Chapter 7: The Front Row

Gianna’s POV

The noise inside the Vanguard Arena was deafening. Thousands of students and local fans packed the steep bleachers, a sea of gold and black jersey shirts screaming as the pre-game music boomed through the floorboards. The smell of cold grease, stale beer, and the sharp bite of the ice rink filled the air.

I stood at the top of the concrete stairs, my hands stuffed deep into the pockets of a tailored black leather jacket. Underneath, I was wearing a brand-new, crisp white hockey jersey.

Plastered across the front was the Blackwood crest. On the back, a massive black 88 sat beneath the name BARRETT.

It felt like a target on my spine.

"Is that her?" a sharp voice whispered to my left.

I didn't turn my head. I kept my chin up, eyes fixed straight ahead, walking down the narrow aisle toward the center VIP box. But I could feel the heavy weight of a hundred stares tracking my movements.

Groups of girls in shorter jerseys were huddled together by the steel railings, their eyes cutting down my outfit with pure jealousy.

"She doesn't even look like she belongs here," another girl muttered, loudly enough for the sound to carry over the bass of the speakers. "Where did Ryker even find her?"

My jaw tightened. I had spent years dealing with hyper-critical crowds in ice-skating rinks, but this was different. This wasn't about athletic skill; this was a predatory social pack, and I had just walked right into the middle of their territory wearing their king's crest.

I reached the VIP section—a roped-off area right behind the home team's plexiglass bench. I slid into the front-row seat, my fingers clenching into tight balls inside my pockets.

The ice was only five feet away, a pristine white sheet waiting for blood.

The stadium lights suddenly dimmed out, plunging the arena into a heavy, dramatic darkness.

The crowd went completely wild, a roaring sound that shook the steel beams overhead. A single, blinding spotlight hit the tunnel entrance across the ice. The heavy gate rattled open, and the Blackwood varsity hockey team skated out in a fast, aggressive line.

At the very front was Ryker.

He looked even more arrogant in his full armor, his shoulders broad under the heavy black pads. His helmet was strapped tight, the dark cage hiding his face, but there was no mistaking his brutal, unyielding posture on the ice. He didn't look at the crowd, nor did he look at the flashing cameras of the student press line.

He skated hard toward the center line, his heavy blades throwing up a sharp spray of shaved ice against the glass. He circled back, his eyes scanning the front rows until they locked directly onto me.

Even through the dark cage of his helmet, the intensity of his stare made my breath hitch up as he skated right up to the plexiglass directly in front of my seat. He didn't slow down until his heavy pads banged hard against the barrier, the loud thud making the fans behind me gasp. Ryker raised his heavy black hockey stick, tapping the thick blade twice against the glass right where my hands were resting.

It felt like a blatant, possessive claim in front of thousands of people.

The whispers around me exploded into a frenzy of questions, but Ryker was already turning away, skating backward into his position for the game.

The referee blew the whistle, and the game began with a violent clash of steel and ice.

It felt like a bloodbath. Within the first five minutes, the opposing team tried to attack Ryker against the boards, but he didn't back down an inch. His temper, the exact thing that had gotten him into trouble with the board, was on full display.

He threw his weight into a body that sent a player flying straight into the boards right below my seat. The sound of plastic hitting glass was like a small explosion.

Ryker stood over the fallen player, his chest heaving, his dark eyes fixed entirely on me as the crowd screamed his name.

The buzzer sounded, ending the first period. The players began to skate toward the tunnel for the break.

I let out a shaky breath, leaning back against my seat, but the relief didn't last.

A tall, blonde girl wearing a silver VIP pass stepped into the aisle right next to my chair, blocking my view of the exit. Her eyes were full of venom, and her long fingernails were digging into the strap of an expensive designer bag.

"You think you're special because he perhaps gave you his number?" she hissed, her voice cutting through the noise of the crowd.

"Let me tell you something, freak. Ryker Barrett treats girls like disposable tape on his stick. You're just his latest toy, and I'm going to make sure everyone knows exactly what a gold digger you are."