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RYLEE HANSON (narrative)
The game was a blur of movement, sound, and energy. The Seattle Blaze were on fire, and I was feeling it—adrenaline surging through me with every stride, every pass, every shot. This was what I lived for. But being the top rookie meant more than just recognition—it meant being hunted. Every move I made had been scrutinized all season, and I could feel the targets on my back getting bigger every game.
The vets had been at me all year—slashing at me, checking me, trying to The vets had been at me all year—slashing, checking, chirping, doing everything they could to get under my skin or take me out of the play. It didn't faze me much; it was part of the game. Besides, I was the number one rookie for a reason. If they wanted to slow me down, they'd have to try harder than that.
The puck dropped into our zone, and I saw my chance. My winger intercepted a lazy pass and sent it streaking toward me. I bolted down the ice, the defender on my heels. The crowd roared, and all I could hear was my heartbeat and the sound of my skates cutting into the ice.
It was me, the puck, and the goalie. The defender was closing in fast, but I wasn't about to let them stop me. With a sharp cut to my left, I pulled the puck back and snapped it just under the goalie's glove.
Goal! I thought triumphantly. But there wasn't any announcement, no light flashing, no eruption from the crowd.
I didn't have time to process the silence because the defender barreled into me at full speed. I barely had time to brace before the hit sent me sprawling. As I went down, their stick came down hard on my right arm.
Crack.
It wasn't just the sound—it was the pain, white-hot and searing, radiating from my forearm all the way to my shoulder. My vision blurred, and for a split second, I thought I might pass out.
I didn't, though. Instead, I rolled onto my back, clutching my arm to my chest. The refs blew their whistles, and the trainers were already rushing onto the ice. My teammates surrounded me, their voices a mix of concern and anger.
"Are you okay?" one of them asked, kneeling beside me.
I blinked up at him and forced a grin through the pain. "You should see the other guy."
The adrenaline was starting to wear off, and the reality of the injury hit me. My arm wasn't just broken—it was shattered. I could feel the bones grinding together when I moved, and the swelling was already making my glove and sleeve uncomfortably tight.
"Don't move it," one of the trainers said, gently holding my shoulder to keep me still.
"I'm good," I replied, trying to sit up. "Really, it's fine. Just—ow—might need a new stick."
The trainer gave me a look like I'd lost my mind.
In the back of my mind, I knew I should be more worried about my arm. But all I could think about was Nika. She was already stressed about the wedding, her work visa, and balancing basketball with everything else. This was going to push her over the edge.
