No loveJust hockeyuntil there is love

There's blood on the ice, and it's not hers.

Ivy Ransom doesn't notice the cut on her cheek until she's halfway to the locker room, adrenaline roaring through her like a freight train. The sting registers somewhere far away-background noise behind the thudding pulse in her ears, the echo of fans chanting her name.

She just had the best game of her season. Two goals, one assist, and a clean takedown that lit up the arena. Her stick had kissed the net like she meant it, and the opposing team's defense had scrambled just to keep up. It was a clinic. It was art.

It was redemption-or so she'd hoped.

The Ravens needed the win. They'd been sliding ever since the assistant coach got suspended last month. Morale was shit, their lines were scrambled, and the press was circling like sharks. But tonight? Tonight, Ivy carved out a reminder: We are still here. I am still here.

Cameras flash when she hits the tunnel, sweat-soaked and burning. Reporters shout her name. She catches sight of a poster someone's holding up-ICE QUEEN, glittering letters above a cutout of her face mid-slapshot. She smirks, just a twitch of her mouth.

But under that smirk, something tightens. A wrongness. A whisper in her gut.

The kind of instinct you don't survive long in hockey without.

She pushes through the double doors into the locker room.

And stops cold.

No music.

No laughter. No whoops of celebration. No tape-ball fights or sprays of Gatorade. Just... silence.

The air is thick. Stale with sweat and tension.

Her teammates are frozen mid-motion-one with a shin pad half-off, another still holding her stick. Coach Lorne is by the bench, arms crossed and jaw locked so tight it looks like it might snap. And beside him, in dark suits and colder stares, are two men she doesn't want to see.

Federation.

Her heart slams once in her chest.

She knows Bailey-slippery PR guy with slick hair and a reputation for spinning gold out of rot. The other one's unfamiliar, but the federation badge on his blazer glints like a warning.

"Ivy," Coach Lorne says, voice low, unreadable. "We need to talk."

She doesn't sit. Her pads are still half-on, sweat cooling against her skin. "What's going on?"

Bailey steps forward, pulling a phone from his coat. "You should see this."

The screen lights up. Paused footage. Blurry. Zoomed-in. Crowd angle.

She hits play.

It's her. Tunnel footage-between second and third period. The assistant coach, Halverson, is in her face, spitting words. Her expression is a blank wall. No reaction. Then she pushes past him and disappears.

The video cuts there. But the caption below glows like neon in a dark alley:

Star Forward Ivy Ransom ignores teammate assault. Complicit in silence?

Her gut drops.

"This is-this is a stretch," she says, laughing, but it's brittle. "A smear job. I didn't even touch him."

"There's more," Bailey says, and his tone? That's the real punch. Grim. Almost... apologetic.

The next video loads. Audio only. Shitty phone recording, but the voices are unmistakable.

Halverson.

And Liza Min.

"-don't belong on this team," he's saying, voice low, angry. "You think you're special because you're fast? You're not. You're lucky we even let you on the damn roster."

Silence. Then, soft: "Don't touch me."

Liza. So quiet you might miss it.

The clip ends.

No music. No cutaway. Just silence.

Ivy's breath leaves her in a single hard exhale. Her chest is tight, too tight. She remembers that day-Liza crying in the showers. Refusing to take off her gear. Bruises she blamed on practice drills. Ivy had asked, once. Just once.

And when Liza brushed her off?

She let it go.

"You knew," the other suit says, voice sharp. "You didn't report it."

"I didn't see anything," Ivy snaps. Her throat is closing up, her voice cracking against it. "I asked her. She said she was fine. I didn't-"

"Actually," Bailey interrupts, and now he's all business, "as team captain, it kind of is your job to notice."

The word hits harder than it should.

Captain.

Leader.

Face of the Ravens, darling of sponsorships, the "future of women's hockey" according to ESPN. The kind of name kids wear on their backs. The kind of girl they put on cereal boxes and Pride campaigns.

Now she's the villain in a viral exposé.

The other suit pulls a folded letter from his coat. "We're suspending you, pending investigation. Effective immediately."

Her body locks up. "No. That's insane. You want a scapegoat? Fine. But I'm not-"