Chapter Text
Ryan
The TV fills the living room with the roar of a crowd. I sit forward on the couch, elbows resting on my knees, eyes locked on the screen as the Gotham Knights skate onto the ice in their dark jerseys. The arena lights flash across the rink, the crowd swelling into a wall of sound that even the speakers struggle to contain.
Beside me, Marquis leans back comfortably, one arm slung across the couch like he owns the place.
Which, technically, he does.
“Still can’t believe you’re actually doing this,” he says, glancing over at me. “Moving to Gotham in the middle of the season. That’s bold. Even for you.”
I don’t take my eyes off the game. “I didn’t exactly have a choice.”
Marquis huffs out a laugh. “You always have a choice.”
The puck drops.
The Knights win the faceoff and immediately push into the neutral zone. I watch the formation instinctively, tracking the players the way I always do — not just where they are, but how they move.
Who hesitates. Who favors a leg. Who skates like they’re hiding something.
A habit I’ll never turn off.
Marquis reaches for the bowl of popcorn on the table. “Seriously though,” he says, quieter now. “You okay?”
That question hits differently coming from him. He’s the only one who ever asks it without judgment.
I exhale slowly. “I’m fine, I guess.”
“Ryan.”
I finally glance at him.
He’s watching me now instead of the game, expression serious. My brother knows me too well.
“You got railroaded,” he says. “Let’s call it what it was.”
My jaw tightens.
On the screen, the opposing team carries the puck down the boards, but I barely see it now.
“I did my job,” I say.
“You did more than your job sis.”
I shake my head. “It didn’t matter.”
Marquis sighs and leans forward, elbows on his knees now too.
“That player shouldn’t have been cleared.”
“I didn’t clear them.”
“But the team did.”
I stare at the screen again. The memory flashes too easily.
The concussion tests.
The slowed reaction times.
The pressure from management.
The arguments. And then the hit. The second hit.
Career-ending.
The living room feels quieter suddenly despite the game commentary in the background.
“They needed someone to blame,” Marquis says, his anger evident.
I shrug. “And I was convenient, their scapegoat.”
“You reported them, you did the right thing Ry.”
“I documented a medical concern.”
“Ryan.”
I rub a hand over the back of my neck. The truth sits heavy in my chest.
“They didn’t renew my contract.”
“so they blacklisted you.” he deadpans
“They protected their star player.”
Marquis scoffs. “Their star player is now retired at twenty-six. They should've listened.”
Silence settles between us.
On the screen, the commentators are analyzing a replay.
One of them laughs suddenly.
“Well folks, looks like number seventeen is stepping onto the ice for the Knights.”
The crowd explodes.
Even through the TV speakers, the reaction is immediate and deafening.
Marquis glances back at the screen. “Whoa.”
I follow his gaze.
A player skates into frame — dark jersey, number 17 bold against her back.
The camera cuts to a closer angle.
The commentators’ voices sharpen with excitement. “And there she is — Sophie Moore. The Knights’ star defensewoman. If you’re new to the league this season, Moore has practically revived the role of the enforcer from the blue line.”
Another commentator chuckles. “And she does it with style. Brutal, fast, and not afraid to throw her body into a hit.”
The puck swings into the defensive zone. Moore pivots, skating backward smoothly, eyes locked on the approaching forward.
Marquis whistles. “She looks dangerous.”
I watch silently.
The forward cuts toward the boards. Moore moves. Fast. Too fast. Her shoulder drives into the other player with a crack that echoes across the arena when the forward slams into the boards.
The crowd erupts.
“AND THAT’S SOPHIE MOORE FOR YOU!” the commentator shouts. “Absolutely punishing check!”
Marquis sits up. “Damn.”
On the screen, Moore skates away from the collision like it’s nothing, pushing the puck back into transition. The replay rolls. Then another. Then slow motion. My eyes narrow slightly.
Marquis notices. “What?”
I lean forward, studying the replay. “Pause that.”
He grabs the remote.
The image freezes just before the hit lands.
I point. “There.”
He squints. “What am I looking at?”
“Her shoulders.”
“What about them?”
“She rotates differently.”
Marquis glances between me and the screen. “Ryan… it’s hockey.”
I shake my head. “Watch.”
He rewinds the clip. The hit plays again. This time he watches closely.
Moore winds up. The check lands. But the motion is uneven. Subtle. Barely noticeable unless you’re trained to see it.
“She favors the right side,” I say.
Marquis tilts his head. “Huh.”
“She doesn’t fully extend the left shoulder.”
“Maybe she just hits like that.”
“No.” I sit back. “She’s compensating.”
“For what?”
“I think she's got an old injury.”
Marquis raises an eyebrow. “You got all that from one hit?”
“Yes. I'm good like that”. I smirk at my brother to lighten the solemn mood in my soon to be old apartment.
He stares at the screen again, the game continuing. Moore is already back in play, skating hard. “Think she’s hiding it?” he asks.
I shrug. “If she is, it won’t last.”
Marquis smirks. “Sounds like you’ve already diagnosed the problem.”
“I’ve observed her.”
“Same thing.”
I cross my arms. “I’m not impressed.”
Marquis laughs. “Oh Really?”
“She’s reckless.”
“She’s exciting.”
“She’s inefficient.”
Marquis shakes his head. “You’re about to work with this team.”
“I’m aware.”
He grins. “You sure you want to deal with that kind of player?”
On the screen, Sophie Moore steals the puck and launches a shot from the blue line that rattles the goalie’s pads. The arena explodes again.
Marquis nods toward the TV. “Because the city of Gotham seems pretty obsessed with her.”
I watch the replay again. The hit. The rotation. The compensation.
“She’s definitely injured,” I say quietly.
Marquis glances at me, that usual mischief glinting in his eyes. “And?”
I sigh, easing myself backward and tucking my legs under me. “And if she’s hiding it,” I say, “she’s about to hate having me to deal with.”
Marquis laughs. “Oh this is going to be fun.”
I’m not smiling. Because one thing is already clear. Sophie Moore might be Gotham’s favorite player and the apple of their eyes.
But to me? She’s just another athlete I'll have to wrangle in an attempt to save their career. And I’ve dealt with that kind of bravado before. I know how this ends when left unchecked. I just hope the team sees my intentions and stands with me, this time.