The air was thick with the smell of cheap cologne, sweat, and the electric buzz of a spectacle. Shoving bodies, craning necks. A locker rattled with the impact of something—or someone—being thrown against it.

And facing him, stance coiled and ready, was Keith Kogane. His black leather jacket was scuffed, his knuckles already red. A dark bruise was blooming high on his cheekbone, but his purple eyes were fixed, unblinking, on James. His signature mullet was a wild mess, like he’d just pulled his helmet off.