The Boston College Rivalry game was in full chaos.

Coach Daniel Sullivan stood behind the bench, arms crossed over his broad chest, jaw locked tight. The arena was deafening, but his focus stayed razor-sharp on the ice. When Pierce Moore skated by Eli and made that ugly, leaked rumor comment about Eli being gay, Sullivan’s grip tightened on the railing.

'Here we fucking go.'

The fight exploded instantly. Mason slammed Pierce into the boards. Gloves dropped. Logan, Tyler, Carter, and even freshman Noah piled in. Sullivan watched with burning frustration as his team turned the rivalry into a full-blown brawl. “Goddamn it,” Sullivan muttered under his breath, voice low and rough. “Reed, you idiot…” In the middle of the chaos, as he shouted at the referees, he accidentally backed into someone standing too close to the bench area. He turned sharply, catching you by the arm so you didn’t stumble. “Watch it—” he barked, then realized it was a student. His dark blue eyes flicked over you for half a second. “Stay back from the bench. It’s not safe.” He released your arm just as quickly and turned back to the ice, already barking orders again. The brief collision barely registered — just another face in a sea of chaos.

He stormed toward the locker rooms. Shooing away Millie, Ava and Lila away from the door. He didn’t hear their complaints as he slammed into the locker room door.

09:17 PM | Saturday, October 18th Agganis Arena — Boston University Campus

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FIRST INTERMISSION

The locker room door slammed open with a loud bang as Sullivan stormed in. The entire team went dead silent. Good. They should be fucking quiet. He stood there for a moment, staring them down, letting the weight of his disappointment fill the room. “What the fuck was that?” he growled, voice low and rough with barely-contained rage. His eyes locked on Mason first. “You’re supposed to be the leader. Not the one startin’ a goddamn circus on the ice.” Mason opened his mouth, but Sullivan cut him off. “Save it.” His gaze snapped to Tyler next. “Knox. One more stunt like that and you’re benched. I don’t give a shit if it’s the championship game. You pull that shit again and you’re done.” Tyler muttered something under his breath. Sullivan’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Wrong fuckin’ answer.” He pointed at Carter without missing a beat. “Hayes. Wipe that stupid smirk off your face before I do it for you.” Then to Noah. “Bennett. Use your head next time instead of followin’ these idiots into traffic.” "Yes, Coach." Finally, his eyes landed on Eli. The anger in his chest eased — just slightly. “You alright, Mercer?” Eli gave a small nod. “Yeah, Coach.” Sullivan exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand across his stubble. The kid didn’t deserve any of this shit. “Hydrate. Get your heads out of your asses. Second period in twelve minutes.” He turned toward the door, pausing with his back to them. “And if any of you get ejected tonight… I swear to God I’ll make the next week feel like hell. Fix it.” He slammed the door behind him as he left, heart still pounding with frustration and something heavier underneath.

'These boys are going to kill me one day...'

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[GOSSIP MILL] The party after the victory was SICK! Coach looks pissed this morning.

The hallways were packed with students rushing between classes. Coach Sullivan moved through them like a storm front, still pissed about the sloppy performance and the fight two days ago. The victory party the team threw Saturday night? He didn’t give a shit how “epic” it was. They’d celebrate when they played like a real team.

He turned a corner sharply — and collided hard with someone.

His large hand shot out instinctively, steadying you by the upper arm. “Shit,” he grunted, thick Boston accent rough with irritation. “Sorry. Wasn’t watchin’ where I was goin’.” He let go quickly, giving you a short, awkward nod. “You good?” he asked gruffly. Before you could fully answer, he was already glancing down the hall. “Gotta get to a meetin’. Keep your head up next time, kid.” He continued walking, jaw tight, already mentally preparing to rip into his team.

---

He was still furious. Arms crossed tightly over his powerful chest.

The Terriers sat in front of him in tense silence, the large screen behind him frozen on clips from last night’s game. Even though they had won, the victory tasted like ash in his mouth.

“Alright, listen up,” he started, his voice low and cutting like a blade. “Because I’m not in the mood to repeat myself.” He clicked the remote, circling a defensive breakdown from the first period. “That? That right there is pure fuckin’ slop,” he growled. “Logan — you left your guy wide open in the slot. I don’t give a damn how many goals you score if you’re playin’ like a sieve on the backcheck. We won the game, but that shit is unacceptable.” Logan leaned back in his chair, jaw clenched tight.

Sullivan’s eyes moved across the room like a storm. “Mason. You’re the captain. You know better. I don’t care how personal it got — you lost control. That’s not leadership.” Mason rubbed his temple wearily but stayed quiet. Sullivan continued, voice growing sharper. “Tyler — that lazy backchecking in the second? Unacceptable. You were out of position more than you were in it. Carter — stop showboatin’ and play team hockey. I saw you cherry-pickin’ twice. Noah, you’re a freshman, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna baby you. You got sucked into the fight like a goddamn moth to flame.” He paused, letting the heavy silence fill the room.

“Eli, you kept us alive in net. You’re the only reason it didn’t turn into a complete disaster out there. But the rest of you…” He shook his head, “Win or not, that performance was sloppy. The fight was embarrassing. We’re supposed to be better than that bullshit.” He clicked the remote again, freezing on another bad shift. “Bag skates tomorrow. Hard ones. Until you puke. Then we’re running it again. I don’t give a fuck about the party or how ‘epic’ it was. Fix this shit before next game, or I’ll make sure none of you feel like celebratin’ for a long time.” Sullivan stared them down for a long beat. “Dismissed.”

---

Coach Sullivan stepped into the small coffee shop, hoping a black coffee would cut through his lingering frustration from the film session. He paid, turned — and slammed directly someone for the second time today.

Hot coffee spilled all over your shirt. “Jesus Christ—” he hissed, eyes widening. “You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.” This time recognition hit him. Twice — no, three times now. He stared at you for a long second, then quickly grabbed napkins and started dabbing uselessly at the mess on your front. “Goddamn it… third time,” he muttered, voice lower. “I’m usually not this much of a disaster. You alright? That’s gotta burn.” He stopped dabbing when he realized how close he was, his intense dark blue eyes meeting yours properly for the first time. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face before he shut it down.

“I’ll buy you a new coffee. Or a new shirt. Least I can do after runnin’ you over multiple times.” His expression stayed gruff and guarded — the look of a married man who had no business paying any extra attention… yet couldn’t quite ignore the coincidence anymore. ——— 04:00 PM | Monday, October 20st BU Campus Coffee Shop A: 10/100 | R: 15/100 | G: Simmering