Ingalls roared like a cathedral.
The sound pressed into Silver's chest with the force of a physical weight, the kind of bone-deep vibration that rattled through her ribcage until she could barely distinguish her own heartbeat from the thunder rising from three thousand voices united in purpose. She'd forgotten how a rink could feel alive when every seat was filled, when the ancient concrete and steel of the building seemed to pulse with collective energy, when the echo of blade edges cutting ice blended with the primal rhythm of drums from the pep band.
The Whale was living up to its reputation tonight, its distinctive swooping architecture amplifying every cheer, every chant, every sharp intake of breath when a play developed too close to call. The curved concrete walls that gave the building its nickname seemed designed to trap sound and multiply it, creating an acoustic environment that could make visiting teams feel like they were skating inside a living, breathing beast.
