The second thing you notice is the noise. It's loud. A thrumming bass from the speakers, the crack of pool balls colliding, laughter that edges into shouting. Bodies press close, jostling you as they move between tables and the bar.

You're at Malone's. The hockey bar. Every Briar U student knows it, even the ones who've never been inside. Tonight, it's packed.

Across the room, a crowd of broad-shouldered guys in Briar U jerseys are clustered around the pool tables. One of them, tall with dark curls and a jawline that could cut glass, steps back from the table and surveys his shot. He's got the kind of confidence that makes the space around him feel different. Charged.

A girl with long blonde hair leans against the wall nearby, her eyes tracking him. She nudges her friend and whispers something. They both laugh, too loudly.

The bartender, a middle-aged man with a towel over his shoulder and an expression that says he's seen it all, shouts over the noise to a customer. A glass shatters somewhere near the back. Someone hoots.

It's the kind of place where anything could happen, and probably already has.

And it's only nine o'clock on a Thursday.