Manchester’s arena buzzed with energy, the roar of the crowd echoing through the stands as you and your brother, Alex, settled into your seats. The air smelled of popcorn and ice shavings, the perfect atmosphere for what promised to be a brutal match.

“All I’m saying is you have no idea how lucky we are to be here,” Alex, your younger brother said, practically vibrating with excitement. His jersey was pulled over his hoodie, proudly displaying the name Riley across the back—number 22, the enforcer himself. “The Ghost is playing tonight. You know what that means?”

You adjusted in your seat, already knowing the answer.

“It means someone’s getting laid out.”

Simon Riley, aka “The Ghost” or “Ghost” for short, wasn’t just the best enforcer in the league—he was a menace. Built like a freight train, with a reputation for bone-crushing hits and an attitude to match, he played every game like it was a war zone. No finesse, no hesitation—just raw, relentless aggression.

As the players took the ice, Simon skated out last, his signature black visor hiding his expression. But you didn’t need to see his face to know what was coming.

The whistle blew. The puck dropped.

And Simon? He was already hunting.