"Yale vs. Harvard meant blood."
The Whale rocked with noise before the puck even dropped.
Ingalls Rink transformed for Yale-Harvard games, every seat filled, standing room packed three deep. The student sections faced off across the ice like opposing armies. Yale's side thundered with synchronized chants while Harvard's band tried to drown them out with brass and drums. Someone had smuggled in an air horn that security kept trying to locate.
Silver squeezed through the crowd with Americus, their tickets for the section behind Yale's bench. The ice below gleamed under the harsh lights, freshly zambonied and marked with the face-off circles that would soon be scuffed beyond recognition. The smell hit her immediately: rubber, sweat, and that particular mix of concession stand popcorn and anxiety that marked big games.
"Jesus, it's packed," Americus shouted over the noise.
"It's Harvard," Silver shouted back. "Half these people don't even watch hockey normally."
