The Dartwell Arena pulsed with sound, shoes on concrete, chants in the stands, Phantom colors fluttering in every direction. Black, white, and royal blue bled together like war paint, the air thick with pre-game adrenaline.

The crowd was electric. And the tension in Row C was surgical.

The Four Musketeers had taken their seats first.

Jordan Wallace slouched into his spot beside Declan Lynch, dog chain catching the overhead lights, legs stretched with manufactured ease like he owned the row. On his other side, Naomi sat pressed between him and Bennett.

Dominic Hunter leaned forward in his seat just behind the Musketeers, forearms braced on his knees, leather jacket folded like a shadow around him. His eyes flicked to Naomi every few seconds, checking on her, not that she'd asked him to. He wasn't subtle, but he was steady.

Naomi Lorraine was quiet, her face calm, but her fingers twisted the hem of her sweater. She knew. Of course she knew. Every inch of her was tuned into the unspoken battlefield she'd unintentionally dragged them into.

Declan Lynch, stone-faced as ever, looked like he was carved from tension. His hoodie was black and pulled up. He didn't move much but his eyes were sharp, scanning everything. Tyler. Sky. The Phantom-heavy arena. Dominic.

Especially Dominic.

Tyler Blake sat directly behind Declan, arms crossed, jaw sharp. He gave Declan a once-over, not antagonistic, but not gentle either. Like an opponent he'd already decided to respect but not trust.

Next to him sat Sky Matthews', rings glinting on steady fingers. His gaze moved over the rink, the crowd, then dipped to the Musketeers seated just below. He didn't smile, not yet but he nodded once at Bennett.

Bennett Frazier, poised and unreadable returned it. The smallest dip of his head. Two diplomats acknowledging each other across enemy lines.

They were the most courteous pair of the bunch, not out of warmth but calculation. Bennett could read people with terrifying precision. And Sky? Sky read them with unsettling ease. Neither liked surprises.

Jordan muttered out the side of his mouth, "This is... not subtle."

"No," Naomi agreed softly. "It's not."

Dominic leaned closer, voice dropping to something low and familiar. "It's like my freshman year debate team all over again. Stuck with three people who hate my guts."

Naomi gave him a look, tired but fond. "They don't hate you."

"Debatable."

Jordan glanced back just enough to catch Dominic's smirk. "Say 'debatable' one more time and I swear—"

Dominic leaned in, exaggerated whisper: "Debatable."

"Boys," Naomi warned, like a mother scolding toddlers in church.

"Just catching up," Dominic said brightly.

He then turned to his friends. "I've been trying to convince Naomi we should reinstate our Tuesday trivia lunch sessions." 

Leaning back to her, he said. "Remember those? You used to smoke everyone on history questions."

Naomi flushed faintly, caught between the sincerity and the performance of it. "That was mostly you carrying me."

"No," he said, meaning it. "You just didn't know how smart you were."

There was a flicker in Jordan's jaw. Declan didn't move. But his hands had curled into fists.

"Ladies and gentlemen," boomed the announcer, saving everyone from further combustion, "please welcome to the ice... the Graveshollow Phantoms!"

The arena exploded.

Players flew out in formation, slicing across the rink like a burst of color and speed. The boys in Row C leaned forward instinctively.

But it was the next name that stilled the noise.

"Starting at Left Wing — Number 13 —Arya Hudson!"

A spotlight arced across the ice. And she emerged.

Arya Hudson had the kind of presence that didn't just walk into a room it rewrote it. Long blonde braid swinging behind her, brown eyes lit with something electric, she coasted across the rink like it was made for her. Like she was gravity and starlight, stitched into one.

Her smile was dazzling real, not rehearsed and it reached all the way to her eyes. There was nothing icy about her, despite the blades under her feet.

"She looks like she doesn't belong here," Naomi murmured.

"Like she wandered off from a meadow," Sky added, soft with awe. "Then remembered she had a game to win."

Arya wasn't lining up with her team just yet. Instead, she skated toward the boards, talking to teammates, bumping shoulders, laughing in a way that made the air feel warmer.

Then she turned toward the stands. Her gaze swept the crowd.

And she winked.

Right at them.

Dominic huffed a laugh. "Of course she did."

He leaned down to Naomi. "She's this seasons top scorer, assist queen and total menace."

"She's something," Jordan muttered under his breath, eyes glued to the ice.

"She's a star," Sky corrected.

Arya kicked up a spray of ice as she spun into formation, now finally moving into place. The roar of the crowd swelled again.

"She's ridiculous," Jordan said with awe.

Bennett, quiet until now, tracked Arya's motion like a chess piece sliding across a board. "She's going to change things."

No one answered him.

But everyone felt it.

The music shifted, the announcer's voice booming once more through the speakers.

"Starting Right Wing — number 17 —Tessa Blake!"

The crowd didn't cheer the way they had for Arya. They roared.

Not with affection but with relief. Like they were grateful she was theirs.

She was the kind of player you loved to hate unless she was on your side. Then she was your weapon. Your shield. Your storm.

Tessa skated onto the ice like she owned it. Copper hair pulled back into a severe braid that trailed down her back, her grey eyes sharp as blades and fixed on the Weybridge players like she was already sizing up their weakest link. She didn't smile, didn't wave—just nodded once at her teammates as she passed them. A silent show of trust.

She looked nothing like Arya. Where Arya moved like a storm with a sunbeam tucked inside it, Tessa was cold fire. Ruthless. Composed. Lethal.

The announcer's voice followed her across the rink like an echo:

"Known for her unmatched strength, punishing defense, and that legendary wrist shot. Blake is the player you do not want chasing you down the ice."

Naomi leaned forward slightly. "Is that...?"

Tyler didn't look away from the rink, but the faintest smile curved his lips. "That's my sister."

Naomi blinked. "You have a sister?"

"She's older," Tyler added with a sigh. "By two minutes. And she will never let me forget it."

Dominic whistled low under his breath. "She's terrifying."

"She's hot," Sky said bluntly, slouching deeper in his seat. "Like, morally compromising levels of hot."

Dominic snorted. "We only say that to mess with Tyler, by the way."

"Mostly to mess with Tyler," Sky corrected, grinning as Tyler shot them a flat glare. "But like... I'd let her run me over. And thank her."

Tyler muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a threat. Dominic and Sky exchanged a victorious glance.

"She's got a bad attitude," Tyler grumbled, more to the ice than to them.

Sky didn't miss a beat. "Well, if I were related to you, I would too."

Tyler's brow ticked up. "You're defending Tessa now?"

Sky shrugged, casual as ever. "Only behind her back. Never to her face."

That earned the smallest twitch of a smile from Tyler.

Declan didn't say anything. But his arms had folded across his chest, and his gaze hadn't left the ice. Not since Tessa Blake skated out.

There was something about her the way she moved with purpose, how she didn't try to charm or appease the crowd. She didn't need to.

She didn't perform. She commanded.

Declan's jaw flexed. Quiet respect settled in his eyes.

This girl didn't need a spotlight. She was the fire.

The arena's cheers swelled again as the announcer's voice rang out over the speakers. "Number 19, right defense—Daphne Venturi!"

Daphne glided across the ice like poetry. Black hair swayed behind her in a sleek ponytail, her posture upright, calm, composed. Her eyes, an icy shade of blue, surveyed the rink not with aggression but with elegance, like she was studying a painting.

"She moves like a figure skater," Jordan said under his breath, eyes wide.

"Don't be fooled," Sky added, his voice almost admiring. "She defends like a wolf backed into a corner."

"She's also Tyler's girlfriend," Dominic added casually.

Four heads turned.

Tyler's face had completely transformed. Gone was the quiet edge, the wary watchfulness. In its place: open, unguarded awe. Like he was watching the northern lights instead of a high-stakes game.

"You saw her three hours ago," Sky said dryly, leaning in just enough to smirk at him.

Tyler didn't even blink. "Yeah. I know."

"Number 21, left defense—Brianna Decker!"

The contrast was immediate. Brianna hit the ice with a fierce stride, brown hair tucked under her helmet, eyes sharp. There was no softness to her. Just focus and brute power.

"If Tessa's a wildfire, Decker's a wrecking ball," Sky said, low and impressed.

"She doesn't need to smile," Jordan added, watching her pace across the blue line. "That glare is the message."

The announcer's voice cut back in:

"Together, Decker and Venturi are the highest-ranked defensive pair in the league. One with steel, one with silk, together, untouchable."

The cheers hadn't even finished echoing before the arena settled with a hum of anticipation.

"And in goal—number 01, Maya Scott!"

There was no flourish to her entrance. Maya skated out with her head down, gear heavy, pads pristine, helmet in hand. She moved like a machine built for one purpose blocking everything that came at her.

She stepped into the goalie crease with precision, turned, and lifted her gaze to the crowd.

Just for a second, her sharp blue eyes scanned the stands and lingered.

Naomi tracked the movement instinctively, watched as Maya's gaze locked, just for a moment, with Dominic.

He didn't notice.

Maya looked away, settling into position.

Naomi didn't say anything. But her fingers stilled, no longer twisting the ends of her sweater.

The lights shifted again, a final name ringing through the arena with unmistakable weight:

"And your starting center forward and captain—number 15, Davina Carter!"

The crowd erupted. Not with the wild screams reserved for fan favorites, but with a kind of thunderous respect. It was the sound of a crowd that knew what they were witnessing, a leader stepping onto her domain.

Davina took the ice like she owned it.

Her shoulder-length black hair curled slightly at the ends and deep green eyes scanned the rink not for applause, but like she was already plotting her next five plays. The others might've charged or glided or strutted but Davina? She surveyed. Like the game had already begun and she was ten moves ahead.

"She reads the rink like a chessboard," Bennett murmured, the words escaping him before he thought better of it.

Naomi tilted her head. "You don't even like hockey."

"I like strategy," Bennett replied, gaze sharp.

"Carter," the announcer continued, "is the fastest skater on either team. With twelve assists and fifteen goals this season, her leadership has been crucial to the Phantom's undefeated streak. A captain respected by her team and feared by her rivals. Davina Carter doesn't just play the game. She orchestrates it."

Jordan let out a low whistle. "She doesn't blink."

"She doesn't need to," Declan said quietly. "She already knows where you're going."

Even Sky gave a nod, the corner of his mouth lifting. "You only have to play against her once to never forget her."

Dominic added, "She has a way of making everyone else look like they're catching up."

And still, as the puck drop neared, it wasn't noise Davina brought with her.

It was silence.

The calm before something brilliant.