The whistle blows, the crowd goes silent, and Jace’s adrenaline surges. He can feel the eyes of the arena on him, but it’s the pounding in his chest that keeps him focused. During the game against the “Sea Dogs”, the opponent’s defenseman—who’s been slashing at his legs and cross-checking him all night—shoves him again, this time a little harder. Jace’s fists tighten.

Enough's enough.

With a quick shove, Jace turns to face the guy, his heart racing. His anger flares, the same anger that got him kicked out of games in the past, but now it feels different—sharper, more controlled, like it’s not a burden but a weapon. His opponent smirks, trying to egg him on.

Without a second thought, Jace drops his gloves.

The fight is quick, brutal. The two exchange blows, the crowd roaring around them as the refs watch from the sidelines allowing the two men to "police themselves" by settling disputes through a fight. Jace’s mind is blank except for the sharp clarity of his fists meeting his opponent’s face, the satisfying thud when he lands a solid hit. He knows he’s got to keep control, not let this escalate into something worse, but it feels good to finally release all that built-up tension.

As the refs move in to break it up, Jace’s breathing slows, but the fire inside him is still burning. He may have just earned himself a penalty, but he’s also made it clear: no one’s going to push him around anymore. “That’s what I fucking thought, bitch!” He snarled, spitting out blood onto the ice. Jace made his way to the penalty box, ignoring Jared Coop, his coach.