On our side of the arena, the fans proudly wear a sea of blue and gold, waving flags and roaring with excitement as our players take their seats on the bench in front of the coach. The energy rises infectiously as chants of encouragement ripple through the crowd behind me. On the opposite side, the crowd cheers for their players, clad in white and black, with black W’s on shirts and jerseys.
“That’s Vori McDanielson,” Aolyn says, leaning in from my right. “He’s the center attacker—Ryker’s direct rival.” She points him out, and I can’t help but gawk at his size. Even from across the arena, he’s massive, and his dark hair is tightly bound in a single war braid—he’s terrifying. “And over there,” she gestures, directing my gaze to another player, “is Polk Dexen, their star defender, Trysten’s opposite.”
Our side of the arena goes wild when our players stand, huddling together like they’re expecting a motivational speech from their coach. Our players wear protective pads and blue jerseys with their names and numbers in shimmering gold. I catch sight of Anders almost instantly, asif my body is drawn to him by some innate power. He looks incredible in his navy blue jersey, the number seven displayed on his back beneath the thick block letters of his last name, “Rykerson,” which makes my heart race for some odd reason. Standing beside him is Cole, sporting the same name but wearing the number eleven, and looking quite charming.
As my gaze sweeps across the team, I’m surprised to see four women in their ranks. They’re as tall as the men and athletic enough to match them in strength. The coach stands at the center, addressing the players, but our team appears bored, as if they’d rather be studying than here.
Their demeanors shift when Anders replaces the coach, taking a spot in the center of the huddle. “Is Anders, I mean Ryker, the team captain?” I murmur to nobody in particular as my gaze is fixed on the man animatedly rallying his team. It’s impossible to look away. His magnetism is infectious, even from up here.
Each player nods enthusiastically, smiles spreading across their faces at whatever Anders says to them. I desperately wish I could hear what he’s saying. Whatever it is, it’s like a spark in kindling, igniting a flame within the team. He lifts his stick triumphantly into the air, and Aolyn, standing beside me, confirms that he is their captain.
Around him, the team forms a tight-knit circle as they wrap their arms around each other’s shoulders. They sway left, then right, then back again, in a synchronized movement.
“What will we do?” Anders bellows, his voice booming over the roar of the crowd.
Aolyn cups her hands around her mouth, joining in as she chants along with the team, “We will fight!”
Anders responds a breath later to the roar, “What is pain?”
“Temporary!” The crowd responds in unison, their voices thunderously echoing the team. The thrill is palpable on Anders’ face. He’s clearly alive in his element and loving every second of this.
“And what are we here for?” he shouts again. His rallying cry sparks something within the crowd and, surprisingly, even within me. The arena’s noise levels become deafening as feet stomp, creating a resonating pulse in the stadium.
I can’t help but laugh and join in when Aolyn quickly tells me the response. “The W! We are Drithm!” we all shout back.
Anders smiles as the team erupts, jumping up and down, energy radiating off them as they feed off the crowd. The beautiful man in the center genuinely smiles, his lips pulled up high, and his dimple fully on display, every feature soft as he looks around. Trysten moves to stand beside Anders, giving him a slap on the shoulder as they exchange a wild grin. I feel like I should look away, like I’m an unwelcome spectator in their private moment.
Moments later, an iron bridge swings open from both sides of the arena, meeting at the center and connecting to the skywalk over the island, forming a cross over the field. Anders, Trysten, and our coach, Coach Beck, walk out to meet the opposing team, exchanging handshakes and words.
After the greetings are through, Anders turns toward our section of the stands, now eye level with our row, raising his arms high above his head. The crowd erupts in another thunderous roar. Witnessing this side of Anders—with his charisma and ability to rally his teammates and the audience—fills me with an unexpected joy that I can hardly contain. The energy building within me makes me feel like I’m going to burst, my body too small to contain it. I bite my lip to suppress an involuntary grin.
Alright, I’ll admit that perhaps I’ve developed a small crush. Just a smidge. It’s enough to explain away the ridiculous flutter in my chest, yet not enough to overlook his attitude that drives me crazy most days.
In the section beside us, one row up, six young women I don’t recognize are decked out in cropped blue shirts that expose bare stomachs, with "RYKER7" spelled across them in bold blue ink. They wave dumb signs proclaiming things like BOND WITH ME, MARRY ME, CHOOSE ME, I LOVE YOU, NUMBER 7 IS MINE, and the most ridiculous of them all, BE MY BABY DADDY. I can’t help but feel a flare of annoyance, at least until I catch Anders rolling his eyes when Trysten points out the signs, teasing him.
Before I can react, Ciara shouts, “Go Seven!”
I slap my hand over her mouth while my friends double over, laughter bubbling up from the four of them. Both Anders and Trysten fix their attention on our group, their expressions shifting from surprise to amusement. But when Anders’ gaze locks onto mine, for a split second, it feels like time stands still. The crowd falls away, the arena with it, and there’s only him. His sapphire eyes deepen with something like hope, taking me off guard and leaving me breathless, before his gaze snaps away to Coach Beck, who’s passing off some instructions.
“Why would you do that?” I ask incredulously, dropping to my seat with a groan and burying my face in my hands.
Ciara cackles and wraps a hand around me. “C’mon, you can’t hide from me. I see the way you two keep sharing heated glances.” I want to protest vehemently, to deny her accusation, but deep down, I know it’s a futile endeavor. She’s right. And those glances are becoming more and more frequent.
With a sigh, I redirect my attention back to the field, my mind desperately attempting to push away the acknowledgment I just made. She must be able to read my emotions, because she pulls me to stand with her. “It’s not life or death, Raea. Enjoy the ride.” She winks, hollering as our team moves into position.
Eight of our team members position themselves on the various rings around the arena. Anders and one of the females move to the island at the center. Anders catches my eye, winking as a playful smirk crosses his features when my cheeks heat. I roll my eyes, feigning annoyance, but can’t resist the grin growing on my face.
“Kill me?” I teasingly beg Ciara, but instead of responding, she plants a loud, smacking kiss on my cheek, wrapping her arms around my neck.
“Can I be in your wedding?” she finally answers, dodging my elbow as she backs into Tate. The horn blares, and the game begins.
Just ten minutes in, and I’m addicted to the high of the game, or maybe it’s watching Anders seamlessly dominate the game as he moves through the rings with ease.
Our team moves like they’ve had years to practice together. Cole and another player, Kamden, called Orion, are focused on driving the groundball, maneuvering through the maze of obstacles. Meanwhile, Anders and the spy, whose name I now know is Savenne, maintain their attention on the AerBall.
As Anders scales one of the larger boulders, there’s a resounding gasp as an opposing attacker sneaks in from the other side and tackles him.
The opposing attacker should be on the opposite side of the arena, not hiding among the obstacles, right?
