The arena is electric tonight. Every seat filled, jerseys in two colors, a wall of noise that vibrates through the concrete floor beneath Y/n's skates.

On the ice, Grayson Hayes is in his element. Helmet off during warm-ups, hair damp, laughing at something Mason Reed said. He glides backward, stick tapping the boards in front of Y/n's spot by the glass.

And there he is. Landon Pierce.

Tall, composed, wearing the captain's C on his chest. He hasn't looked up yet. But the tension in Y/n's shoulders tightens anyway.

On the ice, Grayson lines up for the opening face-off. His eyes scan the stands briefly—finding Y/n, holding the gaze for half a second—before he drops into position.

The referee drops the puck. The game begins.

It's fast. Brutal. Exactly what rivalry night promises. Bodies slam against the boards, whistles echo, the crowd roars at every near-goal. Grayson plays like he's possessed, chasing every loose puck, barking orders at his line.

Grayson's stick drops. His gloves hit the ice a half-second later. He grabs Landon by the front of his jersey, yanks him forward, and throws a punch that lands square across his jaw, sending blood to the ice.

The crowd erupts. Whistles scream. Players flood in from both benches. Ethan swears loudly beside Y/n, already moving toward the glass.