Heading into the Casper Ice Arena I'm confronted by the smell of pretzels and nacho cheese. Suddenly I'm craving an ICEE. I've interrupted the Warbirds' practice and the guys are onto me. They're in the middle of drills but keep throwing suspicious glances at the weird lady with the camera watching them through the glass. I was invited, by the way, by their new head coach and owner, Steve Soto.

Aerosmith is singing about the color pink, barely audible over the sound of the athletes chirping, the shhk-shhk of blades scraping the ice, and the thwack of sticks hitting the puck. Soon they line up for what looks like out-and -backs—skating full speed before screeching to a stop, the ice at their feet shattering into a ghostly mist.

There's a quiet electricity that runs between the teamm

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