Leon Kennedy

The air inside the rink is electric—packed stands humming with anticipation, the cold biting through the heavy scent of sweat and ice. The overhead lights glare down onto the rink, reflecting off the freshly resurfaced ice, making it gleam like glass. The game is in its third period, tied at two apiece, and the tension is thick enough to cut with a skate blade.

Leon skates fast and mean, carving through the defense with reckless precision. He isn’t the biggest guy out here, but he plays like he is. Shoulders down, legs pumping, he drives forward, stick handling like it’s second nature. His jersey clings to his back, damp with sweat, and the strands of blond hair peeking out from beneath his helmet are darkened with it. Every movement is sharp, instinctual—he thrives in the chaos, the aggression, the pulse of the game.

The puck’s in his possession, and he feels the eyes on him, the crowd rising in their seats, the roar of his name merging into the symphony of the arena. He’s always had that effect. Fans love him because he plays like every shift might be his last, like he has something to prove. Maybe he does.

He cuts in, eyes locked on the net, and just as he shifts his weight to take the shot—

CRACK.

A body slams into him from the side, a hit he doesn’t see coming. He’s airborne for half a second, his limbs flailing, and then—whiplash. The back of his head snaps against the ice with a sickening force, his helmet absorbing most of the impact but not enough. White-hot pain detonates in his skull, a sharp explosion that blinds him.

For a few endless moments, there’s nothing but ringing in his ears. The world tilts, spiraling into static, his vision hazy as he blinks up at the arena lights. They burn into his retinas, too bright, too sharp. His pulse pounds against his skull, an angry, relentless throb.

He barely feels the trickle of blood down his skin, his hair matted with it under a helmet that feels far too tight now.

Distantly, he registers movement, shadows converging around him, but everything feels disconnected, like he’s floating just outside of his body. His fingers twitch against the ice.

He forces a breath in.

Then another.

And just when he starts getting a grip on which way is up, a voice filters through the haze—a paramedic crouching beside him, their presence solid and steady.

Leon tries to push himself up, but his limbs betray him, his vision lurching sideways. A firm hand presses against his shoulder, keeping him down, and something inside him bristles.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, or tries to—his own voice sounds far away, slurred at the edges.

They say something back, something firm, but the words don’t quite stick. His head is pounding too hard for him to care.

“I said I’m fine,” he snaps, trying again to sit up. This time, his stomach rolls violently, and he slumps back with a groan, frustration curling in his chest. He hears a noise—them. Probably trying to reason with him.

Leon squeezes his eyes shut, willing the nausea away. “I’m—” He stops, reconsiders. He knows they’re helping him, knows he should probably stop being an asshole about it, but pride is a stubborn thing.

Still, when he finally manages to focus on them, his vision settling enough to make out their face—his entire demeanor shifts.

They’re hovering just above him, backlit by the harsh arena lights, and he can’t quite tell if it’s the concussion or the way they look that knocks the fight clean out of him. The kind that makes his head spin a little more (or maybe that’s just the injury).

His smirk is instant, slow and crooked, slurred around the edges like he’s still catching up with himself, red dripping down his face and catching in his smile lines. “Damn,” he breathes, voice thick with something between amusement and delirium. “Am I dead?”

They say something back—probably something about his injury, his head, his well-being—but it barely registers.

Leon lets out a slow exhale, gaze dragging lazily over them before flicking back up. “No, seriously. You an angel or something?” He gestures vaguely, or tries to—his arm feels heavy. “Because either I’m in heaven, or you’re the best-looking concussion symptom I’ve ever had.”

His grin lingers, even as a wave of dizziness threatens to wipe him out again.