No love,Just hockey(...until 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-"

"You're done, Ivy," Coach Lorne says, and that's what finally does it.

Not the PR guy. Not the suit.

Coach.

He won't even look her in the eyes.

Something cracks open inside her.

She doesn't remember leaving-just her skates scraping the concrete, the weight of all those eyes on her back, and the sound of silence swallowing her whole.

---

Three hours later.

Her apartment is too quiet.

Her stick is propped in the corner. Her gear bag lies open and untouched. She's still in half her base layer, hair damp and matted, the cut on her cheek crusted with dried blood.

Her phone's been going off nonstop. The screen flashes like a slot machine:

114 messages.

23 missed calls.

#IvyKnew is trending.

#ProtectThePlayers.

#BenchTheQueen.

She doesn't open any of them.

The team's official statement is already up. A slick, impersonal paragraph about "ongoing investigations" and "commitment to athlete safety." No names. No accountability.

She tosses the phone on the couch and stares at the ceiling.

She should be furious.

And she is. But not at the Federation. Not at Lorne. Not even at Halverson, not really.

She's furious at herself.

She saw the bruises. She heard the fear in Liza's voice, the way her hands shook during warmups. She knew. And she didn't push.

Because she was scared.

Scared of rocking the boat. Of jeopardizing their already-unstable season. Of being the loudmouth, the drama queen, the "difficult" player who doesn't know when to shut up.

And now?

Now she's reaping what she didn't sow.

She opens her burner Instagram account. The one she never links to press or sponsors. It's the only place she follows people she actually cares about-queer athletes, indie skaters, minor-league grinders who never got their shot because they didn't fit the brand.

Girls like-

There she is.

Rey Navarro.

A reposted clip plays automatically. Rey, standing at a press conference, eyes blazing with fury. No makeup. No script.

"I'm tired of this fake-ass league pretending it cares about us when it buries players like Liza," Rey says, voice shaking with rage. "When it sells people like Ivy Ransom as role models while they stay silent to keep their goddamn sponsorships."

The room goes silent. Even the reporters don't interrupt.

Ivy's breath stutters.

She and Rey were never close. Not really. Same training camps, opposite conference teams. There was tension, always-that quiet, pulsing kind that sometimes crackles into flirtation and sometimes feels like hate.

The post has over a million views. The comments are on fire.

Finally someone says it.

Rey for captain.

Burn it down.

The caption reads:

Ice melts. Empires fall. Truth stays cold.

Ivy doesn't cry.

She hasn't cried in years-not since her scholarship was on the line and her parents said we can't help you anymore, you'll have to earn it. But tonight, her eyes burn.

She drops the phone. Curls into the corner of the couch. Pulls her knees to her chest.

Because the worst part isn't the suspension. Or the press. Or the betrayal.

It's that she doesn't disagree with Rey Navarro.

Not entirely.

And that? That scares the hell out of her.

She doesn't regret it.

Not the press conference. Not calling Ivy out. Not even the way her voice cracked when she said Liza's name.

She meant every goddamn word.

But that doesn't stop her hand from shaking as she unlocks the door to her apartment, knuckles scraped from a snapped skate lace she yanked too hard before the presser. Her place is a mess-gear dumped by the door, the reek of liniment and sweat still clinging to the walls. Coffee half-drunk on the table. A protein bar wrapper torn like it fought back.

She tosses her keys into the bowl and yanks off her hoodie, pacing the living room like she's still in the penalty box with too much time and not enough ice. Her phone buzzes from the counter again.

32 missed texts.

She scrolls through them like a bruise-press clippings, fire emojis, teammates saying damn, Navarro, and one blunt line from her coach:

"Hope you know what you're doing."

She doesn't. Not really.

She just knows she's tired. Tired of pretending the league is fine. Tired of watching girls like Liza swallow their trauma just to keep a jersey. Tired of seeing Ivy fucking Ransom's face on cereal boxes like she's the patron saint of women's hockey when she-

Rey stops.

Runs a hand over her mouth.

When she didn't say a fucking thing.

She punches the fridge. Not hard, not like she'll break it. But enough to feel something. Her knuckles sting.

She sinks to the floor. Breathes.

It had to be said. Ivy had to be called out. That kind of silence is complicity, and Rey knows how silence works-how it eats you alive. How it gets girls like Liza erased and predators like Halverson promoted.

But still. There's a sour twist in her stomach that won't go away.

She scrolls Twitter.

#IvyKnew is trending.

So is #NavarroUnfiltered.

One post has the clip from the press conference cut with slo-mo footage of Ivy skating off the ice, dramatic music swelling. The caption reads:

"When your idol becomes the villain."

Another one's worse. It's just Rey's face-mid-sentence, eyes full of fury-and the text:

"Clout-chaser. Didn't care when it was her teammate last season."

Rey stares at the post. Blinks. Her mouth goes dry.

It's bullshit. She did care. She just didn't have proof. Didn't know who to trust. And by the time she'd found out, the girl was gone. Transferred mid-season. Quiet, clean, brushed away.

She should've said something then.

She didn't.

Maybe that's why it feels like her rage today wasn't just for Liza.

Maybe it was for herself.

Later, in the shower, the water scalds. She scrubs until her skin feels raw, but nothing washes off the burn under her ribs. Her phone buzzes again. This time it's her agent, Sloane.

She lets it go to voicemail. Twice.

Third time, she picks up.

"Jesus, Rey," Sloane says before she can say hello. "You dropped a damn nuke."

Rey leans against the bathroom sink, towel wrapped around her, steam curling from her shoulders. "You're welcome."

"Don't get cocky. You just became the face of player rebellion."

"Someone's gotta do it."

Sloane sighs, and it's the kind of sigh that sounds like it's paired with wine and a PR crisis. "I get it. I do. But the league's already calling. They want a sit-down. And-brace yourself-they're floating an idea."

"I'm not apologizing."

"I didn't say that." A pause. "They want you to do a public reconciliation."

Rey freezes. "With who?"

"You know who."

She doesn't answer. Doesn't breathe.

"Ivy fucking Ransom?" she finally says, voice low and dangerous. "You think I'm gonna stand next to her like this is all fine? Like she didn't-"

"They want a redemption arc. You and her, side by side. United front. 'Strong women, stronger together' or some garbage."

Rey laughs, sharp and bitter. "Absolutely not."

"They'll spin it. They'll say you held her accountable and she listened. She learns, you lead. Could even boost both your brands."

"I'm not a fucking brand."

"You're a star," Sloane says gently. "And this league doesn't forgive stars who go rogue. Think long-term."

Rey hangs up.

Not because Sloane's wrong. But because she's right.

That night, she can't sleep.

She lies on the couch, sports bra digging into her ribs, ankle sore from practice. Her TV plays an old game on mute-one of Ivy's, of course. Highlight reel of the classic Ransom style: smooth, lethal, pretty as hell.

The way she skated always pissed Rey off. Too clean. Too effortless.

Too perfect.

Because Ivy's silence wasn't just a personal failing. It was part of the system.

And Rey? Rey is done playing nice with systems.

She finally falls asleep around 3 AM. Her phone buzzes at 6:17.

Unknown Number.

She groans, flips it over, and almost ignores it.

But something in her gut says pick up.

"Navarro," she says, voice gravel.

Silence. Then: "I didn't know she recorded it."

Rey sits up fast. "Ivy?"

"Yeah." Ivy's voice is raw. Hoarse. Like she hasn't slept either. "I just-I needed you to know. I didn't know Liza recorded that conversation."

Rey stands. Paces. "That's what you're calling about? Damage control?"

"No." A pause. "Maybe. I don't know. I just-Jesus, Rey. I didn't think anyone would believe I cared. I fucked up, but I didn't-God, I didn't mean to let her down."

"You did."

"I know."

The silence hangs heavy. Rey's jaw clenches.

"Why'd you let it happen?" she asks, quieter now. "You saw it. You knew."

"I was scared," Ivy admits. "I thought if I pushed, I'd lose everything."

Rey laughs, but it's not kind. "Welcome to the club."

"I deserved that."

"Damn right you did."

More silence. Ivy's breath catches on the other end of the line.

Rey closes her eyes. Her voice softens against her will. "What do you want, Ivy?"

"I don't know," she says, and it sounds like a truth she hates. "I think I just wanted to hear your voice."

Rey says nothing.

"I'm sorry," Ivy adds, small.

And fuck her, Rey believes it.

That's what pisses her off the most.

Later that day, Rey gets a second call. This time from Liza.

Her voice is shaky. "Thanks for what you said."

Rey swallows. "You didn't owe me that."

"I'm glad you said it. I didn't think anyone would."

Rey exhales. Relief. Guilt. It mixes. "You okay?"

"I will be."

That should be enough.

But after they hang up, Rey's phone buzzes again. A text this time.

Ivy Ransom:

They want us to do the reconciliation thing. PR stunt. You in?

Rey stares at the screen.

A thousand answers flicker in her mind-rage, refusal, sarcasm.

But instead, she types:

Only if I get to call you out again after.

Ivy:

Deal.

And just like that, the ice under their feet gets a little thinner.

The alarm went off like it had a personal grudge.

Rey groaned, half-buried under tangled sheets and the sticky weight of a night that ended way too late. The sun hadn't even bothered to show up yet, and her phone screen glared 5:12 A.M. in harsh white letters like it was proud of ruining her sleep.

"Babe," a sleepy voice murmured beside her, warm breath on her shoulder. "Turn that off, please..."

Rey twisted to glance at the girl curled up next to her-a blur of soft curls, lip gloss smudges, and way too much glitter on one eyelid. She couldn't remember her name. Probably started with an S. Or an L. Something breathy and Instagram-famous.

Rey reached over and silenced the alarm. "Go back to sleep," she said, not unkindly, but final.

The girl blinked up at her, pout already forming. "You leaving?"

"Yeah. PR."

"Mmm, you're such a good girl," the girl teased, eyes closing again as she tucked the blanket under her chin. "Come back after?"

Rey didn't answer. She was already out of bed, searching the floor for her hoodie and left skate sock, stepping over yesterday's jeans and an empty Red Bull can like it was an obstacle course. Her bra was somehow hanging from the doorknob. Classic.

She tugged her hoodie on backward the first time. Fixed it. Brushed her teeth with one hand while lacing up her sneakers with the other. Her hair was chaos and she let it be-curly and big and screaming don't talk to me before caffeine. The bathroom mirror judged her. She winked at it.

In the kitchen, she chugged what was left of a lukewarm protein shake from last night, grabbed her stick, her gear bag, and her keys in one swipe, and was out the door by 5:29.

The early morning air slapped her in the face-cold and fresh like it was trying to do her a favor. She welcomed it.

Ivy hates the studio lighting. It's clinical. Sterile. The kind of bright that makes you feel like you're about to be dissected instead of interviewed.

She shifts in her seat, spine stiff against the fake leather couch, makeup setting in the creases of her jaw. Her palms are sweating. Her chest is tight.

Across from her, Rey Navarro looks like she hasn't blinked in ten minutes.

The set is fake-casual, meant to look like a cozy living room-framed jerseys on the wall, puck-themed throw pillows, a pair of signed sticks leaned artistically against the backdrop. Ivy knows the props were chosen to signal unity. Strength. Sisterhood.

Bullshit.

The producer is circling like a hawk, headset crooked, clipboard in hand. "We go live in four," she says. "Remember the talking points. Stick to the script."

Ivy nods, even though her stomach is flipping. She can feel Rey's eyes on her, sharp and unreadable.

This is the first time they've been in the same room since that phone call. The first time they've seen each other since Ivy's suspension, since the video, since the firestorm.

And the tension?

It's choking.

Rey's legs are crossed tight, fingers drumming against her knee. She's not wearing her jersey. Neither of them are. It's soft civilian mode-denim, minimalist sneakers, logos strategically invisible. Rey's hair is pulled back, clean undercut sharp as a blade. Her jaw ticks.

Ivy doesn't know whether she wants to punch her or apologize again.

Probably both.

A makeup assistant dabs under Rey's eyes. Rey flinches like she's been struck. Ivy watches her inhale, slow and measured, then nod stiffly. The assistant retreats.

"Two minutes," the producer calls. "Smile when we intro. Don't overcorrect. We want honest, not defensive. Got it?"

Neither of them respond.

Rey's arms are crossed now. Closed off. Ivy feels her own body mimic the posture.

This was a mistake.

They're live before Ivy's ready.

The host is a polished former player turned media darling. Her smile is bright enough to fry an egg, but Ivy sees the edge behind it. This isn't just damage control-it's theatre.

"Today," the host says, "we're joined by two of the league's most talked-about stars-Rey Navarro and Ivy Ransom. Teammates off the ice, rivals on it, and now... unlikely allies in the wake of a very public controversy."

Rey's mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something tighter.

Ivy swallows.

The first few questions are scripted softballs.

What's it been like navigating the fallout?

How do you plan to move forward as leaders in the sport?

What message do you want to send to young fans watching?

Ivy answers like she was trained to-concise, composed, with just enough vulnerability to sound real.

Rey? Rey's answers are clipped. Honest. There's a simmer under each word, like she's daring the host to push too far.

And then-

"Ivy," the host says, tilting slightly, "a lot of fans feel betrayed. They looked up to you. What do you say to those who think you knew what was happening and stayed silent to protect your image?"

Rey shifts beside her. The tension sparks like a live wire.

Ivy keeps her face neutral. Breathes through her nose.

"I think," she says slowly, "those fans are right to feel hurt. I didn't do enough. I didn't listen closely enough. I saw things and chose not to question them, and that's on me."

She feels Rey's eyes flick toward her. Watches her from the corner of her vision.

"I can't undo that," Ivy continues. "But I can be better. I will be better."

The host turns to Rey. "And you-Rey, you called Ivy out publicly. Some have called you brave. Others, divisive. What would you say to people who think you escalated the situation instead of resolving it behind closed doors?"

Rey smiles. It's not sweet.

"I say that's a convenient opinion if you've never been the one left behind. If you've never had to pick between silence and survival."

Ivy's throat tightens.

Rey continues, voice steady. "I didn't escalate anything. I told the truth. And if that makes people uncomfortable, they should ask themselves why."

The host looks like she just got hit with a slapshot.

The producer gestures frantically off-camera.

"We'll be right back," the host says, smile a little cracked now. "Stay with us for more from Ivy and Rey, after the break."

The second the lights dim, Ivy exhales like she's been holding her breath for days.

Rey stands. Paces. Her hands are shaking.

"That felt great," she mutters. "Like a nice slow evisceration."

Ivy stands too, not sure if she wants to follow or flee. "You could've gone harder."

Rey glances over her shoulder. "Don't tempt me."

They lock eyes.

For a second, it's just them. No cameras. No script.

"You're still pissed," Ivy says.

Rey lifts a brow. "You expected otherwise?"

"No. I just-" Ivy hesitates. "You didn't have to be here."

Rey laughs. It's hollow. "Trust me, I really didn't."

"Then why'd you show?"

Rey looks at her. Really looks.

"Because I meant what I said. And because Liza deserves better than a league that treats her like a PR inconvenience. This?" She gestures at the set. "This isn't for you. It's not even for me. It's for every girl who's been told to shut up and skate."

Ivy feels something twist in her chest.

Before she can respond, they're being ushered back to the couch.

Segment two.

This time, the host tries to lighten the mood.

Let's play a game, she says. Rapid fire questions. Show us the real Ivy and Rey.

Rey visibly recoils. Ivy wants to groan.

But the cameras are rolling, and the game begins.

"Who's most likely to win a fight?"

They both say "Rey" at the same time.

"Who's messier off the ice?"

Ivy raises a hand. "Guilty."

"Who has better style?"

They both say "Me."

That earns a laugh. The first real one.

"Who made the first move?"

Silence.

The host grins, sensing blood. "Oh, is there a story there?"

Rey shoots Ivy a sideways look. Ivy stiffens.

"No story," she says quickly.

Rey just smirks. "You sure about that?"

Ivy glares.

The host raises an eyebrow but moves on.

"Who would survive a zombie apocalypse?"

"Me," they both say again. Rey adds, "Ivy would try to negotiate."

"I would not-"

"You'd try to reason with them. 'I understand your hunger, but have you considered therapy?'"

Ivy snorts. A laugh escapes before she can swallow it.

Rey grins.

The camera catches it. The producer's eyes go wide.

There's a beat-small, electric-where something shifts.

Then it's over.

The lights dim. The segment ends.

The host wraps with a practiced smile. "Thank you, Ivy and Rey. That was... illuminating."

They're led off-set, still in silence.

In the hallway outside the studio, Rey turns to Ivy. "Well. That wasn't a complete disaster."

Ivy rubs the back of her neck. "Could've been worse."

"You mean like the part where we almost admitted we've hooked up?"

"That wasn't what she meant."

Rey leans in, close enough for Ivy to smell her cologne-leather and something sharp. "Wasn't it?"

Ivy's breath catches.

She steps back. Clears her throat. "This is professional. Remember?"

Rey tilts her head. "Sure. Totally professional."

Her voice is teasing, but there's something raw underneath it. Something real.

Ivy looks away.

"I meant what I said in there," Rey says quietly. "About being better."

"I know."

"And about calling you out."

"I know that too."

Rey hesitates. "You still mad?"

Ivy meets her eyes. "Yeah. But not just at you."

Rey nods. "Same."

They stand there, staring at each other.

And for the first time since everything fell apart, Ivy feels like maybe-just maybe-they're standing on something that could hold their weight.

The tension hasn't gone. But now it feels like something else is under it.

Possibility.