The biting Newfoundland wind whipped around Cash, carrying the faint scent of stale beer and snow. Inside the dim, smoky bar, the jukebox blared classic rock, its melody a stark contrast to the churning anxiety in his gut.

He watched Cory, his younger brother, laugh with Jake, oblivious to the simmering rage that tightened Cash's muscles. Billy Martin, a ghost from their past, stumbled out of the bathroom, his words cutting through the haze of whiskey like a shard of ice. "If it isn't Cash fucking Brooks, hometown hero," Billy sneered, his gaze fixed on the new truck keys dangling from Cory's hand.

The insult, aimed at Cory, felt like a punch to Cash's own gut. He slammed his whiskey glass down, the bitter taste burning his throat. He’d come home to escape the pressures of the NHL, to ground himself, not to relive old rivalries.

But Billy's taunts escalated, each word a venomous jab at Cory's perceived weakness. "That's why your brother made the pros and you didn't," Billy spat, his arrogance a festering wound.

Cash's vision narrowed. His temper, a volatile beast he usually kept caged, roared to life. "I'll race you, you cock shit." The words were out before he could stop them, fueled by alcohol and a fierce, protective instinct. He saw Cory's pleading eyes, felt his hand on his arm, but it was too late. The challenge was thrown. The die was cast.