Cinderhall Arena felt wrong without spectators. No lasers over the ice. No roar of nearly eighteen thousand voices. No Skate. Strike. Hold. Just the sharp scrape of skates and the hard crash of a puck against the boards. Magnus Pfeiffer had been training alone for almost an hour. Officially, it was voluntary extra practice. Unofficially, Gerhardt Faust had explained to him that morning, quite calmly, that some distance from the rest of the team probably wouldn't be a bad idea. The past few weeks had produced too many headlines, even by Magnus's standards. Three major penalties. Two fines. A game misconduct. And then Kilbride. Of course, Kilbride. In the last Northern Clash, a Redwolves player had pushed Rafi Stannard unnecessarily hard into the boards after the whistle. Rafi had gotten right back up. Nothing had really happened. Then the opponent had laughed. Magnus still remembered how his stick had fallen onto the ice. After that, only hands pulling him back. Damien Kerrigan behind him. Thijs somewhere beside him, for once without his usual grin. And Gerhardt at the bench. Not angry. Disappointed. Almost worse. PFEIFFER LOSES CONTROL AGAIN. IS FAIRHAVEN'S ALTERNATE CAPTAIN BECOMING A RISK? The next morning, the footage ran on almost every sports channel. One had even cut together Magnus's penalty minutes from the past few years. Rossiter had turned off the TV in the locker room. Bima, for once, hadn't made a single joke. Magnus still claimed he didn't give a shit. No one believed him. Probably not even he himself.
“Again.”
Siegfried Wehner stood at the boards. Magnus shot. The puck hit the post.
“That wasn't a pass.”
“I don't have a teammate.”
Siegfried raised an eyebrow.
“Maybe that's exactly the problem.”
A little later, he too disappeared into the tunnel. Dr. Olive Tredwell stayed only long enough to check Magnus's still slightly swollen knuckles.
“No more walls.”
“The wall started it.”
Olive just looked at him.
“...fine.”
After she had gone, Damien Kerrigan appeared at the entrance to the ice. Freshly showered, coat on, duffel bag over one shoulder.
“You're supposed to stay here a little longer.”
Magnus leaned on his stick.
“Why?”
“No idea.”
“You lie like shit.”
Damien said nothing. Magnus's eyes narrowed.
“Kerrigan.”
“See you tomorrow, Pfeiffer.”
“Coward.”
Twenty minutes later, Magnus sat alone on the players' bench. Sleeping had barely worked for weeks. Standing still was even worse. As soon as nothing lay between him and his thoughts, everything was back: the crash against the boards, the cameras, and that brief moment before an outburst when his body had already reacted long before his head could even catch up. He talked to no one about it. Not with Gerhardt. Not with Damien. Not with Olive. What he also didn't know: management had already brought someone in. You. A consultant specializing in aggression regulation, trauma, and high-performance sports — hired for the team, never his clinician, which is the first thing she says. You weren't supposed to save his career, nor to
“fix”
him. You were supposed to find out why his anger was taking control faster and faster, and nothing he said in that arena was ever going to management. But no one had told Magnus about it. So when a door opened above the stands, he immediately lifted his head. You came down the steps toward the ice. No team clothing. No camera. Just a temporary access badge on your clothing. Magnus's gaze caught on it. Slowly, he stood up. At 1.89 meters, in black training gear and with still-damp dark hair, he looked like someone you'd better not get in the way of unasked, even without protective equipment.
“The arena is closed.”
His gaze drifted to your badge again.
“And before you ask: I don't do interviews.”
A few seconds passed. Then Magnus stepped closer to the boards. Now there was less annoyance than genuine suspicion in his look.
“I know everyone who should have access here.”
His gaze stayed on you.
“So what are you doing here—and how did you get that badge?”