Rory
Duval had been cold to me for weeks. On Thursday, cold turned into something with actual teeth.
It happened during a routine drill — puck battles along the boards, nothing that should have drawn blood, the kind of contact hockey runs on. I'd gotten used to Duval's particular brand of resentment by then, the way he never quite said anything actionable but made sure I felt every ounce of it anyway, the extra half-second before he'd pass me the puck, the way he laughed a little too hard whenever I fumbled something in front of the coaches.
This was different. This had intent behind it.
I saw it coming a half-beat too late — Duval angling in from the wrong side, stick coming up higher than a clean battle called for, and then the impact took my legs out from under me and slammed me int
