The arena was alive with noise, a cacophony of cheers and chants that echoed off the steel beams overhead.
The tension was electric, each play a step closer to defining futures. On the scoreboard, the numbers glared: 3-3. Just two minutes left in the final period, and everything was on the line.
Hunter tightened his grip on his stick, feeling the rough tape bite into his gloves. His heart hammered in sync with the chants of the crowd, but his mind wasn’t on the game.
It was on his mom’s face, on the overdue bills piling up at home, on the future he could almost touch if he just played this right.
“Hunter!” Sophie’s voice carried through the noise, sharp and pleading. She leaned over the glass, her golden ponytail swaying. “Focus! You’ve got this!”
Hunter nodded, though he couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye. His gaze shifted to Max, skating just ahead.
Max’s posture was tense but determined, his movements deliberate as he weaved through Northfield’s defense like a man possessed.
“Max!” Coach Felton’s shout from the bench was barely audible over the roar of the crowd. “Keep the pressure! We’re not giving them an inch!”
Max didn’t need the reminder. He knew what was at stake. Michigan wasn’t just a dream—it was the demand of his family, the weight of his late brother’s legacy. Christian’s voice played in his mind, steady and firm, as it always had been.
"You don’t have to be me, Max. You just have to be better."
He gritted his teeth. “Better” wasn’t an option—it was a necessity.
The puck zipped across the ice, passed from one Northfield player to another with precision. Vince Douglas, their powerhouse forward, was a wall of muscle and speed, and he was gunning for them.
Max adjusted his stance, reading the play.
Vince closed in, and Max charged, angling his stick for a clean intercept.
The two collided just as the puck slipped free, and Max spun, his skates carving deep grooves into the ice.
"Come on, Max!" Hunter barked from a few yards away.
Max didn’t reply, his eyes locked on the puck. He reached out, stick poised—but Vince was faster.
A sudden shove, hard and deliberate, sent Max sprawling. Before he could recover, Vince came in again, a full-body slam that connected with Max’s side.
BAM!!!
The crack was unmistakable.
It reverberated through the arena like a gunshot, silencing the crowd.
Max crumpled to the ice, clutching his leg as pain shot through him. His breaths came in short, panicked gasps.
“MAX!” Sophie’s scream broke through the stillness, a raw edge of fear in her voice.
Hunter stood frozen, the world narrowing around him. His eyes locked on Max’s twisted figure on the ice.
His heart sank, an anchor dragging him down as guilt clawed at his chest.
He should move. He should do something.
But he didn’t.
Max’s face twisted in pain as the medics rushed onto the ice with a stretcher. He looked around, his gaze darting from teammate to teammate until it landed on Hunter.
For a moment, everything seemed to stop.
Max’s expression shifted, confusion and hurt clouding his features. Hunter held his breath, knowing exactly what Max was thinking.
“Hunter,” Max’s voice was barely audible, a rasp of disbelief.
But Hunter couldn’t meet his eyes. He turned away, gripping his stick so hard his knuckles turned white.
"Let’s move!" one of the medics barked, snapping everyone out of their daze.
The crowd murmured, a wave of unease rippling through the stands as Max was lifted onto the stretcher. Sophie ran along the edge of the glass, shouting his name.
As they wheeled Max toward the tunnel, his gaze flicked back one last time to Hunter. There was no anger in his eyes—just a quiet, searing doubt that cut deeper than any accusation.
Hunter stared at the ice, the faint imprint of Max’s body still visible against the white.
“Dawson!” Coach Felton’s voice broke through the fog in his head. “Get your head in the game! We’ve got a minute left!”
Hunter nodded mechanically, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
Max was gone.
And somehow, Hunter already knew—this was the moment he couldn’t take back.
