Work Text:
Blood on the ice isn’t new. Blood is as old as veins. Fighting is as old as the game, sewn into the seams, in the stitches of every sweater. Tied in the laces. Dyed in the wool.
But this ice is new. It’s fresh and crisp. It’s teeth are sharp and it’s stomach hungry for the meal it’s promised.
As fist collides with skin and bone and plastic, knuckles scraped and busted, the sacrifice - the ritual - is completed for the first time. Bloody ice and the crowd cheers. Blood scraped away, a hunger satisfied for now.
The cycle begins anew.