Despite their smiles, something told me there was nothing pleasant about what they were saying. I wanted to grab Tiziano’s megaphone and shout at the crowd to pipe down so I could hear.
Abruptly, Logan turned—straight at me. His hooded stare hit like a fist, drilling into my chest, causing seismic disturbances around my heart.
Lachlan’s gaze followed.
I was pinned between them, my skin crawling under the magnitude of their joined stares.
I had the sinister feeling Logan had dropped my name. The fake smile on my twin’s face faded as the one on Logan’s grew, turning downright feral.
Whatever he’d said must have been horrible.
Lachlan lunged at Logan with the same monstrous growl that had sent pigeons flying away from the rafters of our old house.
Before I could even blink—I didn’t dare—my twin gripped his rival’s neck and flung his fist forward, nailing him square in the jaw.
Logan simply let himself get hit, almost on purpose.
But only once.
Spitting blood, Logan shoved Lachlan away, snarling with a distorted grin and fixing his detached jaw back in place. My eyes widened as I caught a flash of his?—
Crimson red eyes.
It looked like Logan’s wolf had eyes the same color as the liquid he’d just spat. The tip of his tongue flicked over the blood-stained split resting in the center of his lower lip.
The two of them closed the distance again, chest to chest, shoulders squared. Logan hissed words right into Lachlan’s face, while Lachlan jabbed a finger into his chest hard enough to leave a dent, snarling right back.
Meanwhile, the teams were lost without their captains. Player fought player, punching, biting, beating whoever they could. Who knew when the next chance to pummel their favorite rival would arise again?
The crowd was restless, waiting…
The gonghit like a death knell.
The arena was swept by blinding light. Rows upon rows of werewolves were caught in the lightning flash, their eyes reflecting the glow, fangs baring, lips curling.
A second later, a thunderclap split the belly of the sky. The stormy semi-darkness swallowed them up again, but the image stuck. It was fitting.
After all, it was the end of the game.
And there were no winners.
Boos turned to roars, roars to howls. Skin sprouted fur, ears turned pointy. Glass cracked, seats were ripped loose, and Molotov cocktails flew like shrapnel.
Tiziano, his barbed bat in hand, was already invading the arena with his gang, like an infestation rising from a crack in hell’s ceiling.
Across the way, the Dark Diamonds’ Ultras did the same.
The two masses collided in the middle, two avalanches from two enemy mountains.
The stadium went nuclear.
Delirious.
It was war.
“I’m out of here.” Amaia staggered up, bumping into the seat behind her, the same off edge in her voice as her hand rubbed her chest counterclockwise. Makena had already vanished, five pineapple candy wrappers left scattered across her empty seat. My mother charged down, long hair streaming behind her, before she vaulted the railing like a Nordic queen, while Dad eradicated his entire seat and stalked down, claws still sunk into the plastic.
I bolted.
