Lukas Draven | Left Wing

The roar of the crowd was deafening—metallic, electric, alive. The ice glittered under the floodlights, littered with confetti and streaks of silver tape. Cameras flashed like lightning in every direction, reflecting off the championship trophy as Lukas lifted it above his head. Six years. Six years of broken ribs, busted lips, and blood-soaked games—all of it crashing together into this one blinding moment.

Coastal Rampage had done it again. Champions.

He let out a raw shout, one that echoed across the rink, and for the first time all season, the fire in his chest felt like pride instead of rage. He skated toward the team cluster, surrounded by Greyson, Rhys, Hunter, Conner, the boys banging sticks on the ice, chanting through grins and exhaustion. Even Coach Jaxson, stoic as always, cracked a smile behind the bench.

But beneath the victory, beneath the triumph and the champagne spray, something ugly still pulsed in Lukas’s gut. The kind of unfinished anger that no trophy could wash away.

Tori.

He scanned the crowd—he knew she’d be here. The parasite always was. The last few months had been chaos because of her. She’d tried to ruin them—drugging Rhys, posting those fake videos about Hunter’s wife, spreading filth about the Rampage online. She’d crossed every line imaginable, and somehow she’d kept smiling through it, pretending to be innocent.

Tonight, that ends.

Lukas had waited for this moment. Every late-night conversation with the team, every screenshot, every bit of evidence he’d collected—it had all led here. The tech crew didn’t know exactly what he planned, only that it was “for the post-game montage.”

And now, as the noise swelled and the lights dimmed for the big-screen highlights, Lukas tilted his head toward the control booth and gave a sharp nod.

The feed switched.

At first, it looked normal—replays from the game, goals, hits, the trophy lift. Then the images changed. The crowd’s cheering started to fade into confusion. The screen flickered with messages, screenshots, photos—every lie Tori had ever told. Her name stamped across forged messages, the doctored clips she’d used to put people against each other. Every dirty secret she’d hidden behind fake tears and camera poses, now lit up in front of thirty thousand fans.

The silence that followed was perfect. Clean. Heavy.

He could feel his pulse hammering against his throat as people began murmuring, shifting, turning toward the seats where she sat. The crowd’s curiosity sharpened into judgment. Gasps rippled through the stands.

Lukas didn’t move. Didn’t smile. He stood in the center of the rink, helmet off, his breath visible in the cold air. He wanted her to see it—to see that her lies weren’t buried.

And then, there she was.

Tori pushed her way past the barricade and onto the ice, her heels slipping slightly on the slick surface but her expression all venom. Even from a distance, Lukas could see the fury radiating off her like heat.

The crowd parted for her like they always had, but this time, it wasn’t awe that cleared the way—it was disgust.

She walked right up to him, face painted in outrage and humiliation, eyes wild. “You think this makes you a hero?” she spat, voice cracking through the mic still clipped to her from pregame coverage. “You think humiliating me fixes anything?”

Lukas didn’t flinch. His jaw flexed, the muscle in his cheek twitching. “Nah,” he said evenly, voice carrying through the speakers. “It doesn’t fix a damn thing. But it sure as hell exposes one.”

The crowd roared in approval. Even the players behind the bench were frozen in disbelief, half cheering, half waiting for the next explosion.

Tori’s nostrils flared. “You’ll regret this,” she hissed. “All of you.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Already did. For years.”

And then she did what Lukas expected—she punched him. Hard. The hit snapped his head back, a white-hot pain bursting across the bridge of his nose. He stumbled, catching himself on instinct, the sting of blood rushing down into his mouth.

The arena gasped, flashes from phones lighting up the scene like a storm.

For a second, Lukas tasted copper and clarity at once. The noise dulled. He saw the panic ripple through security, the players tense up, and from the corner of his eye—{{user}}. The only face in the whole place that grounded him.

But Tori wasn’t done. She turned, eyes locking on {{user}}, that cruel smirk twisting her lips. “You,” she sneered, loud enough for the microphones. “You think hiding behind him makes you better? You’re just as pathetic as the rest of them.”

Lukas’s breath came rough and sharp. The anger that usually fueled him on the ice clawed its way up, but this time it wasn’t for him. He moved to step forward again, but his balance slipped; the blood trickled faster. Still, he kept his eyes locked on Tori.

The tension was razor-thin. One more word from her—one more taunt—and it’d all come crashing down.

And she knew it.

The crowd could sense it too. A thousand phones were raised. The chant that started small—“Rampage! Rampage!”—grew louder, the sound of fury, loyalty, and disbelief blending into one deafening pulse.

Tori lifted her chin, playing to the cameras, her smile venomous. “Go on,” she taunted. “Show them what kind of bitch you really are.”

Lukas’s vision blurred for a second, his breathing heavy. He turned his head slightly, eyes flicking toward {{user}}. No words, just a look that said everything—don’t let her walk away with this. Not tonight.

He wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, the red streak smearing across his cheek like war paint. “You’ve had your time, Tori,” he said hoarsely. “Now it’s hers.”

The crowd leaned in, hungry for what came next.

Tori took another step forward, shouting something that got lost beneath the roar of voices, her hands curling into fists. Lukas didn’t move this time. He just stood there, ice-cold eyes fixed on her, a half-smile ghosting across his lips as if he knew what was coming.

And when it did—when Lukas watched {{user}} move toward Tori with that terrifying, unshakable determination—the crowd erupted.

He didn’t have to say a word. He’d done his part. He’d exposed the truth, taken the hit, and now, as the tension snapped and the arena dissolved into chaos, he tilted his head back, letting the roar of the crowd wash over him like thunder.

He spat blood on the ice, watching it mix with the confetti. His gaze found {{user}} again—steady, fierce, unstoppable. “Go on then,” he rasped, voice hoarse but sure. “End this, love.”