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Okay, then it’s settled.

I’m not going.

But as the clock ticks closer to game time, I find myself pulling open my closet.

“I need more friends,” I mutter, rifling through the hangers.

I pull out a fitted black turtleneck and pair it with high-waisted jeans and ankle boots. Something casual. Not like I’m dressing up for anyone.

I check myself in the mirror, tugging at my curls until they frame my face just right. Then I throw on a Blackridge Ravens hoodie and grab my bag.

The Uber drops me off right outside the university, and I’m immediately hit with the energy of game day. The parking lot is packed to the brim, cars squeezed into every available space. People are streaming toward the arena in clusters, their voices loud, excited, and full of that undeniable game-day energy.

“Go Ravens!” someone yells, holding up a foam finger like it’s the holy grail of sports fan gear. Another group of students bursts out into a chant, their faces painted, their excitement palpable.

The hype is contagious, even though I keep telling myself I don’t care. I’m just here to watch the game because my dad asked me to be here, not to get swept up in the madness. But as I walk toward the entrance, I can’t help but feel that familiar pull. I always loved coming to the games with my dad.

Inside, the energy is insane. The stands are almost full, with the sea of fans creating a low rumble of anticipation. The air is thick with the smell of buttered popcorn, hot dogs, and the faint metallic tang of the ice that hits you the second you step into the arena.

The Ravens are already skating out for warmups, their black and white jerseys standing out against the pristine white of the ice. The crowd goes wild, and the noise is deafening. I find a spot near the back, in the shadows where no one will notice me. I’ve been here enough times to know where the best places are to watch without being seen, without being a part of the show.

Then I see Eli.

He’s on the ice, gliding effortlessly, like he was born to skate. His black and white jersey clings to his frame, number 23 bold on his back. He moves with that smooth, effortless grace that’s so damn distracting. The way he cuts across the ice, the focus in his eyes, it’s like he’s the only one on the rink.

I can’t stop watching him. It’s like he’s the fucking sun, and I’m just a moth drawn to the flame. But I force myself to look away.

And then there’s Caleb, number 10, swaggering out like he owns the place. His arrogance drips from him as he fist-bumps his teammates, making sure everyone sees him. Making sure everyone knows thathe’sthe one running the show.

“Fucking asshole,” I mutter under my breath. I don’t know why I hate him so much, but I do. The guy has this way of walking around like he’s untouchable, like nothing and no one can touch him. I can’t stand it.

The game starts, and it’s brutal right from the first puck drop. The Warriors are fast, their green and gold jerseys a blur on the ice as they launch into action. But the Ravens are relentless, never backing down, always on the attack. Every hit, every pass, every shot is met with cheers from the crowd. The energy is infectious.

I spot my dad on the sidelines, arms crossed, watching intently as the players execute his plays. He’s all business, no emotion, even as the game heats up. It’s like he’s a machine, dishing out commands, running the show from the bench. He doesn’t even flinch when a big hit lands on one of our guys. I guess that’s just how it goes when you’re coaching at this level.

The mascots are all over the place. One is in a giant Ravens suit, the other’s dressed as a hawk, and they’re doing their best to keep the crowd hyped. They’re handing out high-fives, running through the stands, getting everyone riled up.

“Let’s go, Ravens!” the crowd chants. I find myself mouthing the words, getting swept up in the excitement. I didn’t come here for this. I came to watch the game, but damn, the energy’s got a grip on me.

By the second period, Blackridge is up by two goals. The crowd is losing it, their cheers shaking the rafters. I’m on the edge of my seat, fists clenched as I watch the game unfold. Every pass Eli makes, every play he drives, it’s like he’s orchestrating the whole thing. He’s everywhere, stealing pucks, making plays, driving the Warriors insane. It’s like watching a symphony in motion, but with more blood and bruises.

The puck gets lost in a scramble near the boards, bouncing from player to player. It’s anyone’s game at this point. I’m leaning forward, barely breathing as I watch the chaos unfold. Suddenly, Eli and Caleb are pushing each other, jostling for position. At first, it looks like nothing — just the usual tension between players. They’re both rough, competitive, so it’s not surprising. They take off their helmets and shake out their hair.

Then it looks like Caleb says something. Eli’s jaw tightens, his body going stiff. And then Eli shoves him hard.

Caleb doesn’t back down. He shoves back.

And that’s when shit hits the fan.

They slam into the boards, their fists flying in a blur of fury. The crowd gasps, and the arena goes silent for a split second before the chaos erupts again. My dad is yelling at the refs, his face red, hands flailing in frustration. He wants this to end. But Eli and Caleb are in it, fists swinging like it’s personal.

Caleb lands a punch that cuts Eli’s eyebrow, and Eli’s response is a brutal hit to Caleb’s lip. Blood starts dripping down Caleb’s chin, but neither of them stops. It’s a fucking war out there, and neither of them is backing down.

My heart is in my throat. I don’t know who to root for. Damn, it’s hard to tear my eyes away. This isn’t the hockey I came here for. This is something else entirely.

“Holy shit,” someone near me whispers. They’re not wrong.

The refs finally manage to pull them apart, their whistles blaring in an attempt to restore order. My dad is pointing furiously to the bench, his voice barely audible above the noise. Both Eli and Caleb are benched, their faces twisted in anger as they glare at each other. They’re breathing hard, their bodies still wound tight with the energy of the fight.