Leo didn't answer. He just adjusted his stance, his feet light on the floor.
The rally intensified. The puck became a silver flicker, a ghost in the machine. Clack-clack-clack. The rhythm was hypnotic. Leo saw the opening: Jax was over-committing to the left side, anticipating another curve.
"Ready to lose the title, Ghost?" Jax smirked, his mallet gripped white-knuckle tight.
Jax took the first move. CRACK. The puck blurred into a jagged lightning bolt, banking off the side rails with a sound like a gunshot. Leo didn't flinch. He moved his mallet just three inches—a surgical intercept. The puck died on contact, trapped under his rim.
Leo stepped back, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and finally smiled. In the world of Elite Air Hockey, power was loud, but precision was lethal.
The crowd went silent. This was the "Elite" difference. No mindless slamming. This was .
Leo "The Ghost" Vance didn't look at the scoreboard. He didn't need to. He could feel the vibrations of the table through his fingertips, the puck hovering on a microscopic cushion of air, waiting for the first strike. Across from him stood Jax, a powerhouse known for "The Hammer"—a shot so fast it usually shattered the plastic pucks of amateur tables.
The air hissed, a steady, low-frequency hum that signaled the start of the .
